The dignity of work

My friend Julie introduced me to the above phrase.  I see it in Bill as he daily grows into his job.  He takes the work seriously, puts all his sincerity into doing it well, and is beginning to make progress.  He recently made a sale (of one of his own pieces) that is going to help us enormously with the kindergarten tuition.  Every day he works the possibilities and learns more about plying his trade.

I thought again of the dignity of work this morning as Gideon and I were garbage truck groupies.  There is nothing Gideon loves more than the garbage truck.  Tuesdays are practically festival days here as Gidi watches out the window (in bad weather) or waits vigil outside.  Today I managed to get my baking done early and the weather was glorious, so we grabbed the stroller and went out to find and follow the garbage truck.

The gentlemen working trash duty caught on quickly and smiled and waved at us.  At one point we pretended to race.  I thought about how I had briefly wanted to be a trash collector when I was a kid (in those days we said garbageman), and how my parents dismissed the idea outright, allergic even to the thought.  My parents’ point was that the job would be messy, stinky, and unpleasant.  Long hours, rough conditions, hard labor; the kind of job one gets when one can’t do anything else.  (I liked the idea of wind in my hair being an everyday occurrence.  Still do.)

There is dignity in this work.  Our society would be much diminished in the absence of people who help get rid of the stuff we don’t want.  Plus, trash collectors make a steady living and are everywhere admired by two-year-old boys and others.

Flow it, show it, long as G-d can grow it

Akiva has a new look.  I never thought he’d do this.  I can easily divide the world into two types of people: those who think I should be glad (or, heaven forbid, that it was my idea) and the few people who get me and know I sighed just a tiny bit as I let my boy make his own choice.

Here’s my grown-up boy.  Age 5.

In case you’re wondering, those splotches on his face are not some dread disease, but rather evidence of the mud puddle in which he and Gideon were playing when I snapped this picture.

While we’re on the topic of hair, herewith a sneak preview of Gideon with a goatee, courtesy of the same mud puddle.

Clarinet update

After Tuesday’s events, Akiva didn’t touch — or even mention — his clarinet.  Then, Friday morning, he decided to try again.  Sadly I wasn’t home when he started getting a sound out of the thing.  Bill said the grin was transcendent.  He’s been playing a lot since and is discovering new sounds all the time!  He loves it, and so do I!

I do have some video, but there are two problems with it: the file type is incompatible with wordpress, and I can’t figure out how to rotate it so he’s vertical.  I posted it for a couple of facebook friends, and if you want to be added to the list of people who can see it on my page, let me know.  It’s about 10 seconds long.  No biggie if you don’t care to see it…

Gaudeamus ligature

Over the past week or so, I have been making arrangements through freecycle to get Akiva a clarinet.  I got word yesterday that an instrument was available, and coordinated with the giver to pick it up this afternoon while Akiva was at a birthday party.  The woman kindly advised me of what ancillary items would be needed and miraculously I was able to fit in an errand to the music store this morning to get reeds, a beginner mouthpiece, and ligature.  (The last is that thingy that holds the reed to the mouthpiece.  I didn’t know either.)

Total expense: under $15.

When I dropped Akiva off at the party, I told him I would come back for him after I made a freecycle pickup.  He wanted to know whether it was for him and me to share or just for me.  I told him that it was to be his alone, and something he would have to take care of very seriously.  Although I had hoped to keep it as a surprise, he wanted to know right away what it was, once it was clear that it was for him.

The smile: priceless.

I believe there was even a fist pump.  He asked if it could be his forever, and when I told him yes, the smile got even bigger.  You should’ve seen the smile.

After the party, I took the boys and the instrument home.  The party bag was instantly forgotten, and Akiva asked if he could be the one to carry the clarinet into the house.  (Permission granted.  I had a ton of other stuff to carry, including said party bag.)

Not a moment too soon, I got the instrument assembled and gave it a squeak.  I handed it off to the boy who had been fantasizing for two years about being Glenn Dickson.  He blew.  Nothing happened.  He burst into tears.  “Ima, nothing happens.  And the reed tastes bad.  Give it back.  I don’t like it.”

My precious baby dissolved in full-hearted weeping in my arms.  This may be the first time (but surely not the last) that something he really wanted to do didn’t come easily for him.  I just held him and held him, and told him that if he really wants to learn the clarinet, he will learn it.

Oh the perfectionism.  Wonder where he got that.

Sunnyside up

I have been pondering optimism and, in particular, why some people have it and some don’t.  I have never been very optimistic — more of an Eeyore, as certain of my readers have already heard me say more than a few times.  Even when things have been going well in my life, I’ve never been a particularly sunny character.  It’s not that I’m always as much of a drag as I have been lately (thank G-d for my sense of humor!) but more that I have a tendency, even in good times, to notice the flaws.  Even the tiny ones.  They don’t necessarily ruin it for me, but I can’t not notice them.

Is this tendency hard-wired, or is it a habit?  I’ve always fallen back on the notion that it must be hard-wired, because I always eventually revert to it, despite any efforts I might make to cultivate a half-full glass.  My mother has the same tendency to notice flaws, and it’s something we’ve fought about for years — especially when the tiny flaws she can’t abide are mine.  Knowing that I grew up under that kind of influence makes me think that even if it is a habit, it’s a habit of 41 years’ making, which can’t be easy to undo.

And yet.  I have a colleague with whom I performed several years ago, a person of enormous gifts who was also enormously troubled.  He was angry, dark, and profoundly cynical both times we worked together.  I saw him again recently when he was in town for an event at the theatre we worked at, and was struck by how changed he is.  He’s gotten sober, gotten engaged, gotten happy.  When I looked in his eyes, I saw something I never expected to see there: peace.  I emailed him about it and we had a brief exchange about the changes in his life and attitude.  He admitted that it’s hard to keep a positive attitude, but that it’s worth the effort.  From anyone else I’d dismiss such a platitude, but from him it demands attention.

He wrote to me that the important thing was to keep trying, that aiming at the target was a habit I could cultivate.  He specified (knowing me well, perhaps) to forget the bulls-eye and aim only for the target.

I like to think that I really want to be more sunny and optimistic — if not for myself, then for my poor kids, who are suffering so much in this ordeal on account of my inability to keep it together.  And yet, I keep wondering, while I’m aiming at the target, “What do I do with the way I really feel?”