A thin layer of flour covers the griddle, and four round balls of dough sit apart from one another. Behind them the mouth of the oven glows red, spilling an orange light, and that light touches the edges of the dough to make faint shadows. No window is visible, but a dimness remains that suggests a kitchen in the early morning.
Faced with a scene like this, the eyes lose their focus on their own. With nothing in particular to examine, the gaze drifts over the blurred outlines of the dough and comes to rest. The shoulders drop half a hand's width, and the breath comes in longer than usual.
The sense that there is no need to hurry returns for a moment. Dough does not rise because it is rushed, and an oven cannot bake faster because it is pushed hard.
Take one deep breath in through the nose, right where you are. Coffee, soap, the air outside the window, whatever the smell is, try naming it, and then follow that smell and draw two or three more slow breaths. Three minutes is enough.
The same three breaths can be moved to the tail end of the evening dishes. While the bowls are rinsed and you wait for the water to drain, the hands are still and the kitchen grows quieter than it was during the day. That is when you check on the back of your neck. Whether it is stiff and knotted, whether it has been pulled up toward the shoulders, or whether there is no particular feeling at all, it is fine just to check and move on.
No sound comes from inside the oven, and the flour quietly waits to rise.
