The "Productivity Compulsion": Do You Have It?

A few years ago, my mother–then in her eighties–pulled me aside to ask: “You don’t think you’re a workaholic, do you?”

Like any self-respecting child, I politely evaded her question. “No, I don’t think so, Mom. I only do things I want to do.”

However, and like any probing inquiry, it gave me pause. If someone who knows you well thinks you may have a problem, are you well on your way to having that problem? More pointedly, my inquisitor was herself an incessantly active person. Retired from work and homemaking, she stayed busy–writing a newspaper column, weaving, gardening, photography, learning computer skills, and leading a community organization.

When she died, just before her ninety-fifth birthday, she was stewing about a book she’d started writing on her hometown.

Imagine if someone like that thinks you have a problem.

Of course, this essay isn’t about my mother–or myself. And it isn’t primarily about the paid employment we call “work.” It’s about the pressure many of us feel to stay busy and, in the process, to maintain some forward trajectory in life. That trajectory may involve the activities mentioned above. Alternately, we may spend countless hours building a business, honing a craft, developing skills in a foreign language or music, or perfecting our bodies through exercise and other regimens.

Ideally, these are things we “want to do.” But surely there are additional reasons. Some portion of that motivation, I believe, is a quest for self-improvement. Many of us harbor the belief that we can become better even as we age, that we, as a colleague put it, are “gaining on it.”

Another factor is the desire to be useful, to make and do things that benefit others or just ourselves. Acknowledge identity concerns: that others should regard us as someone who accomplishes things. And profoundly, if pretentiously, we may wish to leave some record of our life, some offering to future generations.

In a now-classic book, Robert Bellah and his colleagues pondered how Americans think about their lives. Although most of their Habits of the Heart concentrates on the rationales provided by their interviewees, the authors also were interested in the strands of the American tradition that supported those beliefs. In that light, they identified two versions of American individualism: the “instrumental” and the “expressive.”

A prototype of instrumental individualism is the philosophy of Benjamin Franklin. One should rise and go to bed early to become healthy, wealthy, and wise. In between, they should work diligently, learning new skills and applying these to an ever-changing series of challenges.

Open-mindedness is important; so is ingenuity. Creativity expresses itself in making and distributing products. Such a person sometimes accumulates property and thus wealth. That influence extends through progeny: production and reproduction; creation and procreation combine.

The second strand of individualism finds expression in the writings and lifestyle of poet Walt Whitman. Living in a time of burgeoning industrialism, Whitman championed a sensitivity to the rhythms of nature instead. That natural environment alternates its fierce struggles with periods of quiet and repose. It acknowledges the present in all its fullness.

Following that model, people should savor life's moments, embracing sorrow and happiness. The creative person goes places and does things; the only “products” to be had are experiences, relationships, and memories.

Most of us are familiar enough with both visions. As I’ve argued in previous posts, work and ritual help us with the first commitment (which is to maintain clear directions for life); play and communion help with the second (to explore, celebrate, and refine relationships).

Be clear that the distinction between Bellah and his colleagues is hardly new. What (older) person doesn’t remember Aesop’s fable of the ant and the grasshopper? In that story, a grasshopper spends all summer singing and dancing while an ant works hard to prepare for winter. When winter does arrive, the grasshopper comes begging for food. The ant, uncharitably, refuses.

In the version of the story I learned, the grasshopper is scorned for his revelry. The future can be arduous, especially without adequate preparation. Singing and dancing–as well as all the other forms of self-pleasuring most of us engage in–come at a risk.

I’ll leave it to others–perhaps who fear becoming grasshoppers–pondering the implications of life committed to enjoyment. My focus is the ants of the world. Is there danger in being so disciplined and future-oriented?

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Let me acknowledge immediately that many of our society’s blessings come from those ants. Think of the contributions of generations of scientists, inventors, entrepreneurs, artists, writers, and composers. Many of those spent the bulk of their lives in disciplined inquiry. We benefit from their drive to complete projects and share results. In less celebrated ways, the rest of us do our part, accomplishing tasks and otherwise going about the business of living. We, too, merit praise.

Important, yes. But is it possible to overdo such commitments, to have them overwhelm our other sensitivities and involvements? A set of questions follows–a checklist of sorts–to gauge whether one’s productive ethic is excessive.

Do you feel the need to stay busy constantly? There’s an old saying that the art of living entails the ability to spend a beautiful afternoon in an entirely useless way. Most would acknowledge that. But others of us have difficulty. At least let us be knitting a scarf, catching up with social media friends, and getting some of our ten thousand steps in. “Lying around” for any appreciable time feels like stasis, even death.

Do you desire tangible products for your activity? Most occupations have measurable outcomes. The other parts of life have less clear endings. Nevertheless, the workaholic tries to supply those activities with concrete goals. A day at home means completing a series of tasks, such as mowing the lawn, doing dishes, fixing a squeaking door, vacuuming, making one or more meals, and so forth.

For those with a productive bent, each task should be completed (rather than started and left undone); ideally, the results should be visible (floors and lawns should look better than before). Note that some of our electronic contraptions–think of step counters and other health monitors–encourage and document this goal-orientation

Do you want cumulative results? There is something unsatisfying about most of the activities I’ve just described. The lawn regrows; the floor gets dirty again. Much better–or so the productive ethic maintains–are results that last. Better still are those that can be added to one another, accrete. What if money was not just earned and spent but saved–in various financial accounts or other forms of property? What if those accounts “grew”?

Presumably, that would be evidence of progress, of life moving upward. By the same logic, “more” (perhaps cars in a garage, curios in a collection, or square footage in a house) is superior to “less.” And the erosion of one’s pile is terrible indeed.

Is the future more important than the present? Perhaps you’ve come into a bit of money that you consider surplus. Would you spend it on an expensive event or vacation or “save” it in the above-described ways? The world’s “ants” would store it, partly because they fear it is needed later and partly because they cannot countenance doing otherwise.

In that light, the productive person ponders their children's and grandchildren's well-being: they worry about their own health; they speculate on years in the assisted-living center. In any case, the mind dwells on life’s uncertainties, putatively managed by “planning.”

Is productivity central to your identity and relationships? Society valorizes certain adult identities like breadwinner, homemaker, and caregiver. Most of us take pride in holding these roles. We believe others depend on us in those terms. All that is good.

Less admirable is a commitment that ignores other responsibilities–perhaps someone who spends too much time at work (and with workmates) or focuses on their children rather than their partner. Dangerous also is the idea that others should dance to your tune, that they should spend their lives as you have chosen to do.

Our society rightfully supports the commitment to work, save, and plan. But that productive ethic must not block the equally important commitments to commune, play, and revere matters that stand beyond us. Nor does a solid work ethic absolve us of responsibility to confront what we are working for. Some matters are truly important; some are, at best, artificial necessities.

And there is always the question: are we making worthy choices for our endeavors, or are we simply moving forward with the inertia of habit, propriety, and other forms of “least resistance”? Such decisions affect not only ourselves but also the people we care about.