Yogurt

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Yogurt is easy to make. You heat up some milk, let it cool, stir in either yogurt starter or old yogurt, and then keep it in a very warm place for 4-8 hours. Easy. Done it plenty of times. I normally use a nice, round, 2 quart glass jar, but the last time I made yogurt both of mine were already in use. I dug out a square one of equal dimensions instead. It was only after stirring the starter into the cooled milk that I discovered the square jar didn’t fit in my round yogurt incubator (a discovery that brought with it a strong sensation of deja vu). But that’s fine, right? Thousands of generations of yogurt makers subsisted without electric incubators. I don’t have the hearth that these ancient crafters probably would have used, but I decided I would just warm the oven up a bit and put the jar in a heavy pot with boiling water. That should be close enough, right?

Reader, it was not.

So then I was left with two quarts of yogurt water, which I pretended I was going to bake with right up until it finally finished spoiling.

Historically, I write a lot like I make yogurt. It’s easy for a week or two, then I move on to something else for a month – or a year – until eventually I decide I want to write again. Only, suddenly, it’s no longer easy. The jars are the wrong shape for the incubators, and I’m left with runny prose. Part of this is, of course, because I generally stop writing when I run into problems, so I’m always coming back and trying to pick up the pieces that I couldn’t figure out how to work with in the first place. Part of this is that taking long breaks between endeavors means forgetting important facts, like which jars fit in the incubator. But mostly the issue is a mindset of carelessness, which applies the first plausible solution and then moves quickly on without evaluating the results. Eager to get back to eating cookies.

How does one learn carefulness? Mindfulness? Intentionality? You don’t grow strong muscles by being strong, nor have I ever grown a virtue by trying real hard to have it. You grow muscles by isolating the area and finding relatively simple actions that impact it. You might grow patience by isolating the Frustration of Waiting in Line, and then go out of your way to stand in the longest checkout line every chance you get. Not just stand there, but stand and there and find ways to amuse yourself. You can’t put yourself in line and think about being patient the whole time. It’s likely to drive you mad. But you can put yourself in line and practice the kinds of thoughts a patient person would have: curiosity about the purchases of the person ahead of you (tomato juice, onions, ginger, and oreo cookies?), an evaluation of the magazine rack, a quick tournament of the various candy bars. Recalling to mind something you’ve ben trying to memorize, re-writing your todo list once you get home. Perfecting the idea for a new soup.

And what then for carefulness? What even is being careful? I think, partly, it’s what comes after slowing down: being all-in on the thing you’re doing instead of rushing through it for what’s next. Thinking things through because you’re interested in the outcome (or the process, or the person). “The Moment is vast,” as one of my childhood novels put it. Enjoy the moment and don’t rush it. Yes, even the moments washing dishes, or choosing jars for your newest batch of yogurt.

Of course, eventually I want to be careful all over, so to speak, but where do I start? How do I exercise this muscle of intentional focus, of priorities shifted? This cultivation of humble awe?

Maybe I start with a Saturday morning writing habit, with setting that time aside to do nothing but enjoy writing. No to-do lists. No reading emails. Just writing and the enjoying of writing.

And after a few weeks, who knows, I might have slowed down enough to tackle something bigger.

Like yogurt.