In the new year I’ve made some resolutions. I’m not usually a resolution maker, because I’m a resolution breaker. What’s the point?

But this year I made some. Read more books. (Not hard.) Learn to knit. (Hard. I think I may be spatially challenged when it comes to yarn. Help, Natalie!) Publish something. (Oh lordy, don’t get me started on that one.) Love more and better.

That last one is hardest. I’ve figured out that loving better requires lots of patience. (As does life.) Something I’ve been short on, impulsive creature that I am. It’s a theme which runs through blog entries all the way back to the beginning. Cooking and baking certainly tied into it frequently. It’s been a process of making peace with crazy chemical reactions, consumable and otherwise.

I’ve discovered that something I’ve been flirting with for much of my life helps. When I was going through one of my worst mental breakdowns, ending up in the hospital, I turned to Buddhism. I read a lot of Buddhist books while also going to a therapist. She restructured my thinking and emotions. I came out a healed and functioning person. I’m back at the healing place, but I think it will resonate deeper this time because I am actively claiming it for myself.

I’m really, at my core, a Christian. I will always talk to God. But meditation does work. It falls right into step with my spirituality. I can’t afford a therapist this time around. So I have to do it my way.

The mind is an amazing animal when you choose to direct and focus it. My mind is more of an animal than others, due to its bipolar nature. Controlled for the most part on a drug, but still wild anyway. The biggest problem now are frustrating bouts of insomnia brought on by mania or stress. I’ve learned to mostly function during the day, but I need something better. Something which isn’t another drug.

What I’ve been doing for a while is basic, but it helps. It’s grounded in bathtub time. There is a nail above the faucet, all by itself in the light green wall. If I focus on it long enough, it seems to move. Or change shape.

I stare. And breathe. And count. The first intake of breath is one. I exhale on two. Repeat to six. Or eight. Or ten. I keep doing it, letting thoughts drift in and out of my head.

My thoughts are little monkeys, scrambling all over the numbers. They laugh at me. They throw bananas at my head. They fart. Nevertheless, I am the zoo keeper. I breathe, count and watch them scramble. The process is simple. My head begins to behave after a while, and I sometimes drop into a trance. Everything clears.

I applied this detachment and patience to a challenge. I wanted to make brioche. I’ve never even tasted brioche. I could almost feel it on my tongue, the buttery-light texture. I craved it badly.

I made it using the recipe from Julia Child’s The French Chef Cookbook. I didn’t approach this in my usual haphazard fashion. I did a practice run first. This released a lot of pressure. If I screwed up, it wasn’t a big deal. But I didn’t screw it up. That was elation and empowerment in itself.

It involved precise preparation. Clean cutting boards, positioned just so over kitchen towels. Everything measured and ready to go. No freaking out and rooting through the cupboards.

I did have some trepidation, but I released it, figuring whatever will be…will be.

The first time around, the dough was far stickier than the recipe seemed to indicate. The trepidation rose again, and I let it go. I hadn’t floured my board or hands. Maybe I should have, but Julia wrote nothing about it, so I didn’t. I followed the recipe to the letter.

The second time around, a little vase of pins fell over into my dough. A second of small panic. I calmly called Mom over to get rid of them. (You can’t do the job yourself with dough all over your hands. Frankenstein kneading!) Crisis averted.

The fun thing about this recipe was the dough throwing. And butter smashing. And getting butter all over my hands while I massaged it into the dough. If there is a Hindu god of butter, I will worship at his altar. I think Julia would’ve too.

This process took all day with multiple risings.

But in the end, it was worth it. A brioche is best right out of the oven, ripped apart with steam rising off it. A welcome buttery heaven…worth hours of patience.