The title refers to the thick fog inside my brain and to the soup outside my windows that makes it impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the windows.
As I contemplated what I wanted to write this morning, a morning on which I arose over an hour later than normal, I found I could not fix on a single subject. I thought about religion and philosophy and pottery and the need to close the vents to the crawl space under my house. I thought about justice and discomfort and people sleeping under bridges while others live in splendor a few feet away. I considered the clarity delivered by the camera that no human eye can see unassisted. I wondered about how long we could last if food supplies to grocery stores were disrupted. I ruminated about how the children who receive the toys created by the local woodworkers’ club will react when they receive their gifts on Christmas morning.
My brain and the world outside my window remain thick pea soup, so I’ll stop trying for the moment and will, instead, drink another cup of coffee so strong and so rich and so delightfully good that I will feel guilty for enjoying something so undeservedly wonderful.
