Thanksgiving is coming up, and writing about poverty yesterday inevitably brought up realizations about how much I value things in my life, and how joy can live in such simple things.
The weather is beautiful. It's slightly chilly, but during the day needing nothing more than a hoodie or a flannel to keep decently warm.
I've been absolutely loving the bright and breezy Bay Area November. Every day I'm shocked to see the sun is still shining and that the days are still so long.
I'm from Seattle and right now up there the sky is awash with frozen oysters and dead nuns. The ground frosts over every night. I'm certain that the absence of its drear and cold have improved my mood, but even in this perfectly SF serviceable weather, some cavern of my heart still aches with the chill.
This morning at the grocery store I felt the tug of root vegetables. I dreamt of soup steam and now this afternoon I'm stewing up a warming broth. It seems a funny contrast to the loving sunshine streaming in the windows, but the smell is delicious and rich with comfort.
Winter is the season for soup, and I don't need it to be cold to boot up my rituals of comfort.
So tonight joy will be broth. The garlic will soft and eventually I will add the tender of mushrooms.
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