Today I want to blubber about breakfast.

I know it’s quite the detour from chronic illness support and my “youzhe“, but while eating breakfast in the Starbuck’s of our hotel in Nashville, as I glanced over and saw the disheveled family sitting near us, it dawned on me that breakfast holds some truth and maybe it deserves to be heard.  If not, I can easily delete this entire draft and start over, but for now, you’re going to be served some breakfast, over easy, toast on the side, lightly buttered.

I just got back from an amazing vacation with my family and for the first two days, I think I could have diagnosed myself with a serious case of vacation withdrawal.  Like serious, all out depression over being home and not on the beach.  I was born for the beach, but unfortunately not on it.  Why did God place me in the Midwest?  I do love seasons, but beach.  Give me the beach.

Getting away from everything and spending a week to just soak in my family, the sun, and the beauty surrounding me was more needed than I knew.  It was breakfast.  Which my daughter calls “breffest”, just like her aunts, which leads me to believe that mispronunciation of words can indeed be genetic. 

There’s something truly primal about the first meal of the day.  Everyone is just waking up, stumbling into the kitchen, or restaurant, or café to gnaw and slurp on some sustenance.  We haven’t eaten for hours, and we’re raw and pillow haired monsters.  We haven’t taken the time to shower yet (or shake on the dry shampoo as is the case most days in my bathroom), and we’re gross.  We’re vulnerable.  Our muscles still aren’t quite functioning properly, and it may take a couple of minutes before we can even pry open the oatmeal box.  We grunt.  We groan.  Sometimes we’re in our underwear.

While on our trip, we stayed with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, and we had breakfast together (all of us fully clothed, your pervs). 

I feel like breakfast together is way more of a bonding experience than dinner, for the reasons I listed above.  We’re just our frumpy selves trying not to kill one another or our children while we attempt to ready our coffee, and steal ourselves away to poop.  It’s humbling and it allows for almost as much truth to be shared as was bestowed on the part of the beers the night before.

Musicians talk about how they write the best music when they wake up in the morning.  I’ve often thought about this, and I think it’s because…breakfast. 

We are unfiltered, and still connected to the unconscious dreamy part of ourselves that don’t give a dizamn about anything else.  Creativity seems to speak most when we can get naked from our thoughts like that.  It deserves to emerge when there is nothing nor anyone influencing what we produce.  Creativity requires some serious bedhead.

Getting away and spending some time with the wind and waves, (I have watched too much Moana; and I stared at the edge of the ocean), walking through a museum dedicated to two brilliant creatives, and then spending a weekend in a city full full of budding creativity and entrepreneurs, was like a true southern breakfast. 

I feel like I just had a twelve grande lattes, and am completely buzzed in anticipation to continue with my crusade to write, to create, and to encourage. 

The truth is, it’s not pretty.  I’m sitting here with a disheveled bladder, anxiety that continues to try to do the polka all over my brain, and fears looming over where the day will lead. 

But it’s been a great breakfast, and I feel like I need to encourage each of you to go grab a bite if you haven’t had anything for a while.  We need it to do what we were intended to do, whether that’s cleaning toilets, selling houses, feeding babies, or plucking away at our keyboard.  

Bon Appétit!

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What’s your favorite breakfast?  What were you intended to do?  How are you doing it? How do you wish you could?  Tell me in the comments!