Will Hicock Low: Dedication [for Lamia] (1885)

"It's unlikely to kill me now, either."

Much of the work you and I engage in fails to feel all that engaging. Much of it seems mind-numbing if not necessarily self-destructive. I realize, now that realizing no longer matters, what my father was doing when he insisted I mow more lawn than any eight-year-old should ever mow or rake more leaves than I ever believed I could. He was teaching me how to become Dedicated to some outcome. He'd come up the hard way, in a broken home during the Great Depression, and he had learned from a stern grandfather and a nurturing mother, as well as from a ne'er-do-well counterexample of a dad, how to set aside his feelings to accomplish something or not. He told many tales of working in harvest: how hop vines raised welts on his forearms, how green beans fill up a sack too slowly, how he'd shown up early in the morning and worked through midday. These were object lessons intended to inform me about how this world works.

He was an inspiration. It seemed to me that he could do pretty much anything. Only heights scared him, yet he still found the gumption to replace the roof on our dizzingly tall Victorian. He'd broken his foot in a fall before dropping out of high school, yet he still worked long days delivering mail and never once shirked his responsibilities around the house. He reassured us that even hard work could not harm us, and he demonstrated how to set aside personal preferences to fulfill obligations. He saw that part of his job as a father was to load his sons with obligations and responsibilities from an early age, so that they might someday grow up to be worth something to somebody, especially themselves.

This was no more easily accomplished for me than it ever was for anybody, for we are not born to be self-sacrificial. That's a learned response, sometimes taught by tough circumstances and others by a caring parent. I could have sworn he was trying to harm me sometimes, like when I wanted to go swimming, but the lawn needed mowing. I was not always above sabotaging the electric lawnmower by accidentally running over the cord. Then, I might be out mowing in twilight rather than watching TV with the rest of the family. I learned to feel guilty when I shirked. Chores always took priority over leisure pursuits. Still do.

I imagine my upbringing gave me character, though it took considerable fiddling for me to figure out what might have passed for work-life balance. I was taught, or I had somehow learned to prioritize work above whatever else might present itself for consideration. I became dedicatedly self-sacrificial, refusing well-earned vacation to demonstrate how Dedicated I was to my job. I sometimes sacrificed more than just myself. I could sacrifice my family, who deserved a vacation, while I was distracted, demonstrating my dedication. This was never a simple or straightforward calculus, and I still sometimes struggle to understand where to focus my attention.

However, my upbringing at least left me capable of engaging in otherwise mind-numbing activities, such as painting. The unforgiving nature of such obligations demands completion of the assignment, no matter what, even if I assign the work to myself. I can at least suspend my nature and focus my sometimes meager attention until the job's done. I can work through rain and blistering sun, as well as early morning and sunset. It's as if I'm not there for a while, gone somewhere else for the duration if the effort becomes too painful. I've worked through so much discomfort in my time that I understand that through often proves to be the only way to make it to the end of a job or a day. As unlikely as it usually seems that I might be capable of completing the chore, I know I've accomplished worse before without it killing me then. It's unlikely to kill me now, either.

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