If my brain were a landscape, this would be it:

Narrow rectangular fields of this and that, vegetables, herbs, fruits and roots, some lush with growth, others not yet planted, still others somewhere in between.

My writing brain is planted with patches of emails, text messages, webpages, and posts for my e-newsletter, blog, Facebook-personal, Facebook-writer, Instagram-personal and Instagram-writer accounts. Then there are those mostly neglected plots of Twitter, LinkedIn, Goodreads, YouTube and files for that envisioned future book.

For a while now I’ve been regularly planting these plots and patches with thoughts on writing, yoga, teaching and coaching writing and yoga, moving to Minnesota, intentional eating, parenting, faith, Leo—topics ebbing and flowing, depending on the season. From social media, I’ve been gleaning ideas and inspiration. So … many … ideas.

This morning, in that brain-stilled moment when I was wrapping up my yoga and devotional practice, all I could think is, “I need to go fallow.”

Fallow? Merriam-Webster defines fallow (in part) as “the tilling of land without sowing it for a season.”

And there it is. I’ve tilled a lot of fields, and now I’m going to let them be. I am stepping away, both in terms of planting and gleaning. For a season. Whatever that means.

You can still find me in my e-newsletter (“The Same Loon”) and on my blog (right here) … and I might pop up elsewhere (like a weed?) if something big happens.

I trust my people will let me know when big things happen for them too.

Now I’m going to take a deep breath and let the rest of it be.

Many narrow fields image (Vietnam) by Rod Long on Unsplash

Wide open spaces image by Gianni Crestani from Pixabay 

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Pearl beads image by TheAnnAnn from Pixabay