Still in the Game

Well, this sort of thing is bound to happen to a writer when he enters one of those periods during which writing must recede in the day. In January, I had reached number 27 on John Hawkins's list of favorite blogs. In the latest iteration, I've fallen to number 36. Given the circumstances of the two intervening months, I'm thrilled to have made the cut at all; I've slipped much farther when it comes to others whose attention I'd caught, it seems.

But this sort of thing is bound to happen. I've come to see this current period of my life as one of investment — with the focus on who I'll be when able to resume the amount of writing that I've achieved in recent years. In the meantime the days are filled with discoveries: for example, that demolishing a brick stairway with a sledgehammer is a great deal of fun... for the first four hours. Then it's just exhausting. By the time I sat down for dinner tonight, I'd exchanged the "-ing" for an "-ed."

Early in the day, before the novelty of smashing a complete stranger's front steps had worn off, I had occasion to be reminded of the way in which folks tend to treat each other differently based on circumstantial perceptions. One of the college kids who lives in the house next to that on which I'm working — a grad student, if I eavesdropped effectively — failed to return my "good morning" while he and his girlfriend (or whatever) walked to their car. She was a rung or two up the ladder of appearances from him, and the peculiar look with which he replied to my greeting didn't disguise the disparity any. (I suspect the look wouldn't have improved if he had known the sorts of things I do — or, more precisely, say — in my spare time.) For my part, I rebutted with a smile, and by heaving the largest chunk of concrete and brick that I had near at hand onto the pile that was slowly growing a few feet away.

A little later, a young preppy man from Indiana thwomp-thwomp-thwomped up the street with a flat tire. His first thought was to ask where the nearest garage might be found, but I think he saw something in my expression that persuaded him that I was correct to suggest that he put on his spare, first. About a half-hour later, he approached my boss and me with much the same demeanor as a rookie approaches a coach. He had not a doubt that we could unlock the mystery of his jack. (I wondered whether he was aware that the owner's manual that he surely had in his glove compartment could likely have done the same thing.)

As much as I periodically find it awkward to mesh with my coworkers, I've always been comfortable in the role for which such occupations as carpentry mark a man. Perhaps it's partly the freedom of being so dramatically misappraised by others. Perhaps it's a little bit more that I enjoy the confirmation that we're all just people behind our differently tinted windows. Palpably feeling that reality helps one understand, I think, how it is we can all be so unequal by any worldly standards, whether of material or capability, but still equally human. Still loved equally by our Creator.

Unfortunately, the slopes are steep when we attempt to pick a path between roles (particularly when bills continue to stand as obstacles). So much so that I can't help but wonder whether it is the effort — and the accomplishment — of staying in the game that has made my shoulders so sore.