Even Walls

I used to get mad at Brandon for singing the chorus of a particular Tom Petty song while we were working. I thought it was bad luck to sing about walls falling down while we were building them.

When we build with stone, we aim for the work to outlive not only our clients, but their children and grandchildren as well. Well-built stonework dates back to the furthest reaches of antiquity. That seeming permanence is part of what draws us to stone. Yes, “even walls fall down,” but for all intents and purposes, the good ones last forever.

It appears the walls I built last spring will have the lifespan of a house fly.

I knew before I started building that the clients were reserving the right to change the design after they saw the built work in person. I tried to keep this in the back of my mind while I was working. But something happened after all that time transporting stone across Penobscot Bay, living on a small island for weeks at a time, fully engrossed in the work and nothing else. I couldn’t keep my relationship to the work casual. I caught feelings.

In a world defined by impermanence, does it really matter if a wall lasts a few months or a few thousand years? In cosmic time, that’s not even the blink of an eye. Because these walls, in their present form, won’t see one winter, does that devalue the work that I put into them? In my better moments I’d say no. That work still matters. That effort still matters. That time spent working inside a craft that I love still matters.

I’ll tear parts of these walls down and rebuild them as best I can. That’s the work. Putting your heart into something, even if your heart gets broken.