What to do . . . what to do

Eight hours a day, five days a week, I sell my time.  I spend it doing work that holds no meaning to me.  I push paper across my desk, knowing there’ll be more behind it.  I spend invisible money (it might as well be play money) buying things I have no interest in.  Then out to a shop to move those things to where they’ll sit until needed.  It is hugely  unsatisfying.

The world isn’t made a better place by what I do.  I see no one helped or touched by what I do.  Myself included.  Does that matter?

I can certainly do work that would benefit others.  But then my thoughts turn to money and health insurance.  And here I sit having chose my wallet over my conscience.  I do the same every week at the grocery store.  Choosing the eggs produced by the miserable chickens instead of the free ones, milk from the sickly sad cow instead of the happy one.  But organic costs so much more of your money . . .

. . .  but so much less of your soul.  Because you know it is right.

And so it is like my choice of career.  It feeds my wallet and nothing more.

 

(Clarification here – I don’t work for an evil empire.  I just get no satisfaction.  Paperwork is never finished, nothing feels like it ever gets accomplished.  I never have a sense that I’ve done some good at the end of the day.  I’m part of some bigger process that must do someone some good to still be in business but I’m not connected to it.  I feel no connection to it.  I feel like I traded my passion for a co-pay.      It’s just now I want to buy milk from the happy cow.)

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About the.way.i.bee

Mother, Wife, Healer, Hopeful Suburban Homesteader. . . Words are my mind's tools; writing, my soul's craft; this circus of life, my heart's muse.
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