I am working from a coffee shop today. I’m not drinking the coffee in this photo, but I wish I could, Jake. I find myself repeatedly distracted by the young woman cleaning the tables. I am not sure I have ever seen anyone do anything with less passion. I think she is new, maybe unsure of what she is supposed to be doing, and she has already been reprimanded this morning for wearing pants that are too tight. That can certainly level out your enthusiasm.
I had someone tell me that I could be just as happy and fulfilled working as a garbage collector as a jewelry designer. I thought he was full of shit. And yet, as I sit here and glance at this woman (probably adding one more annoying, creepy detail to her day), I find myself wondering about her…(what would she rather be doing, what would make her body move with excitement and face light up with joy?) and about me…(could I wipe down tables with the same passion and fire as when I create wedding bands or sketch a new design?)
I used to think the quest was to find meaning. Now, at a stage in my life when hopeful delusions are paper-thin, I no longer take offense to Camus’ declaration of hope equating philosophical suicide. The despair that follows the loss of hope allows us to create our meaning rather than waiting for it to be given to us. Choosing to experience wonder in everything…wiping tables, smiling, making love, saying hello, reading a book, sitting in the sun, drinking a cup of tea. And, to the extent we are able, choosing how we spend our time and make our living, if we are fortunate.