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Dear Creative Soul,

A couple of months ago, I moved my study/writing space to an empty nest room in the back of our house. Light-filled and airy, with a view over our suburban back yard that is a sanctuary for birds, bees, native plants and fruits trees, I am privileged to have this space to call my own. The fact that I have two workspaces - a digital one with my iMac and printer, and an analogue one with art materials and items that bring me joy - is a gift.

I spend the first few weeks pottering in the room every chance I get, indulging in creative whimsy - testing out watercolours, drawing, scribbling on scraps of paper, listening to music. In these moments, I let myself be.

I feel free.

I find me.

But it doesn’t last. Life, in its predictably unpredictable gloriousness, sends distractions, both good and not-so-good. Multiple family gatherings, a garden needing attention, a car with a hard-to-find oil leak, a mini-break down south, hand therapy following an operation, seasonal produce that needs cooking and drying and sorting and sharing. Life admin. Preparations for an upcoming trip to Nusa Lembongan. Circular discussions about whether we should move to the country, the Perth Hills, or stay put.

The door to my creative space is ever open, but I barely have time to get lost inside it for more than a few moments. As for writing my weekly Substack post, forget it.

I often forget how deeply, how completely it affects me, this loss of connection to my creative self. 

But this time, I feel this loss seeping out of my carefully maintained seams. I can’t deny the underlying irritation that is rising to the surface. The sense of frustration that something always comes up, that my time doesn’t feel like my own.

The lightness that I usually feel on a Friday afternoon, when creative time becomes a reality for three days, is gone.

I feel flat. Uninspired. I want to be left alone with no demands on my time, energy, thoughts. I feel selfish. I am frustrated that I feel selfish. Haven’t I worked hard? Don’t I deserve this? Round and round I go.

When space finally opens up for a precious few hours, I have such hopes of using that time well. Such high hopes. My creativity will instantly switch spring to life. Why wouldn’t it in such an inspirational space? I will write my overdue Substack post. I will curl up in my special armchair, the French-style carved walnut piece I bought at a garage sale for a song, and I will read a chapter of the new watercolour book that arrived earlier in the week. And then I will start a new unit in one of the six (!!) Domestika courses I signed up for in the midst of a creative I-can-do-all-the-things high.

And that’s when it all goes downhill. I find that I am tongue-tied.

Wordless.

Adrift.

It happens every time life gets in the way, and no matter how I try, I cannot force my creative self, my muse, to play.

As the minutes, then an hour passes with nothing to show for it, my frustration mounts. Eventually I give up on writing, find my camera and drift outside to the garden where a bigger-than-usual Monarch butterfly has caught my eye. Where the light is gold, the air still breathing warm. Where a Willy Wagtail (Djidi-djidi) chatters in the apricot tree. I wander around, snapping photos of flowers in the warm gold, checking on the climbing peas I planted a few weeks ago, and then, retrieving an old notebook we use for writing down our weekly budget, I pull up a chair and surrender.

I don’t even know that’s what I’m doing.

Sit with me

The Djidi-djidi, wet from the bird bath, perches in a half-dressed apricot tree, fluffing and preening, performing a complicated grooming ritual too fast for me to capture with anything but my eyes. Every so often, he lets out a stream of brisk chatter. If he knows I am watching, he seems unconcerned. As I watch him preen and hop above, it occurs to me that creativity for me feels like a complicated dance with time.

The gold is deepening, sunset beckons. It is late autumn and the air is warmer than it should be - I am wearing a black tank top with pink cord palazzo pants I found at a charity shop, not my usual clothes for the time of year. We have had 35mm of rain in six months and stubborn high pressure systems off the Western Australian coast are keeping temperatures several degrees higher, day and night. Refusing to surrender to the season. Everything is confused, the weather, the garden, the earth beneath my bare feet. The people. The apricot tree is still clutching leaves it should have let go of a month ago.

I am over fifty years old and I still struggle to let go of expectation. To surrender to inspiration and leave the end result at the door. 

The orange tree is festooned with large green baubles, the slightest hint of colour on the sunny side. So too is the mandarin; next to it, the lemons are ripening fast. Earlier, I picked a bagful for the woman who works in the kebab shop. It started with a bag, then another, last year; since then, she never lets us pay for anything, so we bring her fruit and cakes for her family. They left the mountains of Iran for a better life here, she told me once.

The breeze is soft, warm on my bare arms. I stand and a brown dove in the apricot tree startles the both of us. The breeze picks up tempo, drying leaves rustle. I close my eyes. Breathe. Listen.

The butterfly is back, poised on a leaf tip of the overgrown bottle-brush. Resting. A lone cricket sings. I am sipping the last of our home-made limoncello, brought to me by my husband who has left me to myself. He needs time on his own too - it has been a mentally draining week for him. I love that we can gift this to each other, how we don’t always have to talk, how sometimes silence and time is an act of love and respect.

A leaf falls to the ground. I see you, little speckled leaf. The patio needs a sweep and I almost rise to do it … but I leave that job for tomorrow.

There aren’t many birds in the garden today. We have noticed different species visiting our garden lately: butcher birds, sparrow hawks, ospreys circling just above. Yesterday I saw a black-shouldered kite in the front yard. I read earlier that noticing birds more represents a spiritual awakening. I like the thought of this, even though I sense that these birds want the water we provide, the nectar from the last of the flowers.

A memory from the weekend before, when we travelled two-something hours south to Bridgetown for an author talk at a library. Early morning fog rising over the drier-than-usual hills. A lone tree silhouetted in the whiteness of it. Magpies waiting on the grass for food, heads cocked in anticipation, like children on Christmas Day.

I realise that my creative malaise has opened up the gates for self-criticism, tainting my usual optimism with a darker hue. As if I have dipped a clean paintbrush into dirty water and mixed a smudgy, cloudy colour. What am I writing this newsletter for? Who will read it? Who will care? But I know now this comes from being blocked and the knowing shifts something in me.

I feel a smile creep in. I feel lighter. I feel ... connected. 

The words tumble out. I turn pages in the notebook, looking for a blank one to scrawl on, turning past a recipe I copied from somew two years ago: one with chicken, mushrooms, thyme, garlic, butter. My mouth waters. Earlier I prepared the evening meal - it simmers as I write. A hot pot of Italian fennel and pork sausages with onions and garlic sautéed in olive oil, a rich tomato passata, herbs, stock, a cup of dried risoni. A bottle of Barossa Valley shiraz is warming. It has been a day for food preparation: a rhubarb compote cools in the fridge, and in the dehydrator, bananas, pineapple and apple are drying.

The light is almost gone. The wind is picking up. More crickets have joined the chorus. I haven’t heard the frog in the garden for a while, and I wonder if it has moved on or died. I close the notebook, stretch and go inside.

And my soul is happy, because my creative self emerged from the deep, yawning, flexing, stretching.

There is a moth on my hand; it has light brown markings and soft down, and does not seem inclined to move. We walk around the house together and it stays with me, wings ever-so-lightly breathing. A few months ago, my sister went through a sudden, painful breakup. I was visiting Canberra the day she went to collect her belongings, eyes swollen with tears; that morning a Bogong moth landed on her chest, right on her hurting heart, stayed with her the entire day.

“When a moth lands on you, it is said to be a sign that you are on the right path in life. It can also be a reminder to stay connected to your inner self and to trust your intuition.” - Emily Isabella

Perhaps the moth was tired. Perhaps it was seeking the salt from my skin. I choose to believe it was a messenger. Stay connected, Monique. You are on the right path. I open the back door, whisper-breathe a soft kiss at the moth, watch it flutter into the dark, looking for another light. Thank you, I say.

I am sipping shiraz after dinner, my stomach full of good food. A notification pops up on my phone. Someone has left the most beautiful review of Wildflower, the novel of my heart:

“Wildflower is as breathtaking as it is heartbreaking. It’s as punishing as it is redemptive…I found it utterly exquisite.” Helen

And in that moment, I remember why I write.

Are you feeling disconnected from your creative self? While it helps to dip your toes into the creative space regularly (daily if you can), life’s seasons don’t always allow that. For me, the longer between creative sessions, the harder it is to connect

Feeling stuck?

Here are a couple of tips - tried and tested, and always good for a reminder:

1. Finding inspiration - if you don’t know where to start, try looking around you. Learn to see what is in your surroundings. Start with that, see where it takes you.

2. Keep it simple - a blank screen or page can mean possibility to some, a challenge to others. Don’t overcomplicate, overthink, overdo. If time is limited, create something small. Remember, from small things, big things can happen.

3. Enjoy the process. I’ve written a lot about finding the joy in creating because it’s one of my big lessons. Relax. Don’t put pressure on yourself to be perfect, don’t think ahead to the end result.

4. Make notes. I use Notes on my phone, scraps of paper. Others journal. Find your way to keep the spark alive even when creativity is wintering.

5. Change your space. Maybe the expectation of your creative space is holding you back today. Take your creative self on an adventure.

6. Remember, it’s a journey. You’re learning all the time. It’s exciting, if you let it be so.

7. Get up and move. Wait for creative energy and inspiration to flow through your body like running water over a rocky creek bed.

PS. For those new to Substack or finding growth slow, I recommend this post.

Welcome to SmallStack!

La Muse: Pausing to Wonder is a gift of words and will continue to be free for all readers for the foreseeable future. However, if you feel led (and able) to support my writing financially, there are a couple of options: 1) Buy Me a Coffee, which is a one-time “tip” as a way to say thank you, or 2) subscribe at one of my paid tiers if you wish to provide ongoing support. You can also recommend my Substack to other readers.

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