I was in a funk when I sat down to write this. Maybe hormonal. Maybe the weather. Maybe a combination. It was still a funk no matter what the cause. To me, a funk is a stagnation of energy. And this frigid cold, bundle up, hunker down and hibernate kind of weather we’ve been experiencing doesn’t help.
I’ve learned it’s important not to fall for false energy starters like sugar, shopping, talking just to fill time instead of genuinely connecting, mindless channel surfing or web surfing, too much reading. Wait. What? Too much reading? Is there such a thing? There was a time when I would’ve said absolutely not. There was also a time when I claimed there was no such thing as too much hot fudge. Turns out I was wrong on both counts. Too much reading occurs when I read in order to avoid myself, avoid my writing. Instead of creating energy and words and movement in my own life, I immerse myself in the words of somebody else who has taken the time to create. I can tell when I am reading this way when I carry a stack of books around the house with me, not quite committed to any of them, not quite sure what I am in the mood for and once I choose one, my focus is scattered, my gaze flitting across the page, not engaged at all through no fault of the write. Totally my bad in those circumstances.
What I’ve realized is that it’s the playful artist in me, chomping at the bit to play with my own words, to create my own sentences, my own worlds. I’m learning to heed that longing. Nothing lifts me out of a funk quicker than creating something, anything. A sentence, a sketch, a blog post, a list, a pot of simmering soup. Creating anything creates energy and funks can’t thrive where there is energy.