A few years back, I read the Boss’ (AKA Bruce Springsteen) autobiography, Born to Run. This 500-page rock ’n roll memoir was striking in the recounting of details. The vivid remembrance of the walls and furniture in the home he grew up in. The colorful cast of characters during his early music development. The scent of his mother’s perfume, the sound her dress made as she walked to work. The dialed-in description of the small halls and bars he played in back in the late 60’s. Remembering some strange detail about a random show in Philadelphia in 1974.
What stuck me more was a slight detail that could easily be overlooked. It was how Springsteen continually referred to his music—his output—as “his work”. I don’t recall him saying the word “career”, but always it was his work. Surely, by all accounts, he’s had an impressive career in the music business. Uniquely because he took his work seriously. Almost obsessively so. There are stories from band members recounting how they were tortured by working on the drums for one song for weeks at a time. 100 takes of a particular song. For my favorite album, Darkness on the Edge of Town, Bruce and the band wrote and recorded some 40 songs. Then he carved it down to 10 for the final record, to make the essential statement he wanted to at that time. A pretty strong work ethic.
Not a fan? That’s Ok. Check out the Nebraska album. That’s usually the album that people who dislike Bruce Springsteen like. It’s like the secret gateway into his catalog.
Over 5-plus decades, Bruce has curated and built up an incredible body of work. A solid one, a lasting one. Some colleges are offering courses in the themes of his lyrics and literary storytelling. Kinda cool. I would take that class. Shoot, I could teach that class.
But work.
Our work matters.
What we create, what we establish, what we build, what we put our hand to matters. I know some pastors who will say that work is holy.
So what to do about it?
Start now.
In your 20s, 30s, 40s—whatever decade you find yourself in—start building your body of work. If we know we will look back on our lives, and the body of work we create, what do you want that to look like? What kind of work would matter the most to you?
Put your hand and your heart—your life, to something meaningful.
Your body of work has the potential to outlast you. To carry on long after you leave this planet.
I smile when thinking about how the books I’ve written will be on a shelf somewhere, or in a box somewhere, and future family members will stumble upon. They will discover them, possibly read them, and perhaps enjoy them. This was one pie section of my work, one thing I put my hand to…that mattered.
Some people call it your legacy. Your imprint. What you leave behind. What if your family is your greatest legacy, your greatest body of work? Talk about a challenge to get right!
What will be the most beautiful thing that will represent and trace back to you when you’re gone?