Trying to find a way back
Since Boxing Day I’ve been trying various gentle prompts to get my brain back in gear: walking outside when it isn’t absolutely tipping it down with rain; reviewing all the things I did this past year, month-by-month; taking down all the Christmas decorations; cleaning out piles of ‘things’; tidying the garden and strapping down loose items for the wild winds that blew through; and even an attempt at actual cleaning (obviously this was a short-lived last resort!)
Nada. Zip. Even reading inspiring books, and essays by my fellow more-talented Substack writers. Still, nothing.
I am trying to lightly observe and not engage deeply with news, but I fear perhaps that detachment is also causing a detachment from life itself. I see the Christmas break tourists along the ocean front happily eating their ice cream cones, whilst the gulls circle squawking loudly and eagerly await handouts. I feel the damp air pressing into my face as the winds pick up and the salty spray blows off the increasing swells rolling onto our rocky beach.
It is all happening around me but I don’t feel engaged with any of it. Cottony brain fog is keeping me warm and safe and isolated from, what exactly? I’m not sure.
We’ve had a very busy year, with numerous trips back and forth to the US for pleasure, work and family celebrations. We’ve made some modifications to the house and shifted loads of rock and soil in the garden: both have brought us a few aches and much delight with the transformation. We’ve had numerous visitors, which is always a pleasure and reinforces our enjoyment of both the friends and the place where we live.
We’ve had blessed time with our immediate family and those times always bring long-lasting joy. The connections are reinforced over tea, wine, long walks, doggie cuddles, shared meals, and always much laughter.
So very much to be thankful for, and I am. Absolutely. So what is keeping me fog-bound and dull-brained?
Perhaps it is as simple as this: seeing the sun. Today for the first day in over a week we have a bright blue sky and it is properly sunny. Chilly, but sunny. I went for a late morning walk, but perhaps I should get back out in it before the sun sets at publication time. Vitamin D needs and all that.
I’ve also got some relaxing non-holiday music on and that is beginning to thaw the dull brain a bit too.
Honestly, having another deadline in a few hours spurs me on too. I am feeling my way back into typing words, looking at recent photos I may use to illustrate, and considering the ways our brains and emotions play upon us and how we try to master our thoughts. OK, well, not really that lofty. More like: how we try to slay our fears and doubts every day and carry on doing the things we want to do.
Trying just one more time, again, to do our best for that one task. Then we move on to the next, and the one after that. And sometimes, if we are lucky, we find ourselves in that flow again and time slips away briefly and we forget to doubt or to worry and we are just there, once more. In the place where we don’t need to find the strength to keep going and don’t think about what we are doing, we are in it and it is good.
A few lines from this poem run through my head, over and over, urging me on:
…Once more begins the sun.
Slow, so slow.
Go on world, live.
Begin, sweet sun.
Begin, sweet world.
-John Pearson
Once more I sit at the desk, looking at the sun against the white cliffs gleaming with reflected light, almost too bright to look at. Listening to songs that stop me briefly typing so I can belt out the lyrics along with the singer. Singing words that bring smiles from recalled long-ago memories.
Go on: the words the light the songs say, pulling me along with them. And I’m softening slowly, melting into the task at hand. Even moving my body to the music as I type—and mistype—some words you are eventually finding here.
So now: go on, all of you. Go on and live. Take one more step, and then another. There are small joys to be uncovered out there. Some in here, but better to look outside, first. (You will always find your way back to yourself.)
In the meantime, enjoy that big beautiful world, often tucked in the small corners. Notice things, reflect joy, and most definitely, sing and dance. Even if it is just whilst you sit at your desk and type—and mis-type—words and numbers. That’s what the backspace key is for. 😉 And then go on.
Happy 2025! Thank you for being here and sharing our world together, one batch of words at a time. Wishing you all the best for the New Year.
xoxo Sabrina
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Thank you for sharing your doldrums state of being. I'm sure the sun has a lot to do with it. Maybe you should come here. It's chilly and often sunny. Amazing what a difference a blue sky makes.
I'm happy to see you emphasize walking walking walking. That is the best remedy for anything. I take particular joy in the ideas and thoughts that come to me then away from the computer. It's nice to know things are simmering even when I'm not thinking about them and pecking at the keyboard.
I wonder if you should just go with the flow and keep in this rhythm of lull into your mind and body tell you it's time to go back to writing. Maybe there's a reason for the lack of inspiration and creativity now. It could be that it's all just simmering and congealing now waiting until it's more prepared before it's ready to be served on the plate.
I think about it like being sick (which I am right now so that's the metaphor that comes to mind). I have to wait until my body tells me little by little when I can get into action. I have to trust it knows.
Just a thought. In any case, I'm sure you'll be back on the path soon.
After the holiday bustle and stress, Sonya and I rang in the New Year with friends at their cabin outside Hyampom, in Trinity County. We drove up on Sunday, and it’s been chilly and wet pretty much the whole time, which means lots of reading, eating, and just sitting in front of the wood stove, punctuated by the occasional rainy walk in the woods… although we did drive into town for the New Year’s Eve buffet at the Bent Canoe. Personally, I’m a big believer in what Heather called “dreaming time” in one of her essays; we burrow in before we blossom forth again.