Laura's Soup Kitchen

A Message from Across the Veil About What to Do in These Times

I have a habit of talking to my daughter, who no longer lives in her body. And our latest conversation is worth a share. It’s about how I might handle the political scene so that my body, mind and soul don’t get poisoned by bitterness and despair.

Don’t get me wrong; Laura has never been one to bypass. A Scorpio, her nature propelled her to dive deep, to face the mess under the rug. So I’ve been surprised that when I ask her if she sees what’s going on down here, I get a peaceful “Hmmm,”along with “Well, yes—but I see the bigger picture.”

This makes me think of Joanna Macy’s book, Active Hope, written in her 90’s with Chris Johnstone. She adheres to the story that we’re in the Great Turning, and I’m with her. It’s just that neither Joanna, nor Laura, nor probably I will see the effects of that turning toward some more enlightened era of kindness. So in the meantime, what do we exhausted beings do?

I’ve never been a soup kitchen activist. I envy friends who are, because they have been directly helping those in suffering. Ministering to them. I feel guilty that I’ve chosen another tactic, even though my better angels point out that we can’t all do everything. For whatever reason I’ve joined the team of those trying to change consciousness and open our hearts. So I was grateful when Laura sent me this message about her version of my soup kitchen.

Picture a big kitchen where hungry people gather to be nourished. Two big pots are on the stove in the serving area. The kitchen is in back, closed off to the public. One pot—a big black cauldron—emits familiar smells of the present day in the US. Its labels promise power, money, greatness, a golden age. But even those who’ve been eating from this one think something smells funny. I think something smells rancid, A rotten odor of lies and cruelty.

Photo by Kevin Dowling on Unsplash

I wonder who the chefs are, who could list the ingredients for us. But they own the place and control the access to the kitchen. We have to deduct the recipe from a few who have escaped and whispered a few ingredients in our ears, wiping their brows and admitting they were duped. Mostly we just observe the effect this soup is having on customers, people who came in starving for a new way to live, and for a tribe of fellow restaurant-goers. Unfortunately it looks like the fire that cooks this soup is the fire of violence and corruption, the permission to let loose with our worst instincts. People are dying, and uttering with their last breath, “It was poison.” And still, faithful servers keep on ladeling. The department of Health is silent, unwilling to close this kitchen down.

The other pot is both new and old, made of a clay that is being re-fashioned from ancient truths and given modern flavoring with local ingredients. It is still being formed, since the shock of the power of the other soup took over the kitchen for awhile. But now new chefs are joining the old guard, both pointing out the dangers of the poisonous soup and working on a new recipe. No one chef has shown up to be in charge of this pot. It seems to be a grassroots enterprise, where an unknown person, fresh from tragedy, runs in with an offering of the meat of compassion. Another crawls forth and spills the medicine of tears. Those with enough power urge contributions of healing herbs and spices, and together somehow, a broth begins to cook, smelling like kindness.

Photo by Keesha's Kitchen on Unsplash

Unable to stop this from being about me, I ask Laura what my role is in this kitchen. There is a lot of commotion and fighting and protesting going on around the cauldron and those who have partaken of the poison, and I can’t ignore that. And like a lot of others, I’m not sure I’m in the position of being a contributing chef for the alternative soup.

Laura speaks first to the exhaustion and damage done by having to spend all our energy protesting the presence and effects of the cauldron. That’s what those chefs want, she says. The “bigger picture” she holds requires an attitude or energy reminiscent of the Peruvian shamanistic archetype of the hummingbird. Its legend is that it can complete its long migrations with its tiny wingspan because it only sips from the nectars of life—never from the nectars of death.

So stand right in the kitchen, she instructs me. Don’t avoid it or turn your eyes away. When people come in hungry, warn them about the dangers of the cauldron. Call it what it is. Then usher them to the new soup that is cooking now, and ask them to try it out and to contribute to it. Spend ¾ of your energy on that soup and on drawing attention to it. It is the food that will nourish us past this firey time when the cauldron has to come apart. The biggest mess hasn’t even happened yet. There are cracks in the pot, so look out when the whole thing comes apart and hot, poisonous liquid spills all over the kitchen. Let the young ones get out the mops, because they are the ones who’ll have to run the kitchen. But you and other elders can join the voices of experience, advising and gathering ingredients.

Start with moral principles rather than distorted religious dogmas that exclude others. Principles gathered from the core of all religions. That’s right, it’s Love Soup. Not Valentiney love, but the kind the real Jesus embodied, and the real Mohammed, the real Buddha and the Torah. The spice called See No Stranger. The root vegetables called Feed the Hungry. The meat called Love Your Neighbor As Yourself.

Stir until the ingredients form one delicious soup. Chant. Bring the indigenous chefs in who have foretold this time for eons. Bring in the elders who have already been through the fires of war and protest. Bring in those who speak other languages, offer other recipes. Call on your ancestors. On invisible helpers. On your own version of God.

Sing and dance over this soup. Welcome those who walk away from the cauldron. Offer condolences to those who cannot, for they are suffering from closed hearts and old wounds. Build a monument of Remembrance around the site of the old cauldron so we have the chance to not forget again.

And eat. Nourish yourself. Share your cup. Rejoice. Remember that all things are possible.