Wrinkled blond elder gal in a feathered headband something-or-other harnessing the bullshitty powers of the third eye stops blissing out long enough to ask me if I like my job.
Sure. Like the people I work with. Like the place well enough.
She smiles broadly and affirms how great that is. I ask her what she does for a living. She pauses–freezes, really–for so long that I look to her barefooted female-looking man-child in the cool robe for an answer. Not to the job but to what happened to his leathery robot pal here. Nothing. So, I offer, “Let me guess: bohemian?”
She breaks her spell and says, “I’ve been getting that a lot recently, but no… no…. What I do is work in the love and the light. And that’s a lot. It’s everything. What I do is everything.” She says this with exaggerated body mechanics that let me know just how full of joy she is. Her boyish friend and she share a knowing giggle. What they know I cannot say for I do not.
With that, and the proper dose of alkaline water, they depart.
It takes a special brand of callousness to tell a wage slave what you do for a living is work for love and light. This is the type of conversation one can only have with an older monied white woman grasping for whatever it is she feels she’s missing in a delusional lifestyle that affirms she’s missing nothing. It’s the New Age trust fund equivalent of the white male CEO who golfs all day while lecturing about pulling oneself up by the bootstraps to the nearest camera.
White people. What are we to do?
That reminds me: If you ever find yourself in the middle of a conversation that takes a turn for the spiritual and you want to know if you’re both on the same page, talking about impersonal truths, and not unwittingly moving your piece on the board of a personal psychological gamer… if they say they work for love and light or are a light worker (thanks, George Noory), you know you’re on the board. Love doesn’t take work. One is or one isn’t love.
As for light work… well… If they can define that without sounding like they’re rolling Dungeons & Dragons dice or off to protect the Hobbit with the ring, then maybe, maybe, they’re the real deal. Until then, assume they’re in it for the alkaline water and hippy slippers.