The author of a book entitled Methland calls speed the quintessentially American drug, as it allows us to work more, produce more, sleep less, eat less. Crystal meth is a drug that fits right in with the work ethic our president refers to time and again in speeches with his trope about hard work leading to success being the American Way, the American Dream, the American Story. He urges us to be persistent, determined, to carry on, to push forward – to work, work, work.
Yet (apart from the fact that many people work, work, work at multiple jobs and can barely support their families) there is another American Story – or the other side of the same story. It is the story of a people increasingly unable to just be, a people uncomfortable in our skins, always needing to alter our bodies or our wardrobes or our kitchen cabinets or our stock portfolios, frantically filling time with work or shopping or drugs or video games. This nation, with an ever increasing work week (before the recession, anyway) paired with an ever diminishing quality of life, is the poster child for the reality that while there is work that needs to be done, work for work's sake not only makes Jack a dull boy, it makes Jill take Prozac.
That most basic of philosophical questions, "What is a good life?", was apparently definitively answered for us by our Calvinist forefathers who knew that the elect, God's chosen, were hard workers who could be identified by their material success. The proliferation of internet porn notwithstanding (or perhaps serving as evidence), we remain a puritanical society at heart. I am willing to go so far as to call this state of affairs tragic. It is tragic because so many people spend their little bit of time on this planet trying in vain to prove their worth, never feeling that they have done enough, always striving to become and have and never allowing themselves to be. It is tragic because this inability to appreciate what is allows us to destroy what is, most evident when we look at what we call "the environment" – all of our industriousness and keeping busy, busy, busy may well lead us to improving ourselves all the way to extinction, and taking a lot of other beings down with us.
A couple of timely examples of my premise, as they relate to the hot topic of health care: sleep deficit and going to work when sick. A huge percentage of American adults live in a constant state of sleep deficit – many brag about not having even dreamed of getting 8 hours sleep in years, of being too busy, too stressed to sleep. Millions of bad decisions are made every day through the foggy haze of exhaustion. We have zombies driving cars and performing surgeries in emergency rooms and teaching children. This leads to all kinds of unnecessary, and sometimes fatal, damage. In addition, lack of sleep has been linked to increased risks of hypertension, diabetes, obesity, depression, heart attack and stroke. Going to work when sick is another bad behavior that is displayed as a badge of honor by many. No matter that pushing through a sickness like a trooper often ends up lengthening the duration and seriousness of the illness while resulting in the infection of everyone else in the workplace and their families – still, there is pride to be taken in coughing at the computer. What if our government produced PSAs telling people that getting enough sleep is a patriotic act, that taking hot baths and staying in bed when ill is something you can do for your country? What would the economic and health impacts of not doing be?
Our president likes poetry. Poetry is a call to dwelling, a call to being and feeling. A reminder that life is much, much bigger than our little strivings, our occupations and preoccupations. Poetry puts us in our place, and our place is wonderfully tiny. We are the recipients of much – air, water, food, our bodies, and birdsong, to name a few – and the creators of little. When we find ourselves back in our place we do not need therapy to bolster self-esteem, because our worth is inherent and intrinsic as a part of this great whirling mystery. When we find ourselves back in our place we do the work that needs to be done, and no more, for work has no value in and of itself, and there is nothing left to prove, and no one to prove it to.