Soup

I am sitting in a Barnes and Noble in Ft. Wayne Indiana eating chicken and dumpling soup. It is Martin Luther King Jr. Day and my roommate has kidnapped me for the day (it's an adventure).

I am still not sure what this day holds, this is just the first stop.

I am realizing that I need time to think and pray and be adventurous. My roommate does too. Just now, we are sitting companionably, she has also ordered soup, but the other kind, a vegetable.

There is something completely wonderful about soup. In fact, lately, I've been considering writing a short story about it. From the tomato basil bisque I made record sales for during my career as a grocery sales specialist, to the minestrone soup this summer which taught me that I was content with my singleness.

Last year, exactly a year ago, I was in London, eating soup and bread every day. Sometimes it would be a hearty vegetable with little slices of warm baguette (like in Canterbury) other times it would be a bowl of carrot soup and a heavy winter wheat roll in the British Museum. Either way, it would warm and comfort me.

Soup has nothing to prove and everything to offer.

Today, I'm going to let go and enjoy my soup, saltine crackers and adventure. It's the perfect day for it.