Hope is Like Sandcastles
The beach is one of my least favourite places in the world.
I find the unexplored depths of our oceans a nightmare and the water, whether it’s loud and crashing or deathly still, haunting.
But something I’ve enjoyed since childhood is building sandcastles.
If you ask me, the trickiest bit to building a sandcastle lies in getting sand with the right texture - too dry and it will fall apart, too wet and it's difficult to mould to your whim. And too often, the right type of sand is a little too close to the tide. Where the elements rage on in the form of strong winds and relentless waves. Truly, the best spot to build a sandcastle on a beach is usually the worst spot to build a sandcastle; it's easier to destroy a sandcastle on a beach than it is to build one.
Yet, it’s one of the rare times I’m most tenacious. As the ocean repeatedly brings down my sandcastle, twirling away from the shore like a graceful ballerina with grains of my earnest efforts, I simply modify or rebuild my sandcastle.
I don’t feel frustrated.
I don't experience a sense of defeat.
I don’t quit.
I just start again.
At first glance, the act of building sandcastles doesn’t match my temperament. I’m not the most patient. Nor the most nurturing the way people are with their plants. I prefer the quicker, science-backed results of cooking or the enchantment of stories – on film, in prose, in history, through lived experiences, or from the depths of another’s imagination. Still, I find building sandcastles to be oddly meditative and captivating.
I always wondered why I found this to be a particularly fascinating activity. It took me some time to make sense of this and when I did, I could hear the clicks of things locking in place – as a kid, it didn’t take me long to understand my sandcastles are not meant to be permanent.
I understood my sandcastles are meant to come apart.
I understood the lifespan of my sandcastle is merely the time I have a watchful eye over my sandcastle. Beyond that, it's a blank slate for the next time or the next soul on the beach.
Even then, I’m thorough and meticulous while building my sandcastles.
I pack the sand firmly in buckets and cups, telling myself “Tomorrow will be a better day”,
asking myself “Don’t you want to see what comes of all this?”,
challenging myself, “Why not me?”
I don't make half-hearted attempts, I give it my all. To this temporary moment of control, of comfort. Fully aware I'm invested in something that's pretty much doomed.
I persist as my sandcastle wavers in the voices of the winds, or crumbles to the ocean of life, making small ridges and windows with a stray twig or leftover utensils from the picnic my family brought to the beach.
I watch as part of it, or at times, all of it gets wiped out, with no trace left of its once commanding presence; a small sense of wonder at this beautifully fragile façade.
Because building sandcastles was never about achieving a sandcastle that stands despite the forces of nature.
Building sandcastles is about simply watching its rise and fall against the forces of nature; the humble power in that.
And so, to my own amazement, every time my castle falls away, I start again, bit by bit, with a sense of determination that's almost intuitive.
For there's a world in a grain of sand and infinite sandcastles to be built with the sleight of my hands.
What else is there to do on the beach anyway?
Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, "Thendral's Telegraph" here!*
