Not even two blocks from where I live, I saw a fenced off front yard and banners hung along the wire proclaiming “another great construction job” by XYZ Company.

From above the fence you could see that the roof and guts of the home were totally destroyed, looking oddly like they were surgically removed. It was probably a two-story brick bungalow with a finished basement, hard wood floors and old wood moldings on the main floor.

I’ve been in such homes. They are often deceptive in how much floor space they hold even though they look modest from the street.

There were large wood joists and other building materials just beyond the fence. I imagined new partitioning of rooms was going to take place soon.

There was practically nothing left of the original building. No living room, no dining room. No main floor powder room with depression era floor tile. Just a shell of the home that once stood on this spot.

All that was left standing was the good old brownish Chicago brick holding the white window casements for the bay that was in the living room, small basement windows, and a little white door.

The front door, atop seven small cement steps, faced the street, but was easy to miss as it was tucked away on the west side of the house.

I marveled at the site.

Why would someone tear so much down? So much that was functional or, at least, salvageable? Or another way of looking at it, Why didn’t they tear the whole thing down?

It seems to me that someone would either want to save the charm and character of the original structure…

…Or, if they were just interested in the location, the tree lined street, right along the Brown Line, they’d tear the original structure down entirely.

I contemplated that there must be some zoning rule, or financial advantage to leaving something of the old, maybe only one wall, in place and destroy and re-build everything else to your liking.

And the image of this home, a bungalow in this under construction state, really sunk into my consciousness. It was not anything like the original, nor anything like the home I expect it will be when finished.

I thought about my life as always being under construction. There’s always a Version 2.0 or some new iteration in development; some habit I’m giving up, or some belief that, after timely reflection, can finally morph into something else; a more positive way to look at something.

As new experiences get processed, I can make changes I couldn’t have even contemplated years ago.

And, as I looked at this home, under construction, in the midst of transformation, my eyes settled on the narrow white front door and window casements in the bay.

The house will be built as new, anchored by something that existed before.

Why did the contractor or the homeowners choose these particular elements to build out from? To provide a little continuity with the other houses on the block? Structural integrity?

As I’ve changed and grown over the years, why did I choose to keep some things and let go of others? Do you have your values for life? Is there something about a person that never changes; that makes the person who he is?

My sense of humor, or capacity for empathy, my impulse to try to communicate how I experience things (in writing or by telling stories), my tendency toward the role of mediator (wanting everyone to be happy)… I have to wonder… if I was a building, like this one, under construction, what would be my white front door and window casements.

Keeping that which is essential from your old way of being as you move into the best version of yourself is no small thing.