I used to go to the hardware store to buy bread — a lot, actually.
Every time I needed a hug, a kind word, some small reminder that everything was going to be ok — I’d show up expecting more.
It’s not that anyone meant harm.
They were just working on another project, not baking. Sometimes I’m not baking either. Maybe that’s why I understood — I tell myself.
Still, I kept trying — hoping maybe this time they’d have baked something delightful: the warmth, the gentleness, the quiet place to rest my heart.
But they never did.
And one day I finally saw the pattern for what it was — my own longing to be heard.
So I’ve started learning to bake my own bread.
It’s tender work — slow, uncertain, sometimes messy — maybe a lot messy — but it’s mine.
The smell of it, the warmth of it, the way it fills the room before I even take it from the oven.
Now, when I’m hungry for tenderness, I listen.
— a Torchbearer Wisdom from Corvalya