Usually I hit the wall in February. The cold has worn me down. My neck is tired of being encased in sweaters. My skin is papery and dry. My poor sinuses have just about had enough.
I generally shut down and have often sunk into that dark tunnel of depression. For me, it's easiest to be pulled under when darkness runs things, when the light is thin and brittle, when it's easier to be home than anywhere else.
This February it's not as bad as usual. I'm not immersed in any major projects which keep me from sinking (that's been an effective way of holding myself together against an inevitable slump).
Could be the meds. Could be the kidney donation. Could be that my new business cards, the first thing I've created in far too long, are stunning and make me super happy. Could be that I started yet another blog that I want to turn into something more.
Could be that I'm not as closed off as I used to be. Writing has changed my life. Having a place to explore, to express, to process has been far more powerful than I ever could have imagined. A little over a year ago, writing was more stressful than just about anything I'd undertake. I did it, but struggled over every idea, every sentence, every phrase.
Now it flows.
Ideas. Words. Concepts. I don't know when I start, where I'll end up but when I get there, I'm there. And I generally feel an ease in my soul that wasn't there before.
What a gift. Today I am grateful for myself—for showing up instead of shutting down.
For living instead of existing.
For making the effort instead of hiding in the tunnel the way I did for far too long.