I don't know about you, but at this time of year I always think of work. It’s harvest time. Because of
years I spent in MidWest, I was around people who were harvesting produce, bringing in crop for year. The quirks of nature notwithstanding, they would be reaping what they had sown. The result of their work was visible, and commensurate to amount of effort and care they had put into it. They also had an ending. The crop that had been planted was now being harvested. Then it would all begin again. We do not all have work like this. My musings started first of October this year, as I volunteered a lot of time working at church's pumpkin patch, which raises $50,000 each year for local charities.
Most of time I just sold pumpkins, but two Saturdays we unloaded huge trucks of pumpkins hauled in from a Navajo pumpkin farm in another state. We formed a chain of humans and passed pumpkins down line to eventually be arranged on church lawn.
On one side of me were 2 parolees doing community service time. They talked about how much better this job was than one they’d done earlier, and how nice it was to be out in sunshine. Both of them expected to be “out” by Christmas. I didn’t ask them what they were “in” for.
On other side of me were teenagers from youth choir who complained a lot about how hard it was and had to be reminded to pay attention. I'm sure they couldn't imagine working at anything for 8 hours in a row, especially something so, like, boring, dude.
The pumpkins came down line in various sizes and shapes, shiny and wet, some with dirt on them. It was very primal.
I wondered if Navajos on other end of process had formed a line to pitch them into truck. And if they took pride in their work. If they even saw marvel of pumpkins any more.
One time there was a middle-aged woman standing next to me. “You’re a good worker,” she said. “You don’t complain.” If only she knew how much I was enjoying myself. “I was raised with work ethic,” I said. It’s stood me in good stead. Having been taught that work was work and play was play somehow frees me from “complaining” side and allows me to enjoy work. Most of time anyway. As pumpkins passed by us we noted you couldn't tell how much one would weigh by looking. There were some surprises. It’s density. Such different shapes, too. “Squash” someone would yell and down would come a pumpkin that didn’t know it was a pumpkin. Sometimes nature errs. What is line between “pumpkin” and “squash” anyway? One or other must have been a mutant at some time. How exciting to discover one. There’s no such thing as a mistake, I’m reminded. Twice a "perfect" pumpkin came down line and work slowed as each person paused to admire it. No one reprimanded, "Move it along." We understood our mutual need to appreciate perfection when it comes our way. Once in a lifetime … twice on pumpkin line … life is sweet indeed. We have archetype of perfect pumpkin, and perfect woman, and perfect love affair, and perfect job. (Hope you've had yours!)
