A couple months ago, an aquaintance, whom I met through a sci-fi fantasy writers group on facebook, found she had a non-cancerous cyst in her brain. I won't call it benign even though that would be technically correct because it wasn't cancer and she did not face chemo and radiation. Benign implies no problem. But the symptoms ahead of time were disorienting and disconcerting to say the least, and the recovery was hard work, and on going.

In facebook posts, she lamented that she couldn't write. Her brain just wouldn't do it. People lamented with her, encouraged patience. She pressed on and eventually posted the first few bits she had written for her next novel. There are intriguing situations and powerful descriptions in her posts. She is on the way.

I thought about her because for much less serious and long-term reasons, my brain turned to mush the last few days, and this is the first writing I've done. For me it was stress and busy-ness, worry and tiredness. All things that will be dealt with in time. But with my head so heavy and blurry, I had no desire to do anything. All I accomplished were things that had to get done. I told myself the rest--weeds in the garden, lawn cutting, major house cleaning, getting bales in the barn--would happen in their own time.

Maybe the length of the to-do list was part of why my brain turned off. On a good day, that list could be overwhelming (and I didn't even mention barn cleaning, clipping pasture and the edge of hay fields, pointing the house...). Good thing I'm on holiday.

Do you remember a time when your brain turned off? Many different experiences can turn our head to what I describe as mush. A headache shuts down our ability to see clearly, to think. We feel trapped in a difficult, painful situation that we cannot see a way out of. A huge task at work that is overwhelming in its scope means we can't see how to tackle it, where to begin. Perhaps you have had an illness that took over, not only the part of the body that struggled, but your whole ability to think. For some, anxiety does this regularly, or another kind of mind illness makes it hard to think, hard to distinguish the world inside and out.

We cannot just shake our head to clear it. People tell us to just get going, but even if we don't physically see double, we can't see our choices, our path. Creative projects, ordinary tasks, become hard to start, difficult to complete. When we can't see our way forward or feel confident about our next steps, it is hard to take even one.

So sometimes we have to just sit still. Sometimes we have to do nothing. Or maybe not nothing. Because waiting is something. Waiting until something clears, or meds kick in, or our body heals is not doing nothing. Waiting requires us to be patient and accepting. Waiting can be hard work as we postpone what we want to do and do only what we have to do.

When we can, we then break down the task into little pieces. Break off one little chunk that is do-able. Take on one small part of the whole job that awaits us. When we don't feel like doing anything, the laundry feels like an impossible task. Getting a single load done, however, is a real accomplishment and much more do-able. Writing one paragraph is great. Weeding one patch of the garden is a good thing. Feeding the lambs in the barn, my next task, is manageable, important, and valued, especially by the lambs.

LaoTzi, the Taoist master, wrote that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. In fact, the only way to begin any kind of journey is with a single step. So just put one foot in front of the other. It is the only way to move in the fog, the only way to get through.

Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister, and writer living near Walters Falls.