Drifting away & emptying out to let newness in again

An exploration of intuition & rest

Over the past week I’ve been feeling a bit stuck creatively. Maybe it’s a hint from the darker winter months to just let go?

There’s been no real inspiration, just the germs of ideas and multiple directions competing for my attention. It’s all a bit too noisy & muddy, especially with the secondary inner dialogue about the noise & mud.

I’m the type of creative who needs a spark of energy to work with: a sudden realisation, a striking image or a beautiful quote, but nothing that has come into my world lately felt quite right for me to run with. Recently I shared a note on Substack about the panic that moves through me when inspiration is low - it’s like a huge part of me has gone out for a long walk in a distant field. Katey Delaney & Sophie Cartledge both left beautiful comments about getting outside and giving our creativity space because it requires ease and flow, otherwise it doesn’t happen.

So that’s what I did, I created some spaciousness and went out for a walk. But not my usual walk, a longer walk via a route I wouldn’t normally take.

Hands firmly in my coat pockets, I was messing with hair bobbles that I’d found in there and moving through the tree-lined paths, which go largely undetected by the tourists here in Edinburgh. For one reason or another, a bench at an intersection of three separate paths caught my attention and pulled me in like a magnet. I sat down for no real reason other than feeling like I had to. In all the years I’ve lived here I have never noticed this bench but I was strangely compelled to spend some time in that specific spot.

I didn’t question the impulse, in fact I kind of delighted in trusting it. I sat down and almost instantly my eyes found a squirrel in the trees to fixate on, following its tiny agile body bounding from branch to branch, leaping across the sky from one tree to another. I’d been watching it for a little while when an elderly man approached with his bike and asked if he could sit beside me. It turned out that this was his seat - his regular spot for meeting the same red robin each morning on his cycle home. I shared the fact that robins always remind me of my Grandad who lived to the incredible age of 94.

He sat beside me and took out a small tub of mealworms from his bag, shaking them to let the robin know he had arrived. In seconds the robin came into view and was so close it was almost eating out of his hand, I found myself gasping and squeaking like a child, the interaction was so pure and exciting to me. I asked how long they’d been friends - 10 months.

Soon he took out a second tub which was filled with green and red grapes. A few for him, one for me, and one for the robin. Soon after, another bird approached which neither of us recognised by sight - she had a brown back and a speckled stomach. Later I would phone my mum who took great pleasure in consulting her bird book and reporting that we had spotted a Mistle Thrush.

An hour on from this moment, we had talked about how a human’s connection with nature only seems to deepen with age, our swimming routines, the stroke he suffered 9 years ago, and our shared reluctance to socialise in ways that don’t nourish us.

I got the sense that both of us felt really seen by one another. There was a quiet magic to the conversation, like we were being held in a bubble designed for us to voice exactly what we needed to say on that particular day in that particular moment. I knew the joy from the conversation was mutual and could have easily stayed chatting for another hour, but it was freezing and by this time I needed a wee!

When I finally left the bench and told him my name, I discovered that his granddaughter was called Sophie, too. The serendipity and simplicity of the whole interaction had me feeling part of something larger. I was affected by the mutual generosity of the conversation and walked the rest of the way home with a glow, smiling at people with real warmth.

Stepping away from my creative (and mundane) to do list for the morning and resting in a sense of spaciousness on that particular bench meant that I was met with such a simple and nourishing moment with a stranger; nourishment I didn’t know I needed and wouldn’t have received if I had clung onto the momentum of doing things. For 7 years I unwittingly used busyness as a way of keeping my intuition at arm’s length; if I was always occupied by fixing something (or someone), travelling somewhere or planning something, I wouldn’t have to face the parts of myself I was running from. I wouldn’t have to stop and hear the truth.

I’m now 4 months away from turning 30 and have found great freedom in deciding that I’m exactly on time; I’ve built enough trust in myself and life that I can lean into impulses and whispers that don’t have a clear reason behind them. I’ve found that consciously entertaining the whispers has had a huge impact on my life as it strengthens a muscle I never used to have - trust.

It’s a valuable practice that gives my pattern-seeking mind a new filter to observe life through: magic, meaning and connection.

I’m curious to learn about your own relationship to intuition too, and whether it’s changed or solidified over time. Has it lead you to any beautiful moments or important realisations? I’d love to hear your experiences.

Speak soon,

S x