The last few Sundays, I have been volunteering with a local farmer here in Phoenix, Arizona. Her name is Emily, and she is a fruit, vegetable, herb, and edible flower grower. She grows a plethora of wonderful plants, but the thing she is most known for is a special variety of edible Hibiscus, known by the scientific name Hibiscus sabdariffa. It is a flower variety that is consumed all over the world and bears many names, including Roselle, Karkadeh, and Flor de Jamaica. It is a voluptuous plant that sings with irresistible flavor and color. Fully grown, it stands well over head with broad leaves and gangly green stems shooting in every direction, each covered with deep blood red flower pods, called calyxes, inside of which the plant’s seeds are stored. The flowers themselves, for the precious day or two when they are in bloom, are a pastel pink color that is as soft and inviting as a cloud at the edge of sunset.

For all of its external beauty, what makes this plant truly special is that nearly every part of it is edible and is used in dozens of cuisines around the world. Indian cultures, for instance, use the leaves in salads and chutney, whereas Caribbean cultures use the calyxes in salsas and teas. Even the innocent pink flower petals make for a delightful sweet treat that you can pluck right off the stems when walking through the field. For farmer Emily, it’s the vibrant calyxes that are the prize of the harvest. When you bite into one, a sharp tanginess shoots through your tongue, enough to make your mouth water. Each calyx bursts open with flavor, dripping with a juicy syrup that leaps out at your taste buds.

On the very first day that I volunteered with Emily, I arrived at her field full of excitement and anticipation. Weeks prior, I had gotten interested in my local food system. It was quickly becoming an obsession. I was convinced that small-scale organic farming was the solution to much of what plagues modern American society, and I wanted to put this belief into action. For me, volunteering on a farm was the first of many tiny steps towards doing my part. I was feeling the need to change nearly every aspect of my life to fit what I saw as a better way to live. I wanted to start composting and growing vegetables in my backyard. I wanted to stop buying groceries from big box stores and instead start buying from farmer’s markets or directly from local farms. I wanted to get involved in any and every way I could.

I arrived at the farm around 7:45 in the morning, pulling my old grey Ford Escape into a dirt lot facing an open field. Even this early in the morning, the temperature was already starting to approach sweltering. It had been the hottest October on record for the Phoenix area, and it appeared there would be no relief from the heat that day. The field was completely empty, except for rows of little wooden blocks marking where the raised beds would eventually be. There were two large piles next to the field; one full of pungent black compost and the other full of wood chips. I gathered from the empty field and the neighboring piles that preparing the beds for planting would likely be our task for the day.

As I pulled up, I spotted a table with a dozen or so people standing around it, each holding a cup of coffee and a doughnut. This seemed like the place I was meant to go upon arrival. The volunteer day itself was organized by a local environmental organization, so as I walked over, I expected to find a group of other volunteers who were also just as passionate about the ecological and food system issues that I was awakening to. This was my first time volunteering with the organization, so I wondered how I would fit in with everyone and if I was prepared for the day of work ahead. Having read the emailed instructions sent out by the organization the night before, I was wearing a long sleeve shirt, work jeans, a sweat-ridden hat, and a well-worn pair of hiking shoes. I carried a jug of water in my right hand and pair of gardening gloves in the other. However, as I looked at the people standing around the table, it seemed like I was the only one would had read the instructions about what to wear. Most everyone was in regular walking around clothes; it didn’t seem like anyone was ready to work in the dirt.

As I walked up to the table, an unassuming man in shorts and a T-shirt, turned and looked at me.

Smiling, he reached out a hand and said, “Hey, good morning! So which office do you work at?”

Not knowing what he meant, I was immediately caught off guard. I didn’t know how to answer that. I figured I must’ve misunderstood the question. Or, more disconcertingly, if I hadn’t misunderstood him, I was even more taken back by how he knew that I indeed did work in an office. But there was no way he could have known that.

Was it my appearance? Did I look so out of place amidst the backdrop of a farm that one could only surmise that I must inevitably be a befuddled office worker?

Seeing that I didn’t understand the question, he quickly clarified, “You’re with Honeywell, right? The volunteer thing.”

All of a sudden, I realized that the dozen or so people standing around the table were not some random collection of good-hearted community members interested in contributing to the local food system. Instead, they were all here from Honeywell, a large multi-industry tech conglomerate that dominated the Phoenix valley. These people were all here for a corporate volunteer event. They were not here because they were interested in farming; they were here to earn some corporate brownie points at the office.

Suddenly, the lack of farm appropriate attire made sense. They were just as out of place on a farm as I was. Looking around at the table, it quickly became apparent that they were indeed the most stereotypical office dwellers that you could imagine. Most were pudgy and very clearly not in manual labor shape. One man with a neatly gelled combover was wearing expensive-looking Ray-Ban sunglasses and a clean Honeywell printed T-shirt. A few of the women standing next to him had on tight-fitting Lululemon leggings and were laughing together while applying a noxious amount of spray-on sunscreen to their uncovered arms. One younger-looking guy standing at the other end of the table had on an immaculately clean white T-shirt, brand-name gym shorts, and eggshell colored Vans walking shoes. Why he wore a white T-shirt and white shoes to an event where the only task ahead of us involved shoveling dirt and manure, I could not imagine.

The range of office personalities surrounding the table was comical. Just from appearances, it was clear where everyone stood on the corporate worker spectrum. It was a range that swung from disheveled, pony-tailed software engineer to clean-cut marketing manager. Suffice it to say, however, no one looked ready to work.

Seeing this microcosm of corporate America before me, another motivation for the day cropped up inside of me. Not only would I get to volunteer on the farm like I had hoped, but I would also get to watch a delightful absurdity unfold: corporate office dwellers attempting to do manual work.

For me, this absurdity would not only be entertaining to watch but also hit a little close to home, mirroring the absurdity of my own life thus far. A few years ago, I made the career switch from manual laborer who worked on a boat to software engineer who worked in an office. I had been struggling deeply with this change. I liked making the money I was now making, but I hated my day-to-day. Working at a cubicle inside of a dimly lit, cold office building, surrounded by co-workers who I barely knew and liked even less, felt like a rough departure from working in the ocean like I used to. It felt like an absurd trade; one that I didn’t want to make, but one that I felt I had to. It seemed like the kind of tradeoff that all adults are forced to make at some point in their life. Do you trade happiness for the ability to provide for your family?

If I was really being honest, this was the real question I was wrestling with that day. Sure, I was interested in farming because I wanted to fix the world and the climate. But, even deeper than that, I was sick and tired of putting up with the absurdity of doing something I hated for a living. That path, for me, had thus far only produced a deep hole of depression and nihilism towards the tyranny of modern life. Every day that I arrived at my cubicle, I could feel myself becoming more and more resigned to my fate. Farming to me represented the only way out. It was a lifeline of purpose amidst the blackhole of life lived in comfortable corporate suburbia. I needed to find my way out.

We stood around the table chatting for a few more minutes as several other volunteers trickled in, nearly all of them wearing Honeywell-related shirts. While the event itself was open to the public, I eventually found out that I was the only volunteer there not from Honeywell. Soon after, Emily stepped in front of the table and gathered us into a semicircle to begin giving instructions for the work that was to be done. She was a small, middle-aged woman with silver hair and a large beaming smile painted across her face. Her appearance stood in sharp contrast to the volunteers gathered around her. She wore a flat-brimmed floppy hat, an airy long-sleeve shirt already faded and covered in dirt stains, and pocketed cargo pants stuffed with a hand trowel, work gloves, and an assortment of measuring tools. She was someone who looked at home in the field.

Excitedly, she began, “First of all, I want to say thank you, thank you, thank you for helping out here today. It means so much to me that you would spend your Sunday with me. I can’t tell you enough how much of a help it is.”

She then began to describe how the raised beds would be laid out, where the compost and wood chips were meant to go, and other procedures for the day. Then, with a gleam in her eye, she began to tell us about her favorite subject: the Hibiscus that would eventually go in the ground. She described the soil the plant liked, its root system, the amount of water and sun it enjoyed, and the kind of temperatures it tolerated. As she spoke, she illustrated with her hands and bounced from side to side. It was evident how much she loved the cultivation of these beautiful plants. After several minutes of this instruction, probably realizing she was boring the others, she stopped herself and turned us loose to the field.

Slowly, the twenty or so of us spread out into the field and began wheelbarrowing the compost and wood chips out to form the rows of raised beds. As we carried out the work, the hilarity I had been anticipating began playing out exactly as I imagined. Only a few minutes in, I saw a few of the volunteers retreat back to the table out front to get some water. A few others began standing in place as they leaned on a shovel and pretended to dig into the compost pile. Those with wheelbarrows mindlessly dumped compost in the wrong spots, not paying attention to whether or not the rows they were creating were at all straight or even in the right place. Others were already stopping to take pictures with their phones.

As we worked, I could overhear conversation veering toward the typical corporate small talk.

So, how’s your team doing? I know you folks have had a lot of turnover lately.

How do you guys like the return to office policy?

How do you like the new CEO?

Everyone seemed to be settling into the slowness of work that corporate office workers are accustomed to. They moved just fast enough to not be noticed, but not fast enough to get tired. It was the ethos of the office played out in real time. Everyone doing just enough work to not get fired.

Here again, Emily stood in sharp contrast. Amidst the lethargy of the slow moving volunteers, I could see her bouncing from station to station with seemingly boundless amounts of energy. She would shovel compost for a few minutes and then direct the wheelbarrow traffic on the other side of the field and then move through the rows, straightening out the mistakes of the volunteers. She was everywhere at once, all with the same smile on her face. She laughed and joked as she shoveled, willingly answering any question I peppered her with.

It was a joy to watch her work. As the rows of raised beds began to take shape in the field, it was as if her energy was being transferred into the soil itself. The field seemed to transform from an empty, lifeless patch of dirt to an inviting home for the flowers that would come with Spring. I could feel myself catching some of the energy as well. It was clear that her work was a labor of love. Even more importantly, though, her work was also a labor of necessity. As I began to see, Emily moved at the speed she did because she had no other choice. She was a solo small-scale farmer. If the compost didn’t get put out on time, the crops wouldn’t be planted on time, and if the crops didn’t produce on time, her business wouldn’t survive. The work needed to be done, and there was no one else to do it. She moved with purpose, born out of both love and necessity.

As I watched her work, it dawned on me that this combination — or maybe the lack thereof — is perhaps what makes corporate office work so absurd. The work we do in the office is neither enjoyable nor necessary. As a faceless software engineer in a multi-national corporation, I both don’t like what I do, and there is a nagging realization in the back of my brain that if I stopped doing it today, it wouldn’t make a difference. Some other engineer will take my place tomorrow, and the corporation I work for will be just fine without me. Maybe this is the reason we float through the office like we do. If purpose and necessity are off the table, at least we can grasp for some banal level of comfort that we can placate ourselves with. If it can’t be meaningful, it can at least be easy.

It seemed that this was the reason the volunteers from Honeywell moved as they did, and why Emily seemed to be so wholly different amongst them. We in the “white-collar” world have long grown accustomed to the ridiculousness of life lived in a malaise of meaninglessness. It is why, when confronted with work that is actually necessary, we seem so out of place.

We ended our work around noon, just as the temperature cracked 100° F. When we finished, I was covered in a pool of sweat, dirt, grime, and manure. I could feel blisters forming on the inner edges of my thumbs and on my palms. My back was hurting and my feet were throbbing. But, as I walked back to my car and said goodbye to Emily and the others, I was smiling ear to ear. It felt like the first time in a long time that I had done something that mattered. Something that felt good. It felt addictive in a way, as if it was the kind of thing I could do over and over again and not get tired of. It felt like the type of work I was meant for. I left determined to find a way to do more of it, although I didn’t quite know what that meant for my career.

I also left with a big bag of juicy red Hibiscus calyxes, given to us as a thanks for the hard work. Looking at this bag sitting on the passenger seat of my car, my mouth began to water. I thought about the meal I would make later that night. Maybe I would make some fish tacos with Hibiscus salsa and maybe I could have a Hibiscus syrup infused Margarita along with it. Or maybe, I would go with a Hibiscus fried rice or even make some Hibiscus bread.

The possibilities were endless.