Seasons are a common subject in my writing. Like the theme of home, seasons have defined my life in more ways than one. There’s the joys and pains of each literal season- winter into spring, spring into summer, summer into fall, and fall into winter. The cycle of it, the archetypes.
Then there’s the stages of my life. I had written three years ago about how I felt like it was the summer of my life. Now I feel like I’ve come full circle once again. I’m not complaining.
Winter is not thought of fondly by many people. I’m not one of them. It happens to be my favorite. It’s stark beauty provides solace and comfort, even with the darkness and cold.
Today it represents my fallow season. My fields are sitting silent, quietly turning over their nutrients until I can produce again. My creativity is in hibernation.
I used to hate feeling this way. I fought it tooth and nail. If I wasn’t writing, who was I?
Not sure why- and I’m not questioning it- but I’m okay being unproductive at the moment. Oh, ideas are churning away. But my brain is choosing to catalog them and put them away.
Save them for the spring. When I’m ready to really grow. Germinate and put out roots that will grip and hold.
Until then I sleep. And dream of plot bunnies.