Meditations of Baking on a Still Summer Night

“The Moral is: No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted,” I said to conclude our bedtime reading of The Lion and the Mouse. The tot was already bouncing around the bed, having lost interest after casting one brief glance at the picture. The boy nonchalantly moved his eyes toward the lamp in anticipation. Morals are just not the exciting parts of the story.

I don’t specifically remember reading The Lion and the Mouse as a child, or hardly any of Aesop’s Fables, but their morals sank in somewhere along the way. As of the last few years of my life, I’ve begun making an effort to hold myself to a moral code. I admire people that follow one, and I admire those that do treat kindness as never wasted.

The little pillows. You'll see them mentioned down there.

My husband’s colleague of many years is moving onto greener pastures tomorrow. She is one of those people that never wastes any of her kindness. She has shared with us bits of it over the years. A work party is being thrown for her, which basically means a work meal, because no one really parties at work. So, to honor her, tonight I set to work on our family’s contribution.

I enjoy doing those sort of things, but in particular, tonight I couldn’t complain of my working conditions. The kids were fast asleep—the distant sound of waves crashing from the sound machine was mixed in with the hum of the insect party outside. The cicadas were so loud they could be heard through all the closed doors and windows. Their erratic rhythm was very pretty, but I associate it with anxious times. I have to fight the inclination to feel anxious when I hear them, and just remember how marvelous it is that there are so many little performers in those trees.

Squished pillows.

The kitchen was filled with sleepy golden light. It is terrible light for picture taking, in particular with a cheap phone. Terrible photos, wonderful ambiance—always a worthy sacrifice. There was a fascinating stillness to the house that just does not exist in my mind at any other time than these occasional late-night cooking events. This hour is my usual time of clicking keys and being lost in my own words, missing the stillness because of all my finger movement. Instead, I let my fingers take my mind on a journey, and we traveled through satiny butter until it was mixed in with flour. It became a soft, pillow-like ball of dough, waiting to be shaped.

I moved to the dining room to shape my pillow. There is so much peace to be found in activities that involve only the body. I sat in my usual dining room chair, slowly shaping one big pillow into lots of little pillows—sleepy little pillows. It was growing late. The grandfather clock chimed.

Pillow stuffing.

I thought about kindness. Years ago I read a book about near death experiences and the similarities between many of the accounts. One common theme was the review of one’s life, with all the good and the bad brought to light. I have been brought up in a society saturated with the premise of all wrong doings being forgiven if repented. This is a nice sentiment, and I prefer to live my life believing this. I suppose this is a natural mechanism for humans, especially parents, to absolve guilt. I screwed up, that’s all—I’m only human. I’m sorry, therefore I can let it go. But if we take forgiveness out of the equation, the Powers-That-Be can stand softly there with the memory of all your good and the bad swirling around, like those people experienced. Does one little bad get canceled out by one little good? Can ten little bad’s be absolved by one big good? Is there any need to absolve any of it—is this supposed review of life just an evaluation for your own soul, so that you can see how much you did or did no suck at it? I can visualize the Powers-That-Be rumbling softly,Didn’t you listen to the moral at the end of the story?

Properly stuffed, perky little pillows.

The buzzer just went off. It jerked me awake, and I didn’t even realize I was half asleep. I’m going to be kind, and only eat one of these warm cookies. Maybe I’ll salute kindness while I eat it, and the kind soul that they were made for.