Permission To Be Empty Headed

As some of you may have noticed I did not post a blog last week. A friend shot me an email: “No Monday blog! Are you all right?” I was /am all right, but for the first time since I began the blog almost two years ago, nothing would jell in my mind. Nothing!

And it wasn’t my preoccupation with the World Series. I couldn’t care less about baseball. The Final Four (basketball) and World Cup soccer, yes. Baseball? No.

Nor was it my dismay over the Republican debate—who ARE these people? Nor was it the candidates’ subsequent petulant attack on the media for “unfair” questions that were asked. As peevish as it all seemed to me, I do think the journalists seemed more interested in pursuing ratings than soliciting information for the voting public.

Then, too, I have been in thrall to the most beautiful autumn weather I have experienced ever, stopping during my walk to photograph yellow-leafed trees filled with golden light and firing those pictures off to friends in the UK who, without deciduous trees, are deprived of our captivating Fall Magic.

As I searched my brain for clear blog ideas, all I could find was a blurry muddle, soupy gray foggy stuff that refused to take any shape.

What is this? This has never happened! No blog? Enter remorse and guilt.

Walking in the park on Sunday with my creative, television- producing, Emmy-award-winning, youngest son, I confessed. “I don’t have a blog to post tomorrow. First time ever.” I kicked at a pile of leaves on the path.

“Mom,” he said, “that can happen to anyone. It happens to me sometimes. You are open to inspiration—that’s the main thing-- but sometimes—hopefully not too often—it just doesn’t come. You have a right to be uninspired.”

“A right to be uninspired!” The words rang like victory chimes in my head. “Thank you!”

Of course: “A right to be uninspired.” Just like the right to feel tired and need a nap, or the right to want to be alone for awhile, or to say no when people expect and want you to say yes.  Or the right to change your mind when a commitment you made turns out to not be what you hoped and planned for. The right to be distracted by upcoming eye surgery to remove the cataracts that cause you to squint at your computer.

 And perhaps most significant of all, the right to be human and find yourself for a time in a soft, autumnal kind of muddle, just walking along, taking pictures of trees, the warm sun on your face, feeling drifty and purposeless.

I write so often about self- compassion. Time to pour some all over myself. Meanwhile thank you so much for expecting and looking for Life Opening Up. It appears that occasionally Life Takes A Rest. 

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A Perfect Tree