I’ve always bristled when I walk into an elevator and someone greets me with, “Only two days until Friday.” The notion that our weekdays are a hamster wheel counting down to time away from work has never sat right with me.
It’s not that work isn’t sometimes hard, or even a drag. And I too love the weekends.
But, if we are lucky, we are often finding the beauty in our work, the moments of connection and self-expression, the pride what we have created, our own job well done.
It’s clear when a potter or a painter creates something that this thing exists because of them. It is the product of their art, their devotion and their vision.
Why any less so for the rest of us?
Last week, a teammate of mine shared this beautiful poem with me: To Be of Use, by Marge Piercy.
It captures the subtle beauty of a job well done, and the attitude it takes to toil every day, while also seeing that our strain and our sweat, and our time in the muck, is what it takes to create a thing of beauty.
“Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.”
Speaking of which, I recently was on the We Are for Good podcast, speaking with Becky Endicott and Jon McCoy. It was a joyful conversation about philanthropy, nonprofits, and the people who work in them and give to them. At the end I go on a bit of a rant about finding connection and meaning in our work. Enjoy.
To Be of Use, by Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
