The Quiet Work of Being Ready

A reflection on perseverance, preparation, and devotion

Some mornings the words meet me. Other mornings, like today, I have to chase them down the page. I read the same passage three times just to stay with it, and even then, my psyche and my soul feel like they’ve stepped out of the room. The eyes move, the pages turn, but I am glazed over, not fully present. I’ve spent much of my life being hard on myself for these gaps—for not being spiritually “on” all the time. Lately, I’m learning to be gentler. To respect where I am even when devotion feels more like obligation. Even when the practice has slipped into routine and the heart hasn’t quite caught up yet.

This morning’s reading from the Tao landed that way—quietly, almost flat—and yet it stayed with me. On page 43, under Perseverance, it speaks of the fisherman who prepares his nets even when the sea is closed. He mends what is torn, repairs what is worn, studies the water and the conditions. And only then—when the preparation is complete—does fishing become almost a formality. The fish arrive as if guided by invisible lines. What struck me most was the reminder that preparation is the major part of the endeavour, not ot the harvest, not the visible outcome. The quiet, repetitive work done long before anything seems to be happening.

Lately, much of my life has felt like task rather than devotion. Get the paperwork done. Check the boxes. Move on to a future moment where I can finally return to what I love—my spiritual journey, my writing, my work as a wounded healer..but that future never arrives. And just like the fisherman, the work that feels monotonous—mending, maintaining, preparing—is actually what allows the sacred moment to happen when the conditions finally align.

This lesson showed up again in my work recently. I was with a client who creates candles and speaks about the light they are meant to bring into the world. And I found myself needing to say something difficult but true. Candles, crystals, talismans—they are not the source of light. They are the net. The light comes from the one who prepares them. If the inner work hasn’t been done, if the psyche is fragmented, if addiction is running the show, if the energy is ungrounded—then whatever is created will carry that imprint, no matter how beautiful the object appears. The preparation matters more than the act itself.

Just as the fisherman doesn’t wait for perfect weather to mend his nets, the work of grounding, cleansing, praying, journaling and aligning the inner world cannot be skipped. That is the preparation of the inner net. Only when that net is tended – even on days when the heart isn’t fully in it – does the act itself become sacred. And at that point, the rest is no longer up to us. Then it belongs to nature, to the cosmos, to synchronicity, to the laws of action and reaction – mystical and quantum – forever overlapping. That’s when the fish arrive as if guided by invisible lines. The Boy Scout motto was always “be prepared.” I learned it while playing Barbies in the corner as my mother led meetings, and it never really left me. It echoes again in the words attributed to Jesus when he calls the fishermen and tells them, “I will make you fishers of men.” Stay ready. The needs of humanity are endless. The nets will be filled. And they must be strong enough to hold whatever is gathered—grief, suffering, stories, unhealed wounds.

This morning I wasn’t particularly inspired. I wasn’t especially present. I was just showing up. And maybe that, too, is devotion. Maybe the sacred act is continuing to prepare—even when the sea is closed, even when the heart feels numb, even when it all feels like drudgery—trusting that when the moment comes, we will be ready. So this is my prayer today: Hover within me, God. Help me finish the work that weighs on me. Help me tend the net—inwardly and outwardly—with patience and care. Let me not be caught off guard when the moment arrives….Amen.