I’m kneading sourdough bagel dough in my quiet kitchen, and my heart is breaking. Amanda, my Anam Cara, my soul friend, should be here, flour on her nose and probably all over my clothes, laughing at our lumpy attempts, her voice and our laughter filling the silence with that easy, real warmth only she had. The ache for her is a fist in my chest, squeezing tighter as I watch the dough sit in the oven’s soft glow, taking its sweet time to rise. I’m alone, a student of life wrestling with big whys, and tonight, being human feels like carrying a galaxy of grief in a body too small to hold it.
I thought making a sourdough starter would be simple. Follow the recipe, measure every gram, control the chaos. I was meticulous, my kitchen scale a lifeline, weighing flour and water like I could weigh my way to perfection. Three times I tried. Three times I failed after days of careful measurment and hopeful watching and waiting. Flat, lifeless jars mocked me every morning, no bubbles, no magic. I was ready to quit, frustrated, feeling like one person against a universe that doesn’t care. Then I watched someone on a video just tossing flour and water together, no scale, no stress, pure abandon. So I tried it, carelessly, silly and with careless abandon. And wouldn’t you know it? That starter came alive, bubbling, thriving, like it was laughing at my need for control. When I let go of perfection, the magic happened.
That dough, rising now, feels like Amanda whispering to me. She was my chaos, my friend, my mirror, so effortless, authentic, the kind of soul who could make a misshapen bagel feel like a masterpiece. We’d bake together, talk about everything and nothing; love, loss, the stars… whatever was on our minds or hearts, nothing too big or too small. She’s gone now, and I’m left wondering if I’ll ever feel that kind of connection again, that seen. I knead this dough and miss her so fiercely it hurts to breathe. Yet, in that hurt, I hear her laugh: “Stop measuring life to the gram, you nerd!”
I’m obsessed with the why of it all. Why do we ache so deeply in a universe so vast? I can picture myself floating above my house, past Earth, past galaxies, but I hit a wall at the edge of everything. The cosmos stretches on, indifferent, making my bagels, my grief, my dreams feel like specks of stardust. I want to raise humanity’s consciousness, to wake people up to the light we’re all made of, but it’s maddening to be one person, shouting into a void where most are too busy with bills or heartbreak to look up. How do you make human things matter when the universe shrugs?
Here’s where the sourdough speaks, and maybe Amanda does too. The universe is a mess, galaxies born from chaos, stars from collisions … and yet, it’s alive. My starter didn’t need perfection; it needed me to let go, to trust the wild dance of flour and water. Amanda lived like that, a spark of meaning in a fleeting human moment. Our friendship taught me that the small things our talks, our laughter, our bagels- those are the rebellion against the cosmos’ vastness. They matter because we choose them, because we pour love into them, because we’re here, fleeting and fragile, daring to feel it all.
This is the paradox, the cosmic joke: we’re tiny, yet infinite. My longing to raise consciousness, to help others see the light in their own messy moments, feels impossible alone. But maybe it’s not about perfection or scale. Maybe it’s about tossing flour into the bowl of life, carelessly, bravely, and trusting the bubbles will come. Amanda’s gone, but her spirit kneads this dough with me, urging me to keep going, to find magic in the mess.
So, I’m baking bagels, missing my soul friend, and dreaming of a world that looks up. What if we all let go a little? What if we stopped measuring and started living? What’s one messy, human moment you’ve chosen that makes your light shine brighter? I’m here, kneading, grieving, hoping, and wondering how we can all wake up to the dance we’re already part of.
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