I made butter yesterday. I think.  I poured heavy cream with a dash of salt into a cold mason jar, tightened the lid and shook it until the slosh of liquid thickened into the thwip of something that wasn’t quite Kerrygold but was far removed from Cool Whip.  I don’t know if it truly qualified as butter but on the first rainy evening of autumn my friend and I smeared it on fresh-baked rosemary bread and washed it down with homemade soup. It was delicious.

Yep.  Butter making.  Soup making. You might say I have too much time on my hands.  My toilet has never been so scrubbed, my hide-a-way bed so neatly hidden, my laundry so freshly washed and my dishes so deliberately stacked.

And I have to be honest.  I love it.

At first, when I lost my ability to fill the space between appointments, I wanted to believe I’d lost my drive.  I wanted to believe I’d become lazy. Isn’t laziness easily remedied?  You pull yourself together, up the caffeine and step on the gas.

But the only thing rushing through life has ever done for me is blur my vision.

So, for now, I’m going to let life slow down.  I’m going to take a more considered path.  And I’m going to make butter.