A lighthouse is the most generous piece of infrastructure ever devised. It serves everyone and belongs to no one. It does not ask who you are or where you are going. It simply shines, and you either need it or you do not.
The Stevenson family built most of Scotland’s lighthouses over four generations. Robert Louis Stevenson was meant to continue the tradition but chose to write novels instead, which his father considered a waste. The lighthouses are still standing. The novels are still in print. Both seem like worthy uses of a life.
Every lighthouse keeper I have read about describes the same thing: the rhythm of the light becomes the rhythm of your thinking. Flash, dark, flash, dark. A mechanical heartbeat on the edge of the world.