elusive creativity and letting go of expectations

Forgive me in advance folks, for the following analogy. I'm dry at the moment.

Creativity is like an elusive butterfly (I'm cringing as I type this). The harder you try to capture it, the quicker it flies away. But when you're sitting still, lost in something else, it settles close by for you to appreciate its beauty.

Whew. That was truly one of the most pathetic things I've ever written. Most likely because my creativity's gone missing. It's not flitting animatedly around my head at the moment—it's traveled south for winter. South America I'm thinking at this point. Usually I've got ideas popping out all over, sparks flying, most ridiculous but steeped in imagination.

Now? Nothing.

Surprisingly, I'm not freaking out. I'm almost too depleted to take on that effort. I'm coasting. Sort of content. Mildly engaged. Off-handedly interested, but not really.

That's really new for me. If I wasn't bursting out at the seams with FLASHES OF BRILLIANCE, MOMENTS OF INSIGHT, I'd feel worthless. My self-esteem has always been, or at least once past anorexia, tied up those thoughts and ideas that set me apart.

And that was just a lightbulb moment.

I am not my ideas. I am not my creativity. Those are truly deep-down-from-the-bottom-of-my-soul parts of me, but not me. I still exist on this planet, I'm still relevant, still important, still living, without the next idea that will change the world exploding from my brain.

Maybe this lull is a lesson that it's fine to just be. Not spin, not brainstorm, not be stretched to the limit of how far I can go, but to heal, to sit, wallow a bit in the mundane.

Maybe, instead of beating myself up about not creating, I can enjoy the quiet and know, believe, hope beyond hope that the urge to siphon ideas out of my mind and into the world will happen when it's supposed to.

I'd love to write more, but laundry's calling.

Day 10 is working on letting go of expectations