On being a liver

Peter, age seven, and Paige, ten, were playing Legos in my living room, while I sat on the couch pretending to read, but really listening to them build their imaginary world.

At one point Paige lifted her Lego horse and, as it leaped the castle wall, she asked Peter, “Can your guys do this?”

“No,” Peter responded. “Me and Tim don’t do stuff like that. We’re livers.”

Paige cocked her head and gave him that “you’re-crazy” look. “What?”

“Livers.” Peter insisted. “That means we’re normal guys. We don’t do stuff. We just live.”

I smiled and kept quiet. I connected their conversation with the old Martha/Mary division and the differences between people. Some people are do-ers, workers, those who accomplish great—or not-so-great—things for the world. They “work for the night is coming,” knowing that “their labors are not in vain.” Others prefer to sit at the feet of the Master, meditate, pray and just be. They focus on “abiding in the vine.”

This division is, of course, superficial. Most of us move back and forth on a continuum between doing stuff and quietly being present. While we may tend to one side, we’re both types, depending on circumstance and opportunity.

I’m a poet. The noun “poem” comes from the Greek “poema,” and its verb form means, ironically, “to do” or “to make.” The particular making of a poet results, sometimes, in a work of art. Work is on the doing stuff side, but art leans toward the livers of the world. The combination, “work of art,” brings them together in synchronicity.

This is beginning to sound as silly as my grandkids’ conversation.

It gives me something to think about now that I’m in the retirement years. I no longer have the energy to mount a steed and leap high walls. But I’m not yet ready to let go of having meaningful work and making a contribution to the society I’m a part of. I still need to feel I’ve accomplished something worthwhile at the end of the day.

Sometimes this is a problem. Like this morning. Like right now as I write this. I have a free open day ahead of me, something I used to long for. So I’m considering what to do with this gift. My options: visit a neighbor, paint some greeting cards, read my novel, edit a poetry collection, take a long walk, help Hal with filing, clean the refrigerator, take a small load of stuff to Goodwill, and so on. I miss having a big project and deadlines to meet. Correction: sometimes I miss those things. But having so many open choices to do things that won’t make much of a difference to the world makes me restless. I’m still learning how to be retired.

Whatever I decide to do today, I will take the time to remember that I’m basically just a liver.

And that’s good.