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.
More than anything, I want my work to feel like this. I envy the artisans of the world, with their sons and daughters who follow in their footsteps and do it for the love. I envy their sense of a clear purpose, of the natural order of things. Even in hard times.
It’s difficult to say this because it sounds so ungrateful and selfish and pointless, but sometimes I wish my grandparents had stayed in Sicily. I might have had an easier time of it.