There is something electrifying about a summer storm, apart from the obvious, when the backyard is a dust bowl and the water level in the fish pond drops by a couple of centimetres each day.
On my way home from an afternoon of op-shopping and searching out art supplies, Mother Nature was working herself into a tizz, though I didn’t hold out much hope for my patch of dirt benefiting from the promised showers. It seems the sky godddess very often has her umbrella up when the rain clouds come to my area. Not this evening, though. Perhaps she left her brolly on the bus. It was like living in a waterfall. Mesmerising, noisy and oh, so very exciting.
Since having the roof fixed, my only concern at the deluge is whether the fish are buried in the mulch beneath the oak tree, at the bottom of the hill.
I love the changing of the seasons. By the time summer draws to an end, which it’s not yet, despite bumping the tail end of its allotted timespan on the calendar, I’m ready for cooler days, layered clothing and the finish of daylight saving.
As Mother Nature turns the wheel, I’m also conscious that my creative life is cyclic. Ideas germinate and take root, projects blossom and come to fruition. There follows a dormant period while the seeds of new ideas drop from the cosmos. Some take, some don’t. Those that do start the cycle again.
This week I’ve not only been totally engrossed in and completed artwork for a swap with the Paper Traders group, but I’ve also rewritten, and submitted, a story to an online publication. Both the studio and the office are due for a tidy up after my creative storm.
Too often, I’m guilty of not following advice I give to other writers – keep sending out the work! No one is going to read it if it’s mouldering in a drawer or taking up space on a hard drive. Okay, so it might be rejected. Rejection is part of life. It’s okay to wallow in self-pity and regret – for a day, tops. Then it’s time to research, find another publication, and send it off again. Next time, it might reach the right publisher on the right day. One can hope. If there’s no hope, I might as well bury myself in the mulch with the fishes.
Besides, if our work is out there, that’s one less thing cluttering up our minds, if not our hard drives. No need to feel guilty about a time of regrouping before the next creative storm.