Stopping.

I'm a go, go, go girl.  I walk and throw and trim and paint and run and do yoga.  I rarely sit. Still.  

But after a week at the Blues Festival setting up, selling art, arranging and re-arranging in the sunny, hot, dusty, loud party atmosphere, I found myself in an opposite world.

Dark.  Cool.  Clean.  Silent and still.  

I didn't create it or do it with any kind of planning or thought.  I found myself in my room with the blinds closed, fan on, feet up with a lavender-vanilla candle scenting the air and my eyes closed.  After a while of sitting there, still, awareness dawned: I needed to stop.

Stopping scares me, I think.

I know it's past conditioning at work; pushing and producing equals value and security.  And I also know after years of personal work that creating takes soul and heart and that all comes in its own time and at its own pace.  Although I've succeeded at pushing out the birth of ideas, slogans, ads, writing, and, even art, it's not sustainable.  

Going with the flow.

My normal flow is like a burbling stream.  But this week, my go-go is gone and my flow is more like a small, circular pool in the middle of a stream.  I'm trying to float there, trusting that in time, I will move into the flow again, burbling happily.