wintering

still, still, still

I have started this post about 5 times now. Maybe more. For the last several months, it has been a Herculean effort to sit down and write. Whenever I do sit, gloopey non-words trickle out.

Do I have time to write? Of course! Do I have every resource necessary to write? Of course! Very little is needed.

And yet it’s been…difficult. Uncomfortable. Apathetic. Confusing. Languid. Depressing. Unmotivated. Heavy. Lethargic.

The stir just isn’t there.

What exactly is this thing I’ve been wrestling with? Is it writer’s block? Depression? Something else? Accurate words elude me. I can’t pin it down. For the last 4(ish) months, I’ve had zero generative energy. I can’t bring myself to make stuff. I can’t even bring myself to attempt making stuff. The muses aren’t musing. It’s not that I’m dropping my pail and coming up empty. I’m not even dropping my pail.

My gut tells me to just ride this wave. Fighting with the muses, and certainly fighting with natural impulse, tends to result in more pain. The spirit of creativity always ebbs and flows. This just appears to be a particularly pronounced ebb. Deep and striking. I’m trying to just observe it. I’m also trying not to be afraid of it (emphasis: trying).

But of course that’s easier said than done.

My lizard brain heads into some fraught territory (what if I never write again, what if I never make anything again, am I a fraud, can I even call myself an artist, are my adventures behind me, time is ticking asshole). When this happens, I distract myself by chasing silver linings.

This period of unplanned respite has offered me space to consume, to reconnect, to be still. I’ve read a ton in the last few months. I’ve discovered TV shows, movies, and documentaries. I’ve been ruminating and pondering. But mostly I’ve just been being. I’ve been existing and living without much expectation for more. Family dinners, work, time with friends, laundry, working out. It’s all there.

Maybe there’s a reason for this period. Or maybe that’s just my brain trying to fabricate meaning where there is none. In either case, I want you to know, dear reader, that I’m still here. I’m just wintering.

And that’s okay.