Oh January. You weigh heavily on my soul.
Okay. So I tend to be a little dramatic. Big deal.
In all honest, I can deal with January today since the high is in the 50s and it is sunny and lovely outside. I am just heart sick for spring, that's all. I know. It's too early for that.
It has been 2014 for 12 days now and instead of being inspired by newness. I feel as if all the creative juices have been drained from me, even today when it is very mild outside. (Often, since I am a gardener, my creative is typically at its best when it is beautiful outside. And by beautiful I mean when I can have my windows open and not be miserable, which, in Kansas, is a very small window of time. Ha, see what I did there?)
Right now, I am not a writer. (It's even hard for me to blog right now). I am not a photographer. I am not a painter. And I am not doing anything to change that. Shoot, I am not even feeling it in the kitchen these days.
I am worried that I will not ever have any ideas for creative writing. I am worried that I will never be able to upgrade my camera (since it's so dang expensive to do so) and never be able to get any more jobs. I am worried that I will never be able to tap into my potential as an artist.
That last confession feels hard to admit, which mostly comes from my inability to stop comparing myself to other peoples amazing talents, ambitions and accomplishments. Moreover, I am an extreme perfectionist, which some times manifests itself so deeply that it disables me from even trying to be creative.
The solution seems easy on paper. Pick up the pen, the camera, the paint brush, and the cookbook and just get over it. Who cares.
But it's not that simple.
That's my confession. And that translates into not having a simple, profound way to end this blog post. But that's real life I guess. I only hope that I can find inspiration some how again soon. Life without it feels very much void and cold… just like January.