I've spent a good part of January in quiet reflection. I'm experiencing a season in my life where being withdrawn from the crowd is all that really appeals to me. No shows. No tours. No lights, camera, action. Just me and the coos of a squishy little blue-eyed baby.
I recognize this season. Considering the periods of creativity in my life, there is a time when I gather ideas and sow seeds. In time, those ideas come to life and yield fruit. Next, the anticipated harvest rolls in, spilling forth a ripe cornucopia. I reap that harvest until there is no more, and thus enter an inevitable state of exhaustion where I know I must go within and rest, lest I perish. And thus, I rest.
Drop by drop, I fill a creative well that has run dry. A stroll through an art exhibit. Drip. A walk through powdery, new snow. Drop. Twenty minutes spent with my nose in a juicy essay. Drip, drip.
At the start of the new year, I pondered what lofty goals I should aim for. But all I kept coming up with was a blank stare. I've gone to the piano, feeling my way around the keyboard for a hint of an idea. Nothing. I've opened my laptop to write a blog post about a dozen times. Each attempt felt so labored, it hurt. Emails have come filing in with requests for performances and charitable fundraisers. "C'mon compassionate self! Throw me a bone!" Turns out, even my compassion needs a break.
Am I selfish? No. I'm just empty.
This year is my year to fill the well. Hello classic movies, jaunts to the museum, visits to the library, spontaneous vacations, art projects and newly acquired hobbies. Now and then, I'll share with you what I've been filling the well with and I'll be looking to you and your blogs for inspiration as well. Drip, drop. Pitter-pat. Sploosh.