When people stood outside watching the Sun God being eaten by a dragon—which is what most centuries before we had rubber shoes believed in*—* I fondled my dough and I do not mean — dollars.
At least once a week I rendezvous in my kitchen with a peculiar living entity that thrives on attention, air, yeast, bacteria, and warmth of my kitchen. The affection I harbor for these little organisms of the future loaf saturates the very glass of my jar, which I've steadfastly refused to wash.
Remember the science class when you were asked to take care of an egg? Perhaps this wasn't a staple in American schools, but in Poland, we had an egg assignment. It was an exercise in responsibility — nurturing a fragile life. Frankly, I can't recall if I passed that test, and it's been quite some time since my early teen years, although you might mistake me for someone that age when you witness my beachside handstands.
Forever young, and an #acrobat.
In many ways, my weekly ritual with sourdough mirrors that egg experiment from my school days. I am entrusted with the care of my sourdough and her name is
Jagna.
Jagna is a character from a famous required read "The Peasants" (colossal 1904 novel of over 1000 pages) by Władysław Stanisław Reymont. She is the sizzling siren of young Poland, but no run-of-the-mill femme fatale. Sure, she's got that fatal allure, but don't be fooled, she's not all wickedness and mischief. You wish.
She's bursting with passion and an insatiable appetite for captivating hearts. With a penchant for amorous adventures, she flits from lover to lover like a butterfly in a flower garden. Why? Who knows! But one thing is for sure, she's a force to be reckoned with in the game of enchantment.
Like sourdough, yes?
When I first embarked on my sourdough journey, concocting a peculiar starter recipe involving raw milk, spelt, and a hint of ground cloves, every step was meticulously planned and timed.
After all, we're dealing with life here — you can't afford to neglect or smother it. As a scrupulous Virgo, I meticulously measured, diligently noted the time, methodically set alarms, and assumed the role of a vigilant factory worker. Sounds military? It was. Virgos have that tendency, unless, of course, you turn on a Sagittarius, especially after an espresso, and then it's off to the beach --> the handstand --> the "FREE HUGS!!" maniacal state of being.
That dough grew with rampant enthusiasm, almost tempting me to start a YouTube channel. I wanted to call it: "Brooooo, but the dough!" but then I thought that the combination of me being a loud Pole (much too often mistaken for a Russian), the dough, and the bro, may look like I'm fishing for visa-husbands.
I don't. I have one already and he eats my bread.
As much as I reveled in every aspect of the process, my Sagittarian nature eventually rebelled against the rigidity.
So, I let Her. Sag is a woman, mkey?
First, you skip a step, then you extend another, until eventually, you're smacking that bread like you would the bully from high school, except with love. Oh, it feels delightfully erotic!
As I blissfully palpitated my eclipse dough, I realized the life I've cultivated and the responsibilities I bear.
And there are two:
sourdough and the art of creativity.
What does creativity look like when you meticulously measure, and analytically time every step, never allowing room for platonically slapping that baby?
Like paint by numbers, probably.
What does it look like when you turn on your proverbial Sag, do a handstand, add some salt to your coffee, slap the paper on the floor, and splatter your wet color-infused brush on it?
Clearly, like being eleven again, which is precisely where you want to be.
See, creativity doesn't thrive under the weight of rules and pristine strategies; it yearns for the liberty to dance and be slapped around occasionally. We must tickle it with fresh, sometimes wild affection when the stakes are high, and the thrill of being alive propels our imagination. And maybe, just maybe, even without the aid of coffee, we will survive.
Egyptians ask if it is possible to have a heart that is lighter than a feather. Maintaining a light heart requires embracing gratitude for life's blessings while deflecting negative thoughts and energies. Ingratitude is viewed as a gateway sin leading toward selfishness and further transgression.
Every time I put on "I Feel Love" by Donna Summer, use my whole arm to stretch the dough, or cover the sheet of watercolor paper with ink, my heart weighs a fraction of what a caliber feather does.
But I admit, zealously cleaning the catacombs of my fountain pens is delicious. (Sag can't stop rolling her eyes.)
So, creativity, my friend, is like the dough in your hands, and it likes to spill over the cups, and the fingers, and even venture underneath your fingernails. It percolates all kinds of bacteria which create colonies and families, and it lives its own life, waiting to be used. The fair assumption is that the dough, like the needy egg, requires attention, intention, and intervention.
It will die, that sour sourdough in that never-washed jar if you forget about it.
So will your creativity.
I venture to say it will die if you keep track of measurements of "shoulda" and "holda-a-minut!", and clever minuscule thought-through strategies of "how-tos" rather than give it room to wiggle and jiggle.
We must love-slap the creativity with its minty-fresh and even kinky love when our imagination demands to surf the waves of feeling alive. Even, without coffee, which could be the litmus test for all your tasks, passions, and todos. Would you wiggle, jiggle, and doodle through that task, this passion, or that other activity without espresso? If YES, you've found your sanctuary.
And if you fall in love with the surprising aspect of the "sourdough" of your creativity, it will reward you with loaves of art.
Each time you inhale their aroma and think, "Omigosh ❤️, I did this," that love will be reciprocated, and the romance will flourish within the rich, unadulterated, and never-washed jar of your life.
Let it.
P.S. Adam Grant's take on astrology misses the mark entirely. His article ranks among the shallowest pieces I've ever encountered. Rebuttal—upcoming.
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All artwork © by Marta Spendowska / verymarta.com
