There is a video of sand sculptures in Denmark. It is incredible to see, even through the muted lens of a camera, the detail and scope of these creations. Enormous whales, mermaids with hair you could almost brush, fish with rippling fins are all made of that humble medium called sand.
The video did not inform me about how long it took to make them, or what the secret is for convincing a malleable substance to stay put in crisp figures. There were no names of the artists, or even how many took part. It is left to my imagination, which is an attribute they are obviously well endowed with.
If I picture myself on a hot July day standing in front of dunes blown by the breeze, I cannot see how to even begin. Probably each participant was in charge of a section, say one octopus. Or maybe a team divided it up so that the average task was one leg.
There would be perhaps a hundred other artists along the beach, working separately, yet somehow in concert too. It would not make sense to let myself be distracted by watching others digging, even though it might be inspiring. Or intimidating. My part is to attend to the curving limb hidden in a pile of sand, and to press into service the suction cups that give such animals their unique abilities.
My part is integral to something larger. Even if it is outside of my peripheral vision.
Sounds familiar.
