Hope Lauterbach

(S.A.D.) seasonal affective disorder hit hard this year, as did my allergies. Each day of October and November felt like an exercise in survival and yet I was determined not to let the lack of light affect my growing spark of creative energy. 

I won’t get into my writing dry spell (more affectionately called “writer’s mirage”) in this post, but 2022 has seen a rekindling of my confidence and engagement with community, and understanding of my imagination-to-creation process. 

This summer, I had a comfortable routine of reading and writing outdoors, mostly in a neighbourhood park. I’d set up my spread of writing utensils, notebooks, and books (I can never travel lightly) and settle into the landscape, watching and listening. I overheard conversations, pieces of someone else’s stories. I watched the sun set over the community garden. I welcomed the cool touch of night air as stars reemerged in the sky. Each evening was a summer dream of my own design, and when winter approached I grew afraid of losing this new-found ritual. How could I adapt?

I turned to journaling for reflection. I asked myself several questions:

1. What would I miss about summer? The sun. 
2. What was I looking for? Softness and warmth. 
3. How could I change with the changing season? I would create my own “sun” by leaning towards the light.

Now, I have a new winter practice for my creative hygiene, my self-care, or whatever you want to call it.

• I filter and limit my social media and content intake
• I surround myself with things that make me feel soft and warm (e.g. fuzzy socks and scarves, candles)
• I make soup and cookies on a weekly basis and drink copious amounts of tea

These are some small things that make a big difference in my week, and are by no means prescriptive. I anticipate new routines come spring, but for now I am content.

Poem reccomendation: “Snowdrops” by Louise Glück
Tarot card: The Sun