Friday again

And another beautiful Seattle weekend with nowhere in particular to go.  Such a strange summer and now suddenly drawing to a close. August is the month of fairs, and even the beloved Seattle institution Seafair, featuring the hydro races on Lake Washington and the Blue Angels air show, is cancelled for the first time.

After 6 months of relative isolation, fall is time for a change. The problem is, I'm at a loss where to start. I actually envy people who have a job (volunteer or paid) that gets them out of the house. Speaking for myself, there has to be more to life this winter than planning the next fancy meal and drinking wine.

Travel still looks far in the future, and in the meantime, finding meaningful work is so important for mental well-being, not to mention, usefulness.

Here's an old poem about work I've always liked, written by Marge Piercy.  You can also hear her read it on her blog. 


To Be of Use

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 ya’ know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
And a person - for work that is real.