I nearly forgot to feed my daughter supper yesterday. (Keep reading.)
Before I had a child, that sentence would have meant nothing to me, because that was back in the day when I still said things like, “Her whole life is her kids. Really, she needs to diversify.” My ten-month-old (yesterday! Happy anniversary, Scout!) has been a lovelump on my chest for the past week and a half, ever since she started coughing like an angry goose, and carrying two green slugs-on-the-loose above her lip. My kid my whole life? Pretty much. Enough anyway, so that to forget to feed her right at dinnertime despite the howling of frustrated hunger/five o’clock boredom meant something significant:
a change in the light.
At some point over the past two cloudy weeks, the whole earth (the whole thing!) rotated without me knowing it, and suddenly there are still-bright puddles and dark shadows on my kitchen walls at quarter-to-six. Like one of our lilac bushes that knows when to start producing by the amount of light it gets everyday, I’d been unconsciously tick-tocking to a December/January clock: “Start making dinner when it starts getting dark.” Stuck in my winter rut, I was looking for something that no longer existed (evening at four-thirty, five) to give me my cue.
These longer days have salvation timing. My drive to create—dinner, clean drawers, a loving letter, a business plan, something great to wear, a cheerful home and self—my muse gets pretty anemic about this time of year.
In fact, she’s ready for a good potluck of shared ideas. Tell me, what do you do to keep your creative muse fed in mid-February? Forced bulbs? New music? A different color of ink?
And while you’re feeding her, I’ll go feed Scout.