As Forgiving as Soup

“A place for everything and everything in its place.”

This oft repeated phrase of my grandfather—the same grandfather who taught me precisely how to load a dishwasher—has stuck in my brain into adulthood. As my partner can attest, I often wander around the house, straightening up, muttering to myself and the felt flowers about places and things.

My nightstand is meticulous, something I blame on growing up with glasses. Should I wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I need to be able to reach my vision quickly. And, because I’m familiar with the dance of less than 20-20, I can tell when our sofa has shifted an inch to the left or when things aren’t exactly as my moving-by-touch brain has told me they should be. 

I travel with my planner. My alarm goes off every day at 6:11. My phone will remind me, if I’ve been awake for a suspicious amount of time, to set a 2 minute timer for my morning plank.

My life has been shaped by consistency. Gentle repeated movements. Silly little streaks. Waking up each day knowing that no matter what else happens, I’ll maintain something simple that matters. As dramatic and dull as the above might sound, it has been an overwhelmingly positive and grounding thing for my mental, physical, and emotional wellbeing. 

And yet. When I step over the threshold of our kitchen, the rigidity of rules dissipates. There are no guidelines in soup making. The spice rack is alphabetized but not measured. 

I wish you could witness the disregard that goes into making a cup of coffee. The amount of water and the amount of grounds means next to nothing. Not for lack of care. It is simply a blessing to have a caffeine-motivated partner who notices not the whims of weak or bitter. 

Recently, I was filling out a recipe card to share with a friend for her bridal shower. Does this make sense, I asked my partner who flies a little looser than I. It does, he said cautiously. But I would probably need a little more. 

I hadn’t written a single quantifying piece of information. But that’s why I chose this recipe! It’s forgiving. You can make it a little different every time. 

Step 6: Trust yourself; you’ll figure it out.

On the cool tile floor of our New York City kitchen, we swap. My partner reads instructions. Measures things exactly. Plays by the rules. I spill cumin with abandon. 

It’s a forgiving recipe. 

Circa ten days ago, I ran into a window and gave myself a concussion and suddenly waking up at 6:11 was not exactly possible. I moved slowly. Sipped water. Hyped myself up for my two minute plank for hours. I fell asleep on the sofa. I fell asleep on the bus (accompanied). I fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon with the sun dripping in through the windows. 

It didn’t matter where the pens sat on my desk. Suddenly they were covered by mail and sticky notes and half-completed grocery lists. There was no use in looking at a to-do list. No point in trying to make sense of a color-coded planner.

Historically, this would destroy me. The inability to move through my day. The pain from even the slightest physical or mental exertion. The bare minimum. The getting by. The unclear resolution date. 

But then I thought about the way I move through the kitchen. I thought about making pancakes. How sometimes I add protein powder to the batter and sometimes I don’t. Nuts and chocolate chips depend on the supply in our cupboard. Always cinnamon. Never an exact amount. Bananas or almond butter. Fresh fruit. Frozen.

Pancakes are forgiving. 

And for a week I barely stepped into the kitchen. I let my improvisation show up elsewhere. 

The space outside can be forgiving too. 

On Friday, I put on my apron. I slowly cut an onion. Garlic. Carrots. Celery. I minced and peeled and mingled. I twisted the spice can lids, watching paprika dust gather under my nails. Tomato paste. Stock. Improvise. Lentils. The whole bag. Milk. That feels like enough. Kale. Wilt. Lemon juice. Taste. More spices. Taste. More spices. Taste.

When I sat down with my steaming bowl of soup, I realized that it was, of course, different from the dozens of previous iterations I’ve made. Different and perfect.

Most days, I wake up at 6:11. I do my plank. I drink my water. I start my day. A place for everything…

Some days, though, I move in another manner. I notice how time feels different. But I still live the day. And everything in its place.

Should you feel you are not in the space you want to be in, I hope you learn to give yourself as much forgiveness as you give a kale lentil soup recipe. 

It is okay if the place you need to be right now is not the place you want to always be. You need not grow in every season.