Work Is A Prayer In Itself

In preparation for a ritual for Iduna the apple-goddess, a group of us had gone out to work in our little orchard. I’ve got a gas-powered string trimmer, so while other folks were planting and pruning, I was mowing the overgrown areas. It is a solitary task – the noise and the flying grass tend to discourage anyone from working nearby – and for me, the loud hum of the engine tends to override my mental chatter. I like that. Mowing has always been a very meditative activity for me. Mowing the orchard is a fairly easy job compared to digging holes in rocky New England soil, but it was more time -consuming than the other jobs, and I was outside by myself for a while after the others had gone in to prepare for the ritual.

When I finished I went inside to wash up, and out the window I could see people heading back out to the orchard. Watching them, I was thinking about the relationship between work and ritual. I often have a hard time connecting deeply with group ritual, but I get great satisfaction out of preparing the space and the ritual items, or cooking food for ritual. I feel closer to the gods and spirits in those quiet times before ritual than I do during most rituals. As I thought about this, I felt Iduna’s presence with me, and I was overcome by the idea that the work – in and of itself – is an act of prayer, of devotion. The work is its own ritual, and that is one of Iduna’s mysteries. It is interesting to compare her with Thor, who embodies the sacredness of the work which sustains kin and clan, in a very concrete and goal-oriented type of way. The sacred work of Iduna can be very similar on the surface – they both have a fondness for outdoor physical labor – but there is something about Iduna which transcends the practical results of the work.

For example, I periodically mow and rake our stone labyrinth, and reset any stones that have sunk down or been knocked out of place. Certainly there is a practical element to that, but for me, the importance of the process goes beyond the practical results. The work itself is an act of prayer. If no one ever used the labyrinth, or even saw it, I would still do the work and it would still have meaning. But people do use the labyrinth, and that gives another layer of meaning to the work. The work becomes an offering to the community, and I do get satisfaction from the thought that my small effort has enhanced someone’s experience of sacred space. I don’t need anyone to acknowledge my effort for that to be satisfying.

For me personally, it is important for me to not get emotionally invested in anyone appreciating the work. I believe that what things people praise, or criticize, or even notice, depends more on what is going on inside their own mind than me or any part of my work. It is nice to get feedback, but for the work to feel right to me, I need to keep that detachment, that lack of expectations. I need to be able to make my offering, and then step back and let them take what they will of it. There is a Zen proverb that goes something like, “If a man has food and wishes to share it, let him open his doors. If the traveler stops to eat with him, this is good. If the traveler passes him by, this is also good.” That is a hard lesson, and not necessarily applicable to all people, but it is one I personally keep coming back to.

My path is sacred service and that tends to involve work that doesn’t get much acknowledgement or appreciation. To do it well is to get beyond the need for acknowledgement and appreciation, and work for the sake of the work, without resentment, contempt, greed, or martyrdom. It is about joyfully offering the work of your hands and the work of your heart, and being present in the process of that work, rather than being fixated on the results. There can be an aspect of obligation or duty, but the heart of it is joy. If you can find that joy, any work – absolutely any work at all – becomes a sacred offering.