Furious activity is no substitute
for understanding. H.H. Williams
As this season of Lent comes to a
close, I'm remembering a Lenten discipline I took on several years
ago. The Episcopal priest where I attended church suggested instead
of giving up something for Lent, to take something on. I love
food—its flavor, scent, and texture, but often bolt it down, giving
it scant attention. I decided that during Lent I would savor my food.
Next day I made a favorite breakfast, a
cheese omelet. I noted how pretty it looked on the plate and picked
up my fork. But an interesting news story was playing on the radio
and I strained to hear it. I shut the radio off and picked up my fork
again. I remembered then I had to turn on my curling iron so I could
get ready for work. I dashed upstairs.
Back at the table, I sat down and took
a bite. Oh! What about the clothes I'd forgotten to put in the drier
the night before? I dashed downstairs.
That's how it went. Up, down, up, down.
I'd had no idea how splintered I allowed myself to be during meals.
It took me a full week to learn to sit still and eat breakfast as my
sole task. The benefit? Food tasted wonderful.
I'd meant to take on all meals during
that Lent, but breakfast was all I could manage. After Lent ended, I
kept the practice of eating breakfast mindfully. But it can still be
challenging. This morning, NPR began an interview with someone I
admire and I didn't shut the radio off. I could have delayed eating
until the interview was over; instead I absentmindedly emptied my
plate.
I think I had a good breakfast, only I
can't remember what it was.
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