Arbeid Adel!

Daar was vandag amper ‘n insident, toe iemand genoem het dat ‘n nederige taak deur ‘n wit vrou gedoen word, wat tradisioneel hier deur mans gedoen word. Die taak is een van daardie noodsaaklike dienste wat mense blitsvinnig op hulle perdjies spring as dit nié betyds gedoen word nie. Een van die dinge in Amerika en ook Engeland wat my getref het met ons reise en wat vir my mooi is daar, is dat daar glad nie neergesien word op nederige werk nie. Ons kan mos so uit die hoogte wees hier.

[image error]

Nog iets wat opvallend was – die waardigheid waarmee die mense die geringste van werk doen. Met trots en dis mooi so, want niks, maar niks wat jy doen is ondergeskik aan enige iets wat iemand anders doen nie. Skoonmakers, padwerkers, plekaanwysers, noem dit, mense doen dit met waardigheid en trots. Daar is huiswerkers en tuinmakers met meer waardigheid as ek.  Werk hard, werk waardig. Al dink jy ander kyk neer daarop, die probleem is die ou wat uit sy hoogte kyk, dat hy nie meer die mens agter die besem raaksien nie. Ek weet hoe dit is, mense is gedurig verstom dat ons self ons gastehuis skoonmaak en ek self was en stryk. Hulle dink selfs ek maak ‘n grap. Waarom tog?

Ek het eenmaal geskryf:

Beroep: Skoonmaker

Beroep: Bemarkingsbestuurder

Beroep: Wasvrou

Beroep: Besigheidsvrou

Beroep: Besigheidsanalis

Beroep: Admin

Beroep: IT

Beroep: Skrywer

Beroep: Huisvrou

Mens moet mos soms jou beroep om die onmoontlikste vorms invul, waar dit eintlik totaal irrelevant is, dan het ek baie pret om sommer enige iets onvanpas in te vul. Hoewel daar eintlik ‘n tikkie erns ook by is, want wat is nou eintlik my beroep? So ‘n tikkie van al bogenoemde. Selfs my beste vriende sukkel daarmee, hulle neem nie my werk ernstig op nie. Waarskynlik my eie skuld, omdat ek my werk geniet en die lewe vir my lekker is. Soms sukkel ek dan self om te onderskei tussen wat werk is en wat nie.

Dan is daar ook ‘n ander sy daaraan. Deel van my werk vir ons vakansie-akkommodasie wat ons bedryf, behels die skoonmaak van die woonstelle, beddegoed was en stryk en storte skrop. Ek weet dit is ‘n nederige werk, ek het immers al kennis gemaak met vlekke van elke soort koekiekrummel, chippies en ook elke soort liggaamsvloeistof/uitskeiding wat daar is. Ek het juis vanoggend daaraan gedink toe ek bloederige vlekke met blouseep uitgevryf het, dat ‘n Vriendin my een dag grappenderwys die Queen van kolle genoem het, omdat ek alles weet van vlekke en vetterige handjies op beddegoed.

Ek kry dikwels dat mense my bejammer oor die nederigheid van die werk en dis glad nie nodig nie, dis maar net deel van my dag. As ek stryk, is dit omdat dit my keuse is, dis lekker dinktyd. As mens ‘n klomp paslakens uit die droër vou en bewustelik aandag gee aan die skoonheid van die fyn, fyn kreukeltjies van die katoenpercale en die hoeke met respek benader, raak die vou daarvan in mooi reghoekige pakkies, meditatief. En stryk ‘n plesier.

Baie jare gelede het ek altyd die huishulpe bewonder, wat laatmiddag langbeen onder die bome op die sypaadjies met hulle vriendinne gesit het en die mooiste borduurwerk op wit katoenlappe gedoen het. Rustig en vol vrede, sodat hulle die apartheidstelsel met ‘n verstommende gelatenheid aanvaar het.

Ek verstaan nóú eers.

On Work – Kahlil Gibran

You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.

For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons,

and to step out of life’s procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.

When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.

Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?

Always you have been told that work is a curse and labour a misfortune.

But I say to you that when you work you fulfil a part of earth’s furthest dream, assigned to you when that dream was born,

And in keeping yourself with labour you are in truth loving life,

And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life’s inmost secret.

But if you in your pain call birth an affliction and the support of the flesh a curse written upon your brow, then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow shall wash away that which is written.

You have been told also that life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.

And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,

And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,

And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,

And all work is empty save when there is love;

And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God.

And what is it to work with love?

It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart,

even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.

It is to build a house with affection,

even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.

It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy,

even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.

It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit,

And to know that all the blessed dead

are standing about you and watching.

Often have I heard you say, as if speaking in sleep, “He who works in marble, and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone, is nobler than he who ploughs the soil.

And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man, is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet.”

But I say, not in sleep but in the overwakefulness of noontide, that the wind speaks not more sweetly to the giant oaks than to the least of all the blades of grass;

And he alone is great who turns the voice of the wind into a song made sweeter by his own loving.

Work is love made visible.

And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.

For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man’s hunger.

And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine.

And if you sing though as angels, and love not the singing, you muffle man’s ears to the voices of the day and the voices of the night.