Member-only story
Eating hope for breakfast
Tuning in to hope to drown out the symphony of outrage and mayhem.
I’m looking out of the dining room window of my apartment, at the tents of two homeless persons across the road. I sit down with my usual breakfast — fresh fruit, two eggs medium easy, a toaster-oven waffle with honey and butter, black coffee, and three little books of daily inspirational readings — the kind with a short motivational or spiritual write-up for each of the 365 days of the year.
For a moment, I feel guilty, as if enjoying my breakfast somehow denigrates the dire circumstances of the individuals (or possibly couple or family) across the road. I consider pulling down my blinds but decide not to. I understand that the vagaries of life can reverse our places at any time, but for today, I am grateful I have a home and nutritious food. I can live out my today and acknowledge and accept that they are out there, living theirs.
It sucks that any human being has to live without shelter and the conveniences of a brick-and-mortar home, but how’s feeling guilty about enjoying the simple pleasure of breakfast going to help anyone? I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes but by indulging in feelings of guilt or indignation, I’m really making it all about me, aren’t I?
There’s a lot of unpleasant, sad, ugly shit happening in the world, but this has always been…
