I’ve written so much about intentionality. About noticing details. About hunting for delight and beauty and the miracles of everyday life at every turn. I love that. I live it. I love carving out creativity and time and mind space to seek the goodness of God in the mundane. To let the reality of our lives feed the writing and creativity that pours out of us. 

One of the all-time queens of writing, Anne Lammot, says this about the art of putting pen to paper: “Writing is the business of consciousness.” Of the noticing. Of staying awake to details and edges and realities of our days. Good writing isn’t about a made-up world—it’s a commitment to the raw reality before us. 

My question now, though, is what to do when consciousness and staying awake, alive, and fresh feel like a foreign concept. When we are so tired all we can do is crawl through the day and fall into bed at the end of it. When our brains aren’t functioning at full capacity—whether due to depression, overwhelm, intense stress, long-lasting sickness, etc. What do we do, then, when we feel like we can’t do much of anything but the bare minimum?

I don’t have the answer. I just have those questions—and more. What does creativity look like in those harder seasons when, scientifically, the creative quadrant of our brains isn’t firing on all cylinders? What do we do when we long to create, but physically and mentally, we are just hanging on? What do we do when we can’t do much of anything?

This isn’t necessarily an answer (I’m more of the still-learning, fully-stocked-with-questions girl), but more of a thought. For me, I’ve found the sweet spot of my writing is at the intersection of delight, noticing, creativity, and celebrating God’s beauty and presence in the daily, mundane parts of our lives. 

So I find myself in a conundrum when life feels less beautiful. When sickness and suffering and struggling to get through the days take center stage. Suddenly, writing about the details of my day—of the eight supplements I’m taking, the three cups of bone broth I down in attempts to minimize inflammation, the sudden stressy puzzle of when I’ll get to the grocery store if I’m too weak today?—feels so much less inspiring. It actually feels… depressing, dark, and possibly self-pitying. And those are the last ways I ever want my words or voice to sound.

So that’s my intersection of writing and questioning, wondering where to go from here, and trying to stay authentic and true to the core principles I so deeply believe in—delight, giving thanks for and noticing the small things, and consistency in how we show up to take care of our bodies, minds, and souls. 

I’m learning that this looks different in different seasons. How I create, how I notice—and what I’m noticing, to begin with—is different. The tide rises and falls, over and over again, mirroring the ebbs and flows of my health. My job isn’t to pretend things are perfect, easy, or oh-so-beautiful or that I’m live-laugh-loving through every moment. My job, pertaining to my writing and those core values I referenced above, is to stay true to my own life. To notice what’s happening right in front of me, the sights/sounds/smells around me, the lessons I’m learning, and the ways I see God moving. That’s all I can do. That’s how I stay authentic and true. My experiences and stories will certainly be different than yours, and that’s intentional. We need them all. 

If I had to answer this core question in a Sparknotes clip, I’d sum it up like this.

What do we do when we can’t do anything? 

We do what we can. We surrender to the reality that this isn’t how we want life to look right now. We wish things could be different, that we could do more. We must acknowledge that’s how we feel deep inside. And then we turn our face to the Lord and remember that He brought us here. He knew we’d be here on this exact day. We remember that He’s with us, for us, and in us. He’s not expecting us to move mountains, conquer the world, to make things sound better than they are. He just expects us to lean on Him as we move through the mountain of today, whatever that may look like for us. 

That’s all we do. That’s all we can do. Grace upon grace, day after day, minute by minute. 

So consider this my commitment to staying true to my life, to reality, and to what God is doing inside of me—through circumstances I love and situations I may not. Here’s to a commitment to consciousness and thanking God for carrying us through every season, high or low.