The Life and Times of the Plume

I’ve been awake since 5:30AM this morning. It was dark in the bedroom when I first opened my eyes. I rested on my side, feeling refreshed and revived. I had a strong sense of creative vibrations pushing out of my marrow and into my fingertips. I remember watching the slow blue spread of daylight, creeping like a happy ghost, in through the bedroom windows. The light was symphonic; barely perceptible at first; the low hum of strings started us off, followed by winds and a pinch of percussion. A system of sound — morning taps on trumpet. Bird song and the other things. The slow, topsy turvy spin of a planet on axis in a calculated drift around the sun.

There was a strong sense, for me, in that moment, of systems and life paths on correct courses.

A sense of destiny woven by the capable and perfect hands of God.

I believed, more strongly than ever, that there really is a system to my creative process. I’m phasing like the moon and pivoting like Orion in a black sky.

The come and the go.

Has to be.

I’m never off course

though the course often changes.

My direction is variable, like the paths of a stream bed during spring melt.

One day I’m spilling up and over the brim, creating new meandering paths through riparian growth. And when the rains pass, I’m thin and slow as I cut a gaunt swath through soft mud. The point is, I’m learning to embrace the times when my creative well is dry. It’s natural to feel the way I felt last week. It’s natural to feel creatively full and fat at times, as well. The pendulum swings both ways, what goes up must come down. But knowing this doesn’t make those muddy creative periods any less agonizing. My self worth can sometimes be deeply attached to my productivity and when the work of my hands ceases, I plummet.

As a sensationally dramatic person who feels the full weight of every emotion, the periods of creative drought can cause me to feel like I’ll never create ANYTHING EVER AGAIN. My spirit feels slumped over. All I can see is the ground rising up to meet me. I’m just an exhausted and lifeless puppet with severed strings. The muse will never make me dance again.

Last week, this is what I felt.

I cried so much.

I sought out friends who relate to my creative process,

their advice and compassion was like a handful of freshly minted copper pennies.

I clutched them close to my heart. One friend pointed out that I experienced three incredible months of work which helped to justify, in my mind and heart, the intensity of the creative crash I experienced.

With that in mind, I tried to be kind to myself.

I locked myself out of my studio.

I sewed, knitted, baked, walked, ran, wrote, read…I did anything but let myself into my work space.

I allowed myself rest.

Today, while my creative well may not necessarily be brimming and spilling over, I’m feeling a strong NEED and desire to create. I literally leaped from bed, washed my face, skipped showering and ran straight for a cup of tea, a black pen and my journal.

I can feel something coming.

And it’s coming like a freight train.

Before I get to work:

I need to sketch out two sculpture ideas I had while laying in bed.

I need a soft poached egg, avocado, tomato, goat cheese and pepper breakfast. With a slice of toast, perhaps.

I need to send a few texts.

I need to answer and send a few emails.

And after that, I’m going to make a sprint for silver and stone.

With abiding affection: from my turquoise hot air balloon, where I can see the beauty of my kingdom, hope cresting the horizon, and you, over there, waving and smiling: