I’ve had the beginnings of at least two different versions of this newsletter sitting in my drafts folder for months. But the writing is just not coming. Ditto for an essay I’ve been working on for forever.
It’s been a challenging year, one I thought would be a respite after an absolutely nutso 2024 that involved thirteen trips to Las Vegas in twelve months in the process of moving my dad from his home there to an assisted living facility near me in California and then clearing out his house in order to rent it.
But life has proven the adage that the only thing consistent is change, and now I have a slew of other challenges related to being his primary caregiver that have consumed my time and energy.
Some people, such as apparently Maggie Smith, write more during times of crisis, as it helps them process and manage what’s going on. Smith wrote two books—the aphorism-and-affirmation collection Keep Moving1, as well as her searing memoir You Could Make This Place Beautiful—while her marriage was falling apart and during its bitter aftermath. You Could Make This Place Beautiful blew me away; I reviewed it at the end of this newsletter.
I have intentions of writing through the difficult times, but then balls start dropping all over the place, and writing—even in my journal—starts to feel oppressive.
When my mother was dying in 2012, I couldn’t bring myself to write much at all until some months after the funeral.
In my grief, I also stopped singing and dancing hula. It wasn’t a conscious decision—my body made it for me. My throat closed up while attempting to sing even the basic hymns in church; going Christmas caroling that December was incomprehensible.
As for hula, the very thought of dancing made me viscerally repulsed for about a year. Just NO.
In the worst of my grieving, my pen turned in another direction—drawing. I remember one particularly bad day when I left my parents’ house, where my father and I had been caring for my mother in home hospice, for a few hours’ respite. I found myself buying a cheap notebook and set of fine-tipped markers at the local drugstore.
At the Starbucks next door I parked myself in a booth and drew a half dozen pages of whatever came to mind—comic-style observations from the crucible that was home hospice, and crude portraits of myself and my parents as we shuffled through our days.
When I look at them now I am shocked at how unselfconscious they are, and how moving. I was able to express myself freely without the pressure of “writing,” even though words were present on those pages.
Sadly, I haven’t gotten back to drawing, but I have been pulled to another graphic format—collaging.
Something about sitting down intently cutting images from paper scraps with a pair of detail scissors quiets my mind. And I have files and files of paper and ephemera for making collages and altered postcards.
I’m much more intuitive with collaging than with writing. I rely on gut instinct to see what pieces in my collection are telling me they want to be together, and I trust my eye and my sense of humor to tell me when a composition is just what I want. I’m also much less invested in the outcome. It’s easier for me to collage just for myself, not worrying what others will think.
So collaging has been my creative outlet of late. I hadn’t allowed myself crafting time in a while because I felt like it would only be worth it if I got all my supplies out, and the thought of having to put them all away again was just too much.
But I was inspired by a session with my Enneagram coach to find a way through into some Type 7 playful time to balance out the Type 1 Under Stress energy I’m getting way too much of in my life right now.
I find if I just pick some backgrounds and a few files of images, I can spend 30 mintues to an hour collaging and it refills my well without feeling like I have to get everything out and put it all away.
Here are some efforts of late:
Here’s another thing that happens when I work in visuals—my subconscious tells me things I’m not processing with words. Although I hadn’t intended it, when I looked at this latest batch again after letting them sit for a week, they screamed “Mortality much?”
Maybe the reason the writing is not coming is that, like that time a dozen years ago, I am grieving. It’s just that instead of watching my mother actively dying over four weeks in a hospice bed, I’m watching my father slowly slip through my fingers from cognitive decline.
It’s still grieving, but a different flavor. Maybe I just need to acknowledge this and recognize that my body will tell me when I’m ready to process with words.
What I’m reading
Speaking of grieving, it is with heavy heart that I heard the news that the Audrey audiobook app is shutting down. I wrote about Audrey in late 2023 as I was discovering their series of guided classics, and have enjoyed many more since then.
My latest Audrey read was Moby Dick, a two-month odyssey of obsession and whale facts that was a lot easier to digest with the help of the expert accompanying guide. I would never have tackled this classic, nor understood some of the more nuanced aspects of the novel, without Audrey.
Although the company isn’t actively encouraging folks to make purchases at this point, they said the Audrey app will still work and you can still download audiobooks. But no more updates will be coming and eventually it will stop working. So if there’s a classic you’ve had a hankering to listen to with an expert guide, now is the time. My favorites have been Far from the Madding Crowd, A Doll’s House, and The Picture of Dorian Gray.
So there you have it, my friend. Have you gone through a spell where a creative outlet you used to rely on just isn’t available for whatever reason? How did you cope with that? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
All books are linked through my Bookshop.org store and earn an affiliate commission, which will be donated to the Strong Hearted Native Women’s Coalition in San Diego County.
I love the process of collage and enjoyed this glimpse of your collage work.
Making art can definitely help you through the slow-moving grief of cognitive decline. I remember when my parents were slipping into dementia and I would visit them in Cleveland. It really helped to go to a cafe between visits and to work on a book that took place in another world. I like your collages. Getting visual is a nice relief from the burden of words and analytical thinking.