Anyone who’s stopped by the front desk in the Chaplain’s Office – or seen some of the little figures dotted about – may already know that I’m a big fan of Lego. I’ve been building the same five by five-foot Lego display in my basement since February 2022 –a castle surrounded by houses and farmland, complete with a snowcapped mountain and a dragon’s lair. Since I laid the first bricks down, years ago, it’s occupied varying amounts of my time, budget, dreams, and camera roll, becoming the project that simply would not die. Even as the larger structures came together, there was always an area that needed reworking, a mountainside crumbling from structural problems, a windmill to redecorate, or new parts arriving in the mail.
Then recently, something unexpected happened: I finished. I am bursting with ideas for what to do next, but letting go feels strange. I’ll get plenty of photos to preserve my work, but by now this tiny slice of the Middle Ages has been part of my life for so long that it feels odd to no longer be making new additions. What does it mean when something that’s defined my days for so long is over? I’m sure these questions will only intensify as I begin taking it apart to reclaim space and pieces.
Last week, I was visiting the beach with family, and my two year old niece was getting really fascinated by sandcastles. She would make them – or, more often, order the nearest minion grown-up to make one - and once the bucket left the sand, she would inspect the results, shriek with joyous abandon and smash them with her fists. I think my goal is to treat my creative endeavors more like she does. Rather than ruminating on what each castle meant, she enjoyed it for what it was: the fun of the process, the satisfaction of a job well done, and then – onto what was fun in the first place. Time to break down and restart. That certainly seems more fun than existential ennui.