I work in a skyscraper. It’s a nice one, too. It’s built on a solid foundation, but has some unfortunate and unrepairable flaws. It’s also under construction and I’m not sure when it will ever be complete.
No, I’m not secretly working in the new Amazon headquarters taking shape next to me. In fact, I’m not even talking about that kind of skyscraper. Instead, I’m talking about the one I live in, the one I call my life. It’s been built block by block over the years. Some of the craftsmanship has been stellar, other pieces have been added roughshod and I continue to hope that the great inspector in the sky doesn’t decide to red tag the whole thing and start over.
I didn’t start out to build a skyscraper. I was pretty happy standing street side. I had lots of company there; others who didn’t want to do the high wire act and were content standing down on the street, waiting patiently for the light to change.
When it did, they would gingerly step off the curb, as if they had somehow achieved the greatest accomplishment in the world. It was all they ever needed, crossing from one curb to the next, stepping down safely, getting across the street before the light changed, and hopping onto the next sidewalk.
I think that is swell, being content with the street level, thinking that a jiggy moment in your life is when you drop a foot down on the street before the light has fully changed. There’s nothing wrong with being on the sidewalk, waiting for the pre-destined lights to change and cross with the traffic, knowing that you will always make it safely to the other side.
Me? I started building a skyscraper, if for no other reason than to get a better view of the world around me. There were times when I wouldn’t even wait for a new floor to go in. Instead, I would walk out on the bare girders in order to get from one place to another. Scary, yes. Risky, yes. Foolhardy, occasionally. But for me, it’s what life is all about.
Yes, I’ve fallen on more than one occasion. I’ve plummeted to the ground, smacking the sidewalk face first, lying there all crumpled, battered and broken. Quite frankly, I don’t think anyone would have blamed me if I decided to lead a pedestrian life after any one of those epic miscues.
But I never stayed on the sidewalk for long. Inevitably, I would feel the need to dust myself off. I’d look back up at that big skyscraper and want to ride the elevator right to the top so I could start building again. I would feel the need, if for no other reason than to enjoy the fact that I wasn’t still down on the sidewalk below, staring at the precipice of a curb, wondering if it was safe to step off of it.
I never set out to be a risk taker, mind you. In fact, much of my life is very mundane, perhaps even predictable. For the last year, I’ve had the same routine every morning, catching the same bus, walking the same routes to work and even having the same thing for breakfast. Kat was absolutely astounded when I told her yesterday that I had gone out to lunch… at a new eatery.
Hardly a big risk. A break in routine, yes. But a risk? No.
Yet, here I am, trying my best to build a life where each floor is built on previous risks, and often, legendary miscalculations – like a 57-story tower made of Jenga blocks.
I’m still not quite sure where all this risky behavior comes from. Kat thinks it’s me finishing up my brother’s incomplete life. There’s some truth to that, I suppose. Probably more than I’m letting on.
Certainly my other brother has lived life far closer to the vest, and perhaps wisely. He lives in the same home he’s had all his life and has worked at the same place for 25 years. In some ways, I envy that stability, for he will enter his golden years with security and safety.
O.K., I’m lying here. It sounds damned boring. Me? I will still be rolling the dice, trying to add a few more floors onto the skyscraper that I call my life. Perhaps it’s just that insatiable curiosity I have, the “What If?” mode I seem to always be in. Occasionally(?), I make Kat crazy because she will get a box or a package in the mail and I have to wait for her to open it when she comes home. Then she doesn’t open it. She doesn’t even pick it up and look at it.
Doesn’t she know that I need to know what’s in the box? It’s killing me! Curiosity spinning out of control, wondering about the unknown.
It’s the same curiosity I’ve had about life, the one that has gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion, largely because I take that road less traveled, or worse, the road no one has even built yet.
I guess things could be worse. I could be content crossing streets, the biggest leap in life I would make would be stepping off that curb and into the street before the light fully changes. Maybe I would get crazy once and a while and cross against the light when I thought the coast was clear. But really? Is that what life is all about?
It’s not for me. I can’t help but look back at my Jenga Tower and marvel that I am still standing, not just standing, but looking down at where I was oh, so many years ago, that goofy young man who was afraid to even step off the curb.
I know now that life isn’t that scary. Lots of rickety Jenga pieces are proof of that. And each time I have managed to add another layer of fun and frolic, joy and heartache, hope and disappointment, anticipation and dissatisfaction – all because I wanted to live life on my terms.
I suppose that’s the best we can hope for out of life. Life is, after all, the ultimate adventure. And whether you’re content working the curbs or are determined to master the high wire in a stout wind, it’s not really all that important where you end up. It’s the fact that you decided to go somewhere in the first place.
In the Emerald City, looking for a couple more Jenga pieces.
– Robb