The Business of Doing
I am far too busy doing the things of life to live a life.
This is not necessarily a complaint.
It is more of an observation.
There are things that need doing. I have generally been the sort of person who does them. There is a certain simplicity to it. If something is broken, fix it. If something needs carrying, carry it. If somebody needs help, help them. If the roof leaks, get on the roof. If the car makes a noise it has never made before, pretend not to hear it for a little while and then eventually find out what is wrong with it.
There is always something.
This has the useful advantage of keeping a man occupied.
It also has the useful advantage of keeping him out of trouble.
Mostly.
There are worse things a man can do with his days than be useful.
I suppose that is one of the bargains of adulthood. You spend a great deal of your time taking care of things that did not exist when you were young and will probably continue to exist after you are gone. Bills. Houses. Vehicles. Fences. Appliances. Other people's problems. Your own problems, which are generally less cooperative.
You make appointments.
You keep appointments.
You forget appointments.
You make another appointment.
You buy things you did not know you needed until you discovered that you needed them.
You repair things that worked perfectly well until you touched them.
Then you repair the thing you broke while repairing the first thing.
It is a system.
I have become rather good at it.
There is satisfaction in finishing something.
A job completed has a certain clean honesty about it. You know where you stand with a repaired fence. It is either repaired or it isn't. A ditch is either dug or it is not dug. The wood is either stacked or it remains in a pile making you look at it every time you walk past.
There is something comforting about such things.
The world becomes less complicated when reduced to a list of things that need doing.
Perhaps this is why soldiers have always made sense to me.
Soldiers dig ditches.
They carry equipment.
They clean things.
They stand watch.
They march.
They wait.
They fight battles when required and then, presumably, go back to digging ditches.
They do not spend much time wondering whether the ditch is a meaningful expression of their inner self.
The ditch needs to be there.
So they dig it.
There is something admirable in that.
Loyal.
Enduring.
Resilient.
Strong.
Mostly, though, they dig ditches.
I suspect much of life works the same way.
We like to imagine that life is made up of the great moments. The wedding. The birth of a child. The trip. The promotion. The victory. The sunset over the lake. The photograph that eventually becomes old enough to be called a memory.
Those things are real, of course.
But most of life is not like that.
Most of life is Tuesday.
Tuesday needs the garbage taken out.
Tuesday needs groceries.
Tuesday has an email that requires an answer.
Tuesday has a tire that is going soft.
Tuesday has laundry.
Tuesday has somebody calling to say they need a hand with something.
Tuesday has a ditch.
And so you dig it.
I think there is something to be said for a life made largely of Tuesdays.
Not every day needs to be memorable.
In fact, most days probably shouldn't be.
A day in which nothing terrible happened and several necessary things got done is a pretty good day.
We have perhaps become too interested in making our lives remarkable.
There is considerable pressure to have experiences. To travel. To discover ourselves. To maximize our mornings. To optimize our sleep. To find our passion. To cultivate hobbies. To make memories.
All of this sounds exhausting.
Sometimes I think the great luxury is simply to know what needs doing and do it without turning it into a philosophy.
There is a kind of peace in ordinary work.
You get up.
You go.
You do what needs doing.
You come home.
You eat something.
You sleep.
Then you do it again.
Years can disappear that way.
I do not necessarily regard that as tragic.
There are people whose lives are full of excitement who would probably trade some of it for a little peace and quiet.
There are people who have spent their lives chasing extraordinary experiences who eventually discover that what they really wanted was somebody familiar sitting across the table.
There are worse things than being tired from having done something useful.
I have occasionally wondered, however, what all the doing amounts to.
Not in some grand philosophical sense.
I am not looking for the meaning of existence.
That seems like a lot of work.
I mean in the smaller sense.
What will remain of all this?
Perhaps not much.
The fence will eventually need repairing again.
The house will belong to somebody else.
The truck will be replaced.
The bills will be forgotten.
The projects will become somebody else's projects.
Even the things we thought were permanent turn out to be temporary arrangements.
But perhaps that does not make them pointless.
A ditch does not need to last forever to have been worth digging.
A bridge does not need to stand for a thousand years to be useful.
A meal does not become meaningless because it is eventually eaten.
Maybe usefulness has never required permanence.
Maybe the value is simply that something was better because you were there to do it.
That is a modest sort of legacy.
I rather like modest legacies.
Perhaps your children will not remember every thing you did for them.
They probably shouldn't.
A childhood ought to be more than an inventory of parental maintenance.
But perhaps they will remember that when something needed doing, you did it.
Perhaps somebody will remember that you showed up.
Perhaps somebody will remember that you drove across town at an inconvenient hour because they called.
Perhaps somebody will remember that you fixed something.
Perhaps they will remember that you sat beside them when there was nothing to fix.
That last one may be harder.
I have always found it easier to do something than to do nothing.
Doing nothing requires a certain amount of confidence.
You have to believe that the world will continue without your immediate supervision.
This is not always obvious.
There is always another task.
Always.
If you finish everything on the list, somebody will simply make another list.
If nobody does, there is probably something wrong.
The list is eternal.
That is its great strength.
It never runs out of ammunition.
Which means that waiting until everything is finished before living a little is probably not a particularly sound strategy.
Everything will never be finished.
The ditch will remain.
There will be another ditch.
This does not mean we abandon the work.
It means perhaps we occasionally look up from it.
Not because the work is unimportant.
Because it is not the only thing happening.
There is a difference.
A man can dig a ditch and notice the weather.
He can repair a fence and hear the birds.
He can mow the grass and realize that the evening light is particularly good.
He can stop for coffee.
He can call somebody he has not talked to in too long.
He can sit on the porch without needing a reason.
These things do not interfere with the work.
They are part of the work.
Or perhaps they are the reward for doing it.
I am not sure.
I have never been particularly good at rewards.
Give me another task.
I understand tasks.
Tasks are dependable.
Roses are less so.
Roses bloom when they please and then become roses no longer.
Lakes change.
Weather changes.
People change.
Children grow.
Dogs get old.
Houses become unfamiliar.
Friends move away.
Parents become older.
One day, without much ceremony, something that was ordinary becomes something you remember.
This is not necessarily sad.
It is simply the nature of things.
The trick, if there is one, may be to notice them while they are still ordinary.
The cup of coffee while it is still just coffee.
The dog while he is still young enough to get up without thinking about it.
The friend while he is still only a phone call away.
The house while it is still your house.
The evening while there is still evening left.
There is no great lesson in this.
I distrust great lessons.
They tend to require a seminar.
It is just something I have noticed.
I spend a great deal of my life doing things.
Perhaps that is what I was built for.
There are worse occupations.
There is dignity in being the fellow who gets up and handles it.
There is dignity in carrying your share.
There is dignity in being tired because somebody needed you.
There is dignity in keeping the promises you made even after the excitement of making them has worn off.
There is dignity in doing ordinary things well.
And there is probably some wisdom in occasionally remembering that the ordinary things are not the whole story.
Soldiers dig ditches.
They do not spend their days wondering whether the ditch expresses who they are.
They dig because the ditch needs digging.
Then perhaps they sit somewhere afterward.
Maybe they smoke.
Maybe they talk.
Maybe they laugh about something stupid.
Maybe they look at the sky.
For a few minutes, at least, they are not soldiers doing anything.
They are simply there.
That seems about right to me.
Do the work.
Carry the load.
Fix what is broken.
Help where you can.
Be dependable.
Dig the ditch.
There will always be another one.
But every now and then, put down the shovel.
Look around.
There is probably something worth seeing.
You do not have to make a production of it.
You do not need a retreat, a life coach, a five-year plan or a scented candle.
Just look up.
Maybe somebody you love is standing there.
Maybe the sun is going down.
Maybe the lake is quiet.
Maybe there is a rose.
Smell it.
Then pick up the shovel.
The ditch is not going to dig itself.
12/08/22
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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper