Homemade Pasta & Slowing Down
Making homemade pasta with my daughter, making moments to pause and reflect. Her small hands working delightfully and diligently. A silly demeanor, stealing raw rigatoni off the table and popping it in her mouth. Particles of flour flying through the streams of light on the sun porch. One foot on top the other, she stands like a Greek goddess being birthed into a new narrative. It is the story of time. Past and Future the distant relatives of Present, a holy sacrament offered only to those who reach for it.
I am merely a witness to her holy flight in new territory. The delight in digging in. The whimsy in finding that the simplest things she takes for granted are conceived with care and attention. Rarely a happy accident, but rather a dance of tradition and ingenuity. Creativity. Little rigatoni masterpieces.
And to think I would miss this poetry if I didn’t slow down. Without intention, how easily these moments would slip through my fingers. I implore myself to remember. To create space. To build her bridges and disregard time.