Labor Day

Mom and me a few weeks before.

My mom and I labored on Labor Day—I was born the next morning. (Apparently they named a holiday after us!) It's interesting to think of us working together on such a momentous project before we'd even seen each other face-to-face.

Mom and me a few weeks after. October, 1949.

Mom loved to labor; every Labor Day she had some big undertaking planned for all of us to do together—weed the yard, "put up" peaches, houseclean the entire world—well, that's what it seemed like to me. Our roles were the same as that first Labor Day: she did all the pushing and panting, while I just struggled to get out of it. But I learned to love work (except for weeding, canning and housecleaning.)

Saturday we went to see Julie and Julia for my birthday. While it's ultimately the story of how they both became rich and famous, what we see is their joy in the journey. I identified with both characters. They were obsessed. Heber J. Grant said, “If you have ambitions, dream of what you wish to accomplish and then put your shoulder to the wheel and work."

What are your ambitions? If you're going to be a writer, then writing is what you have to do, and writing is hard work. Someone said, "The easier it is to read, the harder it was to write." Sometimes I sit at this computer and type so long that I can't stand up without pains shooting through my back. My fingers cramp and my right shoulder throbs from sliding the mouse around it's pad. I have to close my eyes because my vision is blurred. Once I'm on a roll I don't dare quit. I don't want to miss my muse. (I know I told you we'd talk about our muse this week, but it's now been pushed to next week. Julie and Julia inspired me.)

I've fallen asleep at the keyboard often. Even more often I've rushed to the computer in the early a.m. to see what I wrote (and published!) after my mind shut off, but before I stopped typing. By morning my fingers are flexible, my back is bendable, I can see and think again, and I start editing my work before I even brush my teeth. Eventually I remember breakfast, and tear myself away for real life. I really, really want to be a brilliant writer, and I've postponed it long enough. Heck, I'm sixty years old!

My motherhood years were like an internship for this new phase of life. They taught me to multi-task, grab five minutes here and fifteen minutes there, organize, understand myself, develop and test theories and truths. They gave me experience and wisdom, so now I have something to say. It feels sensational to work hard on something different, and have new aspirations. OK: obsessions.

The Sower by Carl Larsson

I'm not laboring to become rich or famous (although, like Julie and Julia, I'd jump for joy if I did.) My real ambition is to be a sower. Seeds to motivate, encourage, support and uplift others are all in my bag. Now I'm learning to throw. It's more work than I ever expected, but then, I started out on Labor Day.

Since I'm writing this on my birthday, and you're reading it on a holiday, I'm going to keep the homework assignments short. Expand, simplify, or be inspired.

~Write a paragraph about a job you would do for free. Prompt: "If money were no object, I'd like to be a ______, and work in_______."

~Write a paragraph about your philosophy of work. Thought questions: Is work worthwhile for it's own sake, or does it have to have a monetary value? How are you teaching your kids to work? Did your parents make work fun or was it something to get finished before you could have fun?

Now, write away!