Folding in potential, making chicken veggie soup

The moon is just past full and high in the sky as she moves into the west. A pot of early morning chicken and vegetable soup is perculating on the burner. It's a small but significant change to be cooking inside the shelter of the Tilth's kitchen. The loud old fan sucks on the steam from the blue enamel pot; smells escape its grasp and I can taste the melding of herbs, onions, and chicken legs. An evolving picture of how to share space and live by revolutionary definitions is not a quick fix. I suppose it's helpful that I love to cook and don't usually use a recipe. 

The big planets Neptune and Jupiter are offering up some joyful potential as they create a vaning, but promising future. Satori puts it this way:

"We no longer have that trine (the joyful potential); but what we do have is the ability to fold the essence of that supportive energy into our daily lives as we go forward and plot a brand new cycle of prosperity and joyous aspiration.

 A larger goal benefits once again from the connection that strengthens from having gone inside and melded with the source of our creativity."

Rains have come to the Pacific Northwest the ground is soaking in the wetness and once again I am grateful for rubber boots and the big red storm coat that makes it comfortable to be where I am. The fullness of living is rarely perfect and more often lumpy or bumpy. A message from a dear friend from California, where huge fires have wiped out homes and sent people into a spin of unexpected loss and pain raises the sadness quota. People are living in parking lots with no idea how or where to go from there. We have been there. The small comforts of dry feet and a warm coat are substantial when it comes right down to it.

We've been living this small and shareable life for ten years, and know what it feels like to live in parking lots. With the sound of the kitchen fan creating a constant hum and this hand-me-down laptop also working overtime to keep at her work, the reality of folding in the essence of supportive energy from sources greater than oneself seems primary.

When we lived in beach park parking lots at night alone and filled with uncertainty, it was the Moon, Mahina, rising out of the Makapu'u horizon that gave us hope for something. A new next, but there was no recipe for it. Not yet. There were many, many more times to come and we would need to go deep inside ourselves to find the way.

Astrology is a big picture kind of support and guidance from heavenly bodies is both metaphoric or symbolic while also giving a way through the daily challenges. For me, the astrological ingredients lift me out of hot water and into creative storytelling where I put myself and my situation into a soup I'd love to savor.

Yum ... the chicken soup is delicious, very hot and flavorful. Makes me think of this bit of soup that wrote itself into my life one winter when we lived in the woods.

"I was glad my kitchen included the large saimin bowls I'd found, and kept since Max and No'e were children. The sturdy restaurant ware held up with all the packing and unpacking of a lifetime with only minor chips. Like wrinkles I could account for every one of the nicks; a hasty washing, an angry morning of cold cereal and hot words. There were six bowls in all, I found two with no old wounds and set them on the drainboard. The egg noodles were nearly ready, just a second cup of cold water to cool them. I covered the old porcelain pot and dug in the frig for green onions.
"Can I help?" Max asked.
"Sure." I washed the tender onions and handed them to Max, noticing his incredibly large hands and thick fingernails. Not for the first time. He found a knife in the crockery pot where I stuck the cutlery and felt the edge.
"The sharpening stone," I pointed to the drawer. With long sure strokes Max honed an edge to that knife and all the others in the pot.
"Thank you," I kissed his cheek, and then added, "I have scissors that need it, too!"
"Don't do scissors." We laughed and Max finished trimming and chopping a cup of green onions in time to sprinkle over the now-drained noodles.
I served up a portion of noodles and green onions into our bowls, then ladled chunks of chicken, carrots, celery, and rosemary sprigs over the top. The aroma and the color of the stew warmed us and hid the rich noodles until we dug into them with chopsticks. Neither of us added additional seasoning though I had roasted sesame seed oil and a batch of freshly mixed Coleman's mustard. Max said a prayer of thanks, simple and quick. We ate mostly in appreciate silence, slurping the succulent stew until the last noodle slid slowly past our lips.
Continue to read here ... 

I've had my fill of a large bowl (and a bit more) of breakfast chicken soup with sweet potatoes, celery, onions chard and broccoli. A crisp pear tops my morning meal. The protein and vegetable start to my day is part of the Abascal Way that I try one day at a time to fold into my daily life. I need the simple yet different rules for this eating plan to calm the inflammation in me.  I've followed this eating plan very well for weeks, and then slide off into old habits and eating foods that make it difficult for my body to function well. Then, I get back on the way, and start today with a meal of protein and vegetables in the right proportions (no more than 50 percent protein and no starch or grains).

There's just enough structure to keep me in a possible to do discipline and I feel better when I eat this way. That helps alot, and this life we live benefits from as much 'feel better' times as possible. This story Pete and I are living seems to be one without a floor plan. The blueprint is drawn in pencil or in the imagination, and to ask for shareable spaces -- a kitchen, bathroom and a place to plug into the grid? Well, that takes a lot of negotiating without scaring our potential community away.

Our second winter here in this Shareable life on the Prairie Front is a story still unfolding. Are we meant to stay where we are? Or is there somewhere else this story wants to add? Terri Windling shared a post about finding story and I include a quote from mythographer and storyteller Martin Shaw here:

"First thing we gotta do is trail the stories not trap them," Martin answers. "If you trap a story, you’ve put it in a little allegorical cage where you pretend you know what it means. The moment you think you know what the story means from beginning to end, it’s lost its nutrition, it’s lost its protein, it’s lost its danger."

On this early morning in late November while the chicken meat and veggies meld in me in fine proportions, I send up a prayer to my Ancestors and Neptune and Jupiter asking for guidance in our story.

Creators of Cosmic Soup

I show up
With my pots and pans
Help me
With the seasoning


What's your soup like where you are?