Preparing for What You Cannot See Coming

How I Find Readiness By Dancing With The Unknown

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I often wake up with the feeling that I should be getting ready for something, though I haven’t the faintest idea what it is. It’s not an appointment, not a deadline, not a trip. But something stirs in the marrow of my bones, whispering, “Prepare.”

Prepare for what?

That’s the rub, isn’t it? How does one prepare for the unseen, the unexpected, the nebulous currents of fate swirling just beyond the horizon of consciousness?

The modern mind seeks clarity, bullet points, and a five-step plan. But life, like the Tao, doesn’t operate on bullet points. It moves like water, reshaping the riverbed with each passing moment.

It is the Hermetic riddle—“As above, so below”—reminding us that preparation isn’t just about the outer world but the inner one, too.

I’ve sat with this question over a bowl of lentils (because all deep pondering deserves sustenance). Lentils—humble, unassuming, always prepared to be what they need to be. If tossed into a pot, they will soften into a soup. If left dry, they wait in quiet patience.

Perhaps I should take my cue from them.

But no, the mind insists, I must do something. Ready myself. Fortify. Pack the proverbial bags for an unnamed journey.

This is where the Hermeticist in me chuckles, because the trick of preparation is knowing that all is mind. Readiness is less about stockpiling tools and more about attuning the instrument of the self.

Lao Tzu whispers, “Do nothing, and nothing will be left undone.”

Hermes Trismegistus grins, “The All is Mind.”

And yet here I am, tightening my metaphorical shoelaces, expecting… what?

Ambulating In Empty-Handed Readiness

In Taoism, there is a concept of wu wei, effortless action. It does not mean laziness. Rather it means being so attuned to the flow of life that one acts in perfect harmony with it, neither resisting nor forcing.

It is the archer who does not aim, the dancer who does not count steps, the monk who sweeps the courtyard without thought of the courtyard.

In Hermeticism, this principle resonates as the idea that to change the outer world, one must first change the inner. The mind is the loom upon which reality is woven. If I am to prepare, it is not by clutching at external certainties, but by cultivating the kind of mind that can meet the uncertain with grace.

But this is tricky business, because the modern world has conditioned us otherwise. We equate readiness with accumulation—knowledge, resources, backup plans. We bunker down with contingency strategies, convinced that if we just hedge our bets well enough, we can outmaneuver the cosmic trickster of the unknown.

Yet all great sages seem to suggest the opposite. The true adept does not hoard provisions but instead sharpens their ability to walk lightly. If you know how to move with the wind, you need not fear the storm. If you know how to rest in the center of your being, you will always be home, no matter where life takes you.

Practical Foolishness

So I’ve decided to train myself in the fine art of empty-handed readiness. I adopt the stance of the sage-fool, embracing paradox. I make preparations that are not preparations, plans that do not cling to themselves.

☄️ I practice standing in the unknown without rushing to fill it with noise.

☄️ I meditate—not to become enlightened, but to befriend silence.

☄️ I stretch—not to become more flexible, but to remind my body that it is part of the great unfolding.

☄️ I read the I Ching, flip a coin, and laugh when I get Hexagram 29—The Abysmal. “Water flows downward,” it tells me. “Follow its lead.”

And so I do.

At the end of the day, I realize that preparation for the unknown is less about readiness and more about trust. The kind of trust that says, “Whatever is coming, I’ll meet it as I am.” The kind that knows life is a riddle where sometimes the answer is simply to keep breathing.

I still don’t know what I’m preparing for. But I feel ready. Or at least, ready to not be ready.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

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