I haven’t written a thing in ages.

The tide comes in and it goes out, so too does my ability to be in this space. All things are cyclical, it seems. The desire remains, but sometimes retreat is what the doctor ordered.

Nothing outside feels cyclical; rather, cynical, a hate-fueled rancor collapsing in on itself, like a vortex cemented in place. I find myself pulling inside, a hermit crab tending the nest, burrowing into the sand a bit, hunkering down, knowing that eventually, the storm must pass.

Not to say I’ve succumbed to denial and neglect when it comes to the world at large; to the contrary, I’ve doubled down on the day-to-day activities that replenish my sense of balance, enthusiasm, and purpose precisely so I can rise to the demands of pushing back against the sustained pelting of negativity and loathing.

Feeding my soul has come from the most unexpected of places, pursuits I’ve often ridiculed, shunned, or cowered from because they were too blatantly reminiscent of a time and place dominated by so much pain. What a difference having a choice makes. And now, the pleasure and serenity I’ve been able to draw from those previously tedious and grueling tasks is the fuel and the focus that I need to cope with the relentlessly horrific nature of the out there.

Sewing was one of those tasks, one shrouded in efficiency, frugality, and necessity, void of any kind of whimsy or flourish. It was heavy, and dark, and modest. Now, I slow it down, no pressure of need, no boundaries of shape and weight, no harsh lines to the neck, the ankles, and wrists. Anticipation, artistry, and craftsmanship are woven into the fabric these days, solace nestles into the swish of scissors parting fabric, and pleasure glimmers from the passes of the needle in, and out—so much love spun into that thread, love of discovery, of self, of the process of creating a thing for someone who fills my heart. I need this just now—there’s no other way. If I don’t make, create, follow the steps from start to finish, convert raw materials into nourishment (learning how to not kill my sourdough), I will fill that space instead with the dread, fury, and the intense uncertainty that permeates today.

So, no, I’ve not produced much in the way of writing these days, but I know I will circle back to it in time. I send this short reflection out in hopes of inspiring us to fill up those moments entirely, the ones that seem minute, mundane, or insignificant, because they are our sustenance, our anchor in the turmoil. The rhythmic movement of our morning walk, the soothing tingle of warm water pouring from our head and cascading down off our shoulders in the shower, the absentminded stroking of the dog’s ears, even the tapping of a keyboard as we rise to meet our livelihood or scholarly demands—all of those bring us solidly into the now and tether us to something we can control. And if we can grasp even whips of pleasure, we must.

Today, the sun soothes, and my dough awaits.