Blank page

Okay, I am going to fall in love with this blank page because I don't know what else to do.  I've been staring at it for awhile now, and there's a temptation to become less than happy about its whiteness.  I know I am supposed to fill it with words and pictures and impressions of love, but for whatever reason, today I am having a hard time doing that.  I had a good day, there were things love-worthy about it, but sorting out a particular element to focus on has become an exercise in futility.  Maybe it's the gray weather, maybe it's the prospect of a lonely weekend, but I'm just not finding the love today.

But the day is not over.  There is still time to fill in the blanks, right?

So I'm thinking back to when my babies were born.  It was important to have a Baby Book, a pretty bound notebook into which I could record all those firsts, all the miracles that would occur as this infant grew into a baby into a toddler into a child.  All those blank pages, just waiting for smiles and words and crawling and walking and potty-training.  And all of it happened . . . and maybe I found the time to write it all down.

Then there was school and that first report card of the year.  As and Bs and 1s, 2s, and 3s filled in the blanks, but there were so many blanks waiting to be filled.  It would take years and years until all the blanks were filled in.  And then, one day, they were.

Two of my children have become writers.  They confront the blank page all the time, and somehow they manage to fill it with stories and information and wit and wisdom.  For all of my three children, their lives are the blank pages now.  They want to fill the pages with more learning, satisfying careers, home and family.  I think they are eager to get something written down, something secure, something to assure them they are headed in the right direction.  But the pages are theirs now, and I cannot fill in the blanks for them anymore.

I have my own blank pages to deal with.  I'm not done here yet.  There are more countries to visit, more perennials to plant, more poems to write, more people to meet, more music to listen to, more books to read, more contemplating the Universe to do.

And I guess I am in love with all the pages I have yet to fill.