We talk about nature like it’s somewhere else. Out there. Trees. Weather. Landscapes we walk through.
But most days, I feel it happening in me just as clearly. Energy rising. Energy dropping. Periods where everything feels possible, then stretches where everything slows down and goes quiet. I used to fight that.
Last summer felt like full sun. I was finishing my album. Living inside that world. Colour everywhere. Emotion close to the surface. Everything moving. In the autumn, I stood on a stage and played those songs live. It felt like a peak moment. A release. A kind of culmination. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was also a threshold.
Winter landed heavier than I expected. The audio from that concert failed. A technical issue. No proper recording. No footage from a night that meant a lot to me. I told myself to keep going. Client work. Deadlines. The practical stuff. But underneath, I felt flat. Disconnected. Like the roots had gone quiet.
I was trying to generate summer energy in the middle of winter. It doesn’t really work like that.
Then, without drama, something shifted. Light in the evenings. A little more space in my head. The feeling of wanting to make again, not because I should, but because something was moving. I didn’t force it. I just noticed it. Spring never announces itself. It just shows up in small ways until you realise the ground isn’t frozen anymore.
I’m starting to accept that my creative life moves in seasons whether I cooperate or not. There are times for output. Times for colour. Times for showing up loudly. And there are times when things are happening underground. Invisible. Necessary. I used to see those quieter phases as a problem to fix. Now they feel more like part of the cycle.
Nothing blooms all year. And maybe we’re not meant to either.