Despite having attended a family camp nearby for twenty years, I had never visited Fallingwater. The architectural masterpiece designed by Frank Lloyd Wright is an iconic building that integrates a family home with nature. I might have lived my whole life without using the word cantilever, not having studied bridges, but standing on the patio that brazenly juts across the river I have fresh respect. It takes guts, and a bunch of concrete, to support that much weight from only one side. 

The windows are curious. Rather than one large opening there are a stack. They make a sweet counterpoint for the stones piled like library books. Our tour guide opened a few to give us the experience that is the crux of the design. The sound of rushing water filled the small bedroom. Of course, such a response was forbidden, but I longed to flop down on the bed and take a nap. Which is probably why my daughter has a machine that creates such sounds to lure her child to sleep each night. 

Money is a fickle measurement for the intrinsic worth of a thing. The projected cost of Fallingwater was equal to what we paid for our home in 1981. I say paid, but of course that is a euphemism for a mortgage. We moved after six years and had barely bought the living room. The actual cost of Fallingwater was five times that amount, but those numbers are from 1930 and would be bumped up by a factor of a hundred today. 

I wonder if Wright would be content with the way the house is used now. It was intended as a residence, and indeed was used that way. But by 1963 the building was donated and became the tourist destination it is now. 

Earlier in the week our family played a game. We drew cards that presented questions. One of them caught my attention. 

"What is one thing that is a foundation for your life?"

The first person spoke of their trust in God. My own answer was the value of empathy. They are both supports that hold us up when we need to go out on a limb.