I should probably be embarrassed that I am a thirty-five-year-old waiter. I am also a writer, however, and one thing I’ve learned about writing over my years exploring the craft is that whenever something is embarrassing, there’s a good chance it is also interesting. Sometimes profoundly so.
My time working as a server began about two and a half years ago. At that point, I’d spent most of my adult life either living in rugged, handmade cabins in the backwoods of western Canada, or existing in a strange kind of modern-day, informal monkhood - engaged in a solitary, introspective, years-long period of extensive inner work.
Because of this context, taking the role of a waiter, serving a constantly rotating assemblage of strangers in a decent quality restaurant, was a novelty for me. It was an opportunity to immerse myself in the stream of humanity I’d spent years removed from, even if the many interactions I would have with that stream of people were limited to brief, seemingly superficial moments of connection.
My words will almost certainly fail to convey the depth of this, but my time as a server has changed me. Somehow, this humble, seemingly meaningless, low-level job feels as though it has fulfilled some incredibly sacred purpose in my development as a man.
Part of this is, as I mentioned above, the mere experience of making contact with such a broad spectrum of humanity. The fact that my purpose in my role as a server is to be kind, generous, receptive, and warm to others - to serve - probably has something to do with the nourishment I have received from it.
When a grumpy customer snaps at me about a trivial concern (a slightly overcooked steak, something ‘different’ about the complimentary bread that has upset them, etc), my job is to not react to their fragility, rudeness, contempt, or frustration, but to be understanding, gracious, and helpful. Because I’m their server at that moment, it’s as though I’m on a different level, which could be seen as lower (subservient), since I’m only there to take care of them. Alternatively, it could be seen as a very beautiful, mature, graceful level of being, because I’m purely of service. I’m letting them feel their feelings and do what they like with them, and instead of snapping back, I’m being mature and helpful. If they act like a child, I’m there to act as an understanding grown-up.
I’ve come to see this as a very beautiful way of being, and I often ask myself the question: When does it ever make sense to stop being in this server mode? When does it make sense to get upset, frustrated, and annoyed at the passing moods and upsets of others, instead of seeing a bigger picture and helping them out?
I’m not sure I have an answer to that question, but I like to explore it.
Another profound thing that has happened over these years, is that a very significant chunk of my livelihood has been derived from the generosity of strangers (tips). I think that being on the receiving end of a great deal of spontaneous generosity and goodwill from a diverse stream of people over time has rewired some fundamental aspects of my relationship with money. I have not become reckless with it, but some of the sense of lack, unease, and scarcity that I held throughout my life has had to soften in the face of such a lengthy experience of grace and generosity. By no means is this occupation a way of making enormous sums of money, but this one aspect of it has been profound on some deep mental or emotional level.
One thing that might have helped make this job all the more meaningful for me is that from the very beginning, I consciously approached every shift I worked as a practice in emotional intelligence. Or, to be more specific, my goal in every shift was to see if/how I could maintain an open heart throughout it. To feel passing waves of frustration, disappointment, shame, and anger swell and storm inside of me, and then somehow steer myself back to a place of grace, strength, clarity, and understanding.
Initially, part of my motivation in this was an assumption (and observation) that wherever I was at emotionally would affect how guests felt about my service, and how they tipped me. If I was able to be in a place of truly sincere presence, caring, and support, people would feel that. They would feel something they weren’t used to feeling, and it made a deep impression on them.
I want to be clear that what I am speaking about was not something manipulative or contrived. The kind of presence I am talking about required that I release any desire for reward or reciprocity - it required that I simply be natural, caring, attentive, present, and let life decide what would come of that. When someone tipped me nothing in such instances, it didn’t matter so much, because I was in a state of richness already. And when they did tip generously, that was really nice, though I was in a state of richness already.
I made a practice of watching my impatience, frustration, etc pop up and sweep me away from any sense of contentment or warmth. And when this inevitably happened (every night, without fail), I would try to remember a bigger picture of what truly matters in life (and fleeting things like how much money I make any given night, or if someone is annoyed at me about a lukewarm piece of salmon, are not high on that list). Often, while rushing between half a dozen tables of guests taking orders and delivering food, I was simultaneously studying and processing my emotions deeply. Over time, it became easier and easier to let the little eruptions of frustration, shame, sadness, etc fade away. It became easier to remember that despite temporary challenges and difficulties, the big picture of life is really good. Feeling into that truth often grounded me back into a sense of trust, strength, and gratitude. Sometimes venting out loud to a coworker helped, too.
I’m thinking about this practice today as I navigate the emotional waves of my daily life (outside my job waiting tables). Feeling the pangs of self-doubt, shame, and fear that surface as I walk down the path of promoting my work as a fledgling, self-published author, I am reminded of the wisdom of my server mode - that is, the wisdom of deciding that this is all a game, the objective of which is to see how much our hearts can stay open. How graceful we can be to others. How well we can remember what truly matters when life shakes us in both shallow and deep ways daily. How well we can let go of the inevitable mistakes we will make if we are doing our work. How well we can learn from those mistakes. How well we can, in the face of rejection or disappointment, remember that the river of life keeps on flowing, and all we need do is flow on to the next experience, remaining curious, humble, and open.
In the microcosm of the restaurant, it’s so easy to remember the rules of this game.. Stretching this wisdom further and wider into all of my life is something I’m grateful to be continually exploring.
I know that it’s a bit of a cliche in some corners of the personal development and self-help world to believe that every conventional or 9-5 job is a prison to escape from. My job as a server is not a normal 9-5 job, so perhaps I have no place to comment on this, but I think that such a simple view of what even a mundane job can be is missing something. I am personally shocked that a job as seemingly menial and meaningless as serving tables in a restaurant could somehow feed a deep part of my soul, and significantly contribute to my development as a man in ways that years of intense therapeutic work has not. It seems that for many of us, at different junctures in our lives, such pleasant surprises arrive in our world.