A little boy is on his knees scooping and packing the sand with plastic shovels into a bright blue bucket. Then he upends the bucket on the surface and lifts it. And, to the delight of the little architect, a castle tower is created.

All afternoon he will work, scooping out the moat and packing the walls. Bottle tops will be sentries. Sticks will be bridges. A sandcastle will be built.

Big city. Busy streets. Rumbling traffic.

Two builders of two castles. They have much in common. They shape little pebbles into grand buildings. They are diligent and determined. And for both the tide will rise and the end will come. Yet that is where the similarities stop. For the boy sees the end while the man ignores it.

A man is in his office. At his desk he puts papers into stacks and assigns tasks. The phone is on his shoulder and he is knocking the keyboard with his fingers. Contracts are signed and much to the delight of the man, a profit is made.

All his life he will work, formulating the plans, forecasting the future. Profits will be sentries. Capital gains will be bridges. An empire will be built.

And when the great breaker crashes into his castle and his masterpiece is sucked into the sea, he smiles. He smiles, picks up his tools, takes his father's hand, and goes home.

The grownup, however, is not so wise. As the wave of years collapses on his castle he is terrified. He tries to protect the sandy monument. He blocks the waves from the walls he has made. Salt-water soaked and shivering he snarls at the incoming tide.

"It's my castle," he protests.

The ocean need not respond. Both know to whom the sand belongs…

As the waves near, the wise child jumps to his feet and begins to clap. There is no sorrow. No fear. No regret. He knew this would happen. He is not surprised.

I don't know much about sandcastles. But children do. Watch them and learn. Go ahead and build, but build with a child's heart.

Salute the process of life and go home.

When the sun sets and the tides take -- applaud.