On my mind this Monday morning, a story from my grandfather about the meaning of work:

Grampa spent his career at GE back when that was a thing. He was an inventor with an insatiably restless mind. At one point, GE was building a huge new factory. Grampa was one of the earliest to move in, before his office was even completed, so he met the guy who came to hang the door on its hinges. Did I mention his insatiable mind? He was one of those people who talks with everyone and wants to learn all about them, so they chatted all through the door-hanging and then said goodbye because there were hundreds upon hundreds of un-doored offices yet to be doored.

About a year later, Grampa had a meeting in one of the final areas to be built. Lo and behold, there’s his old friend the door hanger!

“So, what’s been going on with you?” asks Grampa.

“I’ve been hanging doors,” says the door hanger.

“All this time? Didn’t that get boring?” asks the endlessly inquisitive inventor who’s always on to the next challenge.

The door hanger pauses, reviews the past year in his mind.

“Every door was different,” he explains.

I heard this tale from Grampa. It was a mystery to him. He was impressed by the craftsmanship, but utterly puzzled. So, with him as the storyteller, I’ve never known exactly what to make of it. It seems like a bit of a Rorschach test.

What do you take from it? I’d be curious to hear… like my grampa.