For Those Who Do the Work

He is darkened by days working under the Arizona sun. His skin is also powdered by fine dust. In his hair, there are mesquite leaves, palo verde blossoms, and pollen from all the flowers of late spring. He is on tip-toe, on the top step of a ladder, wielding a chainsaw, trimming trees. The trees are scattered tastefully throughout the parking lot of a shopping mall that caters to the wealthy part of town, the foothills. Mercedes, BMWs, Land Rovers, and other luxury cars pull up to the coffee shops for their expensive drinks. Drivers sit behind tinted windows in air-conditioned comfort. They smell like after-shave and body wash. They are worried and have problems of their own. He sees that in their faces as they drive by and he knows the day is young, that he has hours to go before he can rest, get home to his family. He will take the bus to the other part of town, where there are many like him who travel to the big houses to clean, trim, sweep, haul, attend to the needs and comforts of those who have so much they have forgotten, lost contact. They will complain about him, find fault with his work, threaten to fire him if he asks for more, for fairness. The trees will look good because of him. He notices how the trees grow, and he trims them in ways that will allow them to heal quickly. Like a surgeon, he cuts cleanly at the bark collar, the place where growth is most vigorous. He sees a truth in ordinary movements, in the cycles of the day. He thinks about his children and leans into the work of being a better man, father, companion, human being. He does the work of noticing, of being mindful of his actions, his thoughts, what it is he is called to do. Without him, these branches would die and crack and litter the holy ground of those who pull the strings, those who take home the chips in a rigged game.