Four lumps of dough lie scattered on a tray. The flour dusted over their surfaces has settled in a pale film, leaving handprints and scored cuts as shallow shadows. Orange light spreading from the oven inside warms the edges of the dough, and beyond that it is dark. It is the scene of a brief moment with the oven door open, before the baking.
Faced with a scene like this, the body slows on its own. The nose opens, and the inhale runs a little longer than usual. The shoulders move away from the ears and the strength drains from the fingertips. The eyes rest on one of the lumps, then lose focus and spread across the whole frame.
Hurry briefly loses its place to go. Dough does not rise faster for being rushed, and the one watching knows it. So for as long as the waiting lasts, the thought that something more must be done goes quiet.
How about choosing one smell from where you are now. It does not have to be a kitchen. Coffee, paper, the air outside the window, whatever it is, breathe in slowly as if following that smell, and breathe out about half as slowly again. Three times is enough.
The same three breaths can be taken out at a bus stop on the way to work. While the bus has not yet turned the corner, it is enough to check quietly on the tension in the jaw, whether the gums are pressed together or the molars are slightly apart. If there was tension, leave it be while noticing it, and stretch the inhale a little longer and the exhale slower than that. When the bus arrives, you can just fold it away.
Things that bake always take their own time, alone.
