Soup Season

And other reasons to exhale

It is — blissfully — raining this morning. Raining in that serious Oregon way, with focus and intent. The ocean is gray and foamy, though not yet at winter highs. Yesterday I walked the beach and nearly got caught in a sneaker wave that rushed toward me the same way the rain is falling now—not violent, but determined. The sound on the skylights gives me a sense of deep well-being.

I met a woman who grew up in Palm Springs, and she said what I always say about Colorado: a person gets tired of the sunshine relentlessly pouring down on your head, illuminating every tiny thing every single second. Sunshine allows no shadows, no space for contemplation—though of course I’ve done my share of basking, oiled up like a chicken roasting in the sun.

But the rains are back. On Saturday, my friend and I went to a movie in Coos Bay, giddy over the forecast—four or five days of autumn wet, the kind that signals a turning of the season.

My nerves need the respite. That quiet sky. The pattering rain. The sound of the heater clicking on. The scent of soup simmering for dinner. (Soup season! Joy! This one is corn chowder, the first thing I ever learned to cook.)

Like many of you, I’m struggling with the bizarre landscape of the world. We are readers and writers and artists here, and it’s our nature to be empathetic—a pretty intense undertaking these days. Some mornings I don’t even know in which of the hundreds of directions I should send my love and protection. You too?

But I’m not here to bemoan. I’m here to offer a breath. What is good, ordinary, worth noticing right now?

My small black cat is often bullied by the big male ragdoll. She used to leap onto my desk to escape him, until I moved a tall studio chair six inches closer to me. Now she curls there in perfect peace. Such a tiny shift for so much comfort.

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I also repotted all the orchids. It took weeks of gathering the right pots, bark, moss—and a YouTube crash course in nestling air roots. I worried I’d ruin them. I made a giant mess. I even threw away my best kitchen shears with the moss. But several days later, the orchids look happier, freer.

The orchid undertaking.

After years of resisting, I finally caved to Spotify. Of course I’m in love. On late afternoon dog walks (slow! sniffing! ambling!) I let Spotify surprise me with goddess harmonies, Arab lo-fi, African beats. Pure mood-lifting magic.

I was going to paint a beach photo of my younger granddaughter, but when I primed the canvas, it told me otherwise. An abstract forest appeared instead—the first thing I’ve painted in a while.

The notes on the new book are rolling in, and I’m layering, revising, rethinking. Less pressure than drafting, but deeper in its way. I’m not ready to tell you much yet, but I hope you’ll come with me when it’s time.

For now, in this cozy weather, I think I’ll bake something and maybe write a real letter. Do you write letters? I was once fanatical about them. Perhaps we should start a penpal club—fountain pens, beautiful paper, and the pleasure of going slow.

Your turn: what’s good and ordinary in your world?