This is a thoughtful and beautifully written essay, Savitree. As a professor, I often discover that lunchtime has disappeared somewhere between classes, student meetings, emails and committee work. Sometimes I eat while reading a thesis draft and later cannot even remember what I ate. So I understand the value of reclaiming this ordinary moment. Sitting for lunch without answering emails or scrolling through the phone may genuinely interrupt the urgency of the day. At the same time, a nurse between shifts, a factory worker with a fixed break, or a mother feeding her children before herself may not possess an hour that “nobody else gets to claim.” Different bodies will also respond differently to warm food, caffeine and meal timing. I like your idea most as a thoughtful experiment in attention rather than a universal prescription.
Please write regularly, my friend. I would genuinely like to read more from you.
You're right that a nurse between shifts and a line worker on a fixed break may not possess a 60-minute block that belongs to no one. Read as an empty hour “no one gets to claim,” the line fails, and I won't defend it as if it doesn’t.
But the line was never about possessing an hour. It was about possessing the one moment already yours. The nurse eats, however claimed, and the factory worker stops, however brief. They don’t have to do it with a screen standing up.
On the mother, I'm not speaking to her from the outside. For 18 years, from when my son was born and my daughter was 4.5, I lived this. So let me say it plainly: it was not merely possible, it was easy. Because I didn’t make the meal a negotiation. From the beginning: they sit, you sit. And you eat, together. No tv, no phone, no books, no toys. Just you and them. I didn't fly a spoon into their mouths while they ran from the table. I spooned a bite in and counted to thirty as they chewed, then took my own. I ate no leftovers, and I taught them I myself wasn’t a left over, or a garbage disposal. A child given a seat, a real meal, and a mother who is truly present does not run in circles while someone stuffs food into her. She eats. And so do I.
I say this because the mother is the one I least want to hand an exemption. In my years as a teacher, I learned that if I say a thing softly, if I offer the exceptions up front, the listener grabs it and grinds on. Caretakers are first to exempt themselves to their detriment. I’ve witnessed this for over 20 years; we are our own most reliable alibi.
A teacher once gave me an assignment: for one week, whenever anyone asks you anything — a favor, tea, a walk, anything — say no, without justifying it. Just no.
It was absolute on purpose. Had he said "no, unless…” I'd have filed myself under every exception and learned nothing. The absoluteness was the instruction. I said no to everything except what couldn’t go unanswered, and in that I learned discernment. It wasn’t about refusing people but about refusing the habit of self-erasure that wears obligation's clothes.
So I leave the line absolute, knowing it isn't universal, because the people who most need it are the ones an exception would release.
You’re right, there's no universal prescription. But there are universal openings, and the meal is one. Only the scale differs: 60 minutes or 5, or for the mother, the spoonful she takes with them. The experiment runs on whatever minutes exist.
And yes, this is an experiment in attention, not a prescription. That's all I've ever meant it to be, to be disproven in your own body if it doesn't take.
Thank you for telling me to write. That, from someone whose own writing I admire, lands the way the essay hopes its lunch does. I will. And I'd welcome more of this. 😊
I love this. Say a word to no one but me. ♥️
This is a thoughtful and beautifully written essay, Savitree. As a professor, I often discover that lunchtime has disappeared somewhere between classes, student meetings, emails and committee work. Sometimes I eat while reading a thesis draft and later cannot even remember what I ate. So I understand the value of reclaiming this ordinary moment. Sitting for lunch without answering emails or scrolling through the phone may genuinely interrupt the urgency of the day. At the same time, a nurse between shifts, a factory worker with a fixed break, or a mother feeding her children before herself may not possess an hour that “nobody else gets to claim.” Different bodies will also respond differently to warm food, caffeine and meal timing. I like your idea most as a thoughtful experiment in attention rather than a universal prescription.
Please write regularly, my friend. I would genuinely like to read more from you.
Noman, thank you.
You're right that a nurse between shifts and a line worker on a fixed break may not possess a 60-minute block that belongs to no one. Read as an empty hour “no one gets to claim,” the line fails, and I won't defend it as if it doesn’t.
But the line was never about possessing an hour. It was about possessing the one moment already yours. The nurse eats, however claimed, and the factory worker stops, however brief. They don’t have to do it with a screen standing up.
On the mother, I'm not speaking to her from the outside. For 18 years, from when my son was born and my daughter was 4.5, I lived this. So let me say it plainly: it was not merely possible, it was easy. Because I didn’t make the meal a negotiation. From the beginning: they sit, you sit. And you eat, together. No tv, no phone, no books, no toys. Just you and them. I didn't fly a spoon into their mouths while they ran from the table. I spooned a bite in and counted to thirty as they chewed, then took my own. I ate no leftovers, and I taught them I myself wasn’t a left over, or a garbage disposal. A child given a seat, a real meal, and a mother who is truly present does not run in circles while someone stuffs food into her. She eats. And so do I.
I say this because the mother is the one I least want to hand an exemption. In my years as a teacher, I learned that if I say a thing softly, if I offer the exceptions up front, the listener grabs it and grinds on. Caretakers are first to exempt themselves to their detriment. I’ve witnessed this for over 20 years; we are our own most reliable alibi.
A teacher once gave me an assignment: for one week, whenever anyone asks you anything — a favor, tea, a walk, anything — say no, without justifying it. Just no.
It was absolute on purpose. Had he said "no, unless…” I'd have filed myself under every exception and learned nothing. The absoluteness was the instruction. I said no to everything except what couldn’t go unanswered, and in that I learned discernment. It wasn’t about refusing people but about refusing the habit of self-erasure that wears obligation's clothes.
So I leave the line absolute, knowing it isn't universal, because the people who most need it are the ones an exception would release.
You’re right, there's no universal prescription. But there are universal openings, and the meal is one. Only the scale differs: 60 minutes or 5, or for the mother, the spoonful she takes with them. The experiment runs on whatever minutes exist.
And yes, this is an experiment in attention, not a prescription. That's all I've ever meant it to be, to be disproven in your own body if it doesn't take.
Thank you for telling me to write. That, from someone whose own writing I admire, lands the way the essay hopes its lunch does. I will. And I'd welcome more of this. 😊
Amazing reply.
Looking forward to read more about your journey