A Confession


Bless me Father for I have sinned.

It has been two months since my last Blog post.

I did it again. The same thing I do every year. I hibernated this winter. I guess I’ve got a little bear in me, but it seems every winter I just mentally shut down. I go into autopilot. I just go through the motions of life but don’t seem to be creative or inspired.

I’m sure it’s the weather. Nothing depresses me more that a cold wind at my back. Nothing makes me madder than a cold wind slapping me in the face. Dead trees, no flowers, even the ocean seems cold and heartless. Winter is just not my friend.

I’m not a snow bunny. I don’t like skiing down slopes. I don’t like trucking through snow up to my ass. I don’t like shoveling it just to find my car. I don’t like ice unless it’s floating in my cocktail. That’s why I live by the ocean in Florida. We don’t get snow. We have to make our ice.

However, even living in Florida the cold, grey finger of winter still seems to be able to reach way down here, in the Sunshine State, and tap me on the shoulder and put me to sleep for a few months. Maybe it’s the shorter days and longer nights. Maybe it’s the cooler temperatures. Maybe it’s the lack of green, flowering plants or maybe it’s that dead cold smell that replaces the fragrant scents of summer. Whatever it is, something about winter puts me in a bad funk that slows me down and keeps me inside brooding.

Winter to me means, no surfing, no skateboarding down hot asphalt streets in my shorts, no frolicking babes in bikinis, no tans, no sunburns, no long lazy afternoons laying in the warm sand contemplating the universe and my place in the big scheme. As you can see winter means ‘no’ to me.

So I guess since there is no-thing to do I just hibernate. I put up my surfboard. I tear apart my skateboard for bearing and wheel updates. I trade in my board shorts and tees for flannel shirts and jeans. Set out of my flip-flops and put on socks and chucks. I guess I have no-thing to do but eat and sleep. That’s what I call hibernation.

With hibernation comes a slowing of the creative side of my brain. Even my tikis no longer call to me from inside the palm trees (they too must hibernate). So I no longer need to beat the palm logs with my hammer and chisel to set them free. In the hot summer my they seem alive. With fire in their eyes they stare straight at me when I walk by. Burning a whole right through me with a stare of contempt and urgency. But in winter they seem to have a cold distant stare. In the winter I can never catch them looking at me. Even if I shout at them they all seem to be looking off in the distance, cold, unaware of their surroundings. I think they are looking for summer.

Summer is their time. Born from the tropics, raised by the sun, the tiki is a summer being. Watching the sun rise, being warmed all day by the blister sun of summer, and watching each and every blazing sunset of summer they stay warm for many hours after the sun goes down. Yes in summer my tikis are very much alive.

Summer is my time, my creative time. Winter is my sleep time. Now as the days begin to lengthen, and the sun slowly begins its march north. Something in me begins to awaken. The creative side of my mind begins to thaw and small droplets of inspiration forces me from my long winter naps. I begin to awaken from my sterile sleep and start seeing things of the earth in a new and creative way. I hear rumblings in the palm logs and I know I will soon have to pick up my hammer and chisel and start my laboring to release another tiki into summer. A new tiki to join his brothers basking in the hot summer sun, watching that sun set ablaze the evening sky.

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