Preparing Without Knowing
This week I stood at the edge of a lake, watching the wind push long plates of ice against one another—shifting, drifting, rearranging themselves without ever fully settling. The smaller lakes have surrendered to winter completely, but Lake Michigan is still in that threshold place, not frozen and not free, moving just enough to stay alive. There’s something I love about this in-between state, how it holds its shape while also letting itself be changed.
It made me think about the strange season I find myself in—how so much of preparation seems to happen before we can name what we’re preparing for.
These past weeks, I’ve noticed a kind of quiet restlessness beneath the surface of my days. Not anxiety, but attentiveness. A sense that something is forming, something I can’t see yet but feel just enough to make small shifts in how I move through the hours. It’s the kind of season that asks for both active and passive waiting: showing up, clearing space, taking the next step… and then letting the unseen work unfold on its own timeline.
The early stages of a painting, the underpainting, sketching, layering, look like “nothing” but will later matter in ways I can’t predict. I used to believe preparation required a plan—a clear vision, a defined goal, a map to follow. But winter keeps teaching me otherwise. The lake doesn’t know when it will freeze, yet it responds faithfully to each cold wind, each dropping temperature. The trees don’t know which branch will bloom first in May, yet they hold their energy quietly, doing the long work beneath the bark. Their preparation is instinctive, obedient to the smallest nudge, trusting that readiness matters more than certainty, just like in my painting.
So I’ve been practicing that kind of faith lately—tiny acts of readiness without demanding a guarantee. Rearranging a corner of the studio. Capturing a phrase before it evaporates. Gathering materials for a project that hasn’t yet introduced itself. Saying yes to something I can’t explain, or no to something I’ve outgrown, without needing to justify either one. It feels like standing with an ear turned toward the horizon, waiting for a whisper.
Maybe you’re in a similar place—doing the work of preparing without knowing what the preparation is for. Maybe there are nudges appearing quietly in your days: a thought that keeps returning, a desire with no clear expression yet, an unexpected shift in your attention. We don’t have to understand the whole picture to begin clearing space for it. Readiness is its own kind of faith. It tells life, “I’m here. I’m listening. I’ll follow what’s stirring, even if it hasn’t revealed its form.”
What small nudge is inviting your attention right now, even if you don’t yet know where it leads?
May these last days of January bring courage to prepare gently, faithfully, for what is already on its way to meet you.
