January: Quiet Reflections
Long shadows define the Schoolhouse this time of year. At 8 A.M. they begin crawling towards the house from the tall conifers on the eastern edge of the yard; around mid-day they recede in a brief moment of resolute light, clear and crisp and foreshadowing days to come; by afternoon they begin to stretch from the bank of Black Walnuts on the western edge of the property towards the brick oven and the wood-pile, slowly obscuring the bakery and house. The days—according to the birds, at least—are a brief, vibrant ecstasy, an opportunity not to be missed. The nights are long, cold, and peaceful.
Some days are easier than others for me to share in the birds’ energy. I spend most days glued to a laptop, posting workshops and coordinating with guest teachers. I spend long hours splitting firewood for the year ahead, but only a fraction of it goes into the brick oven these days. Nothing concrete, it can seem, is actually getting done. Instead, I find myself with one foot in the shadows of last year—what went well? What didn’t? Did this experiment work?—and one foot cautiously stepping into the fleeting midday sun.
All in all, the first year of this project went better than I could have hoped. I made it through the year sleep-deprived and mustering just enough income each month to pay rent, but workshops sold, connections were made, and the space’s long history and magic continued to draw folks here from up and down the East Coast. But last year was a smorgasbord of events, markets, and workshops that flitted in and out of any stable identity I wanted this project to have.
This year the work is to turn that foundation into an identity, and my personal work I see as guiding but not defining that identity. This cherished space, the temperament of the wood-oven, the rising and falling of a sourdough culture—I’ve learned enough here in one year to know that these things speak their own life into things. Here are my guiding questions:
- What connections are there between baking and the broader creative and natural world, and where do these connections lie?
- How do different cultures relate to bread and baking, both within and outside of European traditions?
- How can this space be a platform for others, and for the community?
I’m eager to see if and how these questions can play out amidst the overarching question of making an income, and what other questions might arise. For now, I build a fire in the oven once or twice a week—a long, slow fire, just enough to keep the bricks from going dormant—and reflect in gratitude from the shadows.
