Each year before the plant, my grandfather had to walk the fields and pick the rocks. A painstaking, back breaking task. I only walked along once. Dirty and exhausted, the streaks down my face could have been tears or sweat, most likely both. I marveled not only at the work, but how he did it, without complaint. “It has to be done,” was his only explanation.  I wiped my face and knew something would grow from all of this, and it would be me. 

Yesterday we visited du Palais Idéal du Facteur Cheval. In 1879, this 43 year old mailman, stumbled on a stone and it changed his life forever. It awakened the dream inside him, and he would devote the next 33 years of his life to building his palace, alone, stone by stone.

The details are breathtaking. Amazing. Poetry carved within. Inspired by the postcards and magazines he carried, he built this world, each day after his route. 10,000 Days, 93,000 Hours, 33 years of trials, he pushed his wheelbarrow full of stones and built a dream we still walk through today. 

I’ve spent several years writing this blog. I used to keep track of the days. I suppose my face has even changed with the tear tracks and ones of laughter. Perhaps these words are my stones. But nothing feels heavy when lifted with joy. The sun rises and my heart and I wheelbarrow in the day. I don’t know what your dream is, but I do know this, to really live, it has to be done.