My dad was my first, most formative picture of Work. He embodied everything the prototypical worker is expected to be. But I have to wonder what parts of himself he would have been able to keep and nourish, how he might have flourished, if he’d been allowed a more imaginative structure. I can almost see it—a world where the breathing, bleeding, exhausted, stretched, and strained human body is invited into the circle, allowed to exist in all its variant forms. What flexibility, what efficiency, what connections, what salves might we find there?
