“over two, under one…over two, under one…” Those words echoed in my head today while grinding coffee this morning. I’ve been on a mission this week, teaching myself to make challah, and that little mantra I kept repeating is one approach to braiding a six rope loaf of bread.
I’ve made six loaves of challah in three days. Everyone who’s experienced in the ways of challah tells you braiding is easy, but it’s one of those things that you have to do on your own, many times over, to truly understand what they mean. You have to experience the learning curves to understand they are just that, the learning process, not failures. As I repeated “over two, under one” to myself at the kitchen counter, visualizing my hands weaving an invisible dough, it got me thinking about grief, and my journey these last five and a half years…almost six.
There’s so much wisdom people share in the early days of loss. Honestly, this was the last thing I wanted to hear, and often it made me incredibly upset. How could their loss even compare to mine? I don’t mean that in a rude way. I mean it in a very practical way. My life was my own, filled with its own rhythm, habits, patterns, and love. The trials Michael and I went through, the troubles we overcame, the deep love and respect we had for each other—how could anyone know the true depth of the gaping hole blast into my life with one swift twist of fate?
Over two, under one…over two, under one. Our stories are all a six rope challah. We can watch a thousand videos on how to do it, but in the end it’s in fumbling with the strands, figuring out how to make them weave beautifully together that we truly find our own rhythm again.
As for the recipe for this challah. I’ll share it in my own time. Right now I need to hold onto this one for myself a little longer, and grow my own roots around it. There’s still much to discover and learn as it becomes part of my story.