Being a housekeeper at a beach side resort was never my idea of a glamourous job; but it did come with some perks. The best was all the stuff that was left behind in the rooms; the bottles of alcohol, books, some clothing, money – all free to whoever found it if it wasn’t claimed within a week. All great stuff, but the most interesting thing I found were a series of scribbled notes on the hotel room stationary:

I saw him again today, from my balcony looking out over the sea. Third day in a row he’s been out there building sandcastles. I don’t ever see any children with him, no partner, just him out there in the sun all afternoon by himself. I don’t know why I feel the pull to go down there and talk to him, to find out what he’s doing. That would be weird wouldn’t it? A stranger walking up and just asking, What’s all this about then? Still, I’m curious, and I want to know more. Maybe after a couple drinks from the mini bar in my room I’ll be able to go talk to him.

I did it, I talked to him. He’s not here with anyone, just a man in his 40’s enjoying the beach. And I asked him about the sandcastles. He told me:

“There’s a certain freedom that comes from building a sandcastle for me, a freedom that can be extended to any medium really, with the right attitude. I’ve only got the day, not even, perhaps only a few hours, until the tide comes in and washes it all away. That knowledge, that it isn’t going to last, allows me to make whatever I want, design the castle however I please. There’s no concern about making a mistake or creating something that isn’t perfect the way it was in my mind. By the time those thoughts creep in, the water’s edge as already started splashing against the front gate and the guard tower has dissolved and washed out to sea.”

That struck me. And I know no one is going to be reading this account, a story assemblage from a vacation, giving me that freedom to write down any stray thought that comes into my head. Snatch it out of the air like a fly with a pair of chop sticks; one part patience and one part dumb luck. Maybe it’ll be one of those precious uncut gems, or maybe the whole thing will fall flat like the time I tried to re-create my favourite jerk dish and it just didn’t really pop. Sometimes there’s a spark that people have – something they’re tuned into, and all you can do is keep showing up and hoping that one day you’ll tune in too. Nothing is guaranteed though except that if you’re not there you’ll never get in. In that single instance I began shedding the thick skin I had spent so many years accumulating, trying to form a protective layer around myself without realizing that it was also hindering my growth, boxing me in like a hermit crab unwilling to rid itself of its home – fear of the outside world and what it may contain. Secure and safe in the familiar. And this doesn’t feel like a natural transition, but all I’m thinking about now is seafood. And I’ll write it down anyways because I can do what I want, all I’m trying to do is fill up this hotel stationary with something, and that something is me and my thoughts; however scattered they may be.

“It may sound like a contradiction, but there is freedom as well in only being able to use wet sand. It sounds very limiting, and it is, it’s not as if I’m going to have a broad colour pallet to really see my vision through here. When there are too many possibilities, too many options, it can be crippling. A sort of Burden of Choice; you can go in any direction so how are you to know which one is the right direction, the right choice? There is none of that here. This is all I have to work with, so if there’s something that I really want to do, I have to start getting creative. That, or accept the fact that I simply can’t do it and move on. Create without perfection. What does it matter anyway? It’ll all be gone by nightfall.”

There is so much freedom in this, the written word, but also a great hinderance. From this single white page, I can take you across continents to remote landscapes, across time to events passed or into the future to predict what might become. I can take you up into space and we can explore the cosmos, or take you to other worlds made entirely from my own imagination and will only ever exist there with their exotic flora and fauna, fantastical beasts, and civilizations that care about one another. Or I can bring you down into my mind, the personal me and all that it contains. But then I’m hindered by that, all I have at my disposal to convey these ideas are these scratches on a pad. How can that be enough to properly describe the view from my room? I can tell you about the golden sand, but can you feel the way it squishes between your toes? I can describe for you the aquamarine sea that stretches as far as the eye can see, beyond the curve of the earth; but can you feel the cool breeze that blows off of it, the salt on your face? This is all I have and sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough, but it has to be. I’ll just have to make due and hope that I get the point across that I don’t believe in Heaven, but if it does exist it’s a place like this: not the sea and the sand and the breeze and the buffet – as good as it may be – but the tranquillity in my soul. The peace in my heart.

“You’ll see it, and that’s nice. But I was doing this before you came down, and I’d still be doing it if you never came down at all. There is a certain meditative quality to it as I move about, focus in on this one piece, all my thoughts centered in around it while the rest of the world slips away. It’s not about the end result, the finished product, that’s just a by-product of doing something I love. At the end of the day it’s all still going to be washed away, but it doesn’t matter because I’ll have already gotten what I need out of it.”

All I want to do now is create. To make something without worrying or concerning myself with what the end result will be. To fill these pages and then crumple them up and throw them out, satisfied with myself and what I did. To not think about the bottom of the page and instead focus on the next word, the next letter, the next scratch and squiggle. I don’t even like that last word, but I’m going to leave it there because it’s raw, and it’s honest, and it’s true. This all swirls in my head, a gathering mist that I’m able to mould with my hands like he did with that sand. To build something up, contribute something. A contradiction perhaps as this will be to no one’s benefit but mine, and perhaps whoever cleans the room if they happen to dig it out of the trash. The act itself places it out there though, setting it down on paper sets it down in the collective consciousness, available for all to see if they are willing to put in the work and hunt it out. That joy building up again, setting life aside for this but what is life without it? More of the same, more living, more consumption, more expectation, and more emptiness with the realization that it’s not enough. So read on dedicated cleaner, I hope that you have the courage now that I am only just discovering for myself, to fill yourself up with joy and wonder and beauty and purpose and compassion.