We’re getting used to rainy days. I bring my umbrella, because I know I will need it later.
People around me are dressed for the weather in a way I haven’t seen Angelenos before. Prepared.
This morning I opened the bathroom window and saw that our patio had turned into a pool. The rain was pouring down so hard and fast it was almost impossible to see anything through the water.
Five Lyft drivers gave up on their way here, but the sixth one made it. I was just about to give up and call it a rain day, when Alejandro drove up next to our house and took me through the flooded streets of Hollywood trafficked by Angelinos who are learning how to drive in heavy rain.
And believe it or not, right now the sun is shining through thick grey skies and the pool on our patio is more of a puddle.

We had a visit from a mountain lion early yesterday morning. He jumped over the stone wall, ran smoothly across our garden and took the stairs up the hill. Security cameras are great for spotting wildlife and mailmen.
Magnolias and Camellias are in bloom all over town, and it’s so green it surprises me every day.
The other week I was out walking when I suddenly had to stop; it smelled just like Sweden in the summertime. It hit me so hard, in the most wonderful way. I stood there and sniffed the air for a good while, laughing and trying to remember what exactly it was that made it feel like Sweden. Lush green plants, soaked through grounds after heavy rainfalls, a nearby lake, sunshine on wet asphalt, and a whiff of seagrass.

I miss the warmth.
We have a lot to long for right now. It’s going to be a once in a lifetime kind of spring, by the looks of it.
The things I long for the most though comes after, when we have time for Sunday afternoon naps again, entwined just so to fit on the narrow couch, breakfasts in the sun at our favorite cafe, walking to the sushi place for lunch, and hanging around our house together- just being.
The small things, are the important things.

We wake up before the alarm goes off.
We sit down to eat our breakfast before the alarm goes off.
It’s a nice novelty; feeling awake in the mornings.
There are people running around our house fixing stuff, and I don’t know what to do with my body. Where do I place it?
The AC is dismantled due to construction, and LA is currently in the middle of a heat wave, so indoors isn’t any better that outdoors.

But our house is wonderful.
We’ve lived her for a little over a week now and I’ve felt at home from the moment all of our stuff was inside and the movers had gone.
We drive by the old apartment sometimes, and isn’t it strange how it already feels like a life time ago? There’s not a single trace of home left in that building.
The brain moves on so quickly. Sometimes.

We live in the treetops, our kitchen gives off some serious summer cottage vibes- it’s the light, I think, yesterday a bird sat down on the open window ledge just to sing for a little while, my plants thrive, and the afternoon light in our living room is just magical.
It’s more than we could imagine.
Will this ever feel normal?

I figured out an important part of my personality last week.
Maybe I’ve known it longer than that, but sometimes realizations really has to smack you, to reach all the way inside you. I needed three very specific events to understand.

I’ve been feeling creatively passive lately. Under-inspired. Moving through slush to find ideas. It’s not surprising when you think about it, I’m alone most days and I don’t have too much to do. One could say I have too little to do. I’m saying that. I have too little to do.
After a while it becomes normal life, and you (I mean “I”) start to think “maybe I’m just not a creative person anymore”.
But that doesn’t feel right either.

I talk with one of the best people I know. She has said in the past that talking with me makes her feel inspired to be creative. This time she’s the one to trigger those feelings in me. I say to her, I think I need creative people around me to find creativeness.
When we hang up I have more ideas than I had two hours earlier (yes, we talked for almost two hours).
That’s how I’ve always known myself, a person who never struggles to get great ideas.
So where have I been?

The weekend comes and David and I go to see a movie. It’s the most confusing mix of a fantastic movie and a terrible movie. I get pulled out of the experience more than once because of bad directing, bad acting from wonderful actors, strange editing that makes me feel the film making, and not the emotions.
We discuss it on our way home, and David, who loved the movie, hadn’t seen all those things. When I bring them up he understands me though, and we walk home through the streets of Toronto and talk about making movies, and how we each have our own angle into creativity. He through the technical, me through the emotional.
I feel a current rushing in. It’s flowing trough me with a realization that some day in the future I’m going to direct something and it’s going to happen. I’ve never been sure of that before, but that evening I just know it. And it makes me giggle because it’s almost like I don’t have a choice.

On Sunday I meet up with a new friend who in many ways are like me, but better at realizing all her ideas. She has creativity in every nerve. And she talks about me like I do too. While we’re talking (and eating sushi) I feel a surge pass through me. It’s not like one of those animated lightbulb moments, it’s more a feeling of listening in on the conversation from the outside.

And this is where I think “Oh. I have creativity again”.

Like I was out of it, and now it’s filled up. To the brim.

I remember what I said to my dear friend earlier in the week, and to David the day before, and I realize that yes, I have the key now.
It’s like I’ve found myself again in a sea of forgotten creativity.

I have few words today.
I remember at university, every time I was writing essays I always felt like I didn't use big enough words, but then every time I got it back I was told I used words so well. The professor even used me as a good example of how to write so that it’s easily understandable while still being proper. I’m not saying this to brag. I’m telling you this because Every Single Time after this when I turned in a paper I thought “THIS time they are going to realize that I’m out of words.” Like I had used up all of them and everybody was going to understand that soon enough.
It never happened though. They kept thinking it was great, and I kept being surprised. After a while (we’re talking years) I had to make friends with the idea that I might actually be good with words.
Now I write in a different language than my own, and that struggle comes back tenfold. I mean, I literally have less words in English than I do in Swedish.
So here I am, sitting at cafe’s writing things every day, hoping that the words will feel like a perfect amount soon.
I know it’s all in my head (I’m a little bit of a word perfectionist) and that it’s me creating the fear. No one else is doing it for me.
The fact that I’m writing this is probably a good sign. I’m telling myself it is.
It’s called imposter syndrome, by the way. “They are going to realize I’m not good at this”. I like the name because Imposter is a big word and I understand that word, and maybe that means I’m not an imposter.

Sometimes I read about successful and famous people struggling with imposter syndrome, and I imagine us being in the same club. Imposters Unite. We could have t-shirts. But nobody would wear them because we would all be thinking “some day they will realize I’m not a real imposter”.

/Lotta