My grandsons love to knock down a tower. I stack the blocks as fast as I can before they “boom” them down. Belly laughs echo through the room. Then I build again. Sometimes I keep two towers going at once so that when one crashes, another rises. It’s a perpetual cycle of construction and destruction.
Not once have they felt sad when a tower topples.
When I was younger, I believed I would build something meaningful with my life. I wanted to make an impact or a significant contribution. Building, creating, accumulating, and achieving became my measure of a life that counted.
Even when I turned 50, I clung to that belief. I read stories of people who made their greatest contributions later in life. I felt encouraged and hopeful. I hadn’t made my mark yet, but there was still time. Still opportunity. So I stacked commitments into my schedule and created new opportunities like building two towers at once.
Then, life shifted my direction.
From one perspective, it looks like those blocks “booming” down. What I built fell, and the slate cleared. But I don’t hear laughter echoing through my soul. I feel the weight of it. I feel the loss.
And still, I want to see it differently. I want the glee of a child.
How does one find joy in the demolition of something we built with time, effort, creativity, and pride? A good friend reminded me: this change doesn’t define the quality of what I built. It simply points me in a new direction. New goals. New opportunities. So, when one tower falls, I turn and begin again.
Maybe life really is a perpetual cycle of construction and destruction. Perhaps it is all vanity to build something that makes a mark.
I think of “Ozymanias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley, a poem I once taught. A mighty king’s statue stands in ruins, surrounded by endless sand. Power fades Achievements crumble. Another tower, fallen to the ground.
So, I ask myself: what truly matters? How will I spend these later years? What will I build now?
For today, I choose to do my best and take pride in the work before me. I choose to be present. I choose to treat people with love and respect. Because in the end, people may not remember what I built–or how many times it fell. But they will remember how I made them feel.
And maybe, just maybe, they’ll remember those shared belly laughs.