Keys, Maps, Stories and the Stuff We Mistake for Truth

Is That Real, or Did You Just Make It Up?

Not long ago, while sipping chai in the quiet of dawn, listening to the melodies call of the cuckoo, sensing the cool wind and noticing sky lightening up before the sunrise, I found myself chuckling at the absurdity of something I had believed for years.

That if I did'nt have competence, clarity and knowledge, I wasn’t worth much in life. 

It was so embedded, so normalized, I hadn’t even noticed it whispering through my choices: the guilt of not knowing, the urge to explore, discover, read, research, learn and the subtle shame whenever someone asked something and I didnt have the Answer to.

I used to call it being “smart.” But really, it was a quiet a construct and a contract I’d signed long ago that value equals competence, that knowing equals wisdom, and that expertise must be earned and yes "I am Eneagram type 5

And that morning, something softened.

I Smiled, I laughed. Because suddenly, the idea felt… made up. Constructed. Inherited. Definitely not reality.

Just a well lit streetlamp where I’d been searching for a key I never lost.

And then it hit me: So much of our suffering isn’t from life itself, but from how we construct life inside our heads. and then there was this lightness and delight. 

So today, I invite you to join me in exploring something deep, tender and wild, the strange terrain of meaning making, the invisible architecture of our beliefs, and how we turn stories into structures. Let’s gently question what’s real, what’s useful, and what might just be a well lit streetlamp, a seemling true illusion.

And lets summon the master of paradox "Mulla Nasruddin" to join us on this journey.

 “Constructs, Keys, and the Call for Actuality”

One day, Mulla Nasruddin was seen frantically searching for something under a streetlamp.

A kind passerby stopped to help. “What are you looking for, Mulla?”

“My key,” he replied.

“Where did you lose it?”

“In my house.”

“Then why are you looking here?”

“Because the light is better here!”

We smile. And then we realize. We do the same thing.

We search for clarity in the places where it’s convenient to look: in ideas, identities, well-phrased mantras, and Google-able solutions. But the truth? The real key? It’s usually lying in the dimmer, messier, more tender corners of ourselves. We reach for ready made meanings because they shine. They are easier to see. But are they real?

Where did you loose your key?, and what are the well lit places you look for them?

CONSTRUCTS

Humans are meaning making machines. We don't just see a flower. We see “Beauty,” “Symbolism,” “a potential Instagram post,” or “a metaphor for impermanence.” That’s the gift (and the curse) of having a mind that doesn’t just perceive, but interprets.

What is a construct?

To me, a construct is like mental furniture. It gives shape and comfort to our inner room. It’s useful until we start bumping into the edges in the dark.

We construct meaning from language, culture, trauma, upbringing, identity. We say things like:

• “This is who I am.”

• “This is how love works.”

• “Time is money.”

• “I must be competent to be valuable.”

• “I must be productive to be valuable.”

None of these are inherently wrong. But they’re also not truth. They’re approximations. Maps, not territory. And when we forget this distinction, when we confuse the metaphor with the message. We suffer.

A “construct” is like a pair of tinted glasses. Through them, we make sense of the world. Time is a construct. So is money. So is Tuesday. Even the idea that "I am a serious person" is often a construct, especially if you believe it while watching youtube videos at 2 a.m.

Constructs aren’t the problem. The problem arises when we forget we’re wearing glasses and assume what we see is raw reality. That’s reification, the magical act of turning an idea into a “concrete thing.” And once a thought hardens into “truth,” it becomes sacred, immovable, often unquestioned.

Reification: Turning Thought into Concrete

Reification is what happens when a passing thought gets promoted to “truth” and handed a badge of authority.

It’s how “I made a mistake” quietly becomes “I am a failure.”
It’s how “That person rejected me” turns into “I’m unlovable.”
It’s how “People like me don’t…” becomes a spiritual prison.

It’s the magician’s illusion. But we’re both the audience and the one pulling the rabbit from the hat.

When a Thought Becomes a Thing

Think of childhood. You may have once believed that stepping on a crack would break your mother’s back. (Some of us still walk like tip-toeing ninjas on sidewalks.) Over time, we outgrow these beliefs or so we think.

But how many such hidden "cracks" still structure our adult lives? “I must be productive to be worthy.” “This is how love should look.” “People like me don’t succeed.” These aren’t facts. They’re culturally flavored thought objects we carry around like emotional baggage.

Or take the construct of time: A clock is helpful when you’re baking bread. But if you start measuring your worth by how many things you did by 5 PM, the clock has turned tyrant.

Let’s Pause: What Inside You Is a Construct?

Is your name a construct?
Your job?
Your idea of success?
The way you think love should feel?

Don’t rush to answer. Let it come like rain drops, soft, steady, surprising and flowing 

Mulla and the Emperor’s Clothes

Once, Nasruddin stood in front of a mirror looking very pleased.

"Why are you so happy, Mulla?" someone asked.

"I just realized that no matter how many clothes I wear, I am still me. But oh, how easily others get fooled."

Clothes, like beliefs, are fine, until we forget we’re wearing them. Then we start mistaking the robe for the soul. We dress up in roles of a boss, a victim, a healer, a rebel. And we forget these are costumes, not our essence.

Useful Constructs, Not So Useful Ones, and the Ones We Never Question

Some constructs are undeniably helpful. A “queue” outside a bakery is a construct and it keeps things civil (some of the time). Language itself is a stunningly complex construct that allows us to say things like, “I love you,” or “Please don’t microwave fish in the office kitchen.”

But not all constructs age well.

Take the idea that “success means more” more money, more recognition, more LinkedIn achievements. This belief may have helped fuel ambition once upon a time. But try fitting your soul into that little checkbox of success, and suddenly you’re spiritually claustrophobic.

Or “men shouldn’t cry.” That’s not just a cultural script. It’s an emotional straitjacket disguised as masculinity. We inherit these constructs like antique furniture, never questioning whether they suit our current home.

When Constructs Turn into Cages

There’s a story where Mulla Nasruddin walks into a shop, holding a tightly closed jar.

“What’s in it?” the shopkeeper asks.

“My imagination,” says Nasruddin.

The shopkeeper, curious, opens the jar. “It’s empty!”

“Exactly,” Nasruddin replies. “That’s why it’s limitless.”

The tragedy is, we often do the opposite, we trap our imagination inside a jar labeled “the way things are.” That’s how constructs become cages. We shrink possibility into predictability.

And then we suffer, not because of what’s happening, but because we’re fighting to keep our mental jar intact even as life begs us to open it.

So, What is ‘Actuality’?

What is actuality?

Not the story about the breath but the breath itself.
Not the label “grief” but the sensing ache that moves through the ribs.
Not the idea of silence but the stillness humming between thoughts.

Actuality doesn’t need defending. It doesn’t shout. It simply is.

And here’s the strange thing: when we stop narrating life, life becomes more vivid. A leaf is just a leaf. The wind doesn’t need to be profound to be holy.

Actuality is not a concept. It’s not something you can pin to a board, write in a tweet, or define in a sentence (though I’m about to try).

Actuality is what remains when constructs fall silent. It’s the raw experience before meaning rushes in like a nosy aunt trying to narrate everything. It’s the sound of rain, not the thought “I love rain.” 

If constructs are the clothes, actuality is the nakedness underneath, not indecent, but innocent.

Alan Watts once said, “The menu is not the meal.” Actuality is the meal, the hot, messy, delicious, unrepeatable bite of life. Constructs are just helpful (or not) descriptions of the dish. They are like contrstuted Maps but not the Territoy. 

How Do We Tell the Difference?

Here’s a litmus test: A construct will feel heavy when it’s mistaken for truth. It will demand obedience. “You must do this.” “This has to happen.” “People should be like that.”

Actuality, on the other hand, feels light, even when it's hard. It's immediate. It doesn’t argue. It just is.

Here’s how I sense the difference between a construct and actuality:

• Constructs speak in “shoulds.” Actuality speaks in sensations.

• Constructs feel rigid. Actuality feels alive even if it's uncomfortable.

• Constructs are echoed by the mind. Actuality is revealed through presence.

Let yourself drop beneath the noise. Your body knows. Your breath knows. Your Presence knows.

Another clue? Constructs are often wordy. Actuality is often silent. It is directly known by the senses, lives in the body, in breath, in presence. You don’t need a story to feel the wind on your face or the raindrop on your skin. Actuality is a Direct Experreince without the interpretation. 

Letting Go With a Wink, Not a War

Letting go of a construct doesn’t mean demonizing it. It means holding it like a dance partner, not a prison guard. Respect it. Thank it. Retire it if needed.

There’s a story where Nasruddin was caught throwing breadcrumbs around his house.

“Why are you doing that?” a neighbor asked.

“To keep the tigers away,” said Nasruddin.

“There are no tigers here!”

“See? It’s working.”

We all have breadcrumbs, old habits, coping mechanisms, inherited beliefs that once made sense. But do they still serve us? Or are they just rituals we repeat out of fear?

Some of our beliefs are just like that. Once we spot them, we don’t need to fight them. Just a smile of recognition is enough. Letting go isn’t always a grand awakening. Sometimes, it’s a chuckle and a gentle placing down of what no longer serves.

I’ve learned that letting go of constructs doesn’t need a ceremony. Or a spiritual Instagram quote. Or a 21-day program.

It just needs awareness.
A gentle smile
A breath to sense the shift
A noticing that the construct helped all way till now

A Acknowledgement of its role to step up and how it protected/ amde it safe

Acknowledgement of the needs it took care all the time. 

Assurance that now you can take care of yourself. 

And Gratitude for its role and 

Finally allowing it to rest for now.

Sometimes I just whisper inwardly, “Grateful for your Service, You can rest now” and I feel something loosen up.

And I have a new dilemma Now. What do I do with the 3000 books I had accumulated all these years and maybe even that needs a soft letting go..

 

In the End, You Are Not the Construct

You are not your opinions, not your personality type, not even your Enneagram number (sorry, fellow 5s). You’re not your trauma, not your job title, not your spiritual identity.

You are what’s aware of all of that.

When you stop taking your thoughts too seriously, they start dancing instead of marching. When you stop defending your constructs, your reality becomes more fluid. And in that fluidity, truth emerges. Not as a fixed point, but as a living presence.

The Real Treasure

Once, Nasruddin was asked where the real treasure of life could be found.

He said, “I once buried it under a tree… then forgot which tree. So now I look under every tree, and that has made all the difference.”

Maybe that’s the point.

There’s something beautiful in that.

We may not know where the “truth” is. But we can become the kind of seekers who look under everything with curiosity, not certainty.

Because the real treasure is not found, it’s revealed. In the undoing. In the unlearning. In the playful, earnest, ongoing inquiry into what’s actually here.

To keep looking, not for more constructs to polish, but for the ground beneath them. To live with curiosity instead of certainty. To sense, feel and love what’s true, even when we don’t have words for it.

And to laugh, often, especially at ourselves and the constructs we can create. 

A Gentle Invitation

I don’t write this as someone who has figured it out. I write as one who has become suspicious of his own conclusions. As someone who once tried to construct his way into comptence and freedom and now prefers to sit in the presence of what’s unconstructed.

If something in this piece made a crack in your certainty good. That’s where the light gets in.

If something brought relief, may it stay.

And if something felt unusual and unclear, don’t worry. Mulla would probably say you’re asking better questions now.

This piece is also my own soft letting go of sounding wise, of being “right,” of the idea that clarity must look a certain way. It is my way of  not knowing, being curious and honoring the mystery, with presence, laughter and breath.

May we all find the courage to pause, question, and look under different trees.

With presence

Diyanat