WHILE DOING
Wednesday, March 1, 2023
The time we spend awake, at work, or play is something we measure.
We talk about the eight-hour day (easier to discuss than 7.5), as if anyone works that little.
In our efforts to shorten work, we’ve made it longer, made it occupy our minds from waking till night time, and the ‘sleeping on a problem’ never gets credit on anyone’s time sheet …
At work, on the job, or on the way home, the brain doesn’t clock-in when you arrive at work or clock-out when you leave. Whether we are gig workers, professionals or factory workers, we measure success, survival, or career path by how much we work and how long we work far more than we seif-assess how well or when/how we work best.
“Whatever works for you” is conversation Vaseline, a term without meaning or a term of respect that what we see in ourselves or others is some version of MWD (measured while drilling …), a term often heard in this town, that describes a process for assessing the progress when drilling wells.
But what about those who are drilling-down for truth, someone who asks questions for a living, or anyone else who assesses others?
And I see a new definition for MWD – measuring while doing.
The term value-for-money is one we commonly toss around meeting rooms as if it was an analytical tool of measurement, but isn’t it better to assess value-for-effort or value for that at which we are best suited for doing?
Is being a good mentor or boss or equivalent to being good at anything else? I’ve been second-guessing myself over some feedback I gave to someone who looks up to me; I was direct, clear, and harsh – I wanted to help him be better, and he will be – of that I’m certain. I was suddenly in a funk wondering if good intentions on my part were justified if they hurt someone’s feelings? It felt like a self-analysis of my parenting skills, and I’m not sure I scored very well.
Managing my life has never been a picnic. Too much of it has been invested, or perhaps squandered, in pursuits I wasn’t very good at, so I’ve been told – like marriage, partnering, parenting (I thought I was doing a good job at the time, but evidence reviewed by critics is part of one side of a long story, but nobody can silence a critic, let alone change their minds).
Too many of my years were wasted efforts, trying stupidly to meet someone else’s ideal of what my success might look like, with too little thought of mine addressing what I wanted my efforts to look like from my insides rather than what the exterior looks like for anyone else ...
Examining that in hindsight, for 14 hours every day is a bit of mind-fuck, but it seems both necessary and essential to focus my best efforts to show myself the best action for me, for what I had to contribute and how that might look at the end of the day. We live in a pop-psychology world that asks, “What does success look like?” which I think is the wrong question.
How about “What does happy feel like?” or “How does fulfillment feel?”
I’m throwing these questions at the page the way Jackson Pollock threw paint at a wall or a canvas – in some way. They must form art because they feel how I feel for fourteen hours daily. I know when it starts and when it ends with energy falling off a cliff and focus dissipating along with it; maybe it’s the midwinter blues or too many of the wrong foods today.
And eight hours, what does that mean?
Have you ever met anyone who gets eight hours of sleep? I think that might be possible for the dead, the nearly dead and those who have nothing driving their process or work, sport or play – or maybe I’m having a circular discussion of many voices in one person’s head. Oh, to sleep, perchance to get more done that is worthwhile with less effort. I’ve heard people talk about working strategically, but they sound like clock watchers to me.
I’m missing some people right now, so that affects my mood. So maybe I should start flinging paint at walls fourteen hours a day because it might be a pretty picture. Still, right now, it looks like confusion overlaying stripes of pain and regret, sadness and remorse with a dash of missed opportunities and a valley of mistakes, but don’t go there, please, because that valley will self-fill with pity if you let it, so I better sleep instead or until the silence is broken …
What I want – is not defined by Frankl, Kerouac, or Hemingway – though I ache to write reality, or imagine righting reality as they did. I know, I’ve mixed my metaphors there – a beat generation writer, an egomaniacal Marlboro-man novelist-genius, and a head doctor …
I’m described in any book anyone’s written (though lots of me is on the page in my novel, if I ever finish and publish it,) nor am I defined by anything anyone ever taught me to want for, or to understand. Because, at the end of any day, short or long, we ache to be understood and appreciated for who we are, what we’ve tried to do whether we’ve under-achieved or failed, we want to be appreciated by any one person we ever tried to make a difference for with our efforts or our caring. They do it simply by saying thank you. It need not be flashy or said more than once or to anyone but me, but it has to be authentic. Or it means nothing.
Reader feedback:
You are so right, Mark! Meaningful connections by phone or writing ✍️ touch our souls deeply, both ways!, SF, Lethbridge, AB
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