Sacred Space

A short reflection on how much of ourselves we owe to our work.

There are builders working on our garage right now. Every day at noon they set a little lunch table and chairs with buckets, and play cards. I try not to disturb them then. No check-ins or questions. That’s their time, I figure. A sacred space.

In those moments our home becomes their lunchroom. Just between noon and one. Every day. Like clockwork.

I’m reminded of when I was much younger, just out of university, and had a workday more like that. At a packaging supply company in Melbourne, shortly before moving to the US.

I was charged with unloading shipping containers, filled top-to-bottom, end-to-end – like a 3-D Tetris game – with boxes of rubber bands and plastic bags and rolls of tape. They were being moved into a brand new warehouse, with slick concrete floors and towering storage shelves, all still smelling of fresh paint.

My one and only coworker was a middle-aged Asian man with very little English. I did most of the lifting and he drove the forklift. Often he had me ride on a full pallet going up, all the way to the top of the racks, where birds sometimes nested. I would pick up boxes from beneath my feet, one by one, and stack the shelves. Until I was standing on a bare pallet, and he lowered me down again. Anything to save time. Safety be damned. There was no brass. It was just he and I.

His goal was simple; to complete the work by lunchtime. He had commandeered the lunchroom, and used it as his own private office. Every day he microwaved pungent meals brought from home, and ate while listening to radio in a foreign language. Putting his feet up on my chair. Smoking. Reading. For hours.

We clocked in and out on an actual punch clock. He’d warned me not to leave early, or the bosses would give us more work to do. Maybe send two containers instead of one. So I roamed around the largely-empty warehouse, alone, killing time. Thinking.

I would ride the pallet truck like a scooter, skidding around corners, falling over now and then. Drive the electric forklift up and down the aisles of new orange racks, sometimes crashing into things, until the battery died. Or read the paper, if I thought to bring it.

No smart phone, no nothing. Until quitting time.

My workmate and I never did talk much, let alone play cards. But I think about him and that job (and digging ditches, building fences, washing dishes, working a bar) all the time. Especially when I see laborers on break. About that way of life. Disconnected from the endless digital world. Worried only with the physical task in front of you. Clocking in and clocking out. Offering up your body to industry, but holding onto your mind. A sacred space.