At the end of each day I have been busy, attended meetings, answered emails and analyzed mountains of data. But, also at the end of each day, there is nothing concrete I can point to and say with any sense of pride or accomplishment as a tangible result of my endeavors.
So, I make bread. I come home from work, mix the dough and set it under a tea towel to rise before I even change out of my work clothes. By the end of the evening there is something tangible sitting on a cooling rack in my kitchen.
For supper this evening, there were five teenage boys, the youngest and myself. We ate the entire (14 slices including the butts) of last night's loaf of white bread when I cooked it into french toast.
The heels of my hands are bruised from kneading the dough on the granite counter top. My shoulder muscles are sore from the manipulation of flour into manna. My soul is soothed from the zen of the baking process.
I have something to show for my work, bread. I made that.