A Time to Let Go: Lessons from Sand Mandalas and Studio Meltdowns

Monks Creating A Sand Mandala

I recently had the pleasure of visiting a group of Tibetan monks creating a sand mandala. If you ever have the opportunity to witness this process, I highly recommend it.

In silence, and with reverent commitment to the act of creation, two artists work in tandem—laying intricate lines of colored sand to build an extraordinarily complex and beautiful mandala. The process unfolds over the course of a week and includes both an opening and a closing ceremony. On average, a completed mandala involves 75–120 hours of work by several monks.

And then—when it is complete—the closing ceremony takes place. The mandala is taken to a river or the sea and released back into the water. I know. Take a breath. Why all that work for “nothing” to show for it in the end? It’s a great question—and one worth asking. Especially as it applies to our own creative practice.

We often create with the end product in mind, firmly attached to the outcome. Driven—sometimes by deadlines, sometimes by collectors’ expectations, sometimes by simply wanting to have something to show for our effort. All perfectly valid motivations.

A good question to consider is, are you entrenched in enjoying the act of pure creation or arm wrestling with controlling the outcome?

When we hit the proverbial wall with a painting, what if we considered something other than soldiering through—working it harder and harder until it’s worked to death? (I know this has never happened to either of us so, purely hypothetical, of course.)

What if you gave yourself permission to detach from the outcome—to let go and trust the process?

Sometimes that is where the real magic shows up. You take your hands off the steering wheel and let the muse drive for a moment.

I’ve done this exercise with more than one student. One in particular was a very diligent painter—conscientious, detail‑oriented, with a beautifully soft hand for color. She’d been working on the same painting for weeks and wasn’t making progress. Most of her time was spent staring at it, trying to figure out what to do next.

That day she looked up at me and said, completely exasperated, “Linda… I just HATE this painting! I don’t know what to do with it! I'm ready to throw it away!"

I paused, ensuring she had gotten it all out, then asked calmly, “Do you really hate it enough to throw it in the trash?”

“Yes!” she said.

“FABULOUS!” I said. “Let’s mess it up!”

She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. Normally, I guide students out of roadblocks using thoughtful, methodical tools. But this was different. Wild abandon? They had never heard this from me before.

“Okay,” I said. “Since you’re willing to sacrifice this painting, your job is to completely mess it up.”

I instructed her: Stand up. - Breathe. -Don’t think. -Go fast. - Be bold. - Take a risk. – And…dance if it helps.

She laughed. “Okay… here I go.”

Guess what happened?

She loosened up. The pressure disappeared. The painting was no longer precious—so she was free. She could create for the joy of creating.

Guess what else?

Yep. She did her best painting yet.

Sometimes surrendering is the best gift you can give yourself and your painting. It's freeing. Give it a try. I’d love to hear about your journey and where the muse leads your creativity when do.

Big Love,

Linda