My sister is an art teacher. Long ago she described the creative cycle to me, and the detail that has lingered like the chorus to a Beatles song is that half of what happens is below the line. By that she meant that the arc of producing a painting, or a sculpture, or a song swerves like the lines on an oscilloscope. Some swings above. Some dips below. We do ourselves and our capacity for creativity a disservice when we expect it to be all full throttled output. Negating the element of input, or reflection, or downtime leaves us with an unsustainable expectation. Even a healthy set of lungs has to inhale before it can exhale. 

 

The trees outside my window know this. So do the birds. They are neither worried, nor embarrassed that for a large portion of their lives it looks like nothing is happening. 

 

Like today. The schedule is unremarkable. No grandiose projects are gobbling up my time. The laundry sags in the baskets, or beside them, and the crumbs on the counters make for an unappealing surface on which to cut carrots. The quilts that were borrowed last weekend are in a heap, waiting to be returned to their comfortable beds. There are no birthdays on the horizon, nor trips to prepare for. Well, one daughter is headed to Spain, but she does her own packing. I can look forward to her return, and a rush of stories, but before that we have to say goodbye. 

 

My sister's observation has brought me comfort over the years. Consolation that even when I am in the hum half of ho, all is not lost. No, not lost. Just resting. 

 

Like the trees.