Week 37: Being Useful

In case you are sick of my gushing-about-how-wonderful-my-life-is posts, here is an antidote.

Last week, I lied when I said I didn’t feel guilty about finding so much of my life satisfaction in outdoorsy adventures with my family rather than doing noble deeds. I feel guilty a lot. The times when I am most down on myself are when I feel that I am not being useful, and that I am letting other people down. I’ve been feeling that way pretty intensely recently, and remembering happy adventures doesn’t make that go away. I have an apple crisp baking in the oven that I made for my family, and that is helping a teeny bit.

I think it is probably one of our deepest longings to be of benefit to others, and to pull our weight in some large shared endeavor. That said, my cat Whitby is contentedly lounging next to me, and clearly feels no such compunction. So there is a cat exemption. But I think it applies to most humans.

Kira and I volunteered with the Reading Trails Committee today, spending about three hours hacking away at phragmites (frag mighties) and clearing a new trail in the Maillet Conservation Area. It is really satisfying to have a job that just requires physical effort and shows such tangible results (other folks were doing the skilled labor of building a bridge – Kira and Dorian hauled lumber for that a few weeks ago).

Dorian is away at Otherworld for the weekend, and so I find myself doing a lot more kid schlepping, cooking, dishes, and piano and homework reminding than usual. That, too, is straightforward and satisfying.

In college, I loved to row crew. I’m happy to haul on an oar for hours (when my back isn’t hurt), with someone yelling at me to pull harder and my main task to dig deep and stay focused and move in harmony with my boat-mates. I never wanted to be the coxswain, with the responsibility of yelling and steering and making the team’s efforts not be wasted.

I am struggling at work, because in my role I need to be more of the coxswain – providing direction, forging harmony and united effort, being decisive. It’s not me, but it needs to be, and I need to figure out how to improve. Many people are depending on me, and it is eating me up inside.

I know what Mom would say.  “Oh, Kate. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Make yourself a cup of tea and sit outside for a bit”. Auntie Pauline is my greatest cheerleader in her absence (thank you Auntie Pauline!) and might say that she wished I could see what I brilliant genius I am. My no-nonsense Pilates instructor would say “Quit your whining and just steer the damn boat”.

I don’t have a good answer. But I do have a lovely photo. This is the stream near my house, and the place where I’d love the Reading Trails Committee to build a trail someday.

I also have a poem. I particularly like this passage. I was “the ox” on my freshman crew team, and that was a good thing.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

Here is the full poem, “To be of use” by Marge Piercy.

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element, 
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.