Sometimes I Feel Like Sisyphus

When I was young, I read Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus, and it hit home immediately. I realized that there was not only a description of—but an entire myth about— one of my biggest fears in life. From the time I was a child, and before I could even understand—let alone articulate—it, one of my life’s goals was to avoid spending my life rolling that boulder up the mountain day in and day out.

Unlike Sisyphus, I never wanted to or even knew how to be cunning or conniving, and have always had a kind of “you reap what you sow” outlook on and approach to life. Of course, I have questioned that approach throughout my life, wondering why I’ve been “punished” by the loss of so many I love, but I’ve done my best to maintain my morals and ethics without being naïve. All I’ve ever wanted, besides the health, safety, and happiness of my loved ones, is to be able to do creative, productive things and, hopefully, to do some good for others.

Still, even as a kid, I knew on some very primal level, you didn’t have to be evil to be doomed to a life of rolling a boulder up a mountain only to have it fall down to the bottom and have to do it all over again the next day. I watched my Father, a brilliant man, the epitome of honesty and integrity, in his painter’s overalls, and I knew something didn’t fit. I knew that something, somewhere, had gone awry to put a mind and a heart that could have cured diseases or created meaningful legislation or written books into splotched painter’s overalls.

Late one night recently, my husband and I were searching in vain for something decent to watch on TV, and, somewhere among the 500 channels of garbage, we stumbled upon a program—on the Food Network, I think—about various shore “resorts” in the U.S.

What caught my attention—briefly—was a heavy-set woman in her late 50s or early 60s, talking enthusiastically about the different flavors of salt-water taffy her company made. She was wearing no makeup, her hair was unkempt, and she had that glazed-over Stockholm Syndrome look in her eye that told me that standing behind this counter with her Company vest and her Company smile, singing the praises of her Company and her Company’s product, was this poor soul’s lot in life. “I’ve been here for thirty-five years!” she exclaimed, with glaze but no sparkle in her eye. I shuddered.

I am not judging her. We all do what we have to do. I've always had a working-class ethic and always will. I think it’s what’s kept me from “pursuing” a lucrative “career”--you know, like a hedge-fund manager or something. I guess on some level, it’s because I never want to be too far from my parents—and wealth is far from my parents. On another level, it’s because I don’t believe in “careers.” I believe in passion. In dreams. I guess that’s where the “idealist” part of my temperament comes in. I believe that life is too short to strive merely to “have a good career.” What you do with the precious time you have here on Earth should be what you love, or at least what you feel you need to do in this world, because it’s in your soul—not because you’re climbing some corporate ladder. Of course, it doesn’t always work out that way—but it usually does if you give it all you’ve got, mind, body and soul.

I’ve had many jobs in my life, and have always worked and been proud of that fact. I’ve never looked for a free ride—and wouldn’t accept one if it were handed to me. Working for a living is noble.—and, for most people, necessary. But thirty-five years wearing somebody’s uniform and talking in Company-speak? That’s too long.

I recognize that I have a dread of the mundane; it’s one of my many weaknesses. But that doesn’t mean I have a dread of simple things. I actually like working—if I’m working on something I care about, something that’s mine, regardless of how much—or how little—money I’m making. I’d rather make pottery and sell it on the street than be a stockbroker on Wall Street. I’d rather create something—anything—than internalize a Company credo or study an Employee handbook.

My fear is not of working. My fear is becoming a hamster on a wheel. Or worse yet, Sisyphus.