Thawing and re-freezing can certainly shake the creative energy of a natural artist. The imbalance of our environment may prove to be a challenge if not acknowledged and treated suitably. I found myself wondering why I froze, which is a quandary since I do not believe in writer's block (and the like) and prefer to accept nature in Her raw form (pertaining to myself as well).
So, I decided to allow the blank page to serve as a tool for re-opening the passageway to my creative essence, trusting that I would get to the bottom of it [deep creative freeze]; and I did. Apparently, my bond to nature is reflected in my reaction to the recent thawing and refreezing of my surroundings. As much as we [as a species] separate ourselves from and try to harness nature; we are very much a part of Her. We have strayed away from our original state of being; however our authentic connection to Our Mother still resonates deeply within. For some this force is more profound than in others.
When allowing myself to merge with the record breaking temperatures by digging in the earth, planting, meandering curiously through the woods, walking barefoot in the mud and snowfield – I started a flow that was promptly interrupted by Our Mother as She reeled us all back in, maintaining balance and returning us to where we should be.
Like the early opening buds of trees, plants and bushes; I responded to the premature warmth, light and melting away of winter. I sat outdoors under the clear canopy of stars while the thunderous night chorus of peepers stirred my heart. I acknowledged how wrong high temperatures [reaching the upper 80’s] are in Northern New England in mid-March. The innocent, childlike part of me wanted to enjoy it, but the intelligent, knowing part of me was aware of the reality of this radical climate change.
I surrendered. I finally removed the sap buckets from the Maple trees and aligned my thinking towards gratitude rather than loss of what could have been. In a tank top and shorts, I planted seeds that were okay to plant when the ground is workable and can handle a frost. I rejoiced that there were no bugs. I went with the insanity and waited for what came next.
With the return of frigid temperatures, (well beyond a killing frost) strong north winds blow hard through the swaying pines. I bundle up in my flannel shirt, winter hat and collect dead wood to stoke the fire.
The crocuses and snowdrops, which wilted in unfamiliar heat, are thriving now. Except for the deepest part of the shaded woods, the snow is gone. Strewn about like abandoned wreckage, autumn remains in decayed brownish remnants. The pond is freezing again.
The night chorus, which was double forte a few nights ago, has diminished into regretful silence. The mountain streams that rushed over and under ground have been humbled to reassuring, melodious quietude. My footsteps – faithful to the cold, frozen in the mud – follow the old logging road, leaving a memory of what was, promising to flourish again. Together we wait.
Journal: Babies Breath
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