Journeyman.
A search, but not for the holy grail.
For the last month, my usually wide array of tasks at work has been whittled down to one: inventory. I’m not sure if my bosses have ever done inventory before, but they grossly underestimated the task. They asked me to record the data for what they believed were around three to four hundred chairs, couches and desks. I personally entered seven hundred and sixty-six individual pieces of furniture into the database I created. Thankfully, the task is now behind me and I can get back to the (mostly) refreshing variety of chores I usually tick off during the work week. While I was measuring the height of sofas and double-checking the manufacturer details imprinted on dining room tables, I kept myself company with a slew of audiobooks and podcasts (I can heartily recommend the Murderbot series of novels by Martha Wells). In one of the podcasts I regularly listen to, Dear Hank and John, brothers John Green (of The Fault in our Stars fame) and Hank Green (co-founder of VidCon, an author in his own right, and too many other accolades to mention here) answer questions posed by their listeners in a mock “Dear Mary” format as well as spend a good lot of time chatting about whatever they please, from silly brotherly rants to deep, emotional challenges. Often, when things get emotional or existential, John’s and Hank’s worldviews differ. Inevitably, John, partially because he is the older brother, and partially because he is a member of a faith community that Hank is not, surmises that their differences are due to Hank being on ‘a journey of meaning’.
While it may not be connected to brotherhood or to faith, I think that I am on my very own journey of meaning. One day, as I locked up the warehouse after a full eight hours of moving the ladder around and measuring kitchen stools, the neighbouring warehouse door that usually remains firmly closed was ajar. The space is a photography studio rented out by a single photographer that offers a variety of product and portrait photoshoots, as far as I can tell. A black leather couch with reflective chrome legs sits in the entryway. A red electric guitar stands nearby. I shoved my other arm through the other strap of my rucksack that hung loosely behind me and I walked down the passage and out into the courtyard, on my way home. I started to think about my future. I’m twenty-five. I’m currently working as the photographer at this furniture place (although it must be said that my job is slowly including more and more other aspects of the business). It’s a good job, I’m satisfied. I think the coolest part of my job so far is actually saying that I’m a photographer. It feels very young and interesting and like people I meet at a party at New Years will talk about the fact that I’m a photographer on their drive home. Even if the future of my career is threatened by the ever-growing threat of AI. Angst aside, I began wondering, if that neighbour were me in five years; if I had my own studio, if I was the boss, running my own photography business, did that feel like a future I looked forward to? It would be a fairly logical career leap. As I considered it, my stomach fell into my shoes. That future felt more like a sentence than growth or progression. If I am not building toward being a professional photographer, what am I building towards?
I don’t know. A year ago, I was working really hard to improve my German proficiency, find a job and find a place to live in. Before that, I toiled to find a way into Germany at all. Before that, I spent three years of my life investing time into acquiring my Bachelor’s degree. For a very long time, I’ve had something to work towards. It seems that I have reached a sort of natural end to the progression: having secured a livelihood and a roof over my head, the next goal is to… continue ad infinitum? I’m not interested in the rat race. Social status doesn’t light me up. It seems that many of the hills my peers choose to focus on climbing seem boring or pointless to me. That thing I feel a life as a professional photographer lacks is some deep sense of satisfaction. I feel that it will leave me hungry. I was listening to an episode of Trevor Noah’s podcast, What Now, that featured Simon Sinek. The two of them, and Trevor’s producer Christiana, discuss identity, work and meaning. Christiana seems to misinterpret Simon’s idea that our work should be meaningful as ‘we should derive meaning from our work’. I have sat with myself for long enough to know that it is dangerous and foolish for me to try and find my identity in my work, but when I engage in my work, I still want it to be meaningful. What, then, do I determine to be meaningful work?
I also don’t know. My uncle has a business producing small medical devices that he sells directly to hospitals. It is my understanding that these devices prevent what would usually be fatal incidents, often in impoverished communities. I lived in his home while I attended university, and one evening at dinner I expressed my increasing disinterest in the advertising industry (the career towards which I felt my university was pushing me). I told him that it felt unsatisfying, hollow. Like the work I’d be doing was ultimately meaningless, and that ate at me. He countered with a scenario. What if I worked for his company or a company like it? What if my advertising, and the increase in product reach because of it, literally saved lives? Wouldn’t that make it mean something?
I told him no. That I wasn’t close enough to the lives being saved for it to matter. I’d still be an adman. I’m not suggesting that the only way in which I can find meaning in my work is by saving lives. Far from it. Until now, the moments in which I feel I am creating the most meaning are when I am restoring old, beloved objects so that they can continue to be used by those who love them. How, though, does that translate into a viable career? Neither spending the remainder of my professional years pouring myself into advertising, nor following my current career path of professional photography, seem to satisfy my professional hunger. How do I define meaning, and how do I build a life that allows me to scrape at that meaning each day while putting bread on the table? I still don’t know. But hey! That’s why they call it a journey, I suppose. I’m only at the very beginning.
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Just keep going and keep trusting, every day offers something meaningful.