Why Work?

I just learned that my childhood home has been abandoned. I should add that I grew up in Detroit. I say that because that gives the rest of the world permission to say “oh, well, come on, it’s Detroit...what did you expect?” Well, I will tell you what I expected and why this is the first entry to my “Why Work?” blog.

I expected that the place that I hid my dreams, the room that protected me from fear of kissing one more Italian relative, or an argument with my Dad or missing my grandfather, would always exist. That the second story, back corner bedroom of 10810 -- where I wrote my first essay, recalled my first kiss, first thought my now husband may be “the one” and last slept next to my grandmother before she died -- would always be. It was a vessel that held my past, my who I am beginnings. Though I may never, I always thought I could, go home.

But don’t they always say you cannot go home, and now for me that is literally true. And some might argue that a physical structure is not what home is. But I argue, or maybe just state for you to take or leave, that the loss of it loosens my tether to this life; unhitches the physical significance of my time on this earth to some degree. I am abruptly confronted with the obvious reality that, right now and probably forever more, where I grew up matters to no one. It matters to no one, but maybe my twin brother or my sister, and if we had the courage to tell them of its demise, my mom and dad. But no one lives there anymore. No one is guarding its doors and creating the memories that form the link between humans and their physical structures that make them homes. And in the case of 10810 where it was placed gave it meaning and now no hope.

But lest you think that I digress, I will tell you why I work. Because it is a true way to define myself and my time on this earth. It tethers me to this world, here and now and, if I have chosen well, beyond myself. It is what answers my daily questions of who am I, why do I matter, what is my purpose? Admittedly this perspective could really skew my priorities, if I have either a narrow definition of work or am not pursuing my calling. But when work matters to me, I have a better idea of who I am. By work, I do not mean the “way I get paid” or the “thing that gets me to the next job or promotion.” I mean the thing I am doing right now, today, each moment, that has meaning and propels me to the next moment; the collection of actions that leads me to fall in bed exhausted and dreamless at the day’s end, only to face another day of those same actions with motivation after I have taken a shower, brushed my teeth and slid another cup of hot coffee down my throat.

How does this relate to the loss of my childhood home? You still don’t get it? It is my first home -- the physical structure, where it was placed, and its connection to me and my family -- that gave me meaning. I know what matters. And that is what makes my work matter.

If you don’t get the connection, I don’t care and you must not be from Detroit.
Goodbye 10810.