mindfulness soup

You never know…
try as you might…
you can’t get it right all the time…
no matter how hard you try.

I made soup this morning, first thing, before my shower, as it always tastes better when warmed up later on. Lovely soup, the great sustainer of good health and a slim bodies unless you put in lashings of thick, sour cream, of course, when a dollop of low fat yogurt is probably better. I just adore making soup and today I made it with love and in mindfulness. Vegetable soup with chopped chives from the garden grown with such care…and good soup always brings a smile to people’s faces…

… so I cut up the leeks and I diced the swede like my Mum used to do, I sliced the carrots, the celery and chopped fat cloves of garlic. I found a parsnip lurking in the fridge draw at the bottom and put that in as well. Butter to melt and to brown ever so slightly in the pressure cooker, to sautee it all, Delia would be so proud, all takes 10 minutes once it come to the boil, sweated the veg and added some lovage from the garden as well.. a tin of red beans as legumes are good, salt and black pepper, a twist of the chilly mill and I put in a half lemon, unsprayed, skin and all…and itl soon steamed away…

done in a jiffy…

and

…then the phone rings…
…pretty ring, the new phone…
…just a quick call…I am sure…won’t be that long…

…Your postal vote will be with you shortly, he said, to choose Britain’s new Boss. Won’t need the postal? Be here after all? Crisis averted? Oh good. I’m sorry she’s ill though… what, nearly a hundred? My Mum was 103 when she died, poor old thing, but they were a different breed then weren’t they, a different breed…so independent, they were, weren’t they, knew what they wanted, yes, yes, he said slowly, a different breed. Yes, yes. Can we count on your vote then? Well it looks very good. Yes, so it does. You’ll vote for our Adam? Well, well that is good, we’ll see you on the day then… I hope she gets better…yes, so do I. It’s not easy is it? No, not easy at all.

and

I think of the new Boss for Britain, who will it be? Nick Clegg or young David or Gordon again? They don’t wear nice ties, the debate was quite good, and they don’t wear nice socks, like Jon Snow on the Channel 4 News. The suits look too grey, though Nick scrubs up nice, such pearly white teeth and such lovely eyes…they talk about pensions and Trident and things, they talk about old folk and taxes and what life with them brings for us all, we must vote, we must vote, vote for Gordon or Nick or for Dave who bikes to look good when he rides and his cycle bell rings….

and

… up to the shower…

…to get ready for my day of making and glazing and loading the kiln. Walking the dog, enjoying the sun after the winter so bad you thought you would never again get warm out of doors. Must plant Busy Lizzies, Petunias and Parsley. It’s always so nice to have your own parsley for salads and dishes and all your own herbs for your soups…

…soups? Soups? Did I say SOUPS? Oh my…it would still be ok…I’d turned down the gas I was sure…the dog was upset, there was so much steam.. and I ripped open the door and grabbed the shaking pot of my lovely mindfulness soup…

and

…put it outside…


You can only try…
can’t get it right all of the time…
try as you might…
you just never know…

compassion

there is no need for penance...
I am not your judge...

I offer you my anger
so
you may fight and find your peace

I offer you my heart
so
you may rest and find my love

I offer you my eyes
so
you may dare to cry my tears

I offer you my self
so
you may find what you have lost

I offer my soul's anguish
so
you may feel no pain

and
if you kick a stone in anger, you will hurt your foot...and I can feel what you are feeling... from me you have no secrets as we are made the same.

I am not your judge...
there is no need for penance...
I am by your side

and
I offer you the moment
so
you may find your peace
and
live
again

something other

it all feels different today

the silence
and
all that moves within it’s space
is
perfect and complete...

...birdsong of the sparrow and the starling, the blue tit and the blackbird, loud and clear, rung out into early Sunday, his footfall as he runs, the bumble buzz, the honey bee, dog barks in the distance and dog reply from somewhere else. What are they saying to each other?


I am listening…


...I am lost in silence and my shoulders drop, I hear my beating heart, I hear my breath and I am between waking and dreaming, the sun warm on my skin and I close my eyes. From somewhere appears a glow, deep red and orange and the colours move and swirl like a boiling kettle but heavy and slow. They move upwards and out, one boiling into the other, coiling and twisting, exploding into being something other. And then the glow fades into a tunnel far away and I hear a bee, see the grey blue above, the sun shining, pale but with a promise. I must tend my kiln, I am firing today and now I know where I have smelled that smell before when I stepped out into the morning today…not sulphur, no, a musty, arid, earthy smell and my throat feels dry…the smell comes sometimes from my kiln when I fire clay to vitrify…the alchemy of the volcano in my kiln…from the earth…from the centre…of all being.


I am feeling…


...all that moves within the space
where silence is complete
and
perfect
and
it all feels different today

in the moment

sometimes it's not easy what to think...
sometimes it is hard to catch a thought...
and
sometimes it's best not to think
at
all

you're swept along with what is in the moment, when the phone rings or the lawnmower growls, do-it-yourself hammers, dog snores, breakfast, lunch and dinner, cobwebs when the sun shines,un-ironed washing mountains, socks that might be darned and windows that need cleaning...

so what's with the memories?
sometimes they catch up with you...
sometimes they paint pictures of the past...
and
sometimes it is good to sit
and
think...

...we were a good bunch, the children of the 40s. Not all of them are left now,some died or have lost touch but those who are still here are loyal to one another, safe in each others' company in spite of all the aches and pains and some complaints...like Ellie's knees and Elsa's back Mathew's bladder, Rowan's nose and Rita's problem with her weight...we haven't had it easy, really, the in-between kids that we were, war babies they called us then and that is why we have so many problems with our health. It's not as though we had been fed too well when we were small, ther wasn't much to give us and to build us with...the fittest lived, the weak ones died. That's how it was and the tears that sent them to their graves had to be put on hold and had to wait till all the battles had been fought. Flower children we became and hippies and we loved one another, gave each other daisies but not sex...that was another generation, that was for the beatniks. We were children of the 40s, a good bunch, really, the children of the war, the in-betweens.

...sometimes it is good to sit and wonder...
...of what became of all the others...
...sometimes it is right to ponder...
...what of their fathers and their mothers...

...Ellies china doll and Elsa's dog, Mathew's ginger tom and Rowan's stamp collection...Rita and her love for sugared almonds...and what of me who cannot think so well these days...

...best not to when it is like that...
...best leave it as it is and has become...
and simply just to sit
and dream
and
let
 the
 sun
warm your soul...