Stealing Time for Breakfast

By Peter Nevland - Apr 20 , 2009

Work threatened to snow me under.

Demands crept closer to my little kitchen table.

I’d just returned home from a business trip to consult with a new, long-term marketing client. It had gone amazingly well, but they were the 2nd client I had added in two weeks. My mind drowned in possibilities, responsibilities, and writing requirements. The one remaining day mocked my hope of finishing all my work, packing, and competing in the Austin Poetry Slam semifinals that night, before heading off for a two-week performance tour in England. I thought about skipping breakfast.

“Breakfatht ith the motht important meal of the day,” Ronnie used to say, his lisp and oily, acned skin generating instant rolled eyes from my pimply, 16-year-old face. He also said that lunch was his favorite, and dinner was the biggest, making no meal more important than any other, which I never understood. At least we sort-of agreed on breakfast.

Ronnie didn’t make it into my thoughts right then, but breakfast is my stillness in the rage of any typhoon. It’s where I relish the sweet crunch of raspberry cream granola; bask in the soft smoothness of soymilk, all creamy and satisfying; quiet my mind to read the Bible; and savor the one time in 24 hours when pressure feels far away.

I decided to eat breakfast before the madness of my day. Good choice. Peace nestled in my crowded boat. Pretty soon, the ocean calmed. Gulls chimed serenely somewhere off in the distance. Words began dancing on the sea. I plucked them one by one, tossing them around the room. They arranged themselves into melodies and choruses. Harmonic crackles and pounding drums rattled the sound of fireworks in my chest. Flashes of “everything’s possible” sparkled in my eyes. I finished eating. It was time to start working.

“There’s no way I’ll get everything done before I leave if I start writing, but I’m feelin’ the magic, the juju. If I don’t write now, work will suck the rest of the day,” I thought. My artist’s soul demanded obeisance, as if this great, fiery-eyed goddess of wisdom had hushed the cries of obligations and duty. I couldn’t resist her charms.

My fingers quickly found the velvet cover of my journal. I opened its pages, intending to lasso the phrases about meaningful kisses and strip-mall relationships that had fluttered around the breakfast table. Instead, I found the beginning to my story about a night spent racing through mud, weeds, and horse manure with a little boy named David. Ink splashed from my pen. Blood churned into my wrists and hands. Less than one hour later, my new story cooed contentedly in my lap as I admired its sound and meaning.

Work was joy the rest of the day. My brain quickly formulated answers to every issue I faced. Ideas sprang to life. Creativity danced, holding hands, with practical reason. The spirit of Peter Nevland soared and entertained the excitement, rather than the pressure of my upcoming trip. I realized that there wasn’t nearly as much to accomplish as I thought. But then I realized how much I had accomplished. Purpose and meaning returned to the life of an artist surrounded by the frenetic business world.

Hiding amidst administrative details and unyielding deadlines that require my attention as owner of my own business, is the song of completed stories, ignited dreams, and work being more than a paycheck. A business won’t survive without responsibility, discipline, and completing tedious tasks that clash so completely with what I feel like doing.

But a writer soon suffocates without permission to explore, inebriate in the details, and spend more time than necessary to create a masterpiece. It’s so easy to forget why I left an engineering career in the first place. It’s a good thing I’ve always got breakfast to remind me.