I've been in this weird creative rut lately; perhaps it's not a creative rut but simply that there are a lot of changes going on right now. Normally, change is when I find myself writing, but this time, this time things are different.
But suddenly when I woke up, I felt inspired in the way I only feel at this time of year. It's cold. It's dark. You study the light glowing through the window and realize how sacred it is. You pull you socks extra high, tuck in your undershirt and sip on a cup of tea. Things are sleepy and a bit gloomy, and I suppose it's in this meloncholy I find both rest and restoration.
My relationship with photos is different than it used to be. I feel less inclined to capture the moment and more inclined to simply gaze at the moment and breathe it all in while it lasts. The credenza in my living room, the plant that sits on top, the spinning record and burning candle. It's a still life that I can photograph to remember or it's a still life I can sit in front of and contemplate the reality of its existence, my existence. It is here. It is now. I am now.
Which brings me to words, and why I love words. They aren't digestible in the way photographs are, the ones we see on Instagram and mindlessly scroll past, catching only a glimpse of life here and life there. With words, you can't scroll past. They either don't exist and are merely dark shapes and negative space, or, they become an entire new world.
Here in my home, I create an entire new world. I learn to play the ukulele and even pick up our old guitar. I play piano on my iPad until we find both the money and space for a real piano. My office is no longer my office, but a new room, slowly filling with new things for a new human I have yet to meet and yet who knows me possibly more intimately than I know myself.
It's the time of year where things slow, things quiet, things sleep. The solitude and the silence: space created in order to let new things grow. But first, rest. We rest.