Old-Fashioned Oatmeal

This morning I made old-fashioned oatmeal.  Yes, the non-instant kind that requires more than a microwave or 3.2 seconds of vigorous stirring after the addition of boiling water.
   
Several weeks ago the microwave decided to retire and announced its departure with a smoky black bag of charred popcorn; a figurative flare-like announcement to the neighborhood.  As an ultimate encore, it proceeded to engulf several strips of morning bacon in hungry flames (much to the dismay of our hungry stomachs).

Now I have old-fashioned oats.  I chose the perfect mini-saucepan, measured water and ignited the stovetop.  Several minutes later, tiny bubbles signified a demand for the oat addition itself and I dumped the pre-measured allotment into the boiling water.  Perhaps uningeniously I opted for a metal spoon as my preferred stirring instrument and thus fought the precarious battle against simultaneous overflow and metal burn prevention as I stirred and waited in alternating combination.

Minutes passed.

Minutes passed but time was not wasted, contrary to what my normal tendency toward immediate gratification would have me believe.

Water evaporated, oats cooked, and breakfast was ready.

I think I appreciated it more because I invested in the process beyond one or two steps along the way.  I created and felt created, and this was only oatmeal.  It was a journey, a process, not a magical breakfast appearing.

I like finish lines, arrivals and “there,” but not the getting there.

I like point Z, it’s at the end.  I struggle with point G which is worse than middle; it’s pre-middle.  It’s like looking at the clock during an hour-long class and realizing that only 12 minutes have elapsed.

In my race to the finish and my fixation on the end, I miss the process.  I miss the scenery along the way.  For the past three summers I have worked in the mountains of central Colorado.  Every morning I rise with the sun and embark on the gravelly roads for an predawn run I can only describe as glorious.  My feet follow the same path morning after morning, year after year…I thought I saw the scene around me.  I thought I paid attention. 

Then, one morning I glanced to my left. My vision bounced in methodic thumping in accordance with the rhythm of my pounding Mizuno-clad feet.  I saw a house.  Did they just build this?  I thought as I admired the gingerbread-like construction and Easter egg coloring.  Established landscaping and climbing vines negated this possibility and I was left with the realization that my years of traveling the same path blinded me to the view of what lay around me.

    I am hesitant to admit this embarrassing fact of domestic failing.  But I once thought that oatmeal only came in instant form, and lack of a microwave made that breakfast option unviable, the equivalent of a can of soup without a can-opener.  I could eliminate the effort.  I could eliminate the process.  I could, but what would I lose as I lost the learning?  What wildness of the world and wonders of the journey would I eliminate?

    The arrival of a new microwave is scheduled for the near future, but I just might remain loyal to the old-fashioned oats.  In addition to the “heart healthy” benefits touted by the canister, they teach me about life.