Stepping back from the partially finished fireplace, I noticed something I hadn’t seen while working so closely. The pattern was nearly complete on the cement board, the stones I’d been carefully placing for the living room’s centrepiece settling into a quiet harmony. Sometimes we don’t realize what we’ve created until we step back and see the larger shape—the perspective that’s impossible when we’re focused on the minutiae, each individual stone.

There’s a discipline to the work that can’t be rushed. Each stone has to be chosen for its fit, its shape, and how it connects to the next. Some need refining, chipping, or cutting before the row feels right. 

There were moments I wondered whether I was guiding the work or pushing it. When something seemed close to fitting, it was tempting to make it work rather than step back and reconsider. Still, the work has a way of answering honestly. A stone either settles or it doesn’t. Mortar either holds or it cracks. 

Pause, take it in

Doubt isn’t failure; it’s information. Paying attention to it doesn’t mean stopping the work—it means slowing down long enough to understand what the work is asking for next.

One of the necessary steps is mixing the thinset—the bonding substance. There’s a specific ratio and consistency required for proper adhesion. Too dry, and nothing holds. Too wet, and the structure weakens.  I think of it as alignment between people – when­ it works, the bonds hold without force, but when it’s off, no amount of pressure makes it last. 

Just as I began with a finite number of corners, there are foundational needs that must be met to build upward. Answers come—not always spoken, but revealed through action in the process itself, offering the details needed to move to the next row.

Often, we don’t fully see what we’ve built until someone else does. And the inner voice matters too—sometimes it lifts us, sometimes it judges harshly. Like mortar binding stone, the right balance of attention, care, and patience holds everything together. Too little, and it crumbles. Too much, and it stiffens and cracks. But when the balance is right, what you create—whether stonework or effort in life—stands as something solid, a mosaic shaped by persistence, discipline, and care.

And maybe that’s the real measure of the work—not whether it’s flawless, but whether it’s true. Whether each stone was placed with presence rather than haste. Whether I paused when something didn’t quite fit instead of forcing it forward. There’s humility in accepting limits, in knowing when a row is finished and when it needs to be undone and rebuilt. The structure holds not because it was rushed to completion, but because care guided each decision.

Truth revealed

When I finally stepped back from the fireplace, I could see it for what it was—each row placed with intention, each decision made as carefully as I knew how. I can’t say with certainty that I never forced things, but I do know I worked with patience and care, doing the best I could with the understanding I had at the time. And that is all that can be asked of oneself. I’m responsible for the process, not for forcing stones to fit where they don’t belong. Just as in life, I can’t make someone meet me where I need them to be. What I can do is bring attention, honesty, and grace to each step, and trust that what stands is an honest reflection of how the work was done.