If you're squeaking a living out of work you love then you're way ahead of many. My head is filled with the blue-collar, working-class ethic. My grandfather had a factory job during the depression. I guess my father considered him lucky, because he later also worked in that factory for more than thirty years. If you were fortunate enough to get a job, you kept it; you were rarely sick and you tried not to miss a day's work. In fact, it could make you anxious if you had to miss work with even a legitimate excuse, such as jury duty. Moreover, while one income seemed ample then, two paychecks may not be enough today.

The world has seemingly made some of us too busy; so busy in fact, that we may never get to our own dreams and desires. I don't want to wait until I'm sixty-two for a glimpse of wonder and then pass on to wherever it is I believe. I want to be outdoors enjoying and appreciating the earth ... now. I want charge of my own life, to make my own plans, comfort my friends, find out how people got to this point in their lives, hold them, stare silently and listen carefully, concentrate on this movement that brings people together or closer, sanctify the part of this planet that I inhabit, remember the dead, and honor the living with hands to work and hearts to the spirit.

Work not for money, although wages sometimes allow us to continue the work we love. Rather, work for satisfaction and joy. I want to use my hands to accomplish that which pleases the senses.


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