Chapter Five – The Living Order

A building, when it’s well kept, becomes more than walls and wiring—it becomes a living companion. At night, when the world outside grows quiet, mine wakes into a kind of gentle awareness. I can feel it the moment I step inside. The air greets me with recognition, like an old friend who’s been waiting. The lights hum softly in greeting. Even the floors seem to welcome the rhythm of my steps. There’s no heaviness here—only stillness, peace, and readiness for renewal.

And then there are the plants—my green companions, scattered across the building like steady candles of life. I know each one by memory: their leaves, their favorite spots, even their preferences for how much light they like. Some thrive best where they can feel the air move gently around them; others prefer stillness and quiet corners. When I rotate them around the building every few weeks, the whole place feels renewed, as though the energy of the building itself has stretched and smiled.

My relationship with the plants is simple and joyful. They speak, not in words, but in gestures—tiny adjustments, hints of color, the faint lean of a stem, the slight wilting that says, “I need water.” I understand them, and they understand me. It’s not work; it’s friendship. They like to hear music while I water them. There is a calm connection between us. It’s one of the purest forms of communication there is: silent, honest, and alive.

But life inside the building doesn’t end with plants. On the balcony outside the children’s dentist’s office are some bird feeders – an idea the dentist was kind enough to allow. Every night I make sure the feeder is filled, and by day the balcony becomes a scene of cheerful commotion. Children and elderly visitors alike stop to watch. The kids point excitedly at the sparrows, and the older women smile, remembering gardens of their own. The birds have become part of the building’s family—tiny visitors that bring joy to all who look through the windows.

At night, I feel that pulse in other ways. The hum of the air units, the sound of the elevator, the quiet murmur of the building settling—all of it feels alive, familiar, almost musical. I know every sound and when it’s supposed to happen. A car door closing in the garage, the gentle thud of the elevator stopping—each has its place in the nightly rhythm. It’s not noise; it’s conversation.

The building and I have an understanding. I care for it, and it, in return, offers peace. There’s a resonance between us, an invisible harmony that deepens the longer I work here. When I walk through the halls, I can sense the morale of the space—not in any dramatic way, but in the lightness of the air, the balance of scent and sound, the quiet contentment that rests on everything that’s tended well.

The presence of life—plants, birds, even the subtle awareness of the building itself—creates something sacred. Cleanliness alone is not enough; the real goal is vitality. A clean room can still feel empty, but a room filled with life, even softly, feels complete. The living order is not a task to be performed—it’s a friendship to be maintained.

I think often of the verse in Genesis: “And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.” (Genesis 2:15, KJV). That command lives on in every act of care, every quiet gesture toward beauty. The garden, for me, is this building. My work is not to control it, but to keep it alive—to tend, refresh, and bless the space so others can feel peace when they enter.

Before I leave for the night, I take one last slow walk through the halls. The plants rest in their corners, content. The air smells fresh and calm. Outside, the bird feeders hang quietly, waiting for morning visitors. Everything feels balanced, alive, and good.

That’s the living order: when every corner hums with gratitude, when every small thing breathes in cooperation with the whole, when even the quiet of night feels like a prayer answered.