There’s a rhythm to making that doesn’t always match the calendar on the wall. Some months I’m a whirlwind of wool and wire — the kind of days when I forget my tea until it’s cold and I only realize how much time has passed when the light outside has changed. Other times, I move slower. I spend days flipping through old sketchbooks, gathering reference photos, and letting my mind wander without demanding anything from my hands. It took me years to realize both of those phases are part of the same cycle. One feeds the other. They aren’t opposites; they’re partners.
For a long time, I believed creativity had to be constant. That if I wasn’t producing, I was somehow losing momentum. The truth is, creativity isn’t a straight line — it’s a pulse. It rises and falls, expands and contracts, much like nature itself. Once I started paying attention to my own creative “seasons,” everything changed. The guilt fell away. The pressure softened. I began to see how every stage of making — from the quiet rest to the deep hum of production — plays an essential role in the health of my creative practice.
Winter is when I feel most at home in my creativity. The cold air outside, the early evenings, the hum of a kettle in the background — it all feels like an invitation to make. While the world quiets down, my studio becomes a cocoon. I pull on a sweater, light a candle, and let the wool guide me. There’s something deeply comforting about the rhythm of felting when everything outside is still. The soft sound of the needles, the textures beneath my hands — it becomes meditative.
This is the season when I make the most. I don’t feel rushed or overstimulated; I feel grounded. There’s time to slow down and focus on the details — a fox’s whiskers, the curve of a rabbit’s ear, the way shadow gathers under a bird’s wing. It’s cozy work. I think it’s because winter holds permission to stay in — to create for the sake of creating. My best pieces often come from this time of year because I’m not chasing light or deadlines. I’m just here, in the process, fully present.
- A few ways I nurture that cozy Winter energy:
- I let the weather guide my pace — slower, calmer, more intentional.
- I listen to music or a quiet podcast while I work, letting sound become part of the rhythm.
- I remind myself that it’s okay to make without pressure. This is the heart season of creation.
Then, one day, the itch returns in a new way. My ideas start bubbling again — little sparks that nudge at me while I’m making breakfast or out feeding the animals. I start a new piece, then another. Wool and wire cover my desk. I test new colors, new proportions, sometimes creating something half-formed and a little awkward — but alive. This is the season of curiosity.
Spring is messy and joyful. It’s not about perfection; it’s about experimentation. I let myself follow whims and “what-ifs.” What if I used that scrap of driftwood as a base? What if I made a rabbit mid-leap? What if I didn’t overthink it at all?
The goal in Spring isn’t mastery — it’s momentum. It’s letting yourself get lost in the feeling of discovery again. Every artist has moments where we forget why we started. Spring is the season that reminds us.
By the time Summer rolls in, I can feel it. My ideas have matured. My hands know what to do before I think it. This is the season of flow — where skill and inspiration finally meet. I’m fully in the rhythm of making. Hours pass unnoticed as I build form after form, sculpting and refining. My tea is always cold, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Summer is when I lean into focus. I set boundaries around distractions. I batch steps, I plan projects. I give myself permission to disappear into my work. There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing the wool transform under my hands, about watching something that once lived in my mind take shape before me.
I protect my Summer fiercely. I know it doesn’t last forever, but while it’s here, I make the most of it.
Fall arrives like a deep breath after a sprint. The light in my studio changes, and so does my focus. I start to notice the details again — the edges that need smoothing, the colors that need softening. I begin to finish what I started. There’s satisfaction in completion, but also a little sadness. Each finished piece carries a sense of goodbye.
Fall is when I step back and take stock. I look at what I made, what I learned, and what I want to carry forward. Not everything gets finished — and that’s okay. Some ideas were only meant to teach me something before fading away. I photograph my work, share it, and tell its story. I reflect on how far I’ve come since last year’s Fall.
This is also a season of gratitude. For the pieces that challenged me, for the mistakes that taught me, and for the quiet hours that shaped my growth.
Our creativity mirrors the natural world because our brains and bodies are wired for cycles. We move through periods of high focus and recovery, just like nature moves through growth and rest. Ignoring that rhythm is what leads to burnout and creative droughts.
When we work with our natural rhythms instead of against them, we sustain creative energy longer. Neuroscience even supports this — our attention operates in cycles, usually around 90 minutes of high focus followed by a need for recovery. Creativity requires both stimulation and rest. The alternation is what keeps it fresh.
When we rest, our subconscious is still working. It’s connecting dots, resolving problems, and reshaping ideas beneath the surface. That’s why inspiration often strikes in the shower or on a walk. Your brain has space to breathe.
So, when your creative energy fades, don’t panic — it’s not disappearing; it’s renewing. Let yourself trust that.
Every artist’s seasons look different. Some might cycle through all four in a month, others in a year. The point isn’t to control them, but to notice them.
If you want to find your rhythm, start by tracking it. Jot down how you feel during different times of the year. Notice when you’re most energized, when you crave solitude, when ideas spark easily, and when you need rest. Over time, you’ll see patterns emerge.
Instead of fighting those patterns, lean into them. Plan your big projects for your “Summer.” Give yourself permission to rest during your “Winter.” And when you find yourself in Spring or Fall, use those transitional moments to explore or refine.
The more you work with your natural rhythm, the easier creativity becomes. The process feels less forced, more alive — more like you.
Every season brings its own lessons. Winter asks us to nurture what makes us feel safe and inspired. Spring invites us to play. Summer challenges us to build. Fall teaches us to finish and let go. When we stop trying to stay in constant bloom, we finally begin to grow with intention.
Wherever you are in your own creative cycle, honor it. Your art will thank you. And when you return to your workbench — whether it’s with fresh energy or quiet curiosity — you’ll bring with you everything the seasons have taught you.
Each cycle, each pause, each burst of creation is a part of the story of becoming the artist you already are.
