What does that phrase even mean? "Newer pastures"...it sounds too much like "greener pastures," that much-too-pleasant euphemism for death. (I'm not even going to consider the utter creepiness of "bought the farm.")
Maybe I'm being lazy. It's not that much work; the money is helpful; my co-workers are great. The managers are demeaning and incompetent and altogether mean-spirited, to customers and employees. But that's not enough to get me to leave, is it? I've worried on more than one occasion that I'm compromising my principles by remaining at a job where I'm disrespected by my bosses on a regular basis, often even when I'm doing my job properly. I've experienced a lot of inner turmoil about this whole deal; a lot more than is due, I'm sure, considering how insignificant my "occupation" really is, in the long run.
But I've felt it: that sense of "What the fuck am I doing here?" that goes beyond the money and the camaraderie. I think maybe everyone feels it, wherever they are, from the poorest rural village to the high-rise executive suites in Manhattan. It's a disturbing question: Why do I do what I do? Why bother?
And I guess I've learned it - which is why I'm leaving now, so suddenly, after 1.5 years working for the same wretched company. What's the point of it? is what I've always had to ask. And I know: None of the little trimmings that they attach like so much tinsel, none of the luncheons or group pow-wows (oh, Christ, definitely not those), not any of that sense of duty to your "district" or the higher-ups, or to the "labor movement," whose protection I never saw but who I'm sure saw my regular dues. It was the work. When I cut out the rest of it, scraped away all the mud and crap they'd heaped onto the whole experience to hide its core, I found that what was underneath was just work: doing something. Or, as John Locke put it, mixing your labor with the land, in whatever way. It was the knowledge that I was changing something, making it briefly mine, and then trading that for money. The money isn't what is important, though it's a crucial part of the process; it's the end-result of the entire deal, at the root of which is work. And we always work, don't we? For all of our lives. People gripe about it and hate it and try to make it bearable. But I love it, and I don't think that's abnormal. I love work. I love the doing of it, the basic necessity of it. It's cold and hard, and also warm and organic, because every living thing does it, from an amoeba to a human. It's universal, wherever you find life. Work connects us, as long as we're connected to our work - as long as we don't distract ourselves with the tinsel and the trimmings, hiding that which makes it all worth it. Honest work: I never knew what they meant by that until today.
So, I'm leaving. This is my goodbye to all of the friends I made, and probably won't see again. I've learned all I could learn, and it's time for me to go. I can't stand the trimmings, though I know I'll see them again in other forms wherever I go. That's alright - I can handle it. But it's time to grow. Newer pastures aren't necessarily always greener; but the seasons change, and so do I.
But work, and the love of it, never do.
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