At Morris Arboratum today, I noticed the trees, really saw them. What struck me was that their bare grey structures had not an inch of bright soft color about them. They were just weathering. No creating, no growth: just waiting. They were only the very simplest parts of themselves. They didn't seem to mind. It's rather like how I feel. Each winter this surprises me. It's very hard to accept that part of my natural state is to be dormant sometimes. I've been trying to squeeze the creativity and color out of my tips, but there's just not much there; it seems to be underground. I just want to read, keep warm, get outside for some fresh air and then come back in. Which isn't a bad thing. It's just that my mind's saying, "Go make something," and my gut and my body are saying, "Um, how about you take a break?" A break isn't a break unless I let it be. So I'm trying to let it be. Trying to follow my gut and see what it says. Even if it makes me uncomfortable.