There is a quiet,
Profound secret hidden within the creative life,
Obvious perhaps that we are not machines designed for linear output.
Yet,
The modern world demands a steady,
Unrelenting hum of productivity,
Fueled by artificial light and the rigid geometry of the clock.
Yet if we let it,
If we allow it,
The artist's soul knows better,
Remains tethered to a much older clock than the one hung on a wall.
This clock is that of the seasons.
It's the tilt of the earth and the shifting quality of light.
When we take time to stop manipulating our energy and begin to respond to this natural rhythm of the world,
A remarkable transformation can occur.
I've seen it in myself.
I've experienced it firsthand.
I can give testimony to its truth.
When we do this,
Respond to natural rhythm,
This movement from the state of forced labor and assigned schedule brings us to the state of the dance.
As spring takes hold,
And we tilt naturally towards the sun,
Not just the earth,
But our faces,
Our hearts,
Our labors,
There's a literal and metaphorical opening.
The days begin to stretch out and the air warms.
I personally find myself drawn out of the studio and into that open air.
The light,
So obvious a tool,
Yet also more than that,
It's a catalyst.
In this opening season,
In this spring,
The work itself begins to take on expansion,
Grows in scope and engagement.
The gestures more full-bodied,
Moving from shoulder and heart rather than just the wrist.
I see my palette shift to a bolder,
More vibrant colors,
Colors that seem to mirror the blooming of this earth.
Imagine it,
See it,
If you don't already experience it yourself,
This work,
This work,
This work.
It is a way of breathing into the world and drinking up that breath of the world,
A dance.
It's allowing this heat and these longer hours and this full light to fuel the prolific,
To fuel the reaching out energy.
Yet this beautiful expansion of light and energy isn't everything.
It has to have a balance.
It has to have a dance partner.
And that's the wisdom of the small.
As the earth turns inward in the winter months,
So does the art.
I find tremendous beauty in this closing in.
It used to frighten me,
Thinking that I'd run out,
Run down,
Was finished.
The work becomes smaller,
More intimate.
I sit rather than stand.
I use tools more subtly,
Motions from the hand.
I can now see it's not a lack of productivity.
It's just a different kind of power.
It's like the power of the seed beneath the snow.
It's concentrated.
It's quiet.
It's rejuvenating.
And I even say deeply reflective.
As an artist,
By honoring this contraction,
We're naturally avoiding the burnout.
That long burn of summer energy can only go on so long,
And this winter world helps us know that.
There's an allowing of the creative soil to rest,
So that the bloom will come again.
A question to you.
What would it look like to stop fighting the shadows?
Imagine a life where your work hours were prescribed by the sun,
And your intensity was dictated by the temperature of the air.
Your time clock even,
Maybe.
The rhythm of the bird.
Or the bugs.
If we lean entirely into this rhythm,
This ancient,
Unnatural dance,
What would be on the other side?
Is it a descent into chaos?
As if humans were in control?
Just perhaps,
The ultimate rhythm of freedom.
The ultimate dance of delight.
What if the secret gift of a creative life is to realize you can be as inconsistent as the weather,
And as cyclical as the moon?
There's a deep joy in the creative trade.
It's a privilege to be sensitive.
To record the heartbeat of these seasons.
To work this way is to live in a state of constant wonder.
Trusting a rhythm over prescribed control can take you to places unknown and undiscovered.
Trust it.
Flow with it.
Find your way.
Dance your dance.
Awake and creative.
Today.
