Creativity, constancy and capacity
Some seasons, creative expression is my best friend.
My house this afternoon smells like serenity and fresh air: a relaxing essential oil blend of lavender, bergamot, frankincense, geranium, vetivert, chamomile, sandalwood, clary sage, amyris, and a light autumn breeze. Soon, as the afternoon cools and light wanes, it will smell like poulet au pot, a comforting meal of tender, juicy chicken roasted in a Dutch oven with vegetables, the last of the Cojones Muy Grandes 2025, a rose from our favourite winemaker, Bakkheia), freshly picked herbs, aromatic broth. Of sunshine on freshly laundered clothing. Outside, it is mild and sunny, a quiet autumn day; outside, apricot leaves drift silently to the garden floor, carpeting the ground in shades of yellow and brown. When the wind blows, the leaves will scatter onto our patio as they have every day for weeks, and our thankless dance of sweeping, scooping and scattering will continue. But, oh, how I love autumn, real autumn, this season of change, of transition, of shedding. How I love its voice - the capricious wind, the rustling of dry leaves, the patter of rain, the crackle of leaf litter underfoot. The anticipation of cosy days and nights.
I feel, once again, in an autumn of my own. Of course, I am in what some call my autumn years, my 50s, that time when the irrepressible energy of youth has gone, my birds have flown the nest, and I am gently easing into a new, gentler phase. The shape of this new phase is yet to be determined; it has a liquid, organic quality like oil on water, creating a filmic interface between what is now and what could be. But these last few weeks, I’ve been feeling as if I am somewhere in that liminal interface; I am in my life’s waiting room, waiting for a call about my dad, waiting to drop everything and travel cross country. Who knows when that call will come? All I know is that it will.
My body does not like this uncertainty. Since my father went into hospital for the third time in six weeks, I’ve struggled with earworms ("involuntary musical imagery" (INMI) or song snippets stuck on a repeating loop in the brain), and sleep problems including a night-time tinnitus that sounds like my heart is beating at triple speed (it’s not, I have a rather low resting heart rate). I don’t have the headspace for writing - it has taken weeks to get to the desk - but I do have a desire to do things that keep my hands busy and my mind soothed: crochet, my daily stitching journal, small and mindful slow stitching projects. Anything that slows me down and creates a mindful rhythm. This is my kind of self-care (although I did buy a couple of paper facial masks on a whim earlier today), the kind of therapy that creates and calms simultaneously.
Constancy of creativity
Sometimes there is no point or purpose for this creative expression - sometimes, no, right now it’s all the time. I just want to create for the sake of it.
Because I need the constancy of creativity.
Constancy. I don’t mean this in the sense that my creativity and creative projects are unchanging, but more that I can rely on creative expression, whatever it is in a given moment, to carry me through the hard times. To sit with me in that liminal space, the waiting rooms, the transition seasons. Knowing that some kind of creative project is at hand, something I can reach for even if only for five minutes, gives me great comfort.
Earlier today, I read Kathryn Vercillo’s post about consistency and creativity - the notion of creating in a disciplined way, in a set time frame with set outputs identified. “Write every day, put your bum on the seat, set goals, build habits, create a routine to get in the zone...” None of this works for me. I don’t have the capacity to work that way that, not now, and rarely even when life is less … liminal. I often wonder why I am like this, but after reading Kathryn’s words, I felt seen.
“…what I keep finding at the center of the consistency struggle is something the discipline frame consistently misidentifies. It isn’t designed for most people. It certainly isn’t designed for me, although it took me years of learning about my needs and my rhythms and how to be gentler to myself to really get that.” - Kathryn Vercillo in her article Why creative people struggle with consistency (and what actually helps)
It’s a thought-provoking read and I highly recommend checking it out, as well as the Creative Health Cartography Workbook Virtual Substack Tour that started today. And look out for Prose & Convos post (a Q&A with Kathryn) in June as part of the tour. Kathryn and I co-founded and collaborated on the Global Blackout Poetry Exchange in 2024 and I’m hoping we can do that again. Or maybe a 10cm X 10cm (4”X4”) slow stitch exchange?
A transitional gift
I am in this transitional space for another reason. Just under four weeks ago we welcomed into our home the delightful M, a 15yo exchange student from Germany (and also my second cousin’s daughter). M is attending a nearby school and will be here until the end of June. After four years, our empty nest has a young bird and I have temporarily donned the “mother” hat … although I think of myself as the cool aunty, for this transition has been surprisingly joyful. Not only is M a teenager sans attitude (plus, she helps without asking!), but she has not lost the capacity for joy and has no qualms in allowing her inner child to shine. Perhaps this is different at home - I suspect she too has her moments - but her delight in new places, new foods, new people is infectious. She reminds me of myself when I am truly relaxed - excitable, joyful, curious, free. Little Monique still cries out “Look! Cow!” on road trips … M’s delight in Australia reminds me of mine when I was in London for the first time, aged 44. There is a rumour that I pointed and squealed “Look!” a lot.
It has been an adjustment, but an unexpectedly easy one, this seasonal change in circumstance. Yes, I am on all the time, and yes, I have another person to take care of, but we have bonded over a shared love of creating and cooking, of the little things inside and out that make us say “Look!”
And so, this “little life autumn”, however long it lasts, I will give myself grace when I don’t have the headspace for writing. I will embrace this period of transition and let it teach me what it needs to. Even if it is a simple reminder for grace (and more slow, less busy). This week, I’m drawn back to stitching and I’m making my own stitch goddess, inspired by a Making Zen Retreat workshop. This is the third time I’ve joined the online retreat, but the first I’ve paid for a VIP Pass so I have lifetime to all the workshops. Beside me is a list of 15 workshops I want to do … as if I need more projects and inspiration. But wait, none of those limiting narratives, those sneaky stories that sneak in.
Grace.
Not guilt.
I can create how I like and if I want to be a multi-passionate butterfly of a creative, that’s what I’ll be. I will listen to the voice of this autumn season and shed what weighs me down and prepare for the rest I am going to need. For winter is coming - in time, in life, in circumstance. It will bring the coldness of loss, the promise of spring. That is one of life’s many constancies.
Capacity over consistency
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Sending love and support around your father. <3 The last years I had with mine were challenging and heart-wrenching and also some of the most beautiful.
I'm sorry to hear about your dad, Monique. It's difficult living far from one's parents and it only gets more so as we get older.
Thank you for Kathryn's article - it's a really important reframe.
(ps: I know you are waiting for something from me - I am on it, and will have it ready soon. :))