I left them working, the car looking disgraced and empty with the engine open and the parts spread on the work bench, and went in under the shed and looked at each of the cars. They were moderately clean, a few freshly washed, the others dusty. I looked at the tires carefully, looking for cuts or stone bruises. Everything seemed in good condition. It evidently made no difference whether I was there to look after things or not. I had imagined that the condition of the cars, whether or not things were obtainable, the smooth functioning of the business of removing wounded and sick from the dressing stations, hauling them back from the mountains to the clearing station and then distributing them to the hospitals named on their papers, depended to a considerable extent on myself. Evidently it did not matter whether I was there or not.
That’s from A Farewell To Arms, Hemingway’s non-didactic yet firmly pacifist travelogue based on his time spent piloting an Italian ambulance during WWI. In it, he spends 300 pages drinking his way around one central theme: Guys, this war thing is totally bullshit!
I liked it a lot more than I expected.
Hemingway was both more verbose and far more emotionally aware than the stereotype would suggest. Not everyone in my book club shared this feeling, but I don’t mind being the odd man out on occasion. Sparring sparks robust conversation.
While most of Hemingway’s life lessons fall into the category of What-Not-To-Do, there were some take-aways tucked in.
The excerpt above reminded me of a weird saying that my uncle had, a pearl I should have taken to heart a little earlier in life: “You’re just a finger in the pudding.”
That might need a little explanation.
If you remove an object from a gelatinous substance, it leaves a dent. For a while. Give it some time and the hole that you’ve left fills in just fine. The surface becomes smooth and flat and shiny and new. Depending on the viscosity of the substance it might take a few hours, even weeks, whatever. But eventually any trace of your fingered infliction will soon be erased.
And so it is with many of our ever-so-important duties and obligations. When in the mix, we feel vital, needed, necessary. We erect egos around titles, we fight for position, keep score, glory in thin praise. The possibility of change, of losing face or facing the end fills us with dread, burdens us with great imagined responsibility.
But ask yourself honestly: What happens if I turn in my notice? What happens if I just bow out? Move on? Slip silently into some stormy night?
Assuming you were truly a half-decent version of the man you thought yourself to be, everyone will miss you… for a bit. But soon enough someone else will be assigned to your projects, somebody new will get trained up on the software. Your emails will be forwarded and your calls will be answered. The committee will keep meeting. Passionate resumes will be collected. Reluctant volunteers will be found. It’ll all be ok.
You might find out that you’re a little like Hemingway’s hero: “Evidently it did not matter whether I was there or not.” Take comfort in that. The war will go on. The new project will launch. The clients will still find their value-added solutions working in the morning. It’s not a bad thing, it’s the way it should be if this world’s supposed to keep on spinning.
So maybe it’s time to get your fingers out of the pudding–maybe this is the time to try something new. You have my permission to take a deep breath, take a step back, and pluck yourself free.
The pudding will be just fine without you.
