Eating breakfast and being present

Winter morning writing

A Minneapolis winter.

In his book My Grandfather’s Alter, Richard Moves Camp shares the story of his grandfather, a respected Lakota healer, who took him on as his student. One morning, his grandfather asked the young Moves Camp if he had eaten breakfast. “Yes,” he replied. “Then wash your bowl,” his grandfather instructed. His grandfather then went about his business. That was the day’s lesson.

Moves Camp was confused. That’s it? So he consulted his uncle. “In a few words, he taught you a big lesson,” his uncle said. Moves Camp thought about it for days before finally understanding. “Everything you do, you have to be there, present. You can’t be somewhere else. [Our ancestors] teach you not to be ahead of yourself,” he concluded. “When you eat breakfast, you have to be there to eat breakfast. You cut off the world, and you just enjoy breakfast. It’s a sacred virtue, being there. And when you’re done, you clean your bowl, and you move on.”

The lesson is about balance—not overdoing it or underdoing it. Be present, whatever you’re doing. This is a difficult task. Most of us carry around a dopamine casino, ready to steal hours of our lives. The attention and time we spend with our apps and smartphones oftentimes prevent us from being fully present, not just with loved ones, friends, or co-workers but also with ourselves. It’s not the technology itself that is the problem. It is how tech overlords have turned our attention into profit. It is how it has become socialized and normalized in how we work, relate to each other and the world around us, and see ourselves.

We are encouraged to become narcissistic, constantly working on self-improvement and self-image. There is a bottomless pit of online self-help tutorials and wellness apps. Not all of them are bad. There is, after all, a worldwide mental health crisis. People need help. People feel helpless. Who wouldn’t feel despair knowing European powers can carry out a live-streamed genocide in Palestine with impunity in the twenty-first century?

The best therapy involves collectively overturning the social order. This is a huge task. In the meantime, we can begin by learning to be present, having breakfast, and washing our bowls.

I don’t remember having breakfast much with my mother when I was younger. She was already off to work in the morning. My brother and I delivered newspapers starting at 6 a.m. By the time we finished, we had to eat breakfast and walk to school. During the holidays, the subscribers on our paper route gifted us McDonald’s dollars. We collected enough to buy the Big Breakfast with Hotcakes, which we sometimes shared.

Every morning, paper delivery felt quiet, boring, and sometimes lonely. An occasional dog attack broke the monotony. Winter mornings were the most challenging yet beautiful. Often, it was cold and windy. We might have had a snow day at school, but paper delivery rarely granted the same. Other days were perfectly still, with blankets of snow absorbing all sound. Ice coated the Missouri River from shore to shore, nearly a mile wide. On a moonless morning, the Milky Way shone brightly. The Morning Star was always present.

I shared this routine with my brother, which taught me a lesson I have sometimes forgotten: There is sacred virtue in being present, whether for breakfast or witnessing a winter morning.