The trowel, the hammock, the ingot, or the axe

Productivity and the "worth" of life

The problem with slower form thinking & writing in this current hellscape is that, by the time I formulate any kind of measured reflection & response to A Thing, there have been a dozen More Things that are equally deserving of my attention, and so I am constantly yanked away from my considerations and thrown in the dunk tank of reaction. But sometimes, if I stay very still and put aside my phone and allow the fingers of one hand to trail in the constant stream of outrages while holding patiently to the branch of my thoughts with the other, I can see the web of red threads that connects it all.

Native Eastern redbuds in bloom

I have an ongoing Signal chat with my two best friends, which is lush with plant and bird observations, agony & insights about parents and aging, work laments and dinner prep specifics. Being all three of us certified Good Daughters(tm), there’s also a lot of conversation about what we need to do, have gotten done, and cannot bring ourselves to do. We are the list makers, the spreadsheet corallers, the box tickers. A frequent dynamic is one of us presenting to the chat A Thing We Have Done, and the desire for gold stars to validate our efforts. The other members respond with ALL CAPS VALIDATION and ALL THE GOLD STARS and HELL YES GET IT DONE. It is silly, it is nonsensical, but goddamn, it is the thing we desperately need to hear after having pushed ourselves to finally complete an often mundane but belligerently obstructive task.

Sad Star sticker sheet from Big Challenges

The gold star club is not, however, solely to reward our productivity; in fact, its greatest power lies in its unwavering support of rest. We are perhaps even more generous with our award emojis when one of us announces an afternoon couch nap, or a decision to shelve unnecessary work for an hour in favor of a snack, a walk, and a moment of leisure. To be rewarded and congratulated and supported in a time of inactivity is revolutionary. I can say without hyperbole that the support of these two brilliant souls has transformed how I view myself, my obligations, and my deservedness of rest. I have come to deeply believe in the value of time spent without anything quantifiable to show for it. Unclipping my sense of worth from my ability to produce tangible evidence of work has been incredibly freeing, and has reverberated into other lanes of my life.

One of the more sticky conversations I have with folks about my witchcraft practice is around this idea of not needing to actually see results to recognize the value in my actions. There’s a lot of “well, why do it then?”, and I tend to lean into the squishy, undefinable sensations of interconnectedness and awareness. In my atmosphere of belief, the moon doesn’t need me to do anything in order for it to wax & wane; it doesn’t even really perceive that I exist. But for me, the living act of witnessing it as it scribes its shifting arc across the sky, of taking time to look up & appreciate the wonder of this dedicated satellite of ash as it swings on the tether of gravity, is enough. Simply existing in the same universe as this pearly disc is a gift; I don’t need to earn my place, standing barefoot in the cool grass. My presence is my proof of prerogative.

This sense of being both fabulously insignificant & yet deeply worthy of existence is on my mind a lot right now. It is so easy to lose hope, & to be mired in the struggle to do something meaningful, something that matters. We’re shown on the daily that simply existing in the United States is, according to some people, no guarantee of anything anymore. I’m specifically in the weeds about RKF Jr.’s indictment of autism as a nationally destructive epidemic, and the rusty nails my brain is catching on are the first two things he listed as “measures” of autistic kids’ suffering:

1. They will never pay taxes

2. They will never hold a job

There is a WHOLE LOT to unpack about this statement, but what is screaming at me is the quiet part said out loud: they think autistic people will never be “productive,” and this is the greatest sin they can imagine.

(We have historically tended to toss around the phrase “a productive member of society” as a goal, as a good thing, as proof that an individual has surmounted some struggle and come out of the darkness and we can all relax now, this person is no longer a drain on our private & public resources. It is a deeply ingrained fantasy of happy little worker bees in service to the greater hive. It is the fetishization of landlords and CEOs who are “taking all the risks” and “managing the resources responsibly” so that we can all just relax and clock into our jobs and not worry our silly little heads about things. But that’s a separate rant for another time.)

I touched on the feelings of fruitlessness this administration is ruthlessly cultivating in March’s post, and this tracks as another layer of the same poisoned fruit: without production, without dollars paid, without tangible outcomes, autistic lives are meaningless. Without results, without gain, OUR lives are meaningless. And so when the axe swings, it swings gleefully, for with every blow, they clear the path. With every cut, they can claim more gold for themselves, clutching those glittering bricks to wield as weapons.

But listen, my little fighters. They are wrong. We matter. Every single one of us.

I finally got my act together to attend a local protest this past weekend. I had resisted for a few reasons, some sensible, some less so. But my friend Elspeth has written consistently and persuasively about the healing power of attending her neighborhood events, and so I made a little protection charm, got out my leftover housepaint, and summoned my inner Billy Bragg.

Friends, it was amazing. It was loud, it was cacophonic, it was joyful. I ran into old friends, former customers, and a gaggle of my son’s elementary school teachers. We yelled, we hooted, we sang, we hollered. We stood together.

For two hours, that’s all we did. We stepped out of our mundane and practical lives and showed up for ourselves, & for each other, to witness the wrongs and champion for our rights. Every one of us deserved to be there. Every one of us deserves to be HERE. And we’ll keep stepping up to say so.

I’m glad you’re here with me. You are deserving of rest. If you’re feeling strong, take up the trowel and help cultivate; if not, take the hammock. Both are valid, both are worthy.