The beach is the edge of the known world. It’s where land meets water, where certainty dissolves into chaos, and where you’re left barefoot, staring at the horizon, wondering if the tide is coming in or going out. It’s both arrival and departure, the place where Polynesians shoved off and where shipwreck survivors wash ashore.

To some, the beach is a playground—a carefree expanse of sun and surf. To others, it’s a graveyard of dreams, where every wave brings driftwood and debris. But for the surfer, the beach is something else entirely: a paradoxical middle ground. You launch from here, chasing the ephemeral perfection of a wave, but you always end up back here, wet, bruised, and out of breath.

The beach is life’s reset button. You can’t build on it—sand shifts, dunes erode—but you can start over from it. It’s the cosmic waiting room, the launchpad, the landing zone. It’s where the waves rise and fall, and where you, humble human, decide whether to paddle out again or just sit on the sand and watch the horizon.

This post is about the beach—not as a physical place, but as a state of being. It’s about what happens when you want something, chase it, and either don’t get it or, worse, do. It’s about the moments when you’re not chasing at all, when the waves come to you and you ride them, effortlessly, until they throw you back onto the beach.

Because no matter how far you paddle or how long you ride, you’ll always end up here. On the beach.

Desire

Desire is a signal, a wave-form interaction between the observer and the observed. The act of wanting collapses the wave into a particle—reality becomes smaller, narrower, and bound by your need to control it. By contrast, being wanted expands the field of possibilities. It’s like tuning into a signal you didn’t realize you were broadcasting, the universe catching your vibe and sending it back amplified, often in unexpected ways.

The nastiness you feel when chasing something? That’s the Chapel Perilous effect: the more you push, the more reality warps, reflecting your anxiety, expectations, and attachments. But when you let go and allow others to pursue you, you’re aligning with the wave, surfing it instead of paddling against it. This creates a feedback loop—mutual reinforcement between what they want from you and what you can authentically give.

We might also point out that the drop back on the beach isn’t failure—it’s the ebb of the wave. It’s necessary to rest, reassess, and allow the cycle to reset. The trick, if there is one, is to recognize that the beach isn’t an endpoint but part of the same cosmic rhythm. Financially, creatively, and existentially, the beach is just another place to start paddling out again.

To reconcile the beach—those stretches where no wave seems to come and the universe feels indifferent—with the paradox of collapsing wave functions, we might draw on a synthesis of quantum metaphors, existential humor, and pragmatic mysticism. The beach is where the illusion of progress evaporates, and you’re left with the humbling realization that no amount of paddling will summon a wave. Yet, paradoxically, the beach is also the stage where possibilities are silently building, waiting to materialize. The trick is not to fight the stillness but to understand it as a necessary part of the cosmic rhythm. Here’s how it could work:

1. The Beach as the Quantum Field:

In quantum terms, the beach represents a superposition of states, where everything and nothing seem possible at once. The waves may seem absent, but they’re not gone—they’re potentialities, waiting to emerge when conditions align. To reconcile this, you must shift your focus from the absence of the wave to the possibilities inherent in the stillness. Like a quantum particle, your next move influences the field, but only if you stop trying to force the outcome.

2. Laughing at the Absurd:

Existential humor helps transform the beach from a place of despair into a playground of irony. The universe, with its waves that come when you don’t want them and vanish when you do, is playing a cosmic joke. Recognizing this joke doesn’t solve the problem, but it shifts your perspective. You’re no longer a victim of the beach; you’re a collaborator in its absurdity. You can sit back, laugh at the futility of wanting, and perhaps even enjoy the strange, empty beauty of the shoreline.

3. Mysticism in the Mundane:

Pragmatic mysticism teaches that the beach is not a punishment but a lesson in presence. It’s not a place to wait for the wave; it’s a place to be. The grains of sand beneath your feet, the distant cries of seabirds, the endless horizon—these are not distractions but invitations. By immersing yourself in the beach’s quiet rhythm, you align yourself with its energy, becoming open to the subtle cues that herald the next wave.

4. Letting Go to Catch the Wave:

Here’s the ultimate paradox: the more you desire a wave, the harder it becomes to catch. The act of wanting collapses the field of potentiality into a single, narrow vector, which often leads to disappointment. But when you release the need to control, you expand the field again, allowing waves to form naturally. This doesn’t mean giving up—it means trusting the process and finding joy in the ebb as well as the flow.

By blending these perspectives, we begin to see the beach not as a barren wasteland but as a space rich with potential, humor, and quiet wisdom. It’s a place where the quantum, the absurd, and the mystical intersect, reminding us that the cycles of wave and stillness are not opposites but parts of the same eternal dance.

5. Recognizing the beach as Preparation:

The beach years aren’t a void; they’re the quantum superposition of potential outcomes. Just because no observable wave exists doesn’t mean the system isn’t active. It’s a time of recalibration. We might liken it to Schrödinger’s cat: while you wait, your potential selves—unwanted, sought-after, satisfied, disappointed—are all coexisting. The trick is to learn from the desert: dig for water, build shade, practice patience. The desert isn’t static; it’s the unseen energy gathering for the next wave.

6. Shifting from Wanting to Playing:

When you want something, you collapse possibilities into one narrow vector of desire, creating pressure. But when you play with the desire, you reintroduce freedom and uncertainty into the system. Wilson would advise treating life as a game: wanting becomes less about grasping and more about exploring. You become less a desperate surfer chasing waves and more a beachcomber, appreciating the process of looking, finding, and losing.

7. The Cosmic Joke of Getting What You Want:

Getting what you want can be the ultimate punchline, full of externalities you never anticipated—like inheriting a castle and finding it haunted. Wilson might say that’s because the universe has a wicked sense of humor. The solution? Cultivate what the Zen masters call “beginner’s mind”: hold outcomes lightly, avoid attachment, and be ready to let go when the joke inevitably lands.

8. Riding the Wave of Being Wanted:

Here’s the counterpoint: when you’re wanted, the wave appears effortlessly, and you ride it with joy. We would likely frame this as a function of resonance: you align your own energy with the universe’s flow, and the wave materializes naturally. Instead of collapsing the wave, you stay open, playful, and receptive, allowing the system to unfold without interference.

9. Embracing Cycles, Not Permanence:

The key to navigating both the desert and the wave lies in understanding impermanence. The wave always rises and falls; the desert always looms and recedes. Wilson might encourage you to shift focus from outcomes to patterns: recognize that your role is not to control the wave or the desert, but to adapt to their rhythms.

In short, the desert and the particle collapse are both necessary parts of the cosmic game. Reconciliation comes when you stop seeing them as opposites and start viewing them as complementary aspects of the same playful, maddening, unpredictable reality.