They are resting on the open door of the oven, the heat on low and a towel for a blankie, and the rising happens without any other help from me. The mixing and kneading and forming, the work of making the bread, is done. All there is for it now, is the resting. And the rising that the resting gives birth to, now, is out of my hands.
This morning, the bread-making is a quiet thing. The husband and boys are away to other tasks. The house is peaceful and the day is calm. The list, with its many things To Do waits quietly as well, and while the bread rests, so do I.
I take the minutes of quiet as a gift, and I spend them on myself. Quiet rest. And the rising will happen.