Chicken soup.
The reminiscent taste of Ecuador.
Of the muddy mineral filled waters for bathing, the high altitude and thin air.
The cuy that were killed to tell us how to stay alive, a life taken to continue our taking.
The sound of the frogs and the feel of moist mornings.
Literally having small bugs feast on us.
The shaman connecting to the cosmos facilitated by the knowledgeable ayahuasca, the low whistling connecting us to the stars.
The water, the muddy, life giving water, and the rapids that could easily take life away.
The deep rest as I visited the forest in my dreams.
Chicken soup made from chicken bones, us no different than anything else.
Our bones made of earth, our blood made of water, our breath we all share.
Consuming chicken soup here and now in this specific place, my body remembers that soup in Ecuador, and everything I wasn't ready to listen to but spoke anyway.
Through memory, the land from there connects again.
And through this soup, it is time to listen.
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