Musings on The Muse

What exactly is a “Muse”?

The idea of a Muse originates from Greek and Roman Mythology. A Muse was a Goddess of sorts who inspired. Right?

Fast forward to 2019, her purpose (I could be inclusive and write “his/her” but for me a Muse will always be a she), hasn’t changed much over the years except that she isn’t limited to residing within the boundaries of a Mythological world any more. She is right here on earth. If and when she chooses to be. 

The modern Muse is a popular phenomenon and just about everyone who makes art yearns for her attention. 

Muse is a noun and a verb. We can feel a muse and we can muse. 

As a verb - to Muse - she is easily defined: absorbed in thought

As a noun she is more complicated as she comes in many different shapes, sizes and forms. She makes different deals with different people.  

She is an untouchable force that infuses us with creative power while she can also be a figment of an imagination that wants desperately to believe in magical thinking. 

We feel her spirit even though she’s invisible.  

She is energy.  

A Muse is a medium we seek to connect with. But she’s hardest to beckon when you need her the most. And if she finally pays a visit you can’t put your hands on her or your arms around her. You’d be foolish to beg her to stay. 

She was designed to be a mystery. Un-capturable. For if she were caught she would forfeit her mystique. When she’s free she’s eternally desired. She knows exactly what she’s doing. 

She is a crutch. A drug. A lubricant. A dream. 

She is promise. 

Following ones Muse is similar to following ones heart. Ones Bliss. They are all worthy summoners. How can we possibly hesitate following anything that offers us so much hope? The prize is too great. 

We don’t tap into our Muse. She taps into us when we’re available and especially when we’re not available. She likes to test our devotion. She wants to make sure she has our respect. 

She is on her own watch. I can not show her impatience when she’s late or slow to reveal. I can’t ask her what took her so long. 

When she’s ready she takes the wheel and I’m just a passenger along for the ride. She’s a trusted driver. I never correct her. Never suggest she ask someone to guide her. If we’re lost we’re lost together. We get found. Together. I’m never alone. I’m better with her. 

(She was definitely with me when I wrote that last paragraph.) 

My muse is enlightened, gentle, volatile, fickle, weightless, honest, loving, subtle, compassionate, clairvoyant, nourishing, out-of-body, fleeting, cruel, conditional. 

She is by far my favorite collaborator because she brings out the best in me. She is worth waiting for. 

She can be a bird on a branch. Someone in an elevator that looks like someone I miss. A breeze floating in from the window by my piano. She’s on my fingertips as I lay them on the keys. She’s the rhyme that falls from my tongue when I didn’t see it coming. She’s a feather. A crystal. A whisper. A squeak. A star. She is everything and nothing. She is everywhere and nowhere. 

As many times as I’ve made her elusive acquaintance, I still ponder her after she’s gone. I never get used to her. I will always ask myself ‘What just happened?’ And then humbly and patiently await her return. 

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