“My boy builds coffins…but it’s not just for work, and it isn’t for play.” How grounding, how comforting, how sigh-inducingly wooonderful to be good at something; really, really, REALLY! good at something. It’s yours. You eat, sleep, breathe, and live this vocation. Heck, you might even be sought out for this. It’s more than just a job. Everyone and their Mother may come to you for This. One. Thing. (At some point, anyways. More on that later.) This is Dharma, loosely translated as purpose. The boy in this case has his one true calling.
As it’s oft been said, if you love what you’re doing, you’ll never work a day in your life. “…he crafts every one with love and with care…” It may be humble, but they’re no doubt beautiful. They are infused with love and with care. Like the post office, “he fits them together in sunshine or rain.” This boy has a gift. There are no days off, and woyk! is not a four-letter word.
Do all things with love. What’s that about living as if nothing is a miracle, or as if everything is? Which sounds more fulfilling? What wonderment surrounds us. What beauty, what grace, what lovely minutia. Or what big, ostentatious, there-ness there is.
Matters not one whit that this is not going to make him rich, most likely.
Matters not that he’s a one-trick pony. He’s the best dang pony, ever. Pony like you mean it. “He has no use for sails…can’t…whistle…he…doesn’t care.” Do you, and leave what you don’t need on that shelf. It’ll be there for ya, should you decide to take up the mantle of caring about what’s not really yours.
Perhaps the lesson comes from one Dolly Parton: “Figure out who you are & do it on purpose.” Don’t put on airs. If you can’t whistle, pass the saltines!
Matters not that once they’re crafted, and, uh, occupied, away they go. “…he crafts every one with love and with care/then it’s thrown in the ground/it just isn’t fair.” Put the work in, and let go of the outcome. That’s Tapas, spiritual discipline, or burning zeal in practice, with a side of Santosha, contentment. (No, the irony isn’t lost on me that in Spain, tapas are small plates (sorta like appetizers, SORTA) to be shared amongst friends. Who doesn’t need a friend to light a fire underneath them, to hold them accountable, and to c’mon we already paid for a 10-pack of classes! them.)
“They all come to him/’cuz he’s so eager to please.” Everyone will pass on at some point. (Whether if/when/why/how we’re back at some point is anyone’s guess, and that Pandora’s box is staying firmly closed, TYVM.) Coffins are necessary, and why shouldn’t they be ornate? Ha! Maybe a better question is why should they be ornate? As she sings, “he crafts every one with love and with care/then it’s thrown in the ground/it just isn’t fair.” Sometimes it’s nice to get dressed up to sit home all day. Don’t not use the lacy negligee with the outrageous price tag or fancy dishes. Use it all up; ya cain’t take it with ya! Do it anyway. No receipts, no returns, no do-overs. Slide into wherever you end up, used up. This way, your kin won’t have to clean it up.
Sometimes, the KISS method gets the job done.
The singer laments that these carved, perhaps ornate, final resting spots are too pretty to be buried. The doer, though, is content to keep building. It’s his raison d’être, after all.
If this resonated with you, please feel free to comment below or drop me an email. Until our mats unfurl again, be well.