Fruits of the Forest/Evanescent Seasons

I have now been in the Forest 1 year, 1 week, and 2 days.
A year ago I was busying myself decorating and gardening and trying to fill the void left by losing everything I had ever known in London. It took me 15 years to finally find a place in the world there, and giving it up was painful. So painful, in fact, that it manifested itself in terrible migraines that lasted for a day or 2 at a time. When I was supposed to be checking what was going on and coming off the moving van, I had to lie down, I prayed for darkness. I had to excuse myself from the relations that had come to help me and my husband, I couldn't bear the busy-ness of it all, and of course no-one excells in busy-ness more than a mother-in-law. It was all too much and I literally felt like my head was going to explode.
For the first week it was like an exciting holiday. We had our best mate down, explored the area, and tried many new beers and food in the pubs. Hub had 10 days off work. We started leisurely then knuckled down. Walls were painted, doggy smelling carpets were ripped out, and expensive cottagy wood furniture was purchased. Then he went back to work, the improvements slowed down, and problems with the house started appearing. The garden was a jungle. The central heating died. The cats got into fights. The contacts I tried to make in community arts dried up. They said they didn't need me after all.
What had this done to my creative output?
It had killed it.
I wanted to make things in the house better. I wanted to find a job. I wanted to feel as comfortable as I did before. I had no energy to create. I didn't know what I wanted to paint but I DID know I didn't want to paint twee landscapes full of bluebells and deer. I felt too urban to belong. All around me were strange accents belonging to even stranger people.
I tried sign-writing for the local steam railway. I was clearly intruding on an old boys club, and it was so cold in the machine room. I didn't feel like celebrating Christmas. I didn't have the heart for it. And the Christmas before, my dear feline friend was suddenly taken from me. It took a trip to the craft centre with my sister and buying a tree and garland there to make it more festive and heartwarming.
But the months dragged on and all I was doing was drawing and rehashing old ideas on pieces of paper, and pathetic attempts at my own style of landscape - so at least I could do something commercial. I had hopes of showing at a London gallery but they changed their mind at the last minute. My work was all packaged up and new work showed no sign of appearing. I was too frightened to work in the barn in case it all had to stop for the builders, and it was damp and had a scary rickety ladder in. I was freezing cold and all I wanted was a warm duvet, the cats, the laptop, and a bottle of good single malt.
I gritted my teeth and tried to get on - I signed up for the Open Studios to give myself some incentive to sort the barn out and make it presentable by July. I had sold a bit of work at a Christmas Craft Fair and that also gave me a little green shoot of confidence. The green shoots were so fragile and not frost proof though, the soil they were growing out of was also cold and barren.
In early spring, when I had decided not to wait for the building work and improvements to the barn and to make some work in the meantime, I took some of my inheritance and bought a kiln. I had no idea what to buy as I'd previously only ever used someone elses, and most of the times they had  done the firings for me. It was scary and exciting. My first firing went unbelievably well and this spurred me on. And, as the Open Studios approached, and I took lots of stored work out of its boxes, I was amazed at the variety of work I seemed to have produced. I even found some ceramics going back to 1994!
I had fallen out with a local artists collective in Gloucester and this had dampened my enthusiasm somewhat. I wanted to paint magpies and birds to sell there and they seemed up for this, and showed interest in my "splat" paintings. But then they decided I had no place there, and one of the artists suddenly started painting birds...
But I did the magpie paintings anyway, my rationale was that I was re-using old canvases, so it didn't matter if I messed them up. I felt detached making them though, as if trying to re-kindle an old relationship that had died due to lack of committment. My lack of skill made me feel guilty, like it was a lack of love.
What started to turn things around was working at the local museum. I put a painting in there as part of a local artists show, I didn't even get to see the other artists displaying there, only their work. The painting was a vibrant, abstract expressionist piece I'd done at Horley in the summer between 2 terms at Brighton. It was a very experimental piece and I'm surprised at the positive responses I got. One woman said she found it hard to tear herself away from it, and kept going back and looking at it. And she was just a volunteer there, not even "very arty" herself. It was wonderful to be able to communicate with this new audience, and a great and pleasing surprise. I volunteered to help with the Big Draw, and from this regular workshops began. Not paid ones, but I got so much good feedback and enthusiasm both from the museum and the public it didn't matter. It helped boost my confidence for the Open Studios. I certainly didn't care whether I sold anything or not from my studio, hoping I might flog a few spotty cats, but I ended up selling 2 paintings for quite a good amount!
I started making some more tentacle pots that I enjoyed making in Battersea. I got myself some outside support. My Mojo was returning! I made bigger and more colourful paintings. I got a page in a glossy brochure advertising my workshops at the museum.
I said goodbye to the splat painting idea by making my final one as loud and pink as it gets, ready to move on with something else. It was time to move on. That series of paintings went out with a bang, but still new followers are liking them, both on the net and in real life.
My work has always explored new areas. It would give an art therapist real food for thought! As I have got stronger as a person, my work has become more delicate. The colours have ceased to dominate the canvas, there is a lot of white space, the calm split by a slight intervention (or scar?), the ceramics has gone from thick and fleshy to thin and delicate, so fragile it looks like it could be destroyed by merely breathing on it. Maybe this is my fragility being dealt with in a literal sense, or maybe it is that I dont need to shout with my creative voice to drown out the other, more contemptuous voices within. Maybe I am becalmed, and the work shows my voice needs only to be a whisper to suggest ideas.
And I have taken up singing again.