A Reason to Work

I was thinking about why I should work.

Or why, anyone should work.
Why they would want to.

I was thinking about what sort of things drives a person to work. You know. Other than hunger and bills.

As wealthy and free as we are, why do we work?

Offhand, I can think of these sorts of reasons:
1. Keep boredom at bay.
2. Meet people.
3. Earn money to buy more things.
4. Achieve more.
5. Have structure.
6. Create stimulating cirumstances.
7. Have perceived value to the outside world.
8. Achieve status.
9. Help others.
10. Give back.

It occurs to me that people work or create jobs for themselves for all sorts of reasons, from the most basic — to survive– to the most complex and odd, such as the determination to create a different world than the one you have already.

And that’s it, really. Work isn’t just necessity. Work becomes for us another reality. An alternate universe. It’s our escape hatch from the harm and vulnerability of home, of the internal voice, of the passing of days. 

Work is the place we can reinvent ourselves, or the place where we can hide and disappear into.

Work is life’s hidden doorway, behind which an infinite secret passageway lurks. It’s so easy to get lost there, and temptingly fun sometimes too.

But god, it’s hard to get out.

 Less is More, or Less

Even Bob Ross, I think, got tired sometimes of Happy Little Trees. Some days he could see them for what they really were: just blobs of paint on a canvas. A representation of something else, and nothing real at all. Just work– trees without reason.

Then work begins and it finishes, just as we do. The day ends and accomplishment has a shape and a name. I’ve chopped that wood. I’ve baked that cake. I’ve cleaned that house. I’ve weeded that garden. I’ve demolished that building. I’ve swallowed fire, again.