Forgive Me, My Ugly Is Showing

It’s that special time of year for us during which all sorts of things decide to simultaneously coil up like a rattler in strike and free themselves upon us with the spit and vigor of a cat who’s tail is stuck in a sliding door. 

AKA, it’s about to get crazy up in here.

There have been moments in my past when I have felt like Luke Skywalker standing in the garbage compactor of the Death Star.  The walls are about to close in, I’m surrounded by foulness and trash, and two of my friends have the bright idea of holding off the impending squish with a giant metal toothpick (the other is screaming and banging on the walls), all of which have almost made me forget about that mammoth water snake that is working to suffocate me with its alligator death-roll.

My friend Christi, having her own Star Wars moment with the Hobart.

Sometimes life feels like this.  Can I get an Amen?

To be fair, though Crazy Town is just around the bend, we have not pulled into the station, so what really puts all of this on my mind is that I can name four or five friends or co-workers who, at this very moment, are in the middle of a trash-compactor life phase.  So, I’m feeling for them a little bit. 

Something I realized last September, in the wake of a one-month work bender, is that, well, some people work all the time,

all

the

time.

I can’t say whether it’s a choice (the latest UltraTinyBook is always calling) or a necessity, but there are some poor souls out their whom, either to make ends meet or to buy another cat (did I say that?), work 80+ hour work weeks, every week.  Others do it because they are pinned down by deadlines, or because their work defines their person.  I am not judging.  I understand some of these reasons first-hand. 

However, the last time I had a phase like this, to put it simply: I became an awful person.  It happened quicker than I’d thought, and far more easily than I had ever hoped.  The pressure built, sleep became a dream, and sitting down for a meal was a maniacal notion.  And was I ever miserable to be around.  If I wasn’t working, I was somehow trying to explain how hard I was working.  If I wasn’t running from place to place, I was showing you the worn tread on my shoes.  If I wasn’t plunging a toilet, I was giving you the minute-by-minute, poopy details of the one I just left. 

More than a quiet meal, more than a relaxing afternoon, more than sleep, I wanted one thing:

credit.

If I was going to work this hard and this tirelessly, I wanted someone everyone to notice.  And comment.  And give me the sad eyes and the kind words.  I wanted to be recognized for laying down over the tracks. 

This is not to say that the folks I referred to earlier, the ones who are struggling underwater in a sea of work, are exhibiting the same nasty traits I did last year.  They actually aren’t, which is what has made me think so much on this lately.  They are working, in their exhaustion, with grace and kindness, and even the sweet seasoning of humor.  But I was not so good.  In fact, I was very, very bad. 

Yes, during those busy days I needed a nap, and probably a snack, too.  But I also needed to remember to mentally back-the-heck-up and recall that my circumstances should not dictate my behavior; that when the going gets tough, the tough get counseling, or whatever the phrase is.  I needed to remember that I am still the master of my own mind and words and actions, and that just because I feel like taking a five-minute break to punch holes in a wall doesn’t mean that I won’t get cut.  And it surely means that someone else will, too. 

See, we live in community.  It’s unavoidable.  Even if you are single and live alone, what you do impacts others.  It impacts your parents.  It impacts the fellow at the checkout counter at the gas station.  And this is more so if you are married, have a family, or live in a dormitory or perhaps the stray commune village.  Other people are undeniably part of your and my life.  How I choose to walk through valleys will radiate to my co-workers and the people we serve here on The Compound.  If I think that my attitude is solely an internal organ, I have been taken for a ride, and sooner or later, someone is going to come along and correct me.  Or equally likely, some innocent small child is going to walk up, gaze at me with Bambi eyes, and ask me why I look like I want to hurt everyone in the room.

Work is hard.  Sometimes it’s just plain miserable.  But, if you are fortunate enough to have a job that you care about, or if you care about your job, there are high points in the mix: shimmery moments of glory and joy.  Remember those moments.  Remember who you are in those moments.

I want that.  Most importantly, I want to remember the person I am in those beautiful, energized interactions so that when I come crashing down and find myself standing in the terrible trash-compactors of life, I will know that just because my circumstances smell like garbage and look like a water dragon from the deep, it doesn’t mean that I need to go for a swim. 

Be honest about your feelings, but don’t drown in them.  Credit feels good, but living well feels so much better.

When Life Hands You Melons

A quiet day at camp makes me long for more quiet days at camp.

source

Granted, today will only be temporarily quiet, because in a few hours, a hilarious and day-brightening group of junior-high students will return to bounce around the property like tiny, sheared lambs.  Though this peaceful respite will be relatively brief, I cannot keep myself from hollering up some soulful thanks to the Maker, because a few hours of stillness seem like an island-of-wonderful when you've been swimming through relentless waves of busyness.

There is one particular lesson that I’ve been learning this year.  Since it’s not rocket science kind-of-stuff, it’s probably old news to you: the reality that infrequent bursts of energy aren’t what can pull the plug on our passion, but rather the constant drumming of tasks and unfinished business and the laundry list of what’s around the river bend.  It’s the plugged toilets and unchopped vegetables and rooms to rearrange.  It’s the dishes that have been sitting in our sink for a full week, because despite what Disney would have us think, serving plates and coffee cups don’t dance on tables, speak with a British accent, and just will not bathe themselves.  It’s also because in addition to our own used mugs and late-night-snack cereal bowls, there are another ninety sets of dishes to wash in the camp Hobart, which makes the previous truth seem acutely depressing. 

My friend, Kristi, bonding with the camp Hobart.

I, like every reasonable American child, dream of dancing juice cups and coffee pots that sound like Angela Lansbury.   Sing, dangit - and please turn on the dishwasher when you’re through.

What is striking about the nature of these everyday hurdles is that while mine might involve sending (then resending) invoices and cleaning up hot chocolate spills in the Dining Hall, yours probably include a host of other duties that drive you to the very same wall I’m scrambling up.  None of us are exempt from work.  It’s an inevitable part of life on terra firma, and we all have some load to bear – even if it is simply brushing our teeth or walking to the corner store for toilet paper (which would take a very long time up here, and probably require crampons).    

That said, I don’t think that true life is about what you do.  It shouldn’t matter if you are a young account executive with Prudential or if you are spending your sunset years working the customer service desk at JCPenney.  It sure feels good to have a job that is fulfilling and soulful and gives you a great financial or emotional return on your effort - that's a no-brainer.  However, life is not made significant by what you do.  Rather, your spirit is revealed in how you do what you do, and this is what I constantly find myself hung up on. 

Do I do my work peevishly, with a dispassionate and resentful spirit?  Am I visibly bitter and visibly tired?  Or rather, do I treat my work as a gift, as are each of my days.  Do I move through it bearing a hopeful countenance, with grace in my speech and humility in my actions?  Am I visibly joyful, albeit visibly tired?

Tiredness is a fact.  Attitude is a choice.  Moments are opportunities.

So, give me just a couple more hours, then throw some soap in the Hobart and let’s get crack-a-lacking.  Lady Lansbury won’t wash herself.