As I lay on my sofa one day, gazing out of the window at the silhouette of a tall silver birch tree with its cascading branches and no leaves, I was reminded that even though nature in winter may be outwardly less vibrant without leaves and flowers, it is still extremely beautiful. In its stillness and non-doing, its sweet surrender to its purpose is revealed. Its only purpose is to be whatever it is, right there, in the moment. Leaves one moment, gone the next. Perfect in its existence.

So why was I resisting being creatively blocked? Why was I so insistent on pushing through the block and trying to make my own leaves and flowers grow?

It had been many months since I’d felt a consistent flow of creativity. My writing felt stifled, muffled in a perpetual fog with no new landscape in sight. I started writing in 2006 and with the occasional break here and there, writing was something that came from my soul - it came naturally to me. To feel this absence of writing felt like losing a limb to me. I was no longer able to be what I thought I was – a writer.