[auro]
concentration
For some of us, work means feeling our skeletons moulding to our chairs, imagining our fingerprints transferring onto the keys we spend all day pounding and caressing, and listening to the diffident whooshing hums of office ventilation units.
Work means navigating city streets; shampooing a cocker spaniel’s head; sorting good peaches from bad; fitting tab A into slot B; lobbing a ball over a net; putting smelly coins into waiting hands, with a smile; holding steady over the juddering rodeo-horse of a jackhammer; saying — 20 times and then again — “We raise our hands before we speak, Shanae!”
For many, work means staring: at the curve of a graph, the bent twig of an x-rayed wrist, radar blips that have to be kept apart, stray punctuation marks that appear and disappear like ghosts… the way light falls on a woman’s cheek.
Work is hard. Work is boring. Work is easy. Work is passionate bliss. Work is what you do before you get to play. Work is just what you do.
When does work become sublime? Does it happen over the course of a lifetime, all the common moments of effort expended adding up to an uncommon whole?
Well, I’m no mathematician. But maybe for some of us it happens once or twice a day, in a moment of pure concentration — when you’re shaking the perfect cloud of cocoa over the top of a perfect tiramisu.
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