The Cycle Beneath the Cycle
A note from Frances…
Over time, I’ve come to recognize a familiar rhythm to creative work.
There’s the spark of an idea, the planning, the long middle where the real work happens, the release into the world, and that quiet moment afterward when the energy shifts and something new begins to stir.
I’ve lived this cycle enough times now to trust it.
Not rush it.
Not fight it.
Just recognize it.
But there’s something else I’ve learned - something quieter, and harder to explain.
The Quiet Truth Beneath the Cycle
There is a cycle within the cycle.
From the outside, it can look like distraction or restlessness.
From the inside, it’s discernment.
Only the artist knows when a new idea will feed the current work - and when it will fracture it. The difference isn’t ambition or discipline.
It’s capacity.
Sometimes a new idea brings oxygen to the hard middle.
It restores energy.
It reminds you why you started in the first place.
And sometimes, that same impulse pulls focus, creates noise, and quietly steals strength from what still needs finishing.
The wisdom isn’t whether artists should have new ideas - we always do. If you stepped into my office, you’d see proof of that in the project folders that live there, each one holding a possibility.
Some ideas need a place to wait.
Right now, one of those folders has moved to the front of the line - the one labeled LSO 8.20.19 (London Symphony Orchestra). Not because it’s the newest idea, but because it’s the one asking for my full attention.
The wisdom is knowing when to invite one in - and when to ask it to wait at the door.
I’ve learned to listen for that distinction.
For example, the date on that LSO folder (8.20.19) simply marks the day I started the folder. I sensed then that this might actually happen one day, and it felt important to give it a place to live.
The original seed for a project with this renowned orchestra had been planted even earlier, in 2017.
(And yes… historically, when a project is emotionally complete, there’s usually a hair style change involved.)
Just for fun, I pulled out my journal from 8.20.22…the same date, three years later…to see what was happening that day.
One line said it all:
“Double Keyed is mixed and mastered.”
I was referring to Midwinter’s Gift, a project Kirstin and I recorded in Nashville as Double Keyed just weeks earlier. That album gave us our first opportunity to work closely with producer Phillip Keveren - a collaboration that was deeply satisfying, and formative in ways I couldn’t fully see at the time.
Just when I thought I was starting to figure out the creative cycle that comes with ideas, Kirstin entered the picture — the oboist I had worked with for years, who eventually expressed interest in playing together more intentionally.
We co-founded our duo, Double Keyed, and everything shifted again when she had the idea to record a Christmas album together.
A new cycle began.
When the Work Is No Longer Yours Alone
The work wasn’t just mine anymore.
Looking back now, I can see how that project quietly paved the way for the work we’re doing today - together, with Phillip, and with the London Symphony Orchestra.
Talk about cycles.
When you add another artist into the mix, the cycle doesn’t disappear — but it does deepen. Now the discernment isn’t only internal; it’s relational.
We’re no longer just asking:
“Is this new idea helpful or distracting?”
We’re asking:
“Can we carry this together?”
There are now two creative energies.
Two internal cycles.
Two instincts about timing, readiness, and rest.
And somehow, the work asks us to listen more closely - not just to the ideas, but to each other.
This kind of collaboration requires trust.
It requires patience.
It requires honoring both the work and the people making it.
And it reminds me that the most meaningful creative seasons aren’t just about what gets produced…they’re about how we learn to move forward together.
A Closing Thought
Creative work is always a dance between ideas and effort.
When you’re working alone, you learn the steps by feel.
When you’re working together, you learn to listen for the same downbeat.
That’s the work beneath the work.
And it’s worth tending.
There’s another tension baked into this cycle that took me a long time to understand. By the time an artist releases an idea into the world…completing the cycle…we’ve often already begun to move on. The world is just starting to listen, while our hearts are already leaning toward what’s next.
That gap can feel uncomfortable, even disorienting. In my case, it sometimes shows up as a new hair style - a quiet signal that something has been finished internally, even as it’s just beginning to be received.
I wish I had understood earlier that this tension isn’t a flaw in the process - it is the process. The work needs time to land. People need time to catch up. And the artist needs permission to live in both places at once: to let the world receive what’s been offered, while gently tending the next idea forming just beyond the edge of the current one.
As a final note, you may have noticed that I’ve been a little quieter than usual on social media lately.
That silence isn’t absence - it’s devotion.
It’s intense focus.
The project Double Keyed is working on right now is asking for deep focus, shared discernment, and more interior space than public commentary.
I hope this reflection offers a glimpse into that rhythm, and helps you understand that the quiet is part of the work…not a stepping away from it.
I’m grateful for your patience, your presence, and the way you continue to walk alongside us as we make…and juggle…this dream
P.S. The cartoon images that accompany this post began as this rough sketch in my journal — lines and arrows trying to make sense of the cycle I am living inside. I’m grateful for the help of ChatGPT in translating that messy, honest drawing into something playful.
~ Frances
