I'm making soup. I'm taking this day as it comes and I'm walking though it and I stayed with my grandsons and we did a whole lot of cuddling and I'm making soup and it may not be fit to eat because I put two peppers from the garden in that I was not sure of as to heat and my left hand is burning now a little bit and it doesn't even matter. You make soup for therapy, one kind or another.
I was talking to Jason about the news I'd gotten last night and I didn't think Owen was listening. He has a little cold and he seemed to be plugged into a movie he was watching but out of the blue he said, "MerMer, were you sad?"
"Yes," I said. "I was."
"Did you cry?"
"Yes, I did."
"And what did Boppy say?"
"He said it was okay to cry."
"But now you calmed down?"
"Yes. Now I'm calmed down."
"I do that," he said, his eyes going back to the TV. "I cry and then I calm down."
"That's all right," I told him. "That's what we all do."
We cry and we calm down and we cuddle our grandkids and we tell our kids how much we love them and our partners too. Maybe we even tell the wives of our ex-husbands that we love them and we mean it and then we realize what a blessing that is- to have that sort of relationship with the other-mother of our kids and maybe we cry a little more.
And then maybe you go to the store and you buy some outrageously priced organic chicken breasts because you feel guilty these days about the factory raised chicken and you bring them home and you cook them in a broth and you go out to the garden and you pick peppers and green tomatoes and ripe tomatoes that maybe the bugs or the blossom-end rot has gotten to because soup is a food that takes the scraps and makes it good. You cut up squash and the carrot greens from the carrots your friend grew and you peel and slice up some of the garlic he grew while you're at it. You talk to your daughter on the phone while you chop and slice and peel and chop some more, you add it all to the soup, then you talk to your ex-husband.
Your hand begins to burn and you rethink those peppers but too late now, Mamacita.
Owen was doing that thing today that scares the hell out of me wherein he climbs his parent's headboard and dives off onto the bed like Spider Man and after every dive he would cuddle me and I said, "Oh Owen, I have so much love in my heart for you."
"I have chicken banging poop in my heart for you," he said, hugging me tight.
"Oh Owen, that makes me so happy," I say, thinking, I've got to remember that one.
And I do.
This is what I feel like today- that I know that my friends are probably walking through this life right now with the blinders and a gray blanket of grief wrapped around them and the only fucking thing I can do is to try and balance out the universe and notice every good thing, find pleasure in every good thing, remember every good thing and let all the rest of it just get on and go.
So that's it. That's been my day.
I just talked to my husband who is out of town. He called me to tell me he made it to his destination safely and that's what you do when you love someone. You let them know you're safe. That's what we all want. We want to know that the ones we love are safe. While we were talking, I shelled peas and added them to the soup too. It's time to get shut the chickens up. I cleaned and filled up their waterers today. That felt like maybe the most important thing I could do today, the most concrete. That and taking care of my boys. That and making soup and using up the carrot greens. That and finding and rescuing a little green frog in my kitchen. That and hugging people I love real tight.
What else is there?
Not a damn thing.
Be well, y'all.