A Good Day's Work

“Derive happiness in oneself from a good day’s work, from illuminating the fog that surrounds us.”

Henri Matisse

I am a fan of Matisse, with his vivid colors and unusual vision of the world. A print of the painting here, The Red Room, has graced my living room for 20 years, and I’m not tired of it yet. It was a good day’s work for him.

You are what you do, not what you say, or even what you think, although I guess the thought is the parent of the action. I believe that my character is defined by what I do, not the fine words I say or the confused, sometimes brilliant, sometimes negative things that run through my brain.

So a good day’s work, for me, is something by which I can judge myself. If I make myself do something despite my fickle feelings, I am proud of myself. If I illuminate one other life besides my own for a brief time, I am grateful.

I got the only C I ever got in college in my Philosophy class. I was 16 years old and taking my first university course. The prof made us read cumbersome books by boring people who thought way too much and did way too little. I apologize for my ignorance of his fine points, but David Hume bored me to tears. He was far too smart for me.

I like painters and poets and novelists and revolutionaries and volunteers, who pursue passions good or bad. I like the Shaker philosophy: Hands to work, hearts to God.

I didn’t feel like writing a poem yesterday morning, but I wanted to work at my craft. So I sat down and made myself write a simple poem. I liked myself better for having done it, and it was a good day’s work. What I’ve learned in recovery, among other things, is not to be defeated by my feelings, but to derive happiness from right actions.

What’s a good day’s work to you? From what does your happiness spring?


Rain

After a three-year drought that turned to dust the riverbed, the fields,
Today the manna from heaven falls softly on the surface of the soil,

Which laps it neatly like a cat at the water dish, and the pores of leaves
Open like rosebuds to drink it. The mock orange shivers with raindrops,

The pine needles quiver, those brave narcissus bend their thirsty heads.
Rain patters like music on the roof, no longer creaking in the sunlight

But tooting like a piccolo in joy. Rain, rain, rain, a sighing in the air
Of satisfaction escapes the mouth of the ground beneath my feet,

Breath I feel on my cool skin as I embrace the raindrops in my arms.
The roots sing as their veins swell, and brown water begins to pool

In the dry riverbed. Small puddles reach out to other pools; they link,
Trickle gaily into low spots; and the river’s muddy blood awakens.

*****