Embracing artistic winters
“There’s no bad weather, just inappropriate clothing.”
I don’t know who first coined that sentence, but it is one wholeheartedly adopted in my home state where February means snow, ice, wind, and sub-zero weather. I live in Wisconsin. By choice. Furthermore, I left the hipster Mecca of Portland, Oregon to move here. The outcry from my coastal friends was almost universally negative. Several dismissed Wisconsin because of its politics. Others predicted I’d freeze to death. A number of them had no idea where Wisconsin was, only that it was “somewhere in the middle” of the US. One told me she’d been to the Midwest. When I asked her where, she said, “Idaho.” And then there were the friends who made snide comments about ice fishing and cheese curds.
“Why Wisconsin?” they asked.
“For the weather,” I replied.
It got laughs but it wasn’t untrue. I love the cold. I love real seasons—something I rarely got in Portland. I love a good blizzard and the drama of a summer thunderstorm. I love the beauty of a lazy snowfall as well as the excitement I feel when I see the first buds of spring and the first colors of fall. I love knowing that with proper clothing I can be outside in nearly any temperature. I love seeing the sun in the winter—something I rarely experienced in rain-soaked Portland.
Winter is a naturally fallow time in the northern hemisphere. The ground sleeps. Where lush greenery once abounded, a stark black and white world now exists. Wisconsinites know winter. With the first snowfall, plows, salt trucks, and snowblowers appear. People don “in-between” shoes—shoes that aren’t snow boots but are water and salt proof and provide firm footing on icy pavement. Winter activities—from ice fishing to cross country skiing—begin. And when we’re ready to come inside, it’s likely to be to gather with friends and family in a cozy place and to share a drink or a meal.
Harsh weather teaches us that there’s a rhythm to winter and enjoyment of it depends on choosing not to fight the season but to adapt to it. And so we let go of wishing for the delights of warmer days and embrace all the wonderful things winter offers us. We slow down. We relax. We trust that spring will follow and that plants and animals will again emerge. We don’t fight what is, but rather embrace the good things this fallow time has to offer.
Fallow seasons. When we look at the way our creative energies wax and wane, it’s easy to see parallels to the seasons. We love the idea stage (spring), the growth phase (summer) and the completed project (autumn), but the emptiness of a creative winter terrifies us. How can it not? We thrive on the buzz of creation, so when our artistic ground lies frozen and visually lifeless, it’s difficult to have faith that new ideas will eventually bud to life and that we won’t be trapped in the cold, black-and-white world of artistic winter forever.
Just as people in cold climates learn to adapt to winter by not fighting it but celebrating it, we can learn to embrace the gifts of our artistic winters. We can adapt to them by finding other ways to express creative energies. We can treat ourselves gently, pamper ourselves with comfy clothes, good food and drink, and time with loved ones. We can stop digging at frozen tundra, hoping to uncover shoots of green and just let the artistic season have its way with us. To recharge us. The new ideas will come—sometimes in unexpected ways.
“There’s no bad artistic weather, just inappropriate expectations.”
How do we stop panicking when we’re in an artistic winter? As with most things, it starts with our expectations. One of the gifts of learning to embrace the cold weather I experience in Wisconsin is that it taught me to look more at what winter has to offer than what it takes away. Nurturing myself when I’m in an artistic winter is surprisingly similar to how Wisconsinites make the most of cold weather: I embrace it. I nourish myself with vigorous outdoor exercise, warming meals, and time with friends and family. I don’t postpone happiness. Instead, I put little joys into every day. Maybe it’s having coffee with a friend. Perhaps it’s burrowing under a blanket and watching the snow fall while reading a good book. I relax into the rhythm of the season.
Beyond the big and small ways to take care of myself during artistic winters, it has also been helpful to stop running from my fear of what fallow times could represent and acknowledge that someday, my voice will fall silent. Someday I won’t be able to play the music that offers me so much today. Someday the words will no longer come to me, begging to be written. Someday, I’ll have to accept that my creativity will no longer be measured by tangible outward things but rather by the gentle, compassionate, and caring way I approach every detail of my life. When I accept that my artistic output will eventually end, I feel gratitude that I’ve been given a life in music and writing and I can relax into the knowledge that I’ve done my best to honor the gifts I was given. In this knowledge I find the peace to accept my artistic winters, knowing that whatever the outcome, all will be well.
Photo by Craig Tidball, courtesy of UpSplash