Writers Circle Prompt: Labor

 

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Find labor in collaboration, elaboration, and laboratory—that is work is the core of all four.  I found these words in AI, and later confirmed them in online dictionaries. 

Derived from French and Latin, the term “labor” implies "toil, exertion; hardship, pain, fatigue; a work, a product of labor."  Herculean effort is labor such as that of childbirth and other tasks beyond the ordinary daily chores and work tasks which may be laborious, but rely more on continuity than any one extreme effort.  To collaborate is to work together toward a goal, and to elaborate is to exert oneself on details.  I know I am belaboring the point that the core word “labor” is useful in ways that are true to itself. 

Labor Day in the USA is meant to celebrate labor as in laborers and groups of laborers such as found in Labor Unions.  I marched in Labor Day parades as a teacher and member of the AFT—the American Federation of Teachers through the PFT local 3.  I enjoyed the companionship, but resented union dues until I retired.  I knew how much the union mattered to working conditions and salary through negotiated contracts, but these were impersonal benefits.  When I retired and stopped paying union dues, I found that my personal benefits package included ongoing health benefits at a reduced cost as well as limited access to lawyers.  A union lawyer prepared my will, power of attorney, and living will.  I can update these documents every two years at no cost. 

Reflecting on Labor, Labor Day, and teaching brought me back to a poem I wrote during my first year at Simpson House:

(03 September 2024)

September Labor
 
As student and as teacher, I knew
Labor Day heralded the serious new year,
one based on the rhythm of semesters,
and surrounded by city streets, backpacks,
uniforms and rush hour dangers.
 
That rhythm sings to me even as I move
in green landscapes and feel their slower pace.
The gold, orange, red and brown that pop
in schools grow gradually into autumn
with chrysanthemums and maple trees. 
 
Warm days and cool nights invite walks and sleep;
thoughts settle in the hush of birdsong and
distant planes.  Who can miss crowded rooms and
lessons here?  My hands open a book, and
I think idly of holding one among students,
 
three or four of whom are curious
to discover the rough and holy
dimensions of words that unroll like flight
in our minds.  I leave the book open in my lap,
pick up a yellow leaf, twirl it, and
imagine its journey from seed to me.
 

 

© 2025 Susan L. Chast

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