The first time I tried my hand at making sourdough bread, it was a humbling yet captivating experience. I had nurtured my starter for days, watching for the telltale bubbles that signaled its readiness. On baking day, the process felt like a delicate dance of folding and resting, a quiet ritual far removed from the haste of modern life. When I finally scored the dough and placed it in the preheated oven, the anticipation was immense. The result was not a perfect, airy loaf from a bakery window, but a dense, slightly pale brick with a crust that could have doubled as armor. Despite its flaws, cutting into that warm, tangy bread and seeing the irregular, glistening crumb felt like a monumental achievement. It was a tangible, edible proof of patience and learning.
What I love about the process of making is the profound sense of connection it fosters. It is a direct engagement with the physical world, a practice that grounds me in the present moment. Whether it is shaping dough, building a piece of furniture, or writing a line of code, the act of creation is a form of active meditation. There is a deep satisfaction in starting with raw, separate components and guiding them through a series of intentional steps to become a cohesive, functional whole. The process is a continuous teacher, offering lessons in patience, problem-solving, and acceptance when things do not go as planned. Ultimately, making is a quiet rebellion against passive consumption, a way to leave a small, personal mark on the world.