Because of the need for drought-proof landscaping where I live, the backhouse we rent has an abundance of multi-colored, smooth stones that are artfully distributed around segments of artificial grass making up our yard. I like these stones, and I like attempting to build cairns, stacks of stones at least five high. I stack them on a chunk of lava rock, on larger rocks that line the paths of the smooth stones, anywhere I can find a fairly level surface.

This doesn’t mean the cairns stay cairns for long. With the recent heavy rains and with a younger dog that likes to run and jump, they are often knocked down. Gravity is working against me, and I know it is going to win. Still, I keep making cairns.

I’m reminded of the beautiful sand mandalas that Tibetan monks create. They spend several weeks laying down the sand in intricate and colorful patterns, only to sweep it away when it’s complete. The destruction of the mandala symbolizes the impermanence of life, and I see that in my cairns adorning the yard. But I also know that the joy I get from creating the cairns can’t be taken away, whether the cairns remain upright or scattered on the ground. Sometimes human beings are so caught up in creating a legacy that will last that they forget the joy that comes from creating in the first place. Maybe making something for people to remember us by is less important than the joy that comes from the making itself.