Just like massaging crème brûlée or chocolate mousse over my taste buds, reading Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May feels like following a string of lights to a dreamy seating area.
It’s fascinating how someone’s thoughtful observations—especially their attunement to the natural world and its impact on their inner world—can feel like home. May’s description of a flock of starlings rising in synchronized movement reminded me of a similar ominous feeling I had yesterday at the Crawford County Library. Walking down its brick pathway, I glanced up at the treetops where lion-like statues of nature perched: turkey vultures, rigid and unsettling.
In Washington, crows dominate the skies. Their murderous groupings stretch for miles, blurring where they begin and end. Their constancy led me to read In the Company of Crows and Ravens, hoping to better understand these enigmatic birds that have befriended—or antagonized—many, including a friend who left kibble for them in the backyard.
Here in southern Georgia, the turkey vulture is the crow’s counterpart. Its crinkled beak and hunched, witch-like stature give it an underworld vibe that’s still unsettling to me. Seeing a whole committee (yes, that’s the term for vultures at rest) perched in leafless trees at the library was startling. Their wingspan, double that of a crow, made me stop in my tracks, gawking at their eerie stillness.
Oh, and in flight? They’re called a kettle—a much gentler name than their foreboding appearance suggests.
Not long after we moved here, a turkey vulture swooped overhead without flapping, its menacing glide was enough for me to comment to a local. “I’m not much of a fan. Do they have redeeming qualities?” I asked. The answer surprised me: apparently, their circling has helped rescue crews locate missing persons. There were other reasons too, but I’ve since forgotten.
Maybe, in the same spirit of how I learned to appreciate crows, I’ll find room for the turkey vulture in my heart—eventually.
Onto an update on the baking front: I made my first-ever loaf of bread. The mere completion of a chunk of flour that resembled something breadlike was enough for me. Check! But imagine my surprise when, after toasting, buttering, and biting in, I tasted something delicious. Someone’s mind was completely blown, then.
The crackling and pop of the fire provide the backdrop and finishing touch to this post. Without TV, music, or anything but the sizzles, I feel connected to myself in a more attentive way. Each step of baking is like that—from finding the recipe to mixing the ingredients, to waiting patiently for the dough to proof, to baking. Each step requires my presence.
I notice how baking makes me feel: sometimes out of my league, other times competent and capable. It’s like a parent tuning into their child, learning through trial, success, and error. Growing into this space of tending to my values and interests, and understanding where my lines are and why, feels like stepping into who I’m truly meant to be.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 