Hello everyone,
It has been quite a while since I have written a blog post about anxiety and the creative process. The reason for this is simple, yet the underlying causes are far more complex: I have been in a creative rut of sorts. Anthony, this blog's founder, is a constant source of inspiration for me because he produces art at a speed that I can only dream of; conversely, I had to admit to myself that I am a slow and deliberate writer. I don't start a project or a blog post without a sense of direction or without some sort of theme in mind. This particular post is about the chill of winter, and how at times it reaches into you with icy hands and freezes your core.
It is ironic to me that cabin fever is associated with winter because of the imagery of internally burning, or feeling hot, while the external world is covered in cold snow. This concept applies to my creative rut. At some point in my life I made a strange transition from being an outdoorsman to an indoorsman. I'm not sure when this change occurred, but it happened (this post is proof of that) and it has affected me in a profound way. Any time I got stuck on a story idea or a particular scene in a novel I wrote, I would drive to the Pisgah National Forest and walk one of the many trails available to the public. On this trail my mind would jettison all extraneous thoughts and ideas that swarm and sting my consciousness into the canopies of the trees. Since my transition to indoorsman, those thoughts don't get evacuated from my mental landscape. I don't have those regular "tabula rasa" moments anymore. It is especially difficult to wipe the slate clean in winter because even if I desired to go on a walk in the forest, it would be too cold to do so. Sure, I could suck it up and face the sharp, needle-like air of my mountainous surroundings, but that would do nothing but cause more thoughts to manifest such as "am I going to freeze to death out here?" "Man it's cold. I should go back to the car."
In consequence, I have been stuck with the agitated thought-hive for quite some time, and it's filled to the brim with frenzied ideas. Internally, I'm as hot as magma, ready to burst, ready to burn the ground and singe the soil; externally, I'm chilled by a cold snap that ensnared me and turned my skin to ice.
Winter is a season of death and hibernation. Trees shed their leaves, flowers their pedals, grasses their colors. In turn, winter should be a season of culling--of removing the old, decrepit ideas and lifestyles and replacing them with new and beneficial ones. May I direct the court's attention to New Year's Resolutions? The only reason this is true is due to the fact that human beings are habitual creatures. We love our habits. We cling to them like Jack clings to the door at the end of The Titanic. But just like Jack, we must release our hold on the door, and float into the chilly, dark waters of uncertainty because when we sink deep enough, we break through to the light of new life. Winter is the season of death and hibernation, but it's followed by Spring: the season of rebirth and rejuvenation.
Spring is the hope to which all winter fears are tethered. Were it not for spring, winter would be the end of a lot of us. And it is due to the brutality of winter that my creative processes have stalled. Stagnation is an incredible contributing element to anxiety in winter seasons. That unrelenting restlessness can seem overwhelming at times, but the faint, glistening hope of spring keeps us trudging through the partially melted slush.
Winter is not without its beauty. The ways in which ice and snow cover a field or forest in mirrors that reflect back to us images of ourselves, of our hopes, dreams, and fears, are sublime. Often times the most frightening, maddening, enraging, and stifling of things also hold a sliver of radiant beauty. Much like the image at the top of this post, the frozen landscape is complemented by the pure, gorgeous, unbridled blue sky. Though we might feel weighed down by snow, if we shake off the flakes, we will soar.
During winter the dragons sleep, but their fire still rages in caverns deep.
