And just like that, this website fell fallow.
From one solstice to another. Midsummer to Yule.
In digital terms, a pause like this is something to be hidden. To feel ashamed of, as a “content creator” – not to churn out articles each day, each week, to fill the hungry maw.
In reality, I know that emptiness is an illusion.
In HTML code, the fabric on which websites are woven, space is not registered at all. For white gaps to appear on the page, hidden characters must indicate the voids.
Beyond the internet, I know that microscopic bacteria throng empty fields; that below the surface, soil renews itself.
So, in the pauses between my breaths, my heart beats, my guts digest, countless tiny processes continue.
There is no true absence, then, on this earth. No void. Our planet is living, and we are woven within its fabric.
I have not been absent. I have been waiting, patiently, like a stone.
Trusting that there is a season for everything.
Times when “productivity” and even “creativity” take a back seat.
(As a writer, I know this to be true. As a consumer, it frustrates me. Hungry, always, for the next thing to read, the next snack to swallow.)
I write to you from the void, to report from the silence, and to tell you it is good.
It is good not to formulate the thoughts that scud across my mind into sentences. It is good to see the land around me without trying to distil the sky into words.
I’m still writing letters, when the moon is full and dark. You can sign up for them on the site.
As for the rest, we are in January. It is the time of quiet. Lie still, honour your breathing, remember what it was to come from nothing. See how much is occurring, even when you stop.
Trust the process.
The wheel turns.
