Breakfast
“I love the comfort of daily life’s routines, things like being able to read a paper on the subway. It’s no accident that my favorite word is quotidian.”
I think quotidian is one of my favorite words too. I first heard it when I discovered the book Quotidian Mysteries by Kathleen Norris. The word is as delightful to say as it is to ponder. The ministry of delighting in the small and mundane is a challenge for me but one that I long to continue.
During the season of lent, I didn’t want to embark on any particular journey. I think the one I am on is lesson driven enough. But I do want to be better at finding the beauty in the ordinary. I see this is where the true magic of writing lies. And living as well. A writing journey sounded like a suitable way to incorporate a practice into this season. I am already learning to write every day. But taking a break from the heavy submission work every now and then is an important part of the practice of writing as well.
Callie Feyen also shares this sentiment. And she created a lenten practice to help others walk through it.
Forty Day of Writing the Everyday is a “creative endeavor designed to help us reclaim our days, and find the thrill in them, or, perhaps if that is taking it too far, feel content with creating something from our everyday lives.” Each day a new word is assigned. And through the art of writing, I hope to uncap more of this beauty.
I’m beginning the writing in my journal and only allowing small edits. I am working on quicker writing practices these days in hopes of getting passed my terror of the first draft. I’m not sure if I will share everything here. Some might be personal. Others might be good jumping off points for essays. Who knows. But that’s the exciting part of a journey. You don’t always know where it might lead.
I am sharing today’s prompt and the words that it inspired. Who wants to join me?
Breakfast
“Do you want toast?” he asks me as I sit at the table. “No thanks” I lie, the aroma of warm whole grain bread and shmear of butter fills me with regret—at my frustration in not allowing myself what I want, and my shame in still struggling with labeling foods as good and bad. But I say none of this and instead add salt to the already salted sautéed kale on my plate.
“Achooo!” he sneezes loudly from the kitchen. “Achoo!” I sneeze back. I added chili crunch oil to the saute pan and now the pepper permeates the air tickling our nostrils. “Ahhchoo!” the baby imitates as I pick him up from his high chair and he toddles away. Mike hands me a hard boiled egg from his plate and sits at the table across from me.
“Do you want me to peel it for you?” I love peeling eggs and he doesn’t.
"No I got it.”
The sun in the sky shifts passed the tall elms and begins its sweep across the table, illuminating the remains of our morning. Between us milk drenched cheerios have begun to petrify against the grain of the table. One child left his cereal bowl, the one who does this every morning, who is then asked to put it in the kitchen, who then reminds us that parenting is a marathon not a sprint. The cereal box sits open and on its side. I see the contents are empty. “Didn’t I just buy this,” I pause to calculate when I last visited the grocery store, straining to add up to the number 2 so early in the morning “two days ago?!” "We’re out of milk too." Was this an observation or a request?
The delicate white shells peel off the bouncy egg and I leave them in a crumble on the table. Today the peeling ritual was satisfying; the creamy flesh is perfectly smooth with barely a fingernail pock. I am pleased. I slice the egg lengthwise in two halves and the sunshine yolk leaves a residue on the knife. Yolk bits fleck on to the table, I observe the graveyard of tossed aside breakfast parts and think of the dog we used to have.
He tells me about his day, about his excitement from a successful meeting, his hopefulness for another. I listen, because I love hearing him happy, and because no one is there to interrupt us, and because I love him.
"I want some toast." One spots our romantic morning date.
"Toast!" shouts another.
Me too, I think.
The sun is gone now. A cloud found it. No matter, I think. It was enough while it lasted.