I have a confession. It’s a bit awkward to make in a country founded on the Protestant Work Ethic, but here it is: I no longer understand the word “work.” This became clear to me during the pandemic, on one of countless Tuesday mornings that blurred into each other, walking my dogs through the neighborhood while half-listening to a colleague explain an arcane concept in the state budget. The call was useful. My thinking was sharp. My dogs were happy. By any honest accounting, I was doing my j...
