Making a living
In which I take a walk and contemplate what it means to make a living #107
An early morning breeze subtly awakens the fields surrounding Southam. This morning, they seem draped in a shroud of quietude. It's an overcast day, and the sky is blanketed with grey. Yet the vibrant hues of spring are unmissable, splashes of color announcing life's triumph in the face of the dull, monotonous sky.
Wildflowers pepper the landscape, bursting with the joy of existence, while trees stand in their full bloom, silent witnesses to the season's dance. Tiny, industrious insects, oblivious to the bigger picture, perform their part in this grand ballet of nature.
This is where my thoughts find their rhythm in the steady cadence of my footsteps. The mind, like water, achieves clarity in motion, and what better place to set it free than amidst the raw, unscripted beauty of a countryside walk? My morning walk is more than an exercise in staying fit; it's a pilgrimage in search of meaning, a quest for understanding.
I've been reading John J. Kaag's book, American Philosophy: A Love Story. The book is both a memoir and an exploration of the history of American philosophy. It recounts Kaag's personal journey as he rediscovers his passion for philosophy while facing personal and professional challenges. The book goes into the history of American thought, examining the contributions of figures such as William James, John Dewey, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau.
It is Thoreau that I bring along with me on this walk.
Clay
Henry David Thoreau, the celebrated American philosopher and transcendentalist, once inquired, "What, precisely, do people 'make' when they 'make a living?'" This seemingly simple query presents a profound existential riddle. What, indeed, do we make? Are we speaking of physical objects, intellectual contributions, emotional footprints, or something entirely abstract? Let's explore.
On the one hand, when people "make a living," the first notion that springs to mind is the economic one. To be literal, they make money; they create wealth. They produce commodities, offer services, build infrastructure, invent, innovate, improve, repair, sell, or teach. It’s a materialist conception of work—an exchange of time, labor, and skills for monetary compensation.
This labor allows us to purchase necessities like food, housing, and clothing. It permits us to invest in experiences, luxuries, and long-term stability. It provides us with the means to support others—children, family, friends, even strangers. Here, making a living transforms into making a difference. But is this the end-all and be-all of our existence?
Beyond the physical and tangible, making a living can take on a deeper, more nuanced interpretation. It’s in our everyday work that we often weave the rich tapestry of our identities. Whether it's the surgeon delicately manipulating their instruments to save lives, the teacher illuminating young minds, the artist splashing a canvas with the colors of their soul, or the barista crafting the perfect cup of coffee, in making a living, we make ourselves. We shape our characters, learn lessons, experience joys, face disappointments, and grow.
Work can confer a sense of purpose and belonging. The computer programmer crunching algorithms, the gardener tending to their green wards, the journalist relentlessly seeking truth—each finds value and satisfaction in their work, a sense of contributing to the world. And as we contribute, we inevitably leave our mark, our legacy. In making a living, we make history—our own and the world's.
Conversely, there's a darker, more pessimistic view. In this industrial age, is Thoreau's question a lament about the often mindless grind of capitalism? Are we, in our quest to 'make a living,' merely producing cogs for the great capitalist machine? Are we commodifying ourselves, our time, and our energies in service of a system that values profit over people? Is the nine-to-five routine eroding our individuality, turning us into mere drones marching in lockstep? Are we making a living, or are we merely surviving?
Perhaps in 'making a living,' we are manufacturing distractions—distractions from existential dread, from mortality, from the niggling suspicion that our lives might be devoid of inherent meaning. This idea echoes the philosophy of existentialism: our lives and our existences are what we make of them. In 'making a living,' are we attempting to construct meaning, to impose order on the chaos of existence?
Such musings lead us into a labyrinth of questions, all emerging from Thoreau's initial inquiry. As is often the case in philosophy, there isn't a clear-cut, one-size-fits-all answer. Maybe the truth resides in the synthesis of these perspectives.
When we "make a living," we construct our physical lives, erecting a material structure of safety and stability and fostering connections with others. We sculpt our identities, etching our selfhood into the canvas of time. We contribute to the grand tapestry of human history, leaving our fingerprints on the world. But we also risk becoming tools in the capitalist machine, surrendering our essence to the altar of productivity, and manufacturing distractions from existential angst.
And so, what do we make when we make a living? We make objects, money, relationships, identities, histories, distractions, and so much more. In essence, we make lives – messy, complicated, beautiful, human lives. Every single one of us, in the act of making a living, is participating in the intricate dance of existence, with its ups and downs, its joys and sorrows. Our work, whether we realise it or not, shapes our journey through life and defines our unique experience of the human condition.
In the end, making a living is, in many ways, simply living itself. It is navigating the winding paths of life, leaving footprints in the sands of time, and adding our unique verse to the powerful poem of humanity.
Accountability
Writing a book is an undertaking of colossal proportions. To be precise, the real challenge for me lies in sustaining motivation and maintaining focus. My insatiable intellectual curiosity often lures me into exploring new ideas, sometimes taking me off course. In Belbin's terms, I identify more as a resource investigator than a completer-finisher. I frequently begin projects with enthusiasm because I find the novelty of something new captivating. However, once the task settles into a routine, my interest swiftly dwindles.
Take, for example, the manuscript I started. Initially, my dedication was unwavering, with me diligently working on it every day. Yet, as it morphed into a daily routine, my interest waned, and it's been untouched for the past three weeks.
In a bid to revive my motivation, I decided to publicly declare my intent to complete the first draft. The target is a formidable 80,000 words. At present, my tally stands at 35,630 words. Here's hoping that the pressure of public commitment pushes me to stay the course and complete the task at hand.
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