This morning I got up, fed the dogs, made some coffee and sat down by the fire pit to contemplate the universe. Oh, and also, my granddaughter Olivia taught me the meaning of life.
I was sitting there staring at the fire and thinking about how the atoms in my body, all seven billion billion billion of them, are nearly as old as the universe itself. They were forged in the hearts of stars now long dead. The atoms in my body are older than the trees and the mountains, the seas, the earth, older than the sun and all the stars in the sky, older than any and every single thing I have ever laid my eyes upon.
The atoms in my body have been a part of many things before me. Other things, other people. By now we might all have a little of everything and everyone in us. A little Jesus, a little Einstein, someone’s great great grandfather, or a part of great granddad’s old sock.
That’s the thing about being us—we are at the same moment wondrous and insignificant, miraculous and miniscule. It’s a great mystery, how we are all ancient and all temporary.
We are sand castles made of stardust.
It’s a mystery too great to comprehend but, every once in a while, I feel like I get close, if only for a moment.
So my granddaughter, Olivia—who is not quite 3, but whose atoms are just as old as mine—got up early too and spent some time with me by the fire. And when she decided she needed to go refill her little cup of Cheerios she started making her way up the garden stairs. And then, she paused, and turned to look back at me, and said:
“Thanks for hanging out with me, Papa.”
And all I can tell you is—despite not really knowing exactly who I am, or what I am, or who or what I’ve been before, or why I’m here—right at that moment everything about my life made sense: I’m just a sandcastle, and so is she. We weren’t here yesterday, we’re gone tomorrow, but we’re here now, and we both love being here, and despite not knowing much more about anything, we’re both really glad we got to be here together.
We’re just us, Whatever that means, trying to figure out how to be us in the few moments we have to be us.
We are sand castles made of stardust.
That’s why I design. That’s why when I design I tell stories. Because a house is only a home when people are using it to figure themselves out, together. You are a sandcastle and your house is your sand castle. One day you will be gone, and it will be gone too, but you’re here now, and that’s amazing, and I’m glad I’m here with you.
So I guess, in light of the totally incomprehensibly ancient impermanence of life, all that’s left to say by a sandcastle like me is, thanks for hanging out with me. And I hope our time together, in some small way, helps you build yourself a beautiful life.