I have a great corporate career and I am enjoying the benefits of being in its latter stage having earned good income and the comradery of people I have worked with and served. I have learned every day on this job from people who are smart and dedicated. And I feel my work has worth and shifts good out into the world. I feel what I have done is important.
Having said that there is no doubt that this has not taken place with more than my fair share of imposter syndrome. You know. The thinking that my success has less to do with my education, hard work, attentiveness, experience and savvy than good luck, good timing and the good grace of others.
I am deep into Bringing It To the Table by Wendell Berry on farming, farmers and food. (Had to buy the book. Library won’t let me renew it anymore.) Last week I read an essay in the book called Renewing Husbandry. Berry quotes a from a book entitled Feed My Sheep by a guy named Terry Cummins. Terry Cummins writes about himself at thirteen. Berry estimated Cummins would written this in about 1947. And it is worth requoting here.
When you see that you’re making the other things feel good, it gives you a good feeling, too.
The feeling inside sort of just happens, and you can’t say this did it or that did it. It’s the many little things. It doesn’t seem that taking sweat-soaked harnesses off tired, hot horses would be something that would make you notice. Opening a barn door for the sheep standing out in a cold rain, or throwing a few grains of corn to the chickens are small things, but these little things begin to add up in you, and you can begin to understand that you’re important. You may not be real important like people who do great things that you read about in the newspaper, but you begin to feel you’re important to all the life around you. Nobody else knows or cares too much about what you do, but if you get a good feeling inside about what you do, then it doesn’t matter if nobody else knows. I do think about myself a lot when I’m alone on my way back on the place bringing in the cows or sitting on a mowing machine all day. But when I start thinking about how our animals and crops and fields and woods and gardens sort of all fit together, then I get that good feeling inside and don’t worry much about what will happen to me.
Oh, I so get that.
There was always, always, such a quiet satisfaction, a quiet pride in doing chores on the old farm. Milking the cow on a cold winter morning and the sweet-smelling steam coming off the milk as I strained it before putting it into the cooler. Hand watering the wilting tomato plants on a scorching summer morning being careful not to wet the leaves and then watching them slowly recharge. I used to imagine the plants were grateful. Watching the chickens hop and flip their wings and heads in fresh bedding after cleaning out the coop.
Yeah, there were no public accolades or awards for that work. No industry shout outs or performance bonuses.
Yet, no external validation ever sought. The farm work was its own reward.
And never felt a hint of imposter syndrome when planning what seeds to order for next year’s planting or cutting up the curd making cheese.
There is so much value in the understated work that builds the soil, that feeds a family, that contributes to a community, that respects the land and its creatures. It is quiet, un-lauded work. Maybe, if you are lucky, you get your picture in Harrowsmith.
So while I slowly transition into this farming life I am reminded by Cummins the importance of the work, the satisfaction of a life that honours all the little things.