It's like a gingerbread house. Something you built up bit by bit, from pieces that were never meant for building, into what you think a house, a life, should look like. Except not really, because at every step you made mistakes. You tried to fix them, at first, but you pressed too hard, and just knocked over another piece. So eventually, you gave up, and let your slip-ups be.

You stepped back to look at what you made, and knew it was beautiful. Knew all the little cracks were mementos of your path in making the house. Knew that this was what a house—a life—should be, not pristine and sterile, but full of the history that makes it different from the one next to it.

So here is the chance sitting in front of you—to experience the wonder of what you created. But…you can’t. The chimney looks delicious, but the house just wouldn’t be the same without it. You could eat the gumdrops, but then what would make the path?

So you let it sit—it’s beautiful, isn’t it? So no harm will come of keeping it that way, right? And slowly, it becomes stale. You look at it, but you aren’t amazed anymore, because it’s familiar. You pick off one of the gumdrops, but it’s hard and dry. The chimney disappears—the house doesn’t look so beautiful anymore. You almost try to fix it, but you remember the damage caused by that before, and let it be.

The only thing to do, the only way to regain the beauty, is to tear down your house and start a new one. But how much courage does that take? To throw it all away—there is still some beauty in it, the memory of all your work. And what if you fail at the new one, what if you make the same mistakes? But it will be fresh, and new, and you will have learned from the last one.

If only we could make that leap.