A little well of grief in the center of my chest: it is small enough in circumference that I usually forget it’s there, but sometimes I stumble in and its depth is overwhelming.
What can I do in those moments? Spend time in the woods, hold real things in my hands, smell cold air, drink warm tea. I settle in with the ache of it, which is rimmed with a small anxiety, a yearning for something to change.
This is the onset of the dark season, when inspiration requires discipline. I am quietly learning to relax: to be in my skin and learn new songs.