A Job That is More Than Our Work

I came this close [hold thumb and forefinger barely apart] to missing it.

I heard the brassy music in the park from a block away. It was that bouncing beat made for swing, jitterbug, lindy hop, all those exquisitely named steps.

But I was too busy, I thought. I have a job to do, I thought. I don’t have time, I thought.

So I almost walked by, almost didn’t even turn my head filled with my busy mind.

Fortunately, a wiser part of me - a less head-y part - pressed the brakes. HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, Whelan. Cross the street and check it out.

I did and, the sulky 13-year-old in me kicking in, I hoped I wouldn’t like it. Then my busyness could prove that less head-y part wrong: Told you so [crossed arms, nasty half-grin], wasn’t worth it.

But the trombonist was too unrestrained, the tuba was bellowing too delightfully, the drummer’s goofy grin too contagious. It was terrific.

And, you know, even if it hadn’t been, it still would have been worth it. It is always worth it to remind ourselves that rushing need not be our only pace.

As the drummer drummed and the tuba tuba-ed, I wrote a life rule: Always stop for live music, stay for at least one song. Another rule, maybe harder to follow: Don’t take self so seriously.

I, you, we, ALL of us do have a job to do. A job that is more than our work. And part of that job is reveling.

[Shoulders drop and relax, big, dopey smile.]

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