We will never see the whole mountain by standing and looking at the ground.
From the base, all we can observe are details: the cracks in the rock, the lines of grass, the grains of sand scattered underfoot. But the sand is not the mountain.
The closer we stare, the more infinite the detail becomes. We can lose ourselves in studying every grain, and yet the form escapes us.
To glimpse the mountain itself, we must climb. Each step upward shifts perspective. From a ledge, we see valleys and ridges that were invisible below. Higher still, the horizon expands and patterns emerge. And yet—even then—the summit lies hidden in the clouds.
The search for knowledge works the same way.
Looking down grants us precision, but not vision. Looking up offers vision, but never completion. The whole can never be grasped from one place alone.
So the question is not whether the mountain will finally be revealed, but whether we are willing to climb—again and again—knowing that every height reached is only another foothill.
“The sand is not the mountain. To see its shape, we must climb—again and again—knowing that every summit is only another foothill.”