Working Hard & Hardly Working

I was on my way when a man appeared out of nowhere, hollering, less in words, than in vowels. He was wearing what I’d generously describe as shorts. The folds of skin rose and sank, billowing to the cadence of his stride as he closed the gap between us. Normally, I consider myself the sort of person who would stop and chat with anyone, bishop, barista, or barefoot man announcing his arrival at full volume, but there is a particular look people get when they are not entirely in charge of their own steering. His bloodshot eyes had that look. I’ve learned the hard way that people in this state tend to be a bit unpredictable. So, I kept moving.

It took about fifteen seconds for my brain to catch up and realize he had been asking me for twenty dollars.

And here’s the thing: I had it.

I had a twenty-dollar bill in my wallet. I’ve been trying to carry more cash lately as part of a domestic incentive program. I pay the people I live with to get rid of their belongings. This may sound extreme, but you have not seen what I have seen. I have stared into the abyss, mostly made of plastic brick, and there is no getting to the bottom of it.

We are currently at what I hope will be the height of the Lego dynasty in our home. Every small act of cooperation is rewarded with more Legos, which, to me, feels counterintuitive, like treating a sweet tooth with a candy stipend, but I had committed to the system. I’m trying not to raise a serial killer here. This week at the toy store, I noticed an odd little Lego set portraying Cristiano Ronaldo. His face, rendered in tiny interlocking squares, actually fared better than the famously botched bust by Emanuel Santos, which felt like a low but meaningful bar. Ronaldo earns several million euros a week, so it seems only fitting that we commemorate him using our own weekly hard-earned plastic bricks.

This was the second time a Ronaldo had entered my life in two days, which feels statistically unlikely. The first was a conversation with Bosstie about the coup and subsequent dictatorship in Cuba under Fulgencio Batista. I used to know a Cuban by that name. My Ronaldo, a refugee and supposed descendant of Batista, was a self-made man with unshakable confidence in his own hilarity.

He once attempted to teach me the mambo, but we never made it very far before he drifted off to the center of the dance floor and took over. I did not learn the mambo. I learned instead that there are entire worlds of rhythm and history I hope, one day, to untangle in my own body. To this day, if I analyze too much, I can’t distinguish a mambo from a salsa. But as with most things, once you let go and stop getting in your own way, the rhythm comes naturally, and hips don’t lie, ja!

Twirling through that oversized garage are memories I still think of fondly. What are the chances that, in this same week, I would find myself dancing with a different refugee— this one, of all things, also a professional soccer player, though his name, disappointingly, was not Ronaldo.

Anyway.

I kept heading to my destination and began thinking about my to-do list, which had grown both in length and in confidence. I will not be finishing it this week. I am occasionally ambitious in a way that is not entirely supported by reality.

Life lately has been in a state of aggressive rearrangement. I hardly have the energy to maintain basic operations, let alone thrive. While this state is temporary, I am harboring low confidence that I will come out of it unscathed.

Burnout is no joke. It has been 443 days of this particular pace, and I am, at times, less a person than a responsive utility. Something like a vegetative state that only responds to sufficient prodding. I will wait until I’ve had a couple consecutive days off to reflect more fully on what I’ve learned over the course of this season. I don’t know that I’ve learned very much of anything. I do know that I have built a plethora of empathy. A plethora. For those whose life at this pace is the usual, my heart goes out to you. This is not sustainable.

I’ve recently had a handful of in-depth discussions with hard-working people in my life, whom I respect, who have tried to encourage me by saying, “It’s worth it in the end,” “You’re storing up now for later,” and “This is the part where you just push through.” Some of this counsel comes from people building businesses or trying to rebuild retirement savings from a deficit. They are making sacrifices in the now. I’m not sure I’m convinced it’s worth it. I feel like I’ve missed so much in the last 443 days. And I can see the evidence of my absence in every single room and relationship. That isn’t worth it to me. Give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread.

There are, of course, people who don’t get to opt out of any of this. The crushing weight of responsibility, duty, and expectation isn’t theoretical. It’s structural. I like to imagine myself as durable under pressure. Efficient. Tireless, even. It doesn’t improve the situation. The moments I’ve become most inclined to skip, the pause, the break, are the very ones that seem to matter the most.

When there is room, however small, advocate for restoration. Having access to small joys is not trivial. They are, however inconvenient, the things doing most of the sustaining. Those small joys within reach are not luxuries, they are lifelines. Health depends on them more than it ever will on what can be produced.

There have already been some returns to what I used to call “normal.” For instance, I went for a hike for the first time in… I can’t remember. I even collected fiddleheads and field horsetail. The fresh air and the outdoors are so reliably restorative. I find myself eager for more time in these small side quests away from the desk.

I’ve been off prescription stimulants and diligent with my allergy pills for a little over a week. So, for the first time in a while, I could breathe fully, deeply, and inhale the scent of cherry and apple blossoms. I paused to marvel at the marigolds and buttercups in bloom, rising slowly out of the dark marsh toward the sun.

And it struck me, standing there, that the day was wide open.

What a charmed life. What a glorious morning. Full of life and beauty.

And that, I am remembering, is the kind of wealth I want to stay turned toward.