Work, work, work, work, work, work

a slice of the WWII we can do it poster.

Is it Friday yet?

Oh. It is. And ahead are three days without going to work.

Labor Day. A day of leisure. A day of anti-labor. Because we work. And we prefer not to.

The idea of work being something that requires relief, versus an integral part of being seems kind of bad.

I chose the word bad on purpose. As in opposite of good. Because work is what we do. And to make work separate from being seems like a recipe for unhappiness. Learning is work. Thinking is work. Walking is work.

Winning a gold medal in the 800 meter freestyle? Work. Feeding and diapering a baby–your own included–equals work. Negotiating at a parent/teacher conference? Definitely work.

Ask a professional dancer what they do, they’ll tell you they work. The cast of Hamilton, they go to work everyday. The Pope? Doing god’s work. Being the leader of the free world? I think President’s would call that work.

Teaching a class? Work. Taking a class? Work. Making dinner? Work. Paying bills? Work. Thinking big thoughts? That’s work, too. Being a spouse, child, parent, sibling? All include work.

You work at relationships. You work at finding compromise and solution. Struggle can be work, but work does not have to be struggle. Or maybe struggle isn’t work? I mean, this could be a better post if I worked on it.

Right now, though, I am finishing the work on this post. And then I am going to rest my head. Maybe I can say that I’m working on sleeping. Yeah. That’s it. Until I punch the clock in the morning.

I don’t mind work. It’s how we grow.

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