Slow Hand Sourdough
Meditations On a Loaf
Who could have guessed that we’d be taking lessons in mindfulness from wet dough? Then along comes Covid-19 and mandated home-sheltering and suddenly all of us who had no time to do anything have all the time in the world to do nothing. Enter sourdough bread-making, ideally suited to fill that void and gently instruct us with the authority and wisdom of a Zen master.
The journey from starter to fragrant, tangy baked loaf takes time, and most of that time requires us to do little but pay attention and be patient and trust our senses to guide us. We simply wanted to do something to fill the hours, we didn’t sign up for a course in Buddhist philosophy; no matter, the bread knows more about our spiritual needs in these fraught times than we do. It encourages us to approach the undertaking with “beginner’s mind , “ an enthusiasm free from preconceptions and an eagerness to be happily surprised. That may help to explain why there isn’t any flour to be found on the grocery store shelves of America.
Making sourdough by hand teaches us that underneath all our Lululemon gear there beats the heart of a pre-industrial artisanal baker and the soul of a Tibetan monk. Sit or stand before a bowl of lumpy moist flour, immerse two hands and begin to churn and prod and stretch as you allow your fingers to take the lead. They breathe life into the sticky dough as it slowly gains buoyancy and elasticity. You find yourself experiencing a comforting calmness despite the exertion and even as your attention wanders, it comes back again and again to the task that is literally at hand.
Why fly off to a meditative retreat at an ashram? You will sit there, sweat, swat insects and inhale and exhale in an effort to tame your monkey mind as it swings from one errant thought to another. All to the good, but the kitchen counter is closer and that dough you are massaging opens another avenue to a state of tranquility while you give it the tender loving care it needs to reward you with a delicious chewy slice of nirvana. Or so they say. At first you are understandably full of doubt. You finally got your starter to percolate, you’ve added it along
with salt to the blended dough, but still. That glorious thing in all the Pinterest photos, that puffy , mouth-watering russet dome with its crackling crust, can this shaggy goop in my bowl
ever become that thing? It will, yes, and when it does, you may find yourself thanking it for the lessons it delivers in faith and trust as you and your family gleefully devour an entire loaf in minutes.
I’ve experienced the childlike delight of that remarkable alchemy in my own kitchen and seen it on the faces of participants in the sourdough workshops I teach. I’ve also seen the consternation in their eyes when I explain that they will want to discard about half of their starter every time they feed it with new fresh flour and warm water. This goes against every instinct. Why dump out something of value? You can ask the same question about letting go of potentially useful thoughts and ideas when we meditate, only to return yet again to the breath? What if, instead, we are actually releasing ourselves from the hold of all that no longer serves us — an expanding volume of starter that threatens to take over every countertop or a cascading deluge of monkey mind brain chatter?
The answer has something to do with the liberating freedom of becoming unattached, I suppose. I’m a little more certain about the results: a clear mind and a joyous crunchy mouthful of zesty baked dough. That’s why I expect our current bread-making obsession to outlast Covid-19. The rewards are immediate and also enduring, as delicious as the next bite and as transcendent as the next deep breath.
