On building a life, finding a purpose, and learning to let a dream become bigger than yourself
There were nearly seventy people at Oddfellow Manor this past Saturday.
Some came with gardening gloves and tools, ready to spend an afternoon pulling weeds and gathering fallen branches. Others came out of curiosity, hoping to wander the halls of a building that has stood for more than a century. Children played on the swings, families explored the grounds, and conversations drifted through the cool autumn air.
We heard stories of a grandmother who once lived in room 227, a nurse who had worked within these walls, and a grandfather who belonged to the Odd Fellows and helped support the institution. There were questions about the history of the building, its future, and, naturally, whether any ghosts might still be wandering its hallways.
By the end of the afternoon, the flower beds were clean, the grounds looked better than they had in quite some time, and people were already asking when they could come back to help again.
It was a wonderful day.
But as I looked around at everyone who had gathered, I felt something beyond happiness or gratitude.
I felt responsibility.
These people had come because they saw something worth believing in. They were willing to give their time, their energy, and their encouragement to help turn an idea into something real.
And for now, I am the person responsible for guiding that idea forward.
For now.
Those two words have stayed with me.
The First Mountain
Some time ago, I became interested in the concept of the second mountain, a metaphor explored by author David Brooks.
The general idea is that we spend much of our early lives climbing a mountain of personal achievement. We pursue education, careers, relationships, financial stability, and the various accomplishments that help us build the lives we want.
For some, there eventually comes a desire to climb another mountain, one defined less by individual accomplishment and more by commitment to something beyond ourselves.
I appreciate the metaphor, although I see it a little differently.
I don't believe the first mountain is inherently selfish, misguided, or somehow less noble than the second.
There is tremendous value in building a family, pursuing a profession, developing skills, and working toward personal goals. Those things matter. They provide stability, identity, purpose, and opportunities to contribute to the world.
And not everyone needs to climb a second mountain.
Some people find a lifetime of meaning in the work and relationships they've already cultivated. There is nothing incomplete about that.
My first mountain was medicine and family.
I spent years pursuing an education, developing my career, learning to care for patients, and gradually accepting greater responsibilities in the organizations where I worked.
Along the way, I built a family and a life that I am extraordinarily grateful to have.
None of that was wasted effort. None of it was merely preparation for something supposedly greater.
It was, and remains, a meaningful life.
But somewhere along the journey, I began to recognize that I had the capacity, and perhaps the desire, to build something beyond the boundaries of my own accomplishments.
Not because I was dissatisfied with the life I had created.
But because I began wondering what else that life might make possible.
Finding Another Mountain
Oddfellow Manor was not a particularly sensible undertaking.
There are certainly easier ways to spend one's free time than acquiring a 118-year-old brick building with hundreds of windows, aging infrastructure, enormous maintenance needs, and a restoration budget that seems to grow every time I walk through another room.
There have been moments when I've stood in front of the building and wondered what exactly I've gotten myself into.
And yet, I keep coming back.
I see the chapel and imagine music filling the room again.
I see the library and imagine people reading together, sharing stories, or enjoying a quiet afternoon.
I look across the fields and envision gardens, orchards, greenhouses, and a working farm where people can learn how to grow food and care for the land.
I imagine woodworking, sewing, art, music, and traditional skills being taught by people who have spent lifetimes developing them.
I imagine children learning from their elders and older generations finding renewed purpose in sharing what they know.
I imagine a place where people can gather without needing to purchase something, accomplish something, or prove something.
A place where simply belonging is enough.
And perhaps most importantly, I imagine people walking through the doors and seeing possibilities that have never occurred to me.
Because the more time I spend thinking about Oddfellow Manor, the more I realize that my vision for the property is only a beginning.
The Weight of a Dream
There is something intoxicating about dreaming.
In our imaginations, the gardens are already planted. The windows are restored. The chapel is filled with music, the classrooms are bustling, and the old building has become a thriving center of community life.
But dreams are remarkably inexpensive.
Turning them into reality is another matter entirely.
There are financial commitments, legal responsibilities, maintenance challenges, preservation requirements, and countless decisions that have no easy answers.
There are days when progress feels painfully slow.
There are moments when the sheer scale of the undertaking seems almost absurd.
And there is the ongoing challenge of balancing this new ambition with the life I've already built.
I am still a husband, a father, and a physician. My responsibilities to my family, my patients, and my community have not diminished simply because I've discovered another passion.
Nor should they.
I don't want the pursuit of a second mountain to come at the expense of the first.
Perhaps that's one of the great misconceptions about the metaphor. We imagine that climbing a second mountain requires us to leave the first behind.
But life rarely works so neatly.
Sometimes we find ourselves climbing both.
Sometimes the demands of one limit our progress on the other.
And sometimes we have to remind ourselves that the purpose of either journey isn't simply to reach the summit as quickly as possible.
It's to live a meaningful life along the way.
When a Dream Becomes Shared
Saturday changed something for me.
Until recently, much of the Manor existed as a collection of plans, conversations, drawings, spreadsheets, and possibilities.
We had made meaningful progress, certainly, but so much of that work happened behind the scenes.
Then seventy people showed up.
They pulled weeds from flower beds that had been neglected for years. They carried branches, explored the building, shared memories, and offered to return.
Children laughed beneath the trees.
Young people wandered through hallways that had witnessed generations of lives before theirs.
People whose families had once been connected to the Manor returned to see what might become of it.
For a few hours, the building was more than a restoration project.
It was a gathering place again.
And I realized that something important was happening.
The dream was beginning to belong to other people.
That realization brought tremendous joy, but it also carried a new weight.
When people begin investing themselves in something you've imagined, the responsibility changes.
It is no longer enough to simply have a compelling vision.
You have to become worthy of the trust others are placing in it.
You have to build the relationships, organizational structures, financial foundations, and leadership necessary to sustain the work.
You have to make room for other people's ideas.
And eventually, you have to be willing to let the dream grow beyond your own control.
Building Something That Can Outlive Us
I have no illusions that I will personally accomplish everything I envision for Oddfellow Manor.
In fact, I hope I don't have to.
For this project to truly survive and thrive, it will require many people with different talents, interests, and passions.
Someone may eventually take responsibility for the farm, developing regenerative agricultural practices and teaching others to care for the land.
Another person may lead the workshops, bringing together craftspeople and students eager to learn traditional skills.
Someone else may organize educational programs, music, art, historical preservation, or community gatherings.
There will need to be people who understand finances, facilities, fundraising, and the countless practical details that allow an organization to function.
And someday, I hope to identify and prepare someone capable of taking over the larger leadership role.
That transition should be intentional.
But long before it happens, I hope other leaders will have already emerged throughout the organization.
I don't want to be the person who must approve every idea, organize every gathering, or provide the inspiration for every new project.
I want people to feel empowered to imagine possibilities of their own.
I want someone to walk into the chapel and see a future I never considered.
I want someone to look at the gardens and propose something better than what I originally planned.
I want people to disagree with me, challenge my assumptions, and improve upon my ideas.
Because if the Manor's future depends entirely on my imagination, my energy, or my continued presence, then I haven't built something sustainable.
I've simply created another responsibility that ends when I do.
And that isn't what I want.
Oddfellow Manor is not just a building.
It will be a home, a farm, a workshop, a classroom, a sanctuary, and a place to dream.
No single person can be responsible for all those things.
Nor should they be.
The Mountain We Choose
I sometimes wonder whether the idea of a second mountain places too much emphasis on the magnitude of what we undertake.
We hear words like legacy, purpose, and service, and it's easy to imagine that meaningful contributions must be grand or extraordinary.
But I don't believe that's true.
Someone's second mountain might be mentoring a young person, caring for an aging parent, volunteering at a local food pantry, or teaching a skill that might otherwise disappear.
It might be starting a community garden, helping restore a neighborhood park, or simply becoming the person others can depend upon when life becomes difficult.
There is no minimum size for a meaningful commitment.
And there is no requirement that everyone pursue one.
For some of us, however, there comes a moment when we recognize an opportunity to contribute in a way that feels uniquely ours.
We see something that could be better.
We recognize that we have the ability to help.
And despite the uncertainty, inconvenience, and considerable likelihood of making mistakes along the way, we decide to try.
Not because we know we'll succeed.
But because the possibility seems worth the effort.
For Now
As the afternoon at Oddfellow Manor came to an end, I looked around at the freshly tended grounds and thought about the people who had spent their Saturday helping us.
The work we accomplished was wonderful.
But the more meaningful accomplishment was harder to measure.
People had come together.
Stories had been shared.
New relationships had begun.
And a building that once served as a home and refuge for generations had welcomed its community through its doors again.
I felt grateful.
I felt hopeful.
And I felt the responsibility of guiding this project toward a future that is still largely unwritten.
For now, that responsibility rests with me and the small group of people who have committed themselves to this work.
But I hope that changes.
I hope the day eventually comes when I arrive at the Manor to discover a gardening class I didn't organize, music drifting from the chapel, children learning in a workshop, or neighbors gathered around a table discussing their next project.
I hope there are leaders here whose ideas surpass my own.
I hope the Manor becomes so thoroughly woven into the life of its community that its future no longer depends upon the person who first imagined restoring it.
And I hope that generations from now, people will still be walking these grounds, sharing stories, making memories, and dreaming about what might come next.
Perhaps they won't know much about me.
That's perfectly fine.
Because the purpose was never to be remembered.
It was to help create something worth remembering.
My first mountain taught me what I could accomplish.
My second is teaching me what I can help others accomplish.
And perhaps the most beautiful thing about this second mountain is that I don't have to climb it alone.
