Building Something Beneath the Surface
The Hidden, Creative Work of Rest, Observation, and Daydreaming
Rest Is Not Empty
Lately, I’ve been thinking about rest.
I had a very busy month in May with a lot of doctor visits and physical therapy twice a week. My body kept going into flares after my PT days, and I was just exhausted.
I wanted June to be much more restful, despite life still “happening”.
The rest I’ve been thinking about is the kind that’s not treated as a reward but the kind that my body simply needs.
My body has been asking for more rest than I’d like to give it. It’s asking for more naps, more slow mornings without rushing out the door, and more days when I accomplish less than I planned.
For a while, I viewed that as lost time. But lately, I’ve been wondering if something else is happening during those hours of rest. Maybe rest isn’t empty after all.
The Creative Work Nobody Sees
When we think about creativity, we usually picture the visible parts.
We think about writing words on a page or painting an illustration. We think about finishing projects and publishing books. We make lists and constantly check things off lists.
Those things certainly matter. But creativity begins long before that.
It happens long before the first draft, before the outline, and before the sketch.
There is another stage that often goes unnoticed. It’s a season of collecting, observing, and simply paying attention.
And lately, that’s where I’ve been living.
Lessons from Peregrine Falcons
Last Saturday, I gave an author talk about my picture book, Clock Tower Falcons: Discover the Peregrines of Bowling Green, Ohio. One of the ideas I shared was that observation is the first step to discovery. Before scientists can learn, before artists can create, and before writers can tell stories, someone has to notice something worth paying attention to. And paying attention leads to caring and protecting.
The peregrine falcons in our courthouse clock tower invite us to slow down and pay attention, year after year.
Next week, I’ll be sharing that story again at a community block party event. As I’ve prepared for these talks, I’ve realized the lesson applies to creativity, too. We often want to jump straight to making. But creativity frequently begins much earlier, with slowing down enough to observe the world around us.
The Mourning Doves Above the Laundry Room
A pair of mourning doves has built a nest on top of the light outside the laundry room at my apartment complex. A few weeks ago, I watched them build it, twig by twig.
Of all the places they could have chosen, they decided that was home.
Every time I walk by, I find myself looking up. I wonder what they see.
I imagine them watching the steady parade of residents carrying laundry baskets in and out. I imagine them observing our strange human habits with the same curiosity I feel toward them.
The more I’ve noticed them, the more a story has begun to form.
It’s not a complete story or even a planned project. It’s just a small spark of an idea. It’s a possibility, and a seed that may grow.
That’s often how creativity arrives, isn’t it? It’s not through force; it’s through noticing.
Daydreaming Has a Purpose
Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that daydreaming is unproductive.
We should be doing something. We should make something or finish something.
But creative people know that daydreaming serves a purpose.
It’s where you can try out ideas, and it’s where connections are made.
This is where a passing observation turns into a story, an illustration, or an article months later.
When I’m resting, my mind often wanders. (Finally, my lack of focus can serve a purpose!)
Sometimes it drifts toward future books. Sometimes it revisits old memories. Sometimes it simply watches the birds outside the window.
From the outside, it may look like nothing is happening. But inside, ideas are finding one another.
Seeds Grow Underground
A seed spends a long time doing invisible work. For a while, nothing appears to happen at all. There is a lot of waiting and hoping.
Yet beneath the surface, roots are forming. Growth is already underway. Creative ideas are often the same.
We live in a culture that celebrates visible progress. We celebrate and focus on awards, announcements, book launches, results, sales growth, personal bests, etc.
But much of the creative process happens underground.
Ideas incubate, and experiences settle. Questions linger and connections form.
By the time we finally sit down to create something, the work has often been happening for weeks or months without us realizing it. Isn’t that amazing?
Resting Is Not the Opposite of Creating
This realization has been changing the way I think about difficult seasons.
When pain limits what I can do, it’s easy to feel like creativity has been placed on hold.
But perhaps that’s not entirely true.
While I’m resting, I’m noticing. While I’m healing, I’m collecting. While I’m waiting, I’m listening.
I watch the falcons circling above the courthouse.
I observe the mourning doves outside the laundry room.
I cherish the memories that return unexpectedly and the questions that refuse to leave.
All of it becomes part of the creative well I draw from later.
Rest is not the opposite of creativity. Sometimes it’s where creativity begins.
A Different Kind of Creative Work
Right now, my body needs more rest than I would prefer.
There are appointments to recover from, energy to rebuild, and pain to navigate.
But I’ve started to notice that rest isn’t empty. While I rest, stories are gathering, and ideas are taking root. Future projects are finding their shape.
The falcons are growing up right now in our courthouse clock tower. The mourning doves tend to their nest.
And perhaps I am building something, too.
Not with my hands...not yet.
But somewhere beneath the surface, ideas are gathering, roots are growing, and a future story is taking shape.
What have you been noticing lately?
Maybe it’s a bird outside your window, a plant on your porch, something you notice on a familiar walk, or a small detail you’ve passed a hundred times before.
I’d love to hear what you’ve been observing during your own restful seasons.
This was such a beautiful and fulfilling read. Thank you, Susan.