VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit
In my last post, I wrote about the perspective that comes with stepping away from
daily practice and how retirement offers me a new vantage from which to view the
profession. Freed from the urgency of deadlines and client meetings, I can
return to some elemental questions—questions that reach beyond architecture’s
role and into the speculative realm of what confers meaning at all. What makes
a place feel as though it matters? Is meaning found in form, function, memory—or
something else entirely?
I
don’t approach these questions seeking metaphysical certainty. Instead, I find
myself aligned with strains of secular humanism
and what some call engaged realism—worldviews that prioritize human
agency and experience in the physical world, without relying on spiritual or
supernatural assumptions. Secular humanism emphasizes purpose through human
connection, creativity, and obligation, whereas engaged realism focuses on
grounding meaning in tangible experience.
I’m not advocating for a materialist
outlook that is consumerist or reductionist, but rather one founded in the lived,
physical world—one that sees meaning as something we construct through
interaction, attention, and embodiment rather than something revealed from on
high. These frameworks help me articulate a philosophy focused upon care,
craft, and honest acknowledgement of impermanence.
This
view doesn’t diminish the value of our experiences; rather, it deepens them. It
underscores how much our day-to-day actions matter and how architecture, as a
public and persistent act, reflects our shared values. Of course, many find meaning
through faith, tradition, or a synthesis of spiritual and secular sources. Some
spiritual traditions, like Buddhism or Christian humanism, also emphasize human agency in creating meaning, sharing common
ground with secular humanism. But for those of us who look to the material
world for guidance, the absence of metaphysical guarantees does not render
meaning arbitrary. It simply shifts the burden and the opportunity onto us.
While some might question whether a secular foundation offers the same
permanence or moral authority as traditional belief systems, I’d argue that
meaning rooted in shared human experience—through memory, empathy, and
collective effort—offers its own resilience, adaptable to diverse contexts and
evolving over time.
If
anything, my materialist perspective has affirmed my belief in the role
architects play. There may be no cosmic blueprint guiding them, but that
doesn’t leave architects adrift. On the contrary, it places the creative and
ethical burden squarely on their shoulders: to design environments that support
dignity, foster connection, and elevate experience, not because they are pious,
but because they are human. This responsibility is not universal in practice;
architects often face constraints like budgets, client demands, or zoning laws
that prioritize function or profit over meaning. Yet, when possible,
prioritizing attentiveness and craftsmanship allows architecture to embody commonly
shared values. These ideas resonate with architecture’s potential to shape
spaces that nurture relationships and uphold dignity, even in a world without
absolute guarantees.
One of
the most rewarding projects I worked on—the VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit —embodied this duty. My colleagues at
Robertson/Sherwood/Architects and I set out to design more than just a
facility. We wanted to create a home for veterans living with dementia, one
that honored their lives, their stories, and their continued presence in the
world. Though we weren’t invoking religious symbolism per se, we turned to
metaphor—the Tree of Life—as a unifying theme.
The
Tree of Life became a way to express continuity, memory, and vitality—concepts
especially poignant for a population facing cognitive decline. The metaphor
gave form to the building's central courtyard—where soft light and open
pathways invite gathering—and to the flanking households. It offered staff,
residents, and visitors a narrative structure—both physical and emotional—to
orient by.
While symbols like the Tree of Life may have origins in spiritual traditions, they are
not proprietary. They belong to a shared cultural lexicon, shaped by archetypes
that resonate across belief systems. We chose the Tree of Life for its broad
resonance, but architects should choose metaphors that align with their
community’s values and experiences to resonate inclusively. When interpreted
thoughtfully, such symbols can bridge diverse worldviews—not to co-opt the
sacred, but to affirm enduring principles like continuity, healing, and
belonging. The symbolism required no belief in a higher power; its strength lay
in its emotional clarity and its capacity to unify rather than divide. The VA
project benefited from a supportive client and budget. But even prosaic
projects—apartment buildings, for instance—can foster meaning when they reflect how
people live, gather, and belong.
Of
course, even in societies where religious belief was widespread, not every
structure was shaped by spiritual doctrine. Many buildings—then as now—were
designed for utility. But in such contexts, symbolic meaning often permeated
the built environment more broadly, even if unevenly.
This,
I think, illustrates something essential about the creative potential of
secular worldviews: they need not be sterile. They can embrace myth, metaphor,
and meaning, not as dogma, but as tools for evoking compassion and coherence in
a fragmented world. A secular imagination can be rich in narrative and
aspiration, even if it is grounded in the here and now.
Architecture
begins with function. The building must work. But I’ve always believed that
beauty and coherence are not luxuries—they are also vital. In fact, I would
argue that they are part of a building’s function. They support well-being, provide
orientation, and invite emotional resonance.
I’ve found guidance in Christopher
Alexander’s writings on wholeness, which suggest that spaces
balanced in proportion, light, and rhythm foster a harmony that feels both
timeless and deeply personal. Alexander’s concept of wholeness refers to a
quality of design—achieved through elements like natural light or intuitive
spatial flow—that fosters calm and connection, outcomes supported by studies in
environmental psychology. Alexander wanted us to think of wholeness as a
secular analogue to the sacred—an emergent quality that evokes peace,
rightness, and integrity through careful, responsive design.
There
is meaning in that, too. Not a capital-M “Meaning,” but the kind we make
through attention and authentic craft.
Architecture is one way we respond to the world, shape it, and leave traces of what
we cared about, etched in built form. Not all architecture achieves this. Some
is driven by expedience, profit, or neglect, which only heightens the
importance of doing it well. That buildings age and eventually disappear
doesn’t negate their importance. On the contrary, it makes our efforts more
poignant—and even more worthwhile. While impermanence can seem like a loss, it
reminds us to design spaces that resonate deeply in their time, leaving
memories and influences that endure beyond the physical structure. If
permanence is unavailable, presence becomes sacred.
This
secular, human-centered outlook roots architecture in care and purpose, though
practical realities often challenge this ideal. Others arrive at quite
different understandings of life’s mission, often through faith or tradition,
and I respect that deeply.
For my part, I’ve found quiet affinity in the
writings of thinkers like Albert Camus, Richard Rorty, and Friedrich Nietzsche—not because they offer answers, but because they give voice to a way
of being in the world that seems honest. Camus, in facing life’s absurdity,
acknowledged the human longing for meaning in a universe that offers none,
and yet urged us to act with clarity, empathy, and resolve. Rorty, with his
pragmatic pluralism, proposed that in the absence of metaphysical foundations,
we might still find solidarity, beauty, and purpose in what we do. And
Nietzsche, who saw the absence of inherent meaning as a call to create,
challenged us not to despair, but to treat it as an opportunity. We can create,
affirm, and live with intention.
I
don’t claim to have lived up to these ideals, but they did influence how I approached
my work as an architect and my life in retirement now: as chances to
contribute, however modestly, to something that matters, even if only for a
time, and only for a few.
Architects
cannot promise permanence, but they can design spaces that carry lasting
impact. By drawing on Camus’s insight that we can create our own meaning,
architects can design spaces that feel whole, invite connection, and enhance
livability. And while wholeness may not explicitly appear on a set of plans or in a specification,
it is no less real. To shape environments that honor human dignity is a
responsibility—and a privilege—worth pursuing for all who hope to leave a trace
of humanity in the world.