The soup of my own chaos is richly blessed. Each day it is seasoned with darkness and light, possibility and despair, blessings and burdens, joys and sorrows, doubt and faith, hopes and fears, moments and hours.
In the morning I begin to gather the ingredients without noticing that I am gathering them. Hastily I throw them into the vessel of my life and they simmer as I stew. My days are not necessarily dark and depressing yet not as vibrant and mindful as they might be if I could train myself to remember to season my soup with radical presence. How often I forget both head and heart, leaving them in my room on my pillow as I race through the hours, mindless and heartless. Yet for all the inadequate ways I ply the culinary skills of my life when I come home to my evening stew it tastes like a consciousness examen and somehow, in spite of myself, I retire in peace.
Perhaps the reason for this peace is that I seldom retire without glancing over my day: forgiving myself where forgiveness is needed, affirming myself in little ways and asking God for support for the next day.
The soup of my own chaos ascends like incense in the evening hours as I offer to the heavens the only life I have. How grateful I am for the struggle to live with authenticity each day!