I was making that King cake dough Monday night, rolling it out on the counter, filling it with cinnamon sugar. Rolling it up and folding it up and shaping it into a log.
And then I began to stretch it into a long rope, stretching it and rolling it, patting it and pressing it. And I had the strangest feeling.
It was as if my hands were being guided by other hands. They moved with the sort of speed and ease that I am experiencing as I type this.
As if I'd done it over and over again.
Now I've made doughs like that before. Not often, but quite a few times.
Mainly when I've made Sticky Buns.
I think about my mother-in-law every day. It's odd, because when you look at it I spent so little actual time with her over the 15 years I was privileged to know her.
But somehow there are moments every day when I think of her, and miss her presence in the world and want to let her know how much she meant to all of us.
Monday night, shaping that dough, I felt as if that unseen presence telling my hands what to do was Nay.
Weird idea from a agnostic/atheist.
But there none the less.