Where have my words gone? Why am I taking fewer–much fewer–photographs?
I thought the New Year would take off with a bang, but, while I’ve been feeling and seeing and doing and dreaming, the words to go along with the experiences haven’t been flowing, and, when they have started their slow trickle, it has run onto the pages of my paper journal, sprouting tender things not ready for public display. Most of the few photos I’ve taken recently are much the same, more for me than for others.
I know this place. It is the lull. I’ve been here before.
It seems my words and images have, for the most part, identified with the season, which is, here in Kentucky, Winter. There’s a little green shoot that comes through now and then, but things are mostly dormant.
I am more tied to the seasons and Nature’s whims than I thought, as it turns out. I’ve been spending most of my time resting, absorbing, turning inward. There are seeds there, no doubt, but they are waiting to break the surface.
In the meantime, what is there to do but surrender? Trying to force things isn’t working. What is there to do but to keep feeling and seeing and doing and dreaming, letting things move as they may?