Stopping is frightening. Surrounded by calls to efficiency and productivity, I think many of us suspect that we are only of any real worth if we are achieving and producing something. The thought of letting go of all this validation can be terrifying.

​

Nature has no such foibles.

​

Leafless trees and hidden crocuses, hibernating hedgehogs and sleeping cats. They seem to feel no shame in stopping. They rest with full permission, waiting for spring to come.

​

For me, this acceptance of different seasons has deep resonance with the creative process. Sometimes it feels as though we’re in an infinite spring. The ideas flow freely, and we can’t wait to shape them into beautiful things to send out into the world. At other times, we run dry, creating nothing and scared that we never will again.

​

The temptation is to power through. That is the modern way, after all: work harder, put in longer hours, grit your teeth until you get there. Sometimes that works, and if creativity is the thing that pays your mortgage, you may not feel you have much choice. But this approach can leave us burned out, exhausted and terrified that we’ve wrung out every last bit of creativity we had.

​

But maybe there’s another way. Perhaps your glory days aren’t behind you. Perhaps it’s simply winter. Perhaps you’re being asked to shed leaves, to hibernate, to draw your creative energies deep into your bones and wait till spring. Perhaps that is the only way the flow can begin again.

​

We were once far more connected to this seasonal rhythm. Wintering is written into our DNA. Before the invention of the light bulb, we were forced to slow down in winter, huddle around fires, and live from the stores we’d set aside in autumn. Back then, we had no choice. Now we do. We can choose to work through winter as though the days are still long and warm. 

​

But that doesn’t mean we should.