The Sand in the Paint: What Van Gogh and the Mississippi River Teach Us About Resilience

And why you're literally brand new

Photo by Falco Negenman on Unsplash

"No one ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and you’re not the same person." Heraclitus

Literally.

Take the river: I grew up alongside the Mississippi in southern Illinois. Every year my school bus drove a route on the Great River Road, which runs alongside the massive waterway.

If I had a nickel for every trip—from kindergarten through high school—I’d have… OK, only $234 but that’s not the point!

The point is that on that familiar daily bus ride, in between passing notes, gossiping with my BFF Nancy or reading one of the Little House on the Prairie books, I’d stare out the window. I came to know the river’s icy winter, churning spring, languid summer and debris-strewn fall very well. Bald eagles soared overhead; kingfishers poised on branches overhanging the water’s edge. It was a constant beautiful scene that changed every day.

I also saw something Heraclitus didn’t emphasize. While the water was always new, the river remained. The bald eagles and kingfishers returned to a constant scene that was, in fact, a miracle of perpetual motion.

We often think of ourselves as solid objects—like a statue. But biology tells a different story.

Your body is quietly very, very busy. It replaces about 330 billion cells every single day. An adult human body contains approximately 30 to 37 trillion human cells. Scale that up to a calendar year and the annual turnover is 120 trillion cells.

Personally, I don’t have time to count that high, but—do the math—this means that in a single year, your body produces enough new cells to replace your entire physical self three to four times over.

With 330 billion cells being swapped out today alone, you are less like a statue and more like that Mississippi River. You are a continuous, beautiful pattern made of ever-changing parts. By the time you finish this year, your body produces enough new cells to physically “replace” yourself three to four times over.

Clone alert!

Well, no, because 80% to 90% of the “stuff” that was you last year has been physically discarded and replaced by new atoms.

The Question of “So What?”

If we are constantly being “swapped out,” what stays behind? What is the “you” that remains while the atoms move on?

Here’s one idea from Van Gogh’s View of the Sea at Scheveningen. (I first saw the painting on that fateful trip where I discovered Jo van Gogh, but that’s another story.)

One of the most powerful examples of Vincent van Gogh’s resilience occurred during his time in The Hague between 1881 and 1883. He was living in extreme poverty, often surviving on nothing but bread, coffee, and tobacco so that he could afford more tubes of paint.

During this period, Vincent became obsessed with capturing the raw power of the North Sea. One afternoon, a massive storm rolled in. While other artists retreated indoors, Vincent dragged his heavy easel, canvases, and gear onto the beach at Scheveningen.

The wind was so fierce it nearly knocked him over. The air was thick with flying sand and salt spray. He had to anchor his easel deep into the beach, at times holding it in place with one hand, while painting with a feverish intensity.

As he painted, the wind pelted his wet canvas with sand. Instead of wiping it off or giving up, Vincent painted the sand right into the waves—physically capturing evidence of the storm.

When he returned to his cramped studio, Vincent was soaked to the bone and shivering, but he had captured View of the Sea at Scheveningen. Even today, if you look closely at the original painting in the Van Gogh Museum, you can still see tiny grains of sand embedded in the thick layers of oil paint—permanent evidence of a man who refused to let poverty or nature stop his hands.

View of the Sea at Scheveningen, Van Gogh (1882)

He clamped his easel into the sand. He didn’t just paint the storm; he let the storm paint him. When the wind hurled sand into his wet oils, he didn’t wipe it away. He worked it in. He turned the interference of the world into the texture of his work.

The Sand in Your Paint

As you enter 2026, you are a “new you” biologically, but you carry the persistent pattern of your experiences. People like us know that like Van Gogh’s canvas, our lives have sand in them—gritty moments, storms, and debris-strewn seasons along our own personal river roads—yet, that this friction is the grist of wisdom.

I love the idea that I am renewed constantly. It opens the door to possibility.

Here’s my reality check: I have some “wins” and some “not yets.”

For example, since publishing my book in April 2025 I haven’t yet determined my Book 2. I want to write it, but for each subject I’ve come across and start to research, so far I’ve ultimately rejected each one. I am plugging away. Won’t give up for each idea is a fresh chance.

Another example: For years I’ve noticed an encroaching weight gain. Yet, a neighbor’s example, a friend’s conversation about her diet change, my daughter’s encouragement this past year all led to modifying how I enjoy food. The result is a very gradual 20 pound loss. And yes, I am lighter physically but mentally too.

My third note: My bugaboo is driving hard like a workaholic maniac. Progress for me is remembering each day carries a new opportunity to pay attention, notice the tendency, take a walk, book a workout with a trainer. Step away from the desk.

So, just because a behavior is deeply engrained, remember, it’s all subject to a massive “swap out.” And here’s the cool thing: I’m noticing that the quality of willingness creates an optimizing thrust toward progress.

A beautiful perpetual massive momentum of sloughing off the old and building resilience.

So, I’m doing my best to welcome my 2026 newness, striving hard to anchor, to welcome the storm, to say “yes” to change as it invites me. And you?

Look at that: You’ve brought a new you into 2026 too.

Warmly,