Butt in the Chair

When I came home from Houston, I wasn’t in any kind of creative space.

I was in a hunker down space.

We had nearly lost our son (I wrote about that here). Life had narrowed to medical updates, waiting rooms, relief tangled with fear. Layered on top of that was the long, slow process of testing our daughter for the same rare genetic condition, Wilson Disease — something that could take years to fully rule in or out.

Creativity didn’t feel unavailable. It felt irrelevant.

So I did what I could do.

I walked the dogs. I stayed close to home. I paid attention to the light.

And I took photographs. Always photographs.

Photography has always been my lowest-stakes form of noticing. I don’t have to explain anything. I don’t have to know what it means. I don’t do it with the weight of being a photographer, or the pressure to do it right. I just have to look long enough to recognize when something says pay attention.

But writing? Painting? Nope. They require presence. And I didn’t have that to give.

For a long stretch, I had no interest in either. And that felt… necessary. Like something protective was happening, even if I didn’t have language for it yet.

Then January arrived.

And with it, a quiet, uncomfortable self-imposed realization: I either had to blog again — or walk away entirely.

People were wondering what had happened to me. I was wondering the same thing.

So one morning in early January, I sat down. Butt in the chair. No plan. No outline. No idea what I was going to write.

I wasn’t trying to “get back on track.” I was checking for a pulse.

I wanted to know if the writing was still there. If I was still there. And where the hell was my muse???

And once I started, something unexpected happened.

The words didn’t feel forced. They didn’t feel dramatic or polished or particularly brave.

They just… came.

Not as a declaration. Not as a comeback.

More like a conversation picking up mid-sentence.

The writing kept me up late at night. Not wired — absorbed.

Noticing Again

One night, after a long session, I climbed into bed and looked up at the ceiling. And there they were: the shadows. The same shifting shapes that once inspired my digital series Sleepless.

I hadn’t thought about that work in a long time.

But there they were again. Familiar. Insistent.

Calling to me.

That’s when I knew something was expanding.

Not rushing back. Not demanding to be made whole all at once. Just widening. Creating a little more room to breathe.

I’m not calling this a return. That feels too tidy.

I’m calling it re-entry.

Careful. Curious. One foot testing the floor before committing my full weight.

This space — between what was and whatever comes next — is where I find myself now.

Still noticing. Still photographing. Still writing my way back toward meaning.

And it turns out that was enough to open the door.

For now, that’s all I need.

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This week’s creative prompt: Notice something ordinary.

Take a photograph or write a description. Not to make art (although I never say no to an arty photo!) Do it just to remember that you looked and found something worth noticing.

Your Turn

Has anything been quietly asking for your attention lately? If you want, tell me about it in the comments.

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