Alone Together

Today, like all the other days that seem to mindlessly bleed into the next, I wake up and groggily turn on my computer. I am grateful to have reason to turn on my computer, to have work to do. Not everyone has the type of job that allows them to work from home, I am painfully aware of that, especially today. It is, after all, Labor Day—an occasion that up until now, has carried no real meaning for me. But today is different. I now think about those who have to make major sacrifices just to get work done from home, those whose jobs require them to bravely leave their houses and risk their health and lives for others, and those who do not get to do any of these at all. Today has got me thinking about work, jobs, professions, vocations, occupations, careers, and I guiltily do so just a few steps away from my bed. What does it mean to labor, to toil, particularly in these times? Does it involve the pounding of a hammer? The whirring of a machine? The ringing of a cash register? What happens when all that comes to a screeching halt in a world where “What do you do?” is synonymous with “Who are you?”? And where the answer to that question sets the social parameters of your identity? How much of our work have we allowed to define who we are? And what is left when that is pulled out from under our feet? Who are we, then, without it? Work has always been a large part of human existence. We are naturally inclined to roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty—with earth, ink, grease, paint, anything. Our work clothes may have evolved through the years, but the essence of putting in the effort and reaping something in return has always been there. There will always be honor and dignity in contributing to a team, a society, a country, the world. We were born to give of ourselves. That is why to labor is also to give birth—to literally bring life, a part of ourselves, to this world, and to labor even further to ensure that that life lives one that is marked by the same honor and dignity with which we have nurtured it, for it to someday contribute to a team, a society, a country, the world. To labor is to create, to make something that was not there or to perpetuate what was always there. Fundamentally, to labor is to put food on the table, to get an education, to realize aspirations. It is what fuels our passion and drives our purpose. For many, to labor is to also pray. Ora et labora —prayer and work—a Catholic monastic practice most associated with Saint Benedict, who believed in combining contemplation with action, tapping the divine in drudgery. Meditation in motion. Labor, for many, has become a form self-expression, a declaration for the world to know that “I exist,” “I matter,” “I am here to pull my own weight.” So what happens now when one is suddenly denied of this? It comes as no surprise then that many find themselves lost and grieving during these uncertain times—grieving the inability to contribute, to create, to connect with themselves and a higher calling. It has forced people to take a hard look at their place under the sun and grieve for the death of who they thought they were all along, when all the pieces they have used to define themselves have started falling off, one by one, leaving them standing naked, vulnerable. And as with any kind of grief, comes acceptance—acceptance of what is and what could be. It is an invitation to explore and experiment, to see what happens when “Who are you?” comes before “What do you do?”, and to be surprised with the answer. But let us leave that for another day. Days may seem to mindlessly bleed into the next, but today is different. For today, we celebrate. We celebrate all the hands that are never too busy to prepare food for others to eat, the hands that are never too full to deliver essential goods and services for the rest of us to survive, the hands that are never too weary to care for the sick. We celebrate all the beautiful, calloused hands that are still able to do or find meaningful work during this time, showing us what it means to truly do good and honest labor. In return, the least we can do is put our hands together in thankful prayer or heartfelt applause. Yes, there may be jobs that will not survive this period. But there will still be many that will thrive and help soften the ground, so that new ways will emerge for humans to once again roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty—either holding a pen, a hammer, a brush, a piece of chalk, anything.

I’ve been thinking about dying lately. Not in a morbid I-want-to-kill-myself (or others) kind of way, but more about death and its inevitability and unpredictability. Maybe it’s because in recent weeks, a number of close friends lost a loved one quite unexpectedly. The older I get, the closer to home death seems to be, extending its hand like a familiar stranger, daring me to study its face, no longer willing to play an amorphous concept that only happens to other people. My mother once said we’re all passengers in this airport called life. Some have to wait much longer, while some are already at the departure gate, waiting for their boarding call. We’re all flying out of here whether we like it or not. It was a fitting analogy especially for someone like me who traveled a lot; one that made me think about everyone’s varied stages of departure. There are those who travel heavy, and there are those who travel light. Whatever you choose to carry with you—grief, acceptance, regret, gratitude, fear, love—is really all up to you. You just better be damn ready once your number is called. In the meantime, try to be kind and helpful to fellow passengers. Oh and please, never cut the line.

We all have these two types of friends: the ones who we choose to see us only at our best, when we're our most camera-ready selves, and the ones who we take with us behind the scenes, to reveal our work-in-progress selves. Both are necessary and neither one is better than the other, because what we choose to show to both groups are versions of who we are. Some simply get to enjoy the party, while others get to help with cleaning up the mess.

Every day, the drama unfolds. It begins the moment you see light from the late afternoon sun starting to inch downward against a wall, a curtain, a loved one’s face, when the soft orange glow of the sky makes everything around you appear dreamlike and real at the same time, like a fleeting portal to a world where the line between nostalgia and hope are undistinguishable, and where past and future seem one and the same. It lasts only a moment, until shadows begin to dance around you, tease you, and finally embrace you in darkness, merging what is tangible and imagined into one absolute truth. During these precious seconds, when the rest of world has not yet realized the subtle transition, the shadows whisper in your ear, asking you to take in this graceful end to the day with reverence, for tomorrow the same performance will play out, as it will time and again, even when you are no longer watching.

The drink cart hurtles along the aisle, pushed by a fully-bearded man who looks more like a trucker than a flight attendant. He stops the cart beside an Asian guy wearing black-rimmed glasses, reading a book. “What would you like to drink sir?” asks the flight attendant. His bearded smile looks like a forest surrounding a clear lake. “Water please,” says the Asian guy, not looking up. “Really?! No beer? No wine?” The flight attendant looks indignant. “Just water please.” “But it’s a Saturday! Don’t you feel like partying?” The flight attendant desperately waves the wine bottles. His smile is even bigger this time. The Asian guy looks around the almost empty cabin. “Uhm…where’s the party?” The flight attendant struggles to maintain his smile. He hands over the glass, wishing he’d poured the water over this party pooper’s head instead. He releases the breaks and pushes the cart further along the aisle. “And what would you like to drink?” The flight attendant’s voice echoes throughout the cabin as he approaches other passengers. “Juice?! Just juice?” There’s no party on this plane.

I find that one of the most powerful seconds of your life is that moment when you first open your eyes in the morning, teetering between wakefulness and dreaming, not fully awake, yet completely mindful of both your physical body and spirit, untainted by the blunders of the day before, and the strain of the day that is about to unfold. It is rare moments like these when the curtain-filtered morning light creeps into the purity of the present, that you get a glimpse of the infinite possibilities at your disposal, and your innate power to invent your day as you please.

I used to get lost a lot (and I mean a lot). For important appointments, I would allocate at least a couple of hours for getting lost. And for really important occasions, I would even do a dry run the night before–only to end up making a wrong turn or two on the day itself. Thankfully, I have since then learned to be much better with directions. Although once in a while, I would purposely take an unknown route, just to get lost and see where it takes me. I do this because I have come to realize that getting lost is life’s little brilliant way of pulling me back in from the narrow view of my far-away destination. It forces me to examine my current situation and embrace the present moment—to pause and simply sit with it. One way or another, I always end up where I need to be anyway—sometimes late, sometimes with a few minutes to spare, but always richer from the journey itself. As with everything in life, your destination will perpetually keep changing. Might as well take a few scenic detours now and then, and simply turn wherever you are at the moment into your destination. As author Neale Donald Walsch puts it, the point of life is not to get anywhere—it is to notice that you are, and have always been, already there. So wherever here is for you or however you choose to define it, may you be blessed with a bagful of interesting stories that speak of both the courage and the vulnerability that brought you exactly where you are right now.