The Ecstasy of Action

Whatever comes, let it come

Whatever stays, let it stay

Whatever goes, let it go!


I still remember as little kids, how we were taught the joy of creating when we were given our play-doughs to build those funny creatures or objects. I used to look forward to these channels for creative expression. I had the power to build anything under the sun using my magnanimous imagination that knew no boundaries. There goes a sun, a car, mountains and my little house. And at the end of my mused adventures, I remember squishing everything into one big ball to keep it back to where it belonged and it used to end up taking shape of the box. Not an iota of sorrow used to flicker around my being and I used to rejoice in the happy time that I’d just spent. A new day came, a new excitement and time for a new adventure began just like the previous one…again I used to indulge my cognizance in conceiving something novel!


A child's nature is to seek freedom from conformity and rejoice in it's organic existence


This pristine nature of a child gets vanished as we grow up. And it is not something that the greed takes over us, but this is something we are never taught. All our lived we are asked to think big and create better, to acquire more but not to let go when needed, to start something with conviction but not end it if the need be. Our possessions turn into obsessions and life seems meaningful, a purpose to look forwards to. One simple thing we forget is that everything has a definite end. Happiness must be hunted in action and not the materialistic mill of returns it propagates.


I read this beautiful story on the internet the other day and it helped me immensely in learning what goes wrong with our thought system. Here it goes:

Hot sun. Salty air. Rhythmic waves. A little boy is on his knees scooping and packing the sand with plastic shovels into a bright blue bucket. Then he upends the bucket on the surface and lifts it. And, to the delight of the little architect, a castle tower is created. All afternoon he will work. Spooning out the moat. Packing the walls. Bottle tops will be sentries. Popsicle sticks will be bridges. A sandcastle will be built. Big city. Busy streets. Rumbling traffic. A man is in his office. At his desk he shuffles papers into stacks and delegates assignments. He cradles the phone on his shoulder and punches the keyboard with his fingers. Numbers are juggled and contracts are signed and much to the delight of the man, a profit is made. All his life he will work. Formulating the plans. Forecasting the future. Annuities will be sentries. Capital gains will be bridges. An empire will be built. Two builders of two castles. They have much in common. They shape granules into grandeurs. They see nothing and make something. They are diligent and determined. And for both the tide will rise and the end will come. Yet that is where the similarities cease. For the boy sees the end while the man ignores it. Watch the boy as the dusk approaches. As the waves near, the wise child jumps to his feet and begins to clap. There is no sorrow. No fear. No regret. He knew this would happen. He is not surprised. And when the great breaker crashes into his castle and his masterpiece is sucked into the sea, he smiles. He smiles, picks up his tools, takes his father’s hand, and goes home. The grownup, however, is not so wise. As the wave of years collapses on his castle he is terrified. He hovers over the sandy monument to protect it. He blocks the waves from the walls he has made. Salt-water soaked and shivering he snarls at the incoming tide. “It’s my castle,” he defies. The ocean need not respond. Both know to whom the sand belongs… I don’t know much about sandcastles. But children do. Watch them and learn. Go ahead and build, but build with a child’s heart. When the sun sets and the tides take – applaud. Salute the process of life and go home.


I could not resist the lure of putting my thoughts into poetry to put the moral of this majestic philosophy across:


Build like a child if you must

For when the waters touch your castle

Not a speck of worry enters your dust.

Build like a child if you must

For when you crush your fort

It is because your hands you trust.

I’ve known men who loved their castles

Built with heart and foisted tassels

And when the time’s wrath was thrust

They lived for love but died of lust.



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