Where To Have Breakfast

The word for “breakfast” derives from literally “breaking a fast” which gives a sense that we fasted overnight and broke that fast first thing in the morning, which Jill had looked forward to for two days.

I enjoyed my day of purging and drinking a gallon of suspect origins and frequent pit stops first for the colonoscopy, and after a year of dread, Jill followed.

The hospital has it down to a routine.  You check in, are ushered down a hall where you enter your little curtain drawn room and change.  Nurses swarm in with warm blankets, making sure you are you and this is not a triple bypass, promises of fruit juice after the procedure and professional, respectful treatment.  The doctor enters just before you go back, explains that the drug induces sleep and a bit of amnesia.  If mindful, you thank him for amnesia.  You glide into the procedure room on your bed.  All is thoughtfully draped.  You sleep, awake in your room, enjoy ice chips, and that promised juice.  When you wake fully, you listen to the doctor’s report, dress, and a nurse wheels you out the emergency room door to  your spouse driving you away.

Routine, if a little bothersome, and driving away I was struck by two things.

One, we were leaving a hospital and discussing places for breakfast (Jill’s call and it was waffles).  Two, many, many other people were leaving hospitals the world over, and they would give anything to be in our place.  Maybe that hospital was bombed in fifteen countries last year.  Maybe their hospital had no toilets, no AC, no private rooms — and some have up to four patients plus visitors in that tiny room — and no sense of rudimentary cleanliness.  So many ways to die.

Many people leaving hospitals just heard, “Yes we did (did not) get all the cancer and we will now initiate (endure) chemo, radiation, a new treatment….”  So many ways to poison our bodies.

And we were now driving to Jill’s choice for breakfast.  And driving into the sun I thought we forget some days.  We forget to be amazed, or thankful, or shocked at the goodness.

May your most taxing discussion be where to go for breakfast this day.  Or maybe tomorrow.

The Route Versus Routine

Another semester begins.  It is fall, so academia calls it a new year. 

I have 80 students in two classes, 70 and 11.  I am scrambling to learn names and faces.  Then in my online class I have almost half of it filled with serving military members around the world. 

I teach to give back.  I owe this country and God quite a lot, so I teach to give back. 

That is a cover.  I really teach because I have not grown weary of seeing a face light up with hope.  I relish eyes sparkling for the first time in a class as much as when I was in my twenties and they were my eyes. 

I smile to see someone move from a slouch to upright posture, to actually leaning in because the exchange in class has more than pricked his interest. 

Over the next few weeks these students will learn about themselves, about courage, about others, about how thinking sharpens your edge in business.  They will start to see that Creativity is a lifelong work of consistently overcoming never ending challenges — and will still choose to embark on that route. 

I have a few of them messaging and texting now so that they can ask questions about businesses and ideas for businesses.  I am behind in responding. 

This Route is not as easy as I might have chosen.  Jill and I have visited the brink of financial collapse and ruin more times than I care to count — and we are fiscally very conservative. 

So Faith whispers that the Route is demanding, scary, exciting, and beautiful in its turns and twists and that the Route is far, far better than the Routine or its abbreviated form: the Rut. 

Just a thought as I catch my breath, and “I have miles to go before I sleep.”   And THAT is part of the fun — creative people are dear friends, even if they like Frost and a host of other Creative souls have finished their Routes here on this plane of existence.