It’s been a full work week, but sulky and disruptive, the Writing Muse is not impressed by the overflowing carts of ankle-twisting brambles removed from the muddy yard, the freshly sorted recycling bins, wave upon wave of dishes washed, counters, windows, and walls wiped, floors swept, workmen answered, paperwork organized, deadlines met.
Nor was she entertained by the episode of Christmas tree wrestling when an attempt to straighten the artificial trunk resulted in inadvertently dismembering it, a not so wily Coyote moment --actually more like seven minutes--of staggering under the top two thirds of the 7’ tree still attached to the bottom boughs by the tangle of mockingly cheerful lights, ornaments swinging wildly like shrunken heads on the Night Bus over my head while I tried to reinsert the top tube into the bottom obscured by the branches and lights filling my arms and mashed into my face.
I imagine this as a comic episode, but the muse is... unamused.
The Writing Muse was not distracted by the walk intended to stimulate my butter and pie saturated blood flow, nor was she appeased by the yoga aimed at unifying my body, mind and spirit, either. Jealous of the seven hours allotted to refining what I hope are among the last layers of brushwork on The Damai Divina, she’s stamps her dainty foot on my attempts to sleep. She looks at me accusingly.
We have work to do.
I know.
I know!
There have been breakthroughs in 2013: my re-birthday tattoo, art and myth workshops, travel to Seattle, Bali, Toronto, Italy, Fiji, and Austria, reunions and readings, all yielding insights, "aha"s tumbling into place unlocking new possibilities as I step--sometimes fevered and wet--across the threshold from motherhood to crone.
Not all visions, however, wish to be rendered in paint. Some ephemeral psychological states require words to jell.
Never mind the boxes of decorations strewn across the living room, the ringing phone, the unmade bed. The joy in creating order is that order clears the way for emerging creation... but order is a castle built of sand, and what is the point of living by the sea of creative potential if you don’t let those life-renewing waters wash over you now and then?
Right now it is Art’s turn. Word art.
And so I surrender. My ears and hands are yours--for now.
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