I have a germinating sensation in my solar plexus. I know I have something to write but every time I sit down to try and write nothing happens.
I suppose it could be related to the time of year. It’s nearing the end of winter and I have spring on my mind even though it’s really still weeks away.
I love that the woodland Cree identify six seasons. That is so true. In addition to spring, summer, autumn and winter they have freeze-up between autumn and winter and break-up between winter and spring.
Those two extra seasons are very real around here. They are times when you have to wait. They tend to be a few weeks of the year when you can’t do the things that you can in the “full” seasons of summer or winter – travel by canoe, hike, cycle in summer or travel by snowshoe, cross-country skis or across lakes by sled in winter. The snow and ice are either forming or melting and a person is sidelined until the earth firms up into either summer or winter.
In the same way, I feel like my writing is lodged in this in-between time and it’s taking a lot of patience to let things lie quietly. I’m working hard at enjoying the other possibilities these seasons of waiting allow. I have spent a lot of time sitting in a lawn chair in my backyard in a small snow-cleared patch reading books. I have been cleaning up the yard as the snow layers begin to melt and reveal things I misplaced as winter blanketed the lawn. I am baking different recipes. I am planning other aspects of my life, looking to the future.
I imagine that my writing is like a flower bulb far below the soil’s surface. There’s an inkling that the day to emerge is drawing closer. When the conditions are just right the bulb will crack and a shoot will head for air and sunlight. Hopefully this slightly uncomfortable feeling of waiting that I have will behave in the same way and one day I’ll finally be able to hear the story and words that are aching to get out onto page.
I won’t call it writer’s block. That sounds so negative and defeating. This just feels like germinating.
I am in break-up. Enjoy these last days of silence. So quiet I can hear only my heart beating when I stand still. Soon the lake will be crashing with waves and broken ice shards that sound like wine glasses smashing and the birds will have returned and be mating and they won’t shush up for love nor money and the visitors will return to this place and fill up the park with their music and laughter and arguing and crying and noisy vehicles.
Break-up. It’s a time of rest after a busy winter and in the anticipation of a busy summer.
The writing will come.