I’ve been bedridden for two days with a delightful combination of flu and exhaustion. This has been an interesting experience for me not only because I’m usually (very) active, but also because my landlord and -lady (an archaic set of terms if ever there was one!) called in garden services to massacre my little garden cottage’s plot of earth.
They didn’t do too ferocious a job, actually, just hacked some of the branches off my tree (leaving the ones the hammock is attached to, thankfully) and viciously pruning back all the bushes. It looks quite nice for a bare patch of dirt.
But it’s been quite odd to sit inside my cottage, curtains drawn, reading and listening to people working outside.
What is even stranger is that much of the time they seem unaware of my presence.
Take this morning, for instance. Here I sit, typing away busily (if rather slowly, as my hands seem to have forgotten how to type at super-speed) while outside a man rakes up leaves and branches and sings, softly, but in the most beautiful baritone, as he works. I feel so lucky to be privy to this songmaking.
In fact, I’ve noticed it a lot lately. Cleaning ladies, car guards, security watchmen — many of these stalwarts of our workforce walk around singing. And not just ditties, either. Rich, beautiful, meaningful songs.
And it has to make you wonder (it certainly makes me wonder) that if these men and women, who are largely working menial jobs, can sing as they work, with a hint of laughter on their lips, why can’t we? We who have great jobs, cushy jobs, jobs that challenge and inspire us? Shouldn’t we be, if not singing, then at least humming as we work? Shouldn’t we be quicker with a smile for a stranger? Shouldn’t we be just the littlest bit grateful for our daily grind?
I think maybe I should.
So that’s my mission when I return to the workforce tomorrow: Grateful Work. Hell, maybe I’ll even belt out a show tune or two.
(Note: that was a joke. There will be no show tunes, belted or otherwise, tomorrow.)