It’s a typical Tuesday evening in the bleak suburban dreary, lifeless midwest Novembery autumn, and I’m staring at a blinking cursor desperately hoping that inspiration will strike. That all of a sudden I will write with a fury, words pouring out of me in violent waves of prose and poignancy. But it doesn’t. It hasn’t. The cursor is still blinking. I promised myself I would blog more regularly once the new brand was launched and I had a pretty new home to house all of my…me. But I haven’t. Not really. I haven’t started the columns I’ve been hoping to start (fashion! design! featured creatives!). I haven’t been curating hip, design-centric things for the new home, or even sharing that process. I just haven’t really been. Life is just sort of happening, and I guess I’m busy out there living it. Which is sort of the point if you think about it.
The point of life, that is. But not the point of blogging.
I’m at a strange sort of stalemate, so to speak. I’ve been trying to be more present in my life when I’m not working (at the day job or out shooting) and put more focus on spending quality time with my family, the womb fruits and DRL, and with close friends and my hobbies. Which has been great for me emotionally. I feel recharged and reconnected to the stuff that matters. The monotony in my every day life. I’ve come back to the place where I find my start. I’ve regrouped. As I’m wont to do when I find myself with three minutes of a day to spare, with idle time and idle hands, I’m getting hungry for creativity to take over. For inspiration to hit and whirl me into its violent clutches and force me to root deep and fight my way out. I want to have a torrid affair with everything new and uncomfortable. I’m ready to get out of my comfort zone and grow as an artist. I’m going to take some time this winter to push my own boundaries, and break my own rules.
It’s both terribly exciting and ridiculously daunting.
I also find myself wanting to travel. To venture into the great wide world and spend a day, a week, an hour, staring over open fields and starry skies. Iceland. The Pacific Northwest. Banff. Somewhere chilled and earthen. I want to wholly immerse myself in a land that stretches beyond the horizon speckled only by the slightest of hills across the horizon or expansive and towering mountains looming protectively in the distance under purple skies and racing autumn clouds. I want to sit in front of a fire, toes cold, face warm, sipping whiskey and listening to the call of nature as it eases into a forest slumber, alive with nocturnal malevolence quieted only by gentle wind and rest. Growing up, I spent my summers largely outside. I slept in tents and teepees, backyards and garage hideouts, and on race occasions, with good friends on islands in the middle of the St. Croix River. I grew up alongside a campfire, and it calls to me when I need quiet. When it’s time to recharge.
After a busy fall wedding season, and with a busy holiday season approaching (and one wedding left on the books yet this year), the introvert in me is hunting for the fire. The crackle. The burn. The beauty and life and birth and warmth.
It’s calling, the wild. I aim to answer it. Somehow. Torrid affairs with deep roots or wanderlust adventures into the great wide open. Something is coming.