Seasons of Creativity

Reflections & Springtime Memories

Savannah Clancy

Jun 14, 2025

My first single for my upcoming album is now available to pre-save!

grew from

7/5/25

single

Pre-saving very much helps the spotify algorithms say– this song is interesting, we should play it for more people! So if you have a moment – pre save the song here:
https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/savannahclancy/grew-from?utm_campaign=website&utm_medium=Email+&utm_source=SendGrid

And here is a little sound clip to get a feeling for what’s to come:

Upon this song's release I will be sharing more about the creative process of bringing it into this form (writing, performing, and recording it), what it means to me, with photographs and a story to go alongside. For now, I am writing some more about my own general creative process, specifically around “The Seasons of Creativity”. You can see a good overview of my songwriting process on my previous substack post, “How to Write A Song”.

The Seasons of Creativity

I have been creating for as long as I can remember. Whether with crayons and paint, or movement and sand, the urge to make was undeniable. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I have never been overly attached to the act of producing. Creating was an inherent part of me, and thus I did not fear when the drive subsided, or was more intense than usual. Intuitively, I sensed that whatever was happening was cyclical, just like the seasons. So when I experienced what I call a creative winter, I just let it be what it was.

Now, of course, there are different reasons why one might have a creative winter, and at the end of the day, only you can know what you need. For me, it was usually rest and a sense of spaciousness. These were the fertile grounds where new ideas ignited, even if I was not always conscious of it. In my post on how to write a song, I shared about how one must listen in order to receive. This is similar to the creative winter. Constantly being in the state of actively thinking, talking, creating, etc, is exhausting and can limit our communication with the sacred. In a world that celebrates productivity and values only the things we can see, there is little room for such spaciousness to listen deeply.

Perhaps an unpopular opinion, but I do not think the world needs just more things: more pieces of art to over-intellectualize, more songs to over-emphasize every aspect of everything…no. What we need, both people and planet, is art that comes from deep listening and communion with ourselves, each other, the earth, and the divine–whatever that means to you. And this might—at times— look like creating less rather than more.

Unfortunately, this is incompatible with being able to make a living from being an artist. It's a constant dilemma within myself. I could make more paintings, write more songs, do more things so I could maybe make a profit to be an artist full time– and that's the dream, isn’t it?

Is it?

The same dilemma comes to me when I think of supporting birth. Life, creativity— the core of our sacred belonging to the planet—What place does profit have within it? While exchange is an age-old practice, can it be applicable without discarding its authentic existence? We are in the density of changing paradigms, exiting the world of profit– and this in between phase—is awkward, at the very least. Clunky even. But the desire is sincere: to cultivate a soulful experience, one that we can live in full-time, while still maintaining the basics of what social structures currently demand.

But I digress. This share is not a bigger conversation (although, is anything not that, these days)? It is creativity in its simplest form. Allowing for the artist an organic flow to take the place of expectation and for those potential feelings of failure and not enoughness to biodegrade. And yes, I have experienced creative winters–longggggg creative winters– that were because of something else– something that needed to be explored more than simply letting it be. But for the most part, just letting it be, was the greatest gift to any pause that I’ve ever experienced in my creative process. Because, even if it was something more, the body and mind are incredibly wise and self-healing entities, far beyond our conscious interpretation of what wisdom and healing is.

And then– when we let things be, all of a sudden, the seasons change– in a blink of an eye, Spring arrives illuminating what was quietly growing underneath. And then Spring subsides, and Summer heat takes control– growing and expanding us beyond what we thought possible. When Autumn comes, quietly knocking, in the language of rain and falling leaves, the harvest offers us the fruits of our labor. A sweet beckoning, a knowing, a certainty of what seeds were planted, and which ones took root. Then the winter and quietude of its call comes again, and we can now welcome it with open hearts.

A little writeup I did at the beginning of May

Reflections on Tending a Wild Garden.

A soft glow takes shape amidst the chorus of evening. Summer is just around the bend and the unruly grasses are just bursting to everything around. The bugs have made their unsuspected entry while heads were still turned inward. The turning of crispness into the foreboding of heat happened in the blink of an eye, offering surprise to anyone left unguarded. All the more sweet is the realization, too late, that winter has already faded, returning joy so merrily in the secret whims of mint on the air.

I am back in the garden, my happy place. Last May, we moved from my family’s land of wild beauty to create a nest of our own to welcome earthside our baby girl. After three years working in the garden, it was bittersweet to take a pause and not tend the garden. I remember the little nudge of sadness I felt when I came to visit, seeing all I could do, but was choosing not to. I did not know then I would be returning so soon. Now we are here again, and the joy I feel tending this land is palpable. Having my daughter along for the ride just makes it all the more wondrous. Tending a garden has been one of my greatest teachers in this life. It is hard work, yes, but rewarding, soul-full work is something we are made to do. Nothing makes me feel more at home in my body and in this world than having my hands, feet, and heart working in the dirt, planting seeds, tending their bounty, and harvesting their fruits. I love communing, singing, and feeling the fullness of each plant's wisdom as I give a little bit of myself to their resurrection.

Lessons from the Garden

One thing the garden has taught me is patience. I am not someone who likes to wait. I like to take action and get things done. If something is delayed, takes longer than anticipated, or it must be given time before action is needed, I tend to feel frustrated. I am a doer at heart, and while this skill can come in handy, it is not always what is needed in each moment.
Another lesson the garden has taught me is the reason for the seasons. I often say to people, “I never really understood winter until I spent a summer in the Gorge”. Usually come summer in the Gorge I feel pretty exhausted–not drained, mind you. It is a rewarding kind of exhaustion, one that is complete devotion and purpose. The rains of Autumn bring me an ecstasy of anticipation, of wonder, and of longing for dark and cozy days next to the hearth.
Perhaps one of the greatest lessons of the garden has been continuing with the simple tasks while surrendering to the greater story of the garden that is beyond me. Planting a garden might start in the seed of one's heart, but it is ultimately a grand collaborative dance with so many beings. From soil, to bugs, birds, and more, I am just one part of the beautiful coming together that planting seeds brings. Everyone, including me, has a part to play, but that does not mean I am the dictator of the story.

I listen and witness and work where I am called. I cannot control everything, there will be some weeds that flower, and some fruits that fall to compost. But many so-called weeds have magic yet unknown to me, and the unpicked fruit is food for another. Tending the garden reminds me that the world is so much more than I perceive it to be, and that there is no way for one person to hold it all. We are a part of an unfolding of cycles mirror and collaborating in the wild abundance of the world.

Please enjoy some garden photos and springtime poetry to peak the senses.