Repeating Patterns, Shifting Spaces

Sometimes, it strikes me just how much things repeat. Not in a neat, predictable circle, mind you, but in a way that makes you pause and wonder if we’re truly learning from the past, or just rearranging the furniture. I’ve seen a lot of beginnings in my life. Children’s first steps, graduations, first homes… and, just this week, Eli’s first day of middle school. That’s a milestone. A boy, suddenly, not quite the little one I remember, navigating a bigger world.

Marcus and Janelle walked him to school. I watched from a distance. It felt right, letting them have that moment. It’s easy to want to be in the thick of things, to be the one offering a comforting hand or a word of encouragement, but sometimes the best thing you can do is stand back and let others lead. That school… it’s enormous. Loud. Eli just walked right through the entrance, confident as could be. And it reminded me – as so many things do these days – of something I read years ago, something about how cities have always been built to serve a purpose beyond simply providing shelter.

When Jerry and I drove through Georgia a few Novembers ago, the colors were breathtaking. Every shade of red and gold, the trees like stained glass against the sky. It reminded me of the old cathedrals we saw in Europe, the way the light filtered through the windows, creating an atmosphere of reverence. It’s that sense of atmosphere, that deliberate manipulation of space to evoke a certain feeling, that worries me now when I look at how our cities are being shaped.

Think about it. The design of our towns, our public spaces… it’s not accidental. It’s deliberate. It’s not just about making things “pretty” or “efficient.” It’s about directing people, controlling their movement, even unconsciously influencing their behavior. I’ve always believed that a good teacher creates a space where everyone feels safe, where they can take risks and learn from their mistakes. But what happens when that sense of safety is actively undermined by the environment itself?

I remember Lily's arrival. Kevin and Adrienne looked utterly exhausted – he hadn't slept properly in weeks, I suspect. The freezer was full, a gift from me to ease their burden. Jerry held Lily on his lap for an afternoon, silent and content. He has a way of settling into things, of understanding the unspoken needs of a situation. And that’s what I miss sometimes, that intuitive understanding of how to create a space of quiet comfort and belonging.

There’s a certain coldness now, in so much of what I see. Benches designed to be uncomfortable, discouraging lingering. Public squares that feel less like gathering places and more like carefully controlled zones. It’s a subtle form of exclusion, isn’t it? A way of saying, "You're welcome here, but not *too* welcome. Don't stay too long. Don't make too much noise." It’s a feeling I’ve sensed in certain rooms, certain gatherings, a sense of not quite belonging, of being subtly pushed to the periphery.

It’s not new, this urge to control. I’ve read about the way Roman streets were designed to funnel crowds, to make them easier to manage. And what about the great estates of the past, built to impress and intimidate? These weren’t just expressions of wealth and power; they were statements about social hierarchy. They were declarations of who was in charge and who wasn’t. And now, in our own way, we seem to be doing something similar.

Perhaps it's my age. Perhaps I’ve simply lived long enough to see the patterns repeat. But I can't help but feel a sense of unease. It's not enough to build cities that are efficient and modern. We need to build cities that are welcoming, inclusive, and humane. Places where everyone feels a sense of belonging, where everyone feels safe to linger and connect. It's a challenge, certainly. But it's a challenge worth embracing, especially when I think of a young boy, Eli, stepping into a world that needs all the kindness and grace it can get.