what more can they take what are you willing to give it is not the demands that break us, but how we choose to accommodate them - how much are we willing to give - we have the power to back away, to cut our own path through the world, this doesn't define us if we don't allow it, they can't take everything
Tag: work
Spent
It was all spent. Dripping from him onto the floor. He fell to his knees as the weakness overcame him. There was nothing left to give; no greater depth he could plumb. What there was in him had been given.
He let himself slide from his knees to his back so he stared up at the ceiling. The only thing keeping his soul from the sky was the roof of this place. He was satisfied he could rest now.
It had been a difficult mountain they had climbed. It was a group effort; everyone giving everything they had. It wasn’t a competition to see who had given more, but one of his tenets was that no one would out work him. He also taken on the emotional responsibility of the group; turning himself into a sounding board for all the anger and fear – charging himself with turning those emotions into the positive energy they would need to finish the climb.
All of it fell from him now. It was a relief to have the world fall away. He felt his shoulders unclench. He felt light. It was good. His breath flowed slow and smooth. That was interesting. He hadn’t realized how difficult it had been to breathe in the last month.
The voices of the others – the noises of the room – faded. The ceiling beckoned. He wanted to touch the sky. A pair of eyes and then a face came into view, then another and another. The group was around him now, looking at him.
His just calmed heart began to hammer in his chest. With his eyes he begged them not to say the words he could see in their faces. His mouth wouldn’t form the words.
“We still need you.”
He didn’t know how to say ‘no.’
Success
I don’t profess to be the best at what I do. I’m not the worst either. I’m the old-school pitcher. I take the ball every fifth day and I get you six to eight innings. I give up a few runs, but the damage is never catastrophic. I keep you in the ballgame. I don’t get hurt. I show up. Nothing about me or my performance sets your hair on fire – unless you have a thing for steadiness.
These used to be valuable qualities. They used to matter. Now it’s all about the numbers and how we can make good ones even better. It’s not enough that we’ve dug a well that produces more water than we could ever need, we have to try and squeeze water from the rocks around it as well. as well. It doesn’t make any sense.
Harper – my 30-something boss – scheduled a meeting with me yesterday. Our cubicles are right next to one another and we speak no fewer than a million times each day. He reserved time in the conference room and everything.
After a couple of pleasantries, he got right into it, “Roy, what can I do to help you be successful?”
I don’t remember much of the rest of the meeting. My immediate reaction was to imagine various ways of throttling the little turd. Reactions 2-37 ranged from ‘go away’ to verbal encouragement on the insertion and/or removal of body parts from certain orifices.
Then I processed what he’d said, that I needed to be successful.
And that messed with my head. As I laid out above. I show up. I do the work. I’m not the best. I’m not the worst. My numbers are never below the goal, but they aren’t so high above it I stand out either. And now this little shit has the audacity to say to me that I’m not successful!
Never once has he come in and asked me for more or better. All I get are ‘good jobs’ and ‘attaboys.’ Half the office misses days of work as though they were required not to be there. Their results swing from missing the mark to above the line with no predictability and this young punk has the gall to imply I’m not successful.
I’m afraid I don’t understand the work-world (or the world at large) anymore. I’ve been in it longer than Harper’s been alive. If I’m being honest, I can’t say that I care to know any more about it. Hitting all my numbers and being told I’m not a success. Since when is that a thing?
I don’t want to be appreciated for showing up. We’re supposed to, it’s the job. But I show up, and produce steady, bankable results and it’s not enough.
I’ve never understood the business people who would surpass $100 tomorrow for $10 today. I don’t understand the current crop who prefer the possibility of $100 once a month to $10 every day.
Maybe I’m too old. I don’t know anymore. I still have the energy. I’m still up for the work, but maybe the times have passed me by. Maybe I don’t understand what success means anymore. Maybe I never did.