An arts and entertainment venue for performances both generic and experimental, The Dome is easily the largest structure I've ever helped to assemble, and represented the completion of a metaphorical circle from concept to implementation. From my very first introduction to the idea of these structures--witnessing one being reclaimed by the earth in a dense wilderness--to being employed for assembly and disassembly of a massive metal and vinyl frame, costly in both time and materials and present only at the behest of the eccentric New York arts community, I saw a picture of what the idea could have been, and what it turned out to be. 

I have an idea what Bucky meant by the idea of being a trim tab. He seemed to love the thought of making little adjustments, helpful little additions and observations that could potentially, over the long run, result in massive shifts of our trajectory. He didn't want to be the rudder; and who would, with all that stress. Trying to turn an entire ship alone, holding the pressure constantly, like a willing Atlas leaning over and raising his arms.

No, the idea was a slow game. A long game. A game that he knew he wouldn't get to finish, like the proverb about old people planting trees, knowing they'll never sit in the shade. A long game like Hari Seldon, leaving breadcrumbs and guesses and assumptions and biases alike, but always with an eye on the good. And the better. And our collective survival.

There might not be a true and definitive version of Buckminster Fuller's Operating Manual to Spaceship Earth, and we might genuinely be alone out here in the darkness. But take a look around you, ahead, behind, to the sides, and above. There is so much light out there. There is so much to know and do and see. So many ways to possibly be.

So be. Be while you can, be well, and be good.

Good luck out there, Navigators.