This is what I need.
Soup. From a chicken.
Chicken soup.
A chicken lived and died. And they put it in water and now it’s soup. It does not want anything or fear anything. It only is. It is soup.
It sits in this bowl. This indifferent bowl. It does not want to hold soup nor does it want to be empty. It is simply is. It is concave. And perfect for holding soup.
Its weight rests on the table. Distributed evenly to four legs that press onto the floor, the foundation of this building, which holds all of us… and the table… and the soup.
The building rests on the earth, the soil of this planet.
What planet is this again?
It is all held in place by gravity.
The planet is held in orbit by the gravitational force of the sun.
The beating heart at the center of a perfectly balanced solar system.
One of several systems that make up our galaxy.
Which is just one tiny part of an unimaginable cosmic expanse.
The universe.
Existence.
All of Creation supports this bowl.
Which supports the soup, which supports me.
It gives me life.
What do I with the life it gives me?
How Derrial Book found God in a bowl of soup (as told in Serenity: The Shepherd’s Tale)