With These Hands
06/29/07 16:07
A theme that my mind routinely re-visits is that of
mankind as builders, the curious satisfaction we
derive from physical labor. Of course it's not
just physical labor that satisfies us, it's
physical labor with a purpose. It's the
goal, the vision, that makes all the difference. To
dig a hole only to fill it back in is the punitive
drudgery of penitentiaries, but to dig a hole for a
building's foundation is a source of honor and pride.
The current US Poet Laureate, Donald Hall, wrote:
(I think if I had written that I would have used the word home instead of house, but that's probably why he's Poet Laureate and I'm just a goober with a computer.) I believe Hall sees, as I do, that the sense of accomplishment in building, the pride of constructing something new is an essential part of the human experience. It's interesting too, that the pride is never completely fulfilling and invariably fades with time. We build. And we rest. But then we build again. Often building things we don't even need (witness urban sprawl) or want. So it appears that though the goal is important and necessary, the real satisfaction lies somewhere in the building itself. There's something genetic, or more likely evolutionary, at work here. Donald Hall also wrote:
That contentment is where my mind has been dwelling lately. Fresh off my mediocre success at constructing a violin, I'm now spending all my spare time building something else I don't need; a very fancy birdhouse. Check it out.
And no, I don't play a lick. Maybe I'll take a lesson when I finish this thing. At least building it keeps me out of the taverns.
As an aside, I went library-ing today looking for Donald Hall's book of poems on the early death of his wife from leukemia called Without, but I didn't have any luck. I did find his book of non-fiction prose on the same subject titled The Best Day the Worst Day. One chapter was enough to give even a hairy-chested manly man like myself the sniffles.
Work, love, build a house and die. But build a house.
(I think if I had written that I would have used the word home instead of house, but that's probably why he's Poet Laureate and I'm just a goober with a computer.) I believe Hall sees, as I do, that the sense of accomplishment in building, the pride of constructing something new is an essential part of the human experience. It's interesting too, that the pride is never completely fulfilling and invariably fades with time. We build. And we rest. But then we build again. Often building things we don't even need (witness urban sprawl) or want. So it appears that though the goal is important and necessary, the real satisfaction lies somewhere in the building itself. There's something genetic, or more likely evolutionary, at work here. Donald Hall also wrote:
Contentment is work so engrossing that you do not know you are working.
That contentment is where my mind has been dwelling lately. Fresh off my mediocre success at constructing a violin, I'm now spending all my spare time building something else I don't need; a very fancy birdhouse. Check it out.
And no, I don't play a lick. Maybe I'll take a lesson when I finish this thing. At least building it keeps me out of the taverns.
As an aside, I went library-ing today looking for Donald Hall's book of poems on the early death of his wife from leukemia called Without, but I didn't have any luck. I did find his book of non-fiction prose on the same subject titled The Best Day the Worst Day. One chapter was enough to give even a hairy-chested manly man like myself the sniffles.
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