The magical process of transmuting ordinary materials into something of true merit requires commitment and love of one's work; meaning emerges as a by-product of such an engagement. The primary satisfaction is in finding in one's work that which corresponds to one's inner self and not seeking exclusively secondary gains, such as prestige, money, and other trappings. These secondary satisfactions take on greater significance if one's work no longer reflects one's real self but is used to project a false self. Modern life, by distancing the worker from the product, unfortunately makes it harder for the individual to identify with the outcome and to love it, never mind to assimilate with one's work in an alchemical fashion. But, it is worth trying, even under such adverse conditions, because, in Thomas Moore's words, "the love that goes out into our work comes back as love of self." Such self-love is not self-adoration, nor is it self-indulgence; it is a reflection of one's self in one's work.
The extraordinary filmmaker Jean Renoir is a perfect example of this love of work. He says, "For, after all, I have been happy. I have made the films I wanted to make, I have made them with people who were more than my collaborators; they were my accomplices. This, I believe, is one recipe for happiness: To work with people you love and who love you." That was the case even though, at times, he must have been discouraged by the limited financial value of his work.
We see the signatures of all souls in the works of those who are committed. Old farmers from the small British village of Akenfield could look at a field where several men had plowed and tell you the name of the man who had done each furrow because each furrow so reflected the character of that particular plowman. In Indian markets in South America where they sell rope, you can tell who made each and every piece. There is a great difference between such innate character and an artificial or conscious attempt at a "personal" statement, or insincere work for mercenary motives. Indeed, when those farmers in Akenfield were asked why they took such care to make furrows so precise (especially since the precision would not yield more beans), they replied simply that it was work and they did it as best they could. It did not merely belong to them, it was them. It was the very signature of the person, the work of life.
The signature of work matures with full commitment of energy and singular intention. This kind of intention means holding your attention on the desired outcome with such unbending purpose that you refuse to allow obstacles to dissipate its focus. There is a total and complete exclusion of all resistant forces from your consciousness. You are able to maintain an unshakable serenity while being committed to your goal with intense passion.
As the old saying goes, "The sun's rays fall everywhere uniformly, but only where they are focused through a magnifying glass can they set dry grass on fire." Totally engaged work is an effective antidepressant. Robert Burton, in his opening address to the reader of The Anatomy of Melancholy, says, "I write of melancholy, being busy to avoid melancholy. There is no greater cause of melancholy than idleness, no better cure than business. When you have unlimited time with yourself, the danger is that you will treat yourself apart."
Most ordinary people lift heavy loads at work-literally or figuratively. But the principle remains that same, that loving one's work makes even the most difficult labor rewarding. Similarly, in The Art of Selfishness (and by association, the art of selflessness), David Seabury describes miners who dig for diamonds, shoveling tons of dirt to find the smallest chip. But the miners are not concentrating on the dirt. They are willing to do inordinate amounts of digging in order to find the tiniest jewel. In everyday living, however, we tend to forget this principle, especially when life seems to be more dirt than diamonds.
T. Byram Karasu, MD is the author of The Art of Serenity
