Labor and Rest

And Stars Over the City

Growing up Labor Day had many meanings.

The end of summer.
The last trip up north* before the first day of school.
The signs of a new season.

My young mind understood labor and rest to be polar opposites. What I knew and believed about labor was formed from my experiences living in an industrialized city. I grew up in Flint not far from one of the many factories where automobiles were made. I was raised in a family with several generations of autoworkers.

I saw up close and personal the harshness and the opportunity of the assembly line. It was hard work. Dirty work. Physically demanding work. Work that segregated people by gender and race. That fostered racism. That exploited bodies for profit. That turned humans into machines. That, when I was a child, handed out pink slips as often as pay checks.

It was also for many, work that provided a good living. Salary, health benefits, vacation time, holidays off, a pension. Work that allowed for social mobility and helped make the dream of homeownership reality. That empowered folks like my great grandparents to have a home in the city and a beautiful little cottage up north on a lake.

My great grandpa came to Michigan from a farm in Indiana seeking work. And he found it with General Motors. He was part of the 1936-1937 Sit-Down Strike that strengthened the United Auto Workers (UAW) and advanced the rights of laborers around the country and the world.

This last weekend as the United States celebrated Labor Day, my thoughts were drawn to the cottage up north on the lake. A direction that at first seemed disconnected from labor. I let my memories and words wander. The more I wanted to write about labor, the more my thoughts turned to rest. As I often do when I’m struggling to put reflections into coherent form, I started to doodle.

The cottage, the lake, the beach. The railroad tracks. I also doodled the city. The larger buildings, the roads, the highways. The river running through downtown. Still such a part of the story.

And then it came to me. Labor and rest are not opposites or enemies. They are part of one system. One cycle. They are components of our physical and spiritual lives. They are rhythms that we set and that we set our bodies and our hearts to.

I once understood labor as reserved for the city. That it was synonymous with busy and measured by productivity and valued by an hourly wage. That it was our main objective until we were old enough to retire.

I once regarded rest as a weekend privilege or summer and holiday luxury. That it primarily happened up north, anywhere away from home, in more remote places. That it was dangerously close to being lazy, which was a punishable offense. That it meant doing nothing. Staying up and sleeping in late. Napping during the day. That it was a reward for hard labor. That it was earned and deserved. And that if I worked hard and long enough I could one day spend more than just weekends at a lake front cottage playing shuffle board and feeding the seagulls to my heart’s delight.

Without a doubt, these beliefs were a result of where I was born and how I was raised. And why I made a bold declaration as a child. I announced to the world that I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. RETIRED!

This year, I spent a good part of Labor Day resting. And reflecting on work. Work for me now looks different than it ever has. A year ago, I gave myself permission to focus on writing and creating a writer’s life. Which at times has meant simply dreaming and imagining what a writer’s life even is. In many ways, I have worked harder these last 12 months than I ever have in my life. And in just as many ways, I have wrestled with those long-ago instilled beliefs that real work is 8 hours a day, 40+ hours a week, and provides a bi-weekly pay check.

As 10 Camels moves from a dream to a reality, from a few words on social media to a website, from a random shared poem to a traveling poetry show, from a stack of writings on a shelf to a published book, I’m creating a life and a living. I’m re-imagining labor and as well as rest.

I’m pushing back against old notions of worth and value.
Embracing naps and taking walks mid-day.
Fostering connections.
Prioritizing conversations over productivity.
Reconceptualizing just and fair compensation.
Advocating for myself and my creative gifts.
No longer defining myself by what I do.
Re-defining who I am and what it means to be me.
Intently listening to others and to my own voice.
Realizing the binary ways I’ve understood the world and moving from either/or to both/and thinking.
Bridging what once seemed like disconnected ideas and places.
Doodling about the city and up north.
Recognizing that labor and rest are possible in both locations.
That rest is like a late summer rain watering our labor.
That labor leads us to rest like the bubbling stream we follow down the path from the little red shed to the bench on the beach our great grandpa made from driftwood.

I’m remembering one Labor Day weekend I returned home from up north feeling sad about the end of summer and returning to school. Thinking about late night fires, roasting marshmallows, turning waves, and gazing up at the stars. At that time, I didn’t realize stars shined over the city, too. I went to get my bag from the back seat of the car and there they were. Brighter than the street lights. A group of stars above the corner stop sign. Calling me then, and still today, to deeper attention to the world around me. To the laboring and the resting that connects us to ourselves, to one another, and to creation. To consider what else—along with city stars—is right in front of me waiting to behold?

*Up North is a common phrase in Michigan. And there are many, often strong opinions on where Up North begins. I decided as a child that it begins once you cross the Zilwaukee Bridge on I-75. My opinion on this remains pretty strong.

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels