I was once six years old playing with Legos.
The miniature building blocks scattered disorderly across the floor as I searched for the best pieces to add to my building.
But I could never decide. I needed all of them. Every bright red rectangular block, every dusky gray cube, and every skinny cylindrical shaped bar that I never actually needed, yet still found a purpose for.
No matter the color of the block and no matter how big or small, my younger self saw a purpose in every piece surrounding her.
The larger ones were crucial to the foundation of the building. Without them, the structure would be too weak, thus crumbling as it began to be built up. The smaller ones on the other hand—the ones so small my eyes typically missed them as I walked by, leaving me with a Lego imprint and a pain beneath my foot—were needed for the upper half of the building. Without their lightness, the structure would become dismantled on the ground as the weight becomes too much for the building to hold.
Each piece has a purpose, and I am now 16 and still playing with Legos.
But something’s different now. I can feel the blocks in my hand, only the plastic Lego pieces have formed into moments of my life. The desire is no longer to construct a building, but a story of myself. The purpose that was once seen in each and every piece has become more complex than simply supporting a building.
Six-year-old me saw something in every Lego pulled from the box.
No Lego is perfect. They can’t be.
Some aren’t necessarily the right shape to build structured walls, some aren’t able to move once placed—I never did figure out how to build an opening door—and some simply do not fit the color scheme of the building. Yet, all pieces are necessary for the stability of the building; the pieces are what make the building the building.
I used to play pick and choose with the moments in my life. The ones I found utter joy and bliss in were the ones I strived to relive and build my life upon; furthermore, the ones I’ve felt pain and sorrow in, I’ve tried to detach myself from, for they are not accepted in the walls of my building.
But what I’ve failed to realize is that the moments I’ve experienced are the supporting structure of my existence as a whole. Without them, I wouldn’t be myself.
Without the sorrow-filled moments of my life, there would be no foundation and nothing to build up from. Without the joyful, blissful moments, there would be no lightness at the top of the building to keep it from coming down.
Every bright red rectangular block plays a role in the structure of the building just as every moment experienced plays a sole purpose in the story I’m writing.
All because six-year-old me believed in a purpose within each block, 16-year-old me can now believe in a purpose within each moment.
