What does it mean?

I don't think about it much. Maybe not as much as I ought to,  thought to keyboard to screen to reader. When I started my bakery, I thought my every motion would be filled with intention and fueled by philosophy, and that I would somehow be immune to an exhaustion I carried with me from my history and continued to build upon. And that was the point. Pain - blood, sweat, tears, and every less visible sign of a battle, struggle, or punishment. It was pain that has been my light; to illuminate the unknown. Like the bumpers on a bowling lane to guide me further along to something I might have only imagined when I began.

I was hoping to answer something about myself, the question, I don't really know.

Pain is also bread, literally. It is simultaneously humble and majestic, and at times divine. We use bread to initiate a meal, to objectively assert a spirit of service, we use it to stretch more precious foods, and as a component of a wise resort to feed many on what is essentially leftovers. It's called the staff of life, it's an afterthought, it's avoided, it's the subject of infinite musings. It's not mine, it's not yours, it is distinctly of the earth, and of the realm of alchemy, and of magic, and is also distinctly human, something that could never be found in nature of nature's volition. It is the clear product of intention, and of mishap and accident. I would know.

And it means something to you that I could at best only begin to comprehend. I know that much.

It is proof of feeling. It is the sign that I am here, in whatever sense that could mean.

It's love. And it's enduring.

It's the search for bliss. It's the care I want for me. It's what I give to you.