I'm writing this edition from a different headspace than usual. The past couple of weeks have brought the passing of my mother-in-law, an old friend who's very ill, and a new friend who just lost a pet. Feels a little heavy all at once.

Perhaps you've had this kind of month before. I have friends and acquaintances who have told me they had a bad year. That's got to be rough.

Anyway, recent events got me thinking about loss and creativity. Obviously, great creative works are often created as an extension of someone's grief (this example comes to mind). But I'm thinking about how I feel about creativity in the midst of experiencing loss. I imagine for some, it comes naturally. For others, it's probably a struggle.

I have an upcoming show with my band, Robonzo, rehearsals for a new ensemble, podcast episodes to record, and newsletters to write. This is probably a good time to reflect and catch my breath. The funny thing is, I've been spending a lot of time lately reading about the Buddhist perspective on death and dying. The timing is purely coincidental, but I admittedly think about death and dying regularly. I suppose my reading is helping me process.

Oh, and there's the craziness that is the goings-on within the United States of America. A recent high-profile fatal gun shooting that has become a political and cultural fireball, all the daily gun deaths I can't be bothered to keep up with, and much more. I do my best to consume news thoughtfully, not to doom scroll the digital cesspool of social media, but still–it's a lot.

I have no proposed solutions. I'm just trying to wrap my head around life, and asking myself what happens when creativity is disrupted. Yet, creativity may be the one and only saving grace for the creatively inclined. Thinking about it makes my chest hurt.

Maybe we can (could, should) remember that creativity doesn't always have to be productive or polished. Sometimes it's just about moving through the feelings, letting them pass through us like wind through an open window. I've been thinking about this a lot lately—how we put pressure on ourselves to create something meaningful from our pain, as if every difficult experience needs to yield a song, a story, or some profound artistic statement.

But what if creativity during grief is different? What if it's quieter, messier, less finished?

I've noticed that when I'm processing heavy stuff, my usual creative practices feel foreign. Sitting down to write a new song feels impossible, but I might find myself humming an old melody while washing dishes. The structured approach I normally take to recording podcast episodes feels too rigid, but I catch myself having the most honest conversations with friends over a beer. Sometimes I bare my soul during an episode intro with no regard for the unsuspecting first-time listener.

There's a quote attributed to Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön that brings me comfort: "You are the sky, everything else is just the weather." Perhaps grief, world events, and the overwhelming nature of it all are weather passing through, and the creative impulse underneath, that's the sky. It's still there even when we can't see it.

For independent musicians and other creatives, this presents a weird challenge. We're used to being "on"—posting content, promoting shows and ideas, maintaining momentum. The machine expects us to keep producing. But maybe the most creative thing we can do during difficult periods is to resist that pressure and honor what's actually happening inside us.

Creativity during loss might look like:

• Playing the same three chords over and over until they feel like home
• Writing terrible first drafts that no one will ever see
• Listening to music that moves us instead of making music
• Showing up to rehearsal even when we don't feel like it, to be around other humans making sound

The Buddhist texts I've been reading talk about impermanence, the in-between spaces, and the transitions. Maybe that's where I am right now, in the strange space between the before and whatever comes next. That might be exactly where creativity lives—in uncertainty, in the not knowing what comes next.

I don't have answers about how to stay creative when the world feels heavy. The question itself might be the wrong one. Perhaps it's not about staying creative despite the difficulty, but allowing creativity to change shape and become something softer, something more forgiving.

What do you do in times like this? Do you push through and try to maintain your normal creative routine?

Peace, love and more cowbell,
Robonzo

P.S. The Robonzo show is still happening. Sometimes the most healing thing is to gather in a room with other people and make noise together. If you're in the area, come out. We could all use more connection right now.

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