Musings on Muses

WHEN I MET MY MUSE by William Stafford from The Way It Is:  New and Selected Poems (Graywolf Press)
I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.




Fresco of the muses from the Palazzo Schifanoia in Italy

I sometimes wonder if every artist has a muse.  The ancient Greeks believed that the Muses were the goddesses of inspiration-- for music, poetry, art, and literature to be sure but also science and even history.  And while Calliope and her gal pals may still be inspiring budding bards or biologists today, I'm more familiar with the tales of mere mortal muses and the artists they inspire.  Dante had two brief encounters, yet years of obsession, with the emerald eyed Beatrice.  Lewis Carroll had Alice Liddell, which has in itself inspired countless scholarly works exploring the nature of their relationship.   The painter Andrew Wyeth had his neighbor Helga unbeknownst to their respective spouses and of course John had Yoko to the chagrin of many Beatles fans.   

Beatrice is that you?  I haven't seen you since you were eight!

When I first seriously considered incorporating writing into the tapestry of work from which I was make my living, I encountered my muse in a dream.  It was a few days before New Year's Eve and I had a nightmare from which I awoke shaking and sobbing.  A spin on my usual oh my gosh it's the end of the semester and there's a final exam in the physics class that I've skipped all year but need to pass to graduate dream, this time it was forty-five minutes before a writing class and I hadn't done the homework. 

And it wasn't just any writing class, it was the writing class that would make or break my writing career. The writing class where on the very first day I was told I'd never be more than mediocre at best, that I was a waste of the teacher's time, that I had no talent or skill with which she could work.  The rest of the class, however, were praised as gifted writers who would no doubt shower her with their sweet nectar of prose over the course of the semester.  At this point we hadn't written anything yet, she just somehow sniffed out their talent and my inferiority. 

So when one of the future Nobel/Pulitzer/Booker prize winners asked how I got on with the homework assignment the leaden legs of dreamtime immobilized me.  I didn't have an essay to turn in.  I didn't even have my lap top with me to pull up something I'd written previously to pass off as the assignment.   I debated racing to the computer lab to throw a few words on the page so I'd have something to turn in but I knew the professor would rip it to shreds, proving I was a terrible writer.  I could feign sudden illness and skip class, during which time I was sure she'd ridicule me for being too much of a coward to show up or attempt to do the assignment.  Or I could show up and admit I didn't have anything to turn in which meant being present for said public humiliation.  

Fortunately my psyche chose another option:  I woke up.  It took an hour of deep breathing and meditation to calm me enough that I could begin to drift back to sleep.  But somewhere in that threshold state between being fully awake and fully asleep, my muse appeared in the form of a smiling lanky Englishman.  I knew he was my muse because he introduced himself as such and said he was there to give me gifts designed to banish my inner critic and encourage me on the writing path. 



Huh?

 

He then went on to present me a pecan in a shell, a feather from an owl, a shiny saxophone and a red bicycle.  There was some argument around the owl feather because at first he wanted to give me a whole, live owl and I said I wouldn't accept it as that would probably constitute some form of animal cruelty.  I think I'd recently read the article about Indian children capturing owls to emulate Hogwarts students).  After some bickering we settled on one of the owl's feathers.  I wanted to argue about the saxophone too as I'd rather have a violin or cello but as it was just a matter of preference versus morals I figuerd I'd quite while I was ahead. 

I'm sure these things symbolize . .  . well something.  The writing teacher/inner critic part of the dream was easy to figure out in hindsight.  The owl's feather, and even the bicycle I sorta get.  The saxophone and especially the pecan have me stumped. 




Richard Armitage
(aka the actor who played my muse)

And while the inner critic sometimes still lurks in the shadowy recesses of my mind, I have been writing regularly.  My muse hasn't visited me again.  Perhaps he disappeared because I recognized him when watching BBC America one afternoon.  Realizing that your subconscious has surreptitiously filed away an image of an actor and later pulled him out to play the part of your muse somehow puts a different spin on the whole mystical inspiration experience.  Then again, what are subconsciouses for but to file things away for future use. 



 

Or maybe my muse hasn't appeared because over the past few years I've come to realize what William Stafford's muse told him is as true for him as it is for me, or for you.  We each have our own unique way of looking at the world, whether we call ourselves artists, writers, poets, musicians or simply human beings.  And perhaps it's not so much divine inspiration but human encouragement that we really need to help us embrace our voices and our stories.

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In related news, if you're looking for a safe place to explore your own unique "way of looking at things" this upcoming retreat I'm leading might be for you. 

Writing from the Heart

A Weekend of Writing and Spiritual Practice 

                               6 pm, Friday, October 5 through  2 pm, Sunday, October 7

Join us as we breathe new life into our writing and prayer during this weekend retreat.  Explore how spiritual practices open our minds to allow the words of our hearts to flow in our writing.  Be encouraged by a community of kindred spirits as we gather to hear and share our stories.  Learn take-home tools to allow you to continue to engage the spirit in your writing. 

 

 

Non-Residential Rate of $175.00    (retreat and meals)

 Residential Rate* of $275.00        (retreat, meals and lodging)

 *Limited overnight accommodations available.

For more information or to register contact Deeanna Burleson
The Serendipity House

"A gathering place for creative and healing arts."

Phone:  703-303-6143

Email:  theserendipityhouse116@gmail.com

116 Charlotte Street, Washington, North Carolina 27889