The Origin of This Inukshuk

I didn’t build the Inukshuk to represent anything. It started as a pile of stones.

 

There was no intention behind it—no meaning planned, no symbolism attached. I was clearing underbrush on part of my property and came across a small cluster of rocks, nothing remarkable. One stone stood out because of its shape, so I set it aside. At the time, that was all it was.

 

Months later, while building a dry-stack wall, I remembered that rock and went back through the woods for it. It wasn’t light, but I carried it across the property—not because I had a plan for it, but because it felt like it shouldn’t be left behind. I placed it with the rest of the stones and went back to working on the wall.

 

But I kept noticing it.

 

There was something about the long curve and balance of that single piece that felt different from the others. Then, as I worked, another stone caught my eye—one I had rejected for the wall. When they ended up near each other, the form became clearer. Not abstract. Not imagined. Just… there.

 

I stopped building the wall and started arranging the rejected stones. Not every piece worked. Some were the wrong size. Some didn’t balance. But slowly—through trial, patience, and the kind of thinking that sits somewhere between instinct and engineering—the structure took shape. Stones that didn’t fit the first purpose became perfect for the one I hadn’t yet discovered.

 

When it finally stood balanced, it felt complete.

 

I didn’t move it immediately. I left it for a few days and walked past it. I wanted to understand where it belonged—somewhere visible, but not obvious. With over ten acres of woods, there were endless options. I didn’t want it staged or pronounced—I wanted it quiet yet unmistakable. A place where it could be seen from multiple angles and discovered rather than presented.

 

Eventually, I found the spot.

 

Now it stands in the wood line not far from the house, where sunlight shifts across it throughout the day and where it meets the eye without demanding attention. It reminds me that meaning often arrives slowly—that sometimes the pieces that don’t fit where we first try to place them belong somewhere far more meaningful.

 

Years later, once the idea of Structural Empathy began taking form, I realized how closely the process mirrored the work I had been thinking about: observing before acting, letting form emerge instead of forcing it, honoring what doesn’t fit elsewhere, and allowing clarity to arrive in its own time.

 

It wasn’t created to be a symbol.

It simply emerged as one.