In the beginning: Desk to Dirt
Every working day for almost forty years I accounted for every hour of work.
I had to repeat that sentence to myself to comprehend it.
Time cards, whether paper or electronic, had to be filled out, and formally submitted.
No card, no pay.
Every single hour, sometimes down to the half-hour, had to be recorded.
A short description of the progress or completion of corresponding tasks was a must.
Nearly forty years of this.
Until now this regimentation, well, I never really gave it much existential thought.
It was like breathing as part of my career’s work: contract negotiation for major capital projects, from power plants to refineries.
This reality was mandated toiling as a professional in an office or at a construction site, anywhere in the world.
A plethora of very public companies of international stature have this in common.
And it wasn’t until today that I realized the extent to which this system permeates who I have become.
It recalls, “You are what you eat.”
All personal errands and To Do’s outside of “work” stubbornly have the same unwritten impetus: get it done quickly because you need to justify your worth on Projects X, Y, and Z.
But wait, I don’t have a boss anymore.
Instead – on a weekday – I had rolled my motorcycle out in front of the shack to be upwind of the hose spray as I started to wash and polish my old friend.
Admittedly, it has been neglected.
It was a beautiful early spring day: temperature in the low seventies, with enough high clouds and breeze to keep the mercury from getting oppressive by afternoon.
My resident cardinal flitted back and forth, displaying himself prominently on a fencepost or tree top yodeling for a mate, warding off competitors, or both.
Some of the neighbors guinea hens had run away from home – hopped the fence – and were heads-below the Johnson grass on my side of the barbed wire. The diaspora with those on the other side was raucously debated.
While they did I called their human family next door and left a message to come and get ‘em – no rush – whenever you want.
Sitting on a short wicker stool aside my bike I began daydreaming as the hawks rode the thermals above.
At this point in my musings I wish I could admit that I have peeled off that nagging corporate ethic: I no longer look over my shoulder at the clock on the wall.
But not yet; forty years is a lifetime.
And I’ve only been out of the workaday for a few months. That heckling time sheet is still too prominent: hurry hurry, get on with it.
I am sure, though, that the prognosis for full ex-works recovery is excellent: relax more and more with progressively less effort, making the fire drill extinct.
I’ll replace it with that cardinal’s song just as soon as I can.