Dev Das

In the predawn hush, when the world is still cloaked in shadow and possibility, a solitary figure hunches over a loom. Fingers, gnarled by years of labor, deftly weave threads of countless hues. Each strand is a life, each knot a choice, each pattern an intricate dance of fate and free will.

This is the Weaver, architect of reality, custodian of effort.

We are all, in our own ways, apprentices to this ageless artisan. Our lives form the threads, our striving the warp and weft of existence. Yet how often do we pause to examine the tapestry we create?

Consider the hedge maze at Hampton Court Palace, a verdant enigma that has confounded visitors for centuries. From within its leafy corridors, one sees only green walls and dead ends, hears only the whisper of leaves and the crunch of gravel underfoot. But ascend to the palace's highest tower, and suddenly the maze's true nature unfolds: a symmetrical marvel, a testament to human ingenuity and perseverance. Our efforts are like this – labyrinthine and frustrating up close, but possessing a grand design visible only from a lofty vantage point.

In the quantum realm, particles exhibit a peculiar duality – they are both wave and particle, their nature determined only by the act of observation. Our endeavours share this quantum uncertainty. They exist in a superposition of potential outcomes, collapsing into definite form only when we pause to measure their impact. The student burning the midnight oil, the entrepreneur weathering another setback, the artist facing a blank canvas – all exist in this liminal space of possibility, their efforts simultaneously fruitful and futile until the moment of reckoning.

But what of the effort itself? We often overlook the inherent value of striving. Picture a master glassblower, cheeks puffed, arms straining, as he coaxes molten silica into ethereal shapes. The finished piece may be breathtaking, but is it not equally wondrous to witness the dance of creation? The interplay of breath and fire, the transformation of formless matter into art?

There's a Japanese concept called 'wabi-sabi' that finds beauty in imperfection and profundity in earthiness. It celebrates the cracks and crevices, the wear and tear that come with age and use. Perhaps we need a similar philosophy for effort – one that honours the sweat-stained, callus-handed, bleary-eyed reality of striving.

Imagine if we could see effort as clearly as we see its results. Would we not marvel at the luminous threads of persistence that connect every great achievement? Would we not stand in awe of the invisible architecture of ambition that underpins every human endeavour?

In certain light, at certain angles, we catch glimpses of this hidden framework. It's in the eyes of the marathon runner at mile 20, when the body screams to stop but the spirit drives onward. It's in the trembling hands of the surgeon at hour 14 of a delicate procedure. It's in the furrowed brow of the poet, searching for that one perfect word to complete a verse.

These moments of visible effort are like quantum fluctuations in the fabric of reality – brief flashes that reveal the underlying nature of existence. They remind us that behind every seamless performance, every “overnight success,” every moment of effortless grace, lies an unseen universe of toil and tenacity.

So why not be apprentice weavers, conscious of each thread we add to the grand tapestry. Why not find joy in the act of creation itself. For in the end, it is not the product of our efforts that defines us, but the sum total of our striving – the unseen tapestry of our lives, woven one choice, one action, one moment at a time.

And perhaps, in some distant future, when we ascend the stairway to our heaven and look back upon the maze of our existence, we'll see not just the outcomes of our efforts, but the luminous beauty of the effort itself – a shimmering, interconnected web of human striving that forms the very fabric of reality

It took me a while to realise it, but I am the best audience for the storyteller in me. The man in the front seat with a lifetime ticket. Some of my stories are true, Some imaginary, Some relayed to conjure confidence. Some, to wallow in self indulgence and pity.

Some, to just paint an image which I find appealing.

This realisation fascinated me when I became aware of it. But the bigger realisation was that  it was not just me. It was everyone around me as well. 

The narratives we construct, carefully curated like a museum exhibit of our best selves. Most days they work. But what happens when the exhibit doesn't match the archive?

What happens when it creeps up in small things? Like when I say I’ll be brief, but speak aimlessly for 20 minutes.Or when I insist I'm always punctual, yet my friends have learned to tell me an earlier meeting time. Or when I adjust my answer and become diplomatic , because my choice is less mainstream.

There's a line from Joan Didion - “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” But sometimes, I wonder if those stories truly keep us from  living. I catch myself in these moments of dissonance. It's not that I'm trying to deceive; it's that the story I want to be true has overwritten the reality. For years I convinced myself that arthouse cinema was the only thing worth watching. It was my intellectual self over-intellectualising my crafted persona. Deep inside though I was fine with  some slapstick comedy from time to time. The laughs were not bad. 

And today I am better off accepting this.

There's a peculiar ache that comes with realising you're not who you thought you were. It's like waking up in a familiar room, only to find all the furniture has been subtly rearranged while you slept. The careful cartography of identity, where we plot our strengths, our quirks, our immovable traits. “Here be dragons,” we scrawl across the areas we'd rather not explore. 

But what happens when we stumble into those uncharted territories?

In reality, it is this gap between our idealised self and our actual self, where the real work happens. It's uncomfortable, like trying to wear shoes a size too small. We can pretend they fit for a while, but eventually, the blisters force us to confront the truth.

Like the author Brené Brown said: “Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we're supposed to be and embracing who we are.” It sounds simple, doesn't it? But it's a daily practice for a reason. It's hard. It's constant. It's necessary.’

We craft these elaborate personas. Like method actors who've forgotten they're in a play. We become so invested in our self-image that when reality contradicts it, we're left reeling, unsure of which version is the truth. It's terrifying, this process of rediscovery. Like stepping off the edge of our personal flat earth and finding that the world is round after all. But there's exhilaration in it too. A wild sort of freedom in realising that we're not bound by the limits we've placed on ourselves.

I'm learning that growth isn't always about becoming more of who we think we are. Sometimes, it's about unbecoming. Stripping away the layers of expectation and assumption until we're left with something raw and real. The unwritten script of our lives is messy, boring, sometimes it's downright disappointing. But it's real. And there's a peculiar kind of freedom in embracing that reality.

The idea of me was not me. But maybe my core, in all its imperfect glory, is exactly what I need to be exploring. The truest version of me isn't a fixed point to be reached, but a constant exploration. A willingness to redraw the map again and again, to sail into uncharted waters and discover new lands within my periphery.

I'm learning to listen to these whispers. The ones that don't always align with my carefully constructed persona. It's a bit like tuning an old radio, adjusting the dial until the static clears and the true signal comes through. And sometimes it’s not that cool, but if I am being entirely honest I enjoy  tinkering with it a lot more than the manicured version I was so enamoured with. 

It needed acceptance.

Rebecca Solnit said, “Leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark. That's where the most important things come from, where you yourself came from, and where you will go.”

So here I am, standing at that open door, peering into the darkness of my own uncharted self. It's uncomfortable. It's uncertain. It’s clumsy and messy. But it's also thrilling. Because who knows what undiscovered continents of identity lie waiting beyond the edge of the map? 

And frankly now that I have a little less hair and need glasses to read, this journey is worth undertaking