22 April, 2008

Workaholics Anonymous

I always thought “workaholism” was some sort of philosophical school like Platonism, Kantianism, or Nietzscheism; however, has never been a philosopher named “Workahol” and in fact, workaholism is a disease.

I spend a lot of time focusing on my job. An interesting side effect of living 150 yards from your office is that it becomes really easy to go into your office when it’s a bad idea to do so. It also doesn’t help that I’m submerged in a work culture that expects long hours without complaint because of the religious consequences of our work (albeit the top-dogs would deny such a work culture exists, or at least say they don’t support it). Is this to place blame on Mount Hermon? Absolutely not!

Yes, this is me working

Let’s seriously examine Eric Garner here for a moment. A 23-year-old Adonis under the employ of a Christian conference center. Single. Fleeing the state in a matter of months. Dutifully comes into work at 8:00 am every morning, stays until 5:00 pm, is not unaccustomed to working 12+ hour days and once worked an 80 hour week. He has more than once allowed for work to dominate his thoughts while at home. He has not taken a purely relaxing vacation since starting work back in September. He sometimes speaks in the third-person.

Diagnosis: sick.

Am I a workaholic? I don’t think so; however, there are several things I love dearly which I’ve barely given any time to in the last three months. I haven’t read a good novel in months, I can’t remember the last good bike ride I went on, and I barely write anymore (this blog included).

I want to say that this is the point where I turn around – I see the shadows on the walls and hear the echoes, and I realize that I need to turn around and see the sun. Unfortunately, I don’t see that happening any time soon. Summer planning is upon us, I’m trying to figure out schooling, and I have relationships to mend that have long been left unattended.

I originally planned for this to be some really witty commentary on working, but it seems more like a plea to appreciate beauty. Let’s allow John Ames to prophesy about this life far better than I ever could:

"I saw a bubble float past my window, fat and wobbly and ripening toward that dragonfly blue they turn just before they burst. So I looked down at the yard and there you were, you and your mother, blowing bubbles at the cat, such a barrage f them that the poor beast was beside herself at the glut of opportunity. She was actually leaping in the air, our insouciant Soapy! Some of the bubbles drifted up through the branches, even above the trees. You two were too intent on the cat to see the celestial consequences of your worldly endeavors. They were very lovely. Your mother is wearing her blue dress and you are wearing your red shirt and you were kneeling on the ground together with Soapy between and that effulgence of bubbles rising, and so much laughter. Ah, this life, this world."

Ah, this life, this world.