LAKE MACBRIDE— Sunlight fell into the bedroom, crashing around the blinds to wake me about eight o’clock— the latest I slept in years. I’ll get through the physical adjustment to my new job— getting off work late and falling asleep later— but sleeping until eight is concerning. Half the day is gone.
Last night I soaked my feet in an Epsom salt bath after work— a workingman’s remedy for sore dogs. Wearing steel toed shoes for a nine hour shift has been like lifting a three-pound weight with each step. A friend posted on Facebook, “who needs a gym? You are multitasking weight training at work.” I don’t know about that, but my feet were less sore after the soaking.
Snow remains on the ground this morning, holding off spring yard and garden work for another day. It’s 16 degrees and a slight breeze is blowing, bringing with it remembrance of my non-office work life.
Working class artifacts surround me today: a beater of a car, steel toed shoes, special work clothes, a brown paper lunch bag, Epsom salt, pumice-based hand soap, bandages for cuts and scrapes, and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer (in the event I need one). These are things my dad had when he worked in the meat packing plant— like father, like son… sort of.
A workingman’s standard issue belies inner tensions. One strives to make it through each day without injury. There is risk in production settings, and a dynamic of managing that risk while striving for productivity. If we are paying attention, our humanity is evident to us in each moment as we navigate through a shift’s existential reality.
When work is repetitive, like operating a work station, or loading a truck, the mind tends to wander— to home, to family, to a host of worries of living in modern society. Distractions can be dangerous. To survive, a worker must focus on the task at hand, blocking everything else out. Doing so is a key to achieving productivity targets, and to making sense of why we work as an employee of someone else.
As the sun’s rude awakening recedes, consider its warming influence on the seed trays in the dining room. They are beginning to sprout. My day worker experience confirms long held beliefs. That every kind of work has value, whether it is paid or not.
What I hadn’t considered enough was how performing work requires our attention and an investment of our humanity. Work can inspire us, but mostly, it can be a furtherance of the pursuit of happiness— ours and those around us. That often gets lost while doing the work.
Journey Home 
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