The first time I tried making bread, it was a humble loaf of white sandwich bread. I remember carefully measuring the flour, watching the yeast foam in warm water, and kneading the dough until my arms ached. The process was surprisingly physical and immersive, pulling my full attention away from any distractions. When I pulled the golden-brown loaf from the oven, the triumphant smell that filled my kitchen was unlike anything from a store-bought bag. That initial success, though the loaf was a bit dense, was a profound moment of creation and self-sufficiency that ignited a lasting passion.
I enjoy the act of making because it is a form of active meditation. The process requires a focus that silences the noise of the day, as you must be present with the ingredients and the steps. There is a deep, almost primal satisfaction in transforming simple, raw components into something nourishing and complex through your own effort. Furthermore, I appreciate the tangible result of that effort. Holding a finished loaf, a piece of pottery, or a repaired item provides a concrete sense of accomplishment that is often missing from digital or abstract tasks, grounding me in a feeling of genuine productivity and capability.