Meditation Upon a Frozen River

Is nature so important to us because it’s the ultimate creative force? In my writing and in my life, setting, and being out of doors, is important to me. I find that experiencing nature directly – feeling the sharp prick of a thorn, hearing the soft whoosh of a plop of snow, recoiling from the scent of decaying seaweed on the beach – seems absolutely crucial. Perhaps this is because it’s only when we are alone and in sync with natural rhythms that we fully experience our own. I find that walking out of doors calms my jittery mind and induces a sense of flow, which often gives rise in my mind, seemingly out of nowhere, scenes or character dialogue.

Recently I was in Vermont during a wave of extremely cold weather followed by an abrupt warming. The river, which had been frozen over, suddenly began to break, cracks zigzagging every which way in the ice. A large hole opened up, and moving water was visible beneath. Frozen chunks began to sail downriver, crashing into each other like bumper cars. The collided pieces stuck together, reminding me of white peanut brittle.

I realized I’d never given thought to the movement of water underneath a thick layer of frozen river. Underneath the still surface, the river is alive and moving. And it occurs to me that this phenomenon is a metaphor for how appearances can be deceiving. It’s also a metaphor for creative block, for when we feel frozen, unable to access the flow of our creativity, yet so much is happening just beneath the surface.