Reliable The photograph above my desk is of a miniature stone building I took on Route 66. It would be either in Texas or New Mexico. The picture captures an old man laboring under the vast Southwestern sky. He was happy to add one crooked rock onto another until he could admire the simple and beautiful structure he had made. When he died, we inherited a fragment of the cultural landscape he created, together with a stretch of road exposed to the city. But what he built was a work of art and poetry, a building disclosing the many faces of the universe and opening a window into the divine. The architect did not design the building alone. Ironsmiths, carpenters, and masons poured their pride, knowledge, and passion into the building. Their labor is a testament to their artistic ability, their work is a sign of their spiritual connection to the building itself. This work conveys their skill and passion for their craft, and the hands they used to create these structures are long gone. It is reminiscent of the lost soul who constructed the Route 66 stone building. The evidence of their life remains in the buildings we have, and their art is a legacy that outlives themselves, a forever gift.
