Hi Fellow Traveler;
I know I was born to do this work but good lord it might have been
simpler if I had just become a plumber or a chiropractor or a used
car salesman.
Yeah, I’m smirking at a comrade in suffering right now. Sorry,
really, that you feel you wasted all that time, but you didn’t. Look
at it this way: it’s a darn good way to put everything else in
perspective. That isn’t waste. Waste takes place on a grand scale,
and I don’t need to point to our present political situation to
illuminate that point. Your’s and mine is a crossword puzzle compared
to that. Finish it, it’s a small victory. Fail, and there’s another
in tomorrow’s paper. No blood or tears, just a little sweat.
Sorry, I’m off on a mission of philisophical disYou
don’t want sympathy, do you? I could give you a million pat answers,
all useless, like how about the guy who really wants to do this but
has serious physical handicaps. (I’ve got the mental handicaps,
meaning, I’m basically “mental”.) These arguments don’t work, because
for that guy, there are at least two who have zero talent, are making
gobs of money, and would sell yatchs or teach motivational workshops
or peddle hedge funds and find it just as gratifying as making
jewelry. I hate those polyana-ish panderings you get. I don’t want to
think about others when it’s about me, and it’s about me till I get
over me, and Gawd, please made that soon and often. I’ll tell you why
I do it, and I spend a lot of time feeling exactly as you do, and I
need to answer this for myself as much as for you.
Once upon a time I started doing metalwork, and I found I could get
lost in it. Just me and that metal. Then I met a lot of other people
who were doing it, and we had a lot to talk about. Click! It’s like
heroin, you keep trying to get that first “hit” again. Then I spent
30 years fantasizing about my own upcoming greatness until I had
answered all of life’s great questions to my own satisfaction. Yeah,
sure. But really, I think it’s that this thing is really about the
constant reinforcement we get from bringing a form out of the Void.
It’s probably got some serious metaphysical implications, something
about creative intelligence trying to manifest, or some such new age
babble. But I prefer to look at it in simple, literal terms. I make
things that didn’t exist before, and I do it over and over because
that’s what I do, and I guess I’m lucky I can get paid for it. Why
this perticular thing? I’m good at it, but not good enough to make me
certain that I was born for it. It’s chance that’s to blame. I could
have ended up doing a thousand other things. As I get older, slower,
and more simple minded in general, it gets closer and closer to
what, for me, defines a higher calling. One day, I’m certain, there
will be no question in my mind that what I can accomplish is the most
I am suited for. One day, my best accomplishment will be walking the
dog, and if that’s not good enough for me then, I’ll be the King of
Fools.
So, far from being able to give you words to the wise to make this
easier, I’m going to suggest you do what I do. Learn to tolerate the
oscillation between the “understanding of the great beyond” and the
drudgery and apparent meaninglessness of the mundane world. Back and
forth, back and forth, like waves hitting the beach. (Gawd, why do I
write these things?, I can’t help it… ) Actually, what I mean is,
I’ve learned to get “unstuck” by reminding myself, when I’m in a
state of mind I want out of, that it’s all just chemicals in the
brain. I’m bound to feel differently before I realize it; whatever
I’m feeling, I’m not going to feel that way forever. I remember I
always look back on things I’ve believed I was certain of, and am
unable to believe I took myself so seriously at the time. Not a damn
thing I do is really important or unimportant. I don’t often know
what’s important beyond the few core values I subscribe to, and those
are all about how I relate to the people around me. I have to fight
myself all the time to remember that I love them all, from my own
children to the strangers on the street. After that, it’s all pretty
much political. Life, the meandering path. The human condition is so
pitiable, really, that it earns us all the right to be loved. If I
ever really believed, as I sometimes do, that I hate what I do, I’d
quit and take up a noble profession like hospice worker or drug
councilor. Something with some real pain to it. But, since I have a
family to love and support, that will have to wait. Is that an
excuse? Or is this really, in relative terms, easy street for me?
Back and forth, back and forth.
Okay, here’s as plain a face as I can put on it… I don’t often
offer up those answers to the big questions I got, because it
sometimes feels to me the equivalent of giving someone a case of
small pox. But here it is: Whatever we have in life, we pay for by
questioning ourselves, all our lives, what we should be doing to
deserve it. And if we don’t, we are truly screwed up and need to find
out why. So, you’re right where your should be, in minor torment,
with the brief respite of the occasional bout of gratitude. (hey,
lighten up Dave …).
Now get back to work. 
David L. Huffman