Creating Something From Nothing

How do you create something from nothing?‍

The first week of April, I danced — and perhaps wrestled at times — with this question.

Following a weeklong backcountry adventure in Patagonia National Park with Chulengo Expeditions, I settled into a cozy, one-room refugio at Alma Verde, a permaculture farm rooted in community and education just outside the tiny town of Puerto Guadal, Chile.

Saturday afternoon, as the autumn sun said farewell to a cloudless day and tucked itself behind the mountains, I folded my clothes on the trunk at the foot of the bed. I placed my toiletries on the evergreen-colored windowsill in the bathroom, and I stacked a book, my Kindle, my favorite pen, and two of my notebooks on the wooden desk in front of the window overlooking the lake, the mountains, and Puerto Guadal.

My two weeks in the heart of Chilean Patagonia were part of an artist residency created and hosted by Chulengo Expeditions. Over seven days and six nights in Patagonia National Park, I shared journal prompts with my fellow backpackers and our guide. Informally, during snack breaks or while cooking and eating dinner, we spoke about writing, storytelling, and creative nonfiction. Then, throughout a week at Alma Verde, I connected with a few local artists and entrepreneurs and spent a lot of time writing, reading, dreaming, and creating — with no real end goal.

My first night at Alma Verde, and every night that followed, I slept remarkably well. There was something to the peace, silence, and stillness of the nights — and mornings and days — there that suited me.

Sunday morning, I woke up, went to the bathroom, and attempted, unsuccessfully so, to start a fire in the wood-burning stove next to the desk. As the region sank into a deeper autumn slumber, the mornings grew brisk. Shrugging off a minor defeat with the fire, I prepared a mate, sat at the desk, and wrote my morning pages — at least three pages of freehand, stream-of-consciousness writing — in my journal. Outside, the autumn sun gradually warmed the lake, mountains, and town.

‍How do you create something from nothing?‍

That first morning, I wondered what I would create that week. I had a smattering of ideas. I’m honestly never short on ideas. But sitting with the ideas and allowing them to take shape and guide me — allowing them to tell me or show me what they want to become — is a practice in presence and patience.

For the first time in my adult life, my creative life, my professional life, I had a week to simply be where I was and to simply create what I felt called or moved to create. It’s an incredible gift, and at the same time, the blank slate without the guardrails of an assignment for a brand or publication felt intimidating and overwhelming.

I wrote. I tinkered. I explored. I didn’t overthink it.

Sitting at the desk of Alma Verde’s refugio, I allowed my pen to drift across the paper of my journal and my fingers to skip across the keys of my keyboard. I cast words and phrases and sentences and paragraphs at the page, not worrying about how “bad” or “good” they were, knowing I could sort through them later — be it that week, the following week, or much further down the road.

‍How do you create something from nothing?‍

The question lingered on Sunday and Monday, and then, I unknowingly let it go. It left. I don’t know if it was carried off with the simple breeze of that unseasonably rich week in Patagonia or if it set up camp in the ñire trees surrounding the refugio, quietly waiting for an opportune moment to waltz back in.

But on Wednesday, I woke up, went to the bathroom, and attempted, successfully so this time, to start a fire in the wood-burning stove next to the desk. I prepared a mate, sat at the desk, and wrote my morning pages in my journal. As the fire gradually warmed the refugio, my hands, and my being, I continued writing. Mid-morning, I paused and took a shower.

‍How do you create something from nothing?‍

Out of nowhere, this question dove back in. In my experience, a-ha moments seem to arrive in the shower, or in the swimming pool, or as you’re driving in the car, or while you’re somewhere where you cannot easily write them down.

That Wednesday, this question of how to create something from nothing purposely wafted back in, and that morning, four days later, I felt I had an understanding of an answer.

You see, creating something from nothing is a process, one I was living that week. That week, I was creating something — a lot of somethings — from nothing. I was living the answer to my question, and in truth, I relish the creative process. Frustrating as it can be at times, I actually love this process of creating something from nothing, and often, it takes the process itself to remind me of that.

For me, creating something from nothing is a process that cannot be forced or rushed. I must give it time. I must move slowly. Often, I must find a rhythm and let the “something” know that I am available to create it.

In my experience, the process of creating something from nothing involves, but is not limited to, living life, meeting new people, and visiting new places. Creating space, creating time. Dreaming, exploring, researching. Tinkering, tossing words on the page, writing it all down — no matter how “bad” or “good” it feels. Editing, refining, scrapping, starting over.

Get started. Step away. Come back. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

In my experience, the process of creating something from nothing also involves, and is certainly not limited to, sitting down, standing up, and walking around. Changing locations. Flipping through a book. Making a cup of tea, or preparing a mate. Plucking a stubborn chin hair … or a few. Sorting something that doesn’t need sorting. Trimming my nails. You get the idea.

Then, somewhere in all of this, when something emerges from nothing, I must be willing to record or write down inspiration as it washes over me, no matter when or where that is.

Late Wednesday morning, I started to connect some of the week’s pieces. In doing so, I came to realize that my time in the heart of Chilean Patagonia was about filling my creative basket. The expedition and residency were an invitation, an opportunity, and a permission slip for me to slow down and be more present with my writing and storytelling practice — as well as with myself, with the landscapes around me, and with the people around me.

I also realized that my residency — the creative process, the writing process — was like starting a fire. First, I have to gather cardboard, kindling, and wood. Then, bit by bit, once I’ve collected the pieces for the fire — the ideas and the words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs for the story — I can light a match. Then, little by little, I must nurture the spark that becomes a flame and grows into a fire — something to warm us, something to share, something to learn from or entertain us.

Later that week, when I left Alma Verde and Puerto Guadal, I did not have completed, polished pieces, and that’s okay. But I did fill my basket with cardboard, kindling, and wood for the days, weeks, months, and perhaps years ahead.

I moved through my time there with curiosity and openness — to connections, to conversations, to ideas, to stories, to ways of living — and laid foundations for stories to come. I collected ideas from beyond me and within me and placed them in the basket that is my notebook, both digital and physical, for future creations.

‍How do you create something from nothing?‍

You show up, sit down, have a conversation or two, walk around, put pen to paper, and savor and trust the process, however long it might take.