Renovation, from the Latin, meaning "to make new." Not a bad sight for a courtyard built of rocks that have been weathered by centuries.

I pull a black plastic oblong out of my pocket, aim it at the stone table on our left, and press a button on it. The music becomes softer, a whisper on the threshold. I walk over to the wall, putting the oblong back in my pocket as I do so, and run my hand slowly over the irregular vertical surface in front of me. I stare off into space contemplatively.

I have always liked old stone structures: Roman ruins, Irish castles, French crypts, following Hadrian's wall across the face of Europe. I stand in some darkened room, contemplating the skull fragments of humans that died 1500 years ago. They breathed and ate and slept, lived and died, and now here they are, reminding me of my place in the tapestry of History.

I'll bet five denarii that they did not ask to be so permanent. And if they had been told that they would leave something of themselves that future generations would gawk in wonder at, I'll bet they would not have chosen such an anonymous legacy. "Well, folks, all we can tell is that they lived in this town between 400 and 600 A.D., as dated by the ruins they lie in, and the more recent walls and floors the peasantry built on top of them, long after they had been forgotten as being one with the soil . . . "

What effects will my life have on others that I do not perceive or envision? What effects has it already had? I know of several examples even now in which my meandering path has touched lives I had no plans to touch, often those I had no awareness of at all. And if I became cognizant of these contacts only because our paths crossed again later, imagine the ripples that spread out from my doings that I shall never be informed of . . .

Carl Sagan died without ever knowing what an effect he had on my life. His definition and description of the Numinous alone made a mark on me, helped the concept to become a recurring thread in the fabric of my life. I am sure Freud was equally oblivious to his contribution on this subject, at least to my personal philosophy.

But at least in these examples, men wrote ideas down on dead trees, with the intent that some of the public, no doubt a largely formless, unknown mass in their minds, might well digest these concepts of the Numinous and incorporate them somehow into their thinking. As would be true for a public play performance or a Website on the Net, the existence of an audience for their words was known, and planned for from the outset.

What of stones cast upon the waters with no recipient in view?

At that moment, the wind, hitherto silent for quite a while, whistles and blows, bringing with it the scent of brine and the cries of a bird. You and I look up into the blueness of the sky, but no bird is in sight. After a few moments, I pull my gaze away from the vault above us, and look at you.

Consider the following example. It is an extreme case in my experience, but perhaps more illustrative for that very reason. One day in my freshman year at the University, there were visiting high school students inspecting the campus for suitability who came and sat in on my Honors College Literature class. Among their shy, skittish faces was one framed by an unruly thicket of brown curly hair, a girl completely unknown to me named M--- O-----. It chanced that on that particular day, I had something to say on the (now long-forgotten) topic du jour, so I raised my hand and spoke my piece.

Now the only reason why I know her name is this: the following fall, she was among the entering Honors College freshmen, and we met. After we had known each other for a bit, Miss O----- informed me on the walkway one evening that I had been a decisive factor in her conclusion to come to this University. "What?" I blinked. Yes, I was told, I had that day in 1989 said something she thought was so crisp, so intelligent, that she felt she should attend a school at which students held discussions of this caliber.

No doubt other factors came into play in her determination of where to get her higher education. But the mere fact, lying there baldly, that she could say such a thing sincerely, well . . . it wiped my brain clean, and rebooted it in a new configuration.

Put aside the struggle to return my ego to normal proportions after such an unexpected boost. I still could not believe that whatever words I had uttered to a known circle of twenty-odd listeners, intended to make a point (about Milton perhaps) and then be swept aside as the class careened through Western Literature, instead had reverberated for months, sending the resulting waves back into my world.

Tilt, and reorient.

The wind has died again, for the moment. I walk away from the western courtyard wall. A gesture with the oblong, and the music, never having stopped, resumes its original strength.

And twelve years later I still remember her face that evening, telling me the ramifications of my speech . . .