My Dad gives me perspective when it comes to monotony.

I don’t know how my Dad endured the Second World War, but I suspect he believed in tomorrow.

He saw terrible things and went hungry at times. At eight years old, his daily task after the war was to stand in line for a bag of rice to feed his family of 11. That kind of bleak existence would break most people, but he returned each day. In a country rebuilding, there wasn’t much reason for hope. Now, near the end of his life, he’s grateful for each day — a lesson in endurance.

Every job has its monotony. Left unchecked, it wears you down. Perspective is what keeps it in check. 

Studies have linked optimism to lower rates of heart disease and even longer lifespans. Whether optimism causes those outcomes or simply is aligned with healthier habits isn’t entirely clear, but the pattern is hard to ignore. A positive mindset isn’t something we’re born with. One method is to employ the Best Possible Self practice, which showed an improvement after one session. Take five minutes a day to imagine the best possible future. My father never said this outright, but I doubt he was focused only on the present while standing in that line.

Nothing I do in construction compares to what he endured. Still, how I approach the work matters.

Painting dozens of spindles could have been a chore, but I treated it as a chance to improve. Did I complain at times? Sure. I’m human. 

When purpose isn’t obvious, I break the work into manageable goals, whether by the minute or hour. Training for a marathon taught me that 42.5 kilometres isn’t conquered on race day. It’s built over months. Runs in the rain, the snow, the sleet. And for me, the first step was always the hardest. Showing up, again and again, is what made the difference.

I had a range of jobs since I left my 23-year career in journalism.

Freelancing writer and photographer, township employee tasked with helping tourists book campsites and canoes, dogsled guide and now construction.

In every role, the constant was me. I could focus on what wasn’t working, or I could look for what was.

Sometimes that meant standing at the Frost Centre with no bookings, taking in the breeze coming off St. Nora Lake. Other times it meant showing up for the dogs and the clients, standing in the cold as the snow fell around me. The circumstances changed, but the choice didn’t.

When I lose sight of that, I think of my Dad as a boy standing in line, believing in tomorrow.