That Elusive Snow Leopard

📍Leh, Ladakh, India (Issue 191)

Leh at sunset

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Ah, to write on a Sunday. And to publish! It’s a sacred act. In thirty years, I have discovered nothing quite as satisfying as thinking, writing, editing, and sharing a blog post with my very favourite people.

However, my four-year habit faded. It got lost in the Indian summer dust of distraction. Four or five times monthly became… well… two or three, then… damn… once or twice. In evading my intrinsic desire to create, I discovered it's more difficult to write infrequently than to be prolific. Insights are buried deeper under an icy crust of resistance; ideas and observations become scarcer. Scarce like the Snow Leopard, which stalks the Himalayas of Ladakh and Tibet.

But, like the Snow Leopard, they can be found just across a valley, padding up glacial drifts beyond Khardungla Peak—prowling, soft-footed, precious.

One of my favourite authors, Sylvain Tesson, spotted one in Tibet, near Ladakh, and a culturally similar area. He shared the moment in his book The Art Of Patience,

'Through the binoculars, I saw it stretch. It lay back down. It was the ruler of its life. It was the expression of this place. Its mere presence signified its "power." The world was its throne; it filled the space it inhabited. It incarnated that mysterious concept of the king's body. A true regent is content simply to be. He does not trouble to act, and sees no need to make appearances. His existence is the foundation of his authority.'

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To my friends who dream of being more creative, the mere presence of creative inspiration, its seed, its glimmer, its shadow or paw-print, is, like the regent of the Snow Leopard, suggestive of your magnificent creative authority.

And that authority must be expressed as frequently as possible! When we don't express our creativity, those same seeds of potential go unwatered and whither; delicate prints melt away in the snow.

In the end, creativity strikes less frequently because we don't nurture its flourishing. Regarding my writing, for example, I stopped carving out those early Saturday mornings or late Wednesday evenings to think about how I felt that week. Then, ideas, like the Leopard, vanished into the high desert of the Himalayas.

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Writing, like all art, is essentially introspection. At the outset, it's selfish. What do I think about this? How do I feel? How could the world, which I perceive, be different? 

In weighing up words, pastels, paints, or photo frames, and by publishing, we invite others to introspect. We shift a perishingly small cosmic dial about an inch. A moment changes: Somebody misses their bus, the lift doors slide silently closed, a coffee is left to go cold, and a phone call is ignored. Lives change for better or worse. Our inner world changes the outer universe.

And, as with every skill, we improve gradually. At each stage, we scarcely meet our ever-climbing expectations. Left untouched, the Publish button becomes heavier and more intimidating and cruel. For example, I wrote weekly. But then I wanted to write more, to improve faster, so I thought I would break the weekly cadence. I would publish on a Tuesday, not a Sunday, perhaps a Monday, and then a Thursday when inspiration strikes. 

Then, paradoxically yet predictably, I wrote less!

Undoubtedly, you have also wanted to consistently work on a habit, improving yourself and plunging deeper into your subconscious. And, like me, you’ve discovered, over the long term, consistency is challenging. Week one is easy. What happened in week five? We don't reach the summit. We tackle a less fearsome trail, the lazier, shorter, softer one.

We have to be fearless, especially after a hiatus. We must seek out the elusive Snow Leopard of creativity in the high passes, even when the task is arduous, the altitude terrifying, and the path a little icy. She’s out there, skulking and waiting for you.