Sandcastles and the Mountain

It is the nature of the mind to build sandcastles. Our grief is never about their loss.

I vividly remember how it felt in my stomach - a mixture of bitterness, hurt, and shame. It was years ago. I had to walk down memory lane and replay the situation from different perspectives to discover where I went wrong.

It was a new company, a new role, and a new problem space filled with ambiguity. As a newcomer not yet used to that workplace’s culture, the most I saw was chaos and dysfunction. There was a big project ahead, and things were not going as planned. I jumped in with another colleague and started exploring options. One of those options appealed - it was an out-of-the-box idea, requiring a big change. If implemented, it would alter my role and my career path. I fell in love with that idea.

I didn’t stop at just pitching it. I imagined what would happen next. I played with, replayed, and extended the idea, and I started to love it even more. I pictured what I would do next, how I would show up, and how I would get the project back on track. I would be the new hero. It was going to be amazing. It would open a new career trajectory. The more I imagined, the more real it seemed, and the more I fell in love with it. Alternative ideas faded away. I was consumed by that idea.

That went on for a few weeks. Then, none of that happened. Things took a different turn. Another option became real. My beautiful sandcastle was washed away, just like that. It felt like a gut punch. A chill. A big defeat. The ego was hurt. I was left feeling bitterness over losing what I wanted, anger at how it turned out, and shame for my sandcastle, which was on full display for a few people before the waves washed it away. Bitterness. Anger. Shame. Those make up a new sandcastle made out of what was left. I struggled for a bit, bounced back, and went on to do what was needed, at least outwardly. It took months not to feel bitterness and resentment.

Sand Castles

That’s the nature of sand castles. I’m referring to those sand castles that our wandering prediction-making mind builds as it predicts future possibilities, like a new job prospect, a promotion, a new relationship, some extra pile of money, a new place, and so on. We don’t just perceive the world as it is; we perceive it in ways that appear useful to us. Our minds build sandcastles because they appear useful.

Initially, it was a small idea, just a thought—like a tiny mound of sand on the beach. It’s easy to miss such a passing thought, but then move more sand, build a small dome, and add some basic walls - the shape is clearer now. As the walls form, the castle begins to take shape. Sprinkle a little more sand to add structure. It starts to look real, with mass and form. Then begin to admire the work, walking around it and decorating it with shells and pebbles. It looks fantastic. It’s my creation. That’s how I built my sandcastle, and then I fell in love with it.

What was the error in this process? Was it the sandcastle or the relationship I built with my sandcastle? Building sandcastles is what the mind does during most of our wandering times for our survival. The error is the significance I attributed to my sandcastle. The error lies in the meaning and importance I gave to the sandcastle. It was my ignorance in recognizing that the sandcastle was just my thought construction. The Buddha realized it 2500 years ago. The result of not recognizing is grief. My grief was not proportional to the loss of an opportunity. It was proportional to the size of my sand castle and the time I spent entertaining it.

What did I do when my sandcastle got washed away? I turn to my mountain.

The Mountain

The mountain feels different from the sandcastle. It is built slowly with effort and experience and includes my education, career, the expertise gained over time, and prior accomplishments - all these feel more real and earned than imagined, unlike the sandcastle. The mountain has shape, weight, and history. It accumulated over time. There was effort involved. Every past accomplishment feels like yet another switchback. Past careers are boulders added for extra mass and shape. The mountain appears credible and dependable. I turned to the mountain because I knew it had the tools to deal with the situation. The mountain helped me pull myself together.

And yet, for all that solidity, the mountain too is a construction of the mind, just a slower one. This mountain includes the accumulated beliefs, principles, and preferences that appear to define me as a person. When someone asks me who I am, I don’t turn to the sandcastle - I turn to the mountain. My authenticity is right there encoded in that mountain. The mountain thus gives comfort, a sense of stability, and purpose. It acts as a reference point. It appears more useful and durable than the sand castle.

But mass and height don’t mean no grief. Where do you think the bitterness, hurt, and shame in my situation came from? They appeared because what happened in that situation didn’t agree with the mountain, my “self” definition. The wave washing off my sandcastle felt like a defeat — the self didn’t agree with it. The sandcastle’s collapse, on full display, was a source of shame because shame hurt the ego. The mountain is thus as much a source of grief as the love I had for the sandcastle.

It too can erode, and parts of it may crumble, albeit slowly. A change in economic circumstances, a war, bankruptcy, a company reorg, a layoff, or an unfortunate health challenge can upset the shape of that mountain before I realize it. Clinging to that mountain has the same effect as falling in love with the sandcastle.

Seeing it Clearly is a Practice

I still build sandcastles to stay curious, explore possibilities, and venture into unknown territories. But I know they are impermanent and depend entirely on external conditions. Waves are coming by? Build the castle elsewhere. Still difficult and imperfect to put into practice, but it becomes easier with practice. What used to take weeks to bounce back now takes hours or days.

I keep adding boulders to the mountain, too. The lessons learned, books read, and insights from experiences add more bulk to the mountain. As I age and add different experiences, the mountain takes a more complex shape. It is built upon decades of experience and effortful curation. It’s the source of identity. It’s hard to treat it as less important, even fully knowing that it too can be a source of grief, when it does not agree with situations. There are moments when I catch myself defending the mountain even as it causes the very pain I’m trying to understand.

The practice, then, applies to both — clearly seeing sandcastles and the mountain as sources of grief and mental discomfort. I have not mastered this. With a pause and some effort, I can now recognize the source of mental discomfort. It’s either the love for the sandcastles or the disagreement of the mountain with the situation. The pause makes space for alternative framings of the situation. That recognition alone — not the mastery, just the seeing — tells me what I am dealing with. Gut punches now land like soft blows.