Goddess Muse

Wikipedia (for what its worth) defines muse as the: goddesses of the inspiration of literature, science and the arts.

I like the fact that a muse is a goddess.

I picture her adorned in gauzy cotton.

Maybe leaning her back against a veranda in Paris,

(Greece was far too hostile),

Just after a scented bath.

When she enters the room, the air sweetens.

Her bare feet pad across the wood floor.

She perches at the edge of a nearby chair,

Knees folded to her chin.

She will wait me out,

Fill me up with whispered reassurances,

Bring me steaming cups of coffee and laugh at my jokes.

Oh, no wait.  I fell into that trap,

Described the perfect woman, subservient, silent and without wishes of her own.

I’ve changed my mind.

My goddess muse is a girlfriend.

She only laughs at my jokes when they are truly funny.

And her own wit is so sharp that when she leaves, my cheeks still stretch into the shape of a smile.

The yoga pants she wears are frayed at the hems. 

And there is a smear of booger along the knee where one of her children clung, before being delivered to a screaming class of preschoolers.  
Or maybe a swipe of frosting from a stolen moment with a doughnut.

My muse stops by only briefly, the two hours she carved out of her day precious and rare.

And she makes me pour the coffee.  Because the moments we spend together are blazing by and she doesn’t have time for that shit. 

Yep, that’s my kind of goddess.

Yes, Regina, there is a muse

A few weeks ago I was having a discussion about the muse. Someone told a story about a friend that believed her muse was her son's green parakeet. Even after the bird met it's demise, the woman froze the carcass and kept it for several years, afraid that disposing of it would cause the loss of her muse.

I could relate(not necessarily to freezing a pet). As a writer I certainly have quirks about what has to be on my desk, in my writing space and playing on my Ipod before I can write. At one point I had an aversion to blue pens convinced that blue ink would thwart my muse.

It's easy to blame the muse for the inability to produce work. And I am guilty of this as well.

But with our family's recent move to the Upper Pennisula of Michigan where I grew up, it seems I finally have no more excuses. Surrounded by nature and living life at a slower pace, I have been forced to own up to my muse.

Maybe it is the awareness of being in a grove of pines, the way the sunlight seeps into the moss carpet and reflects off the top of a mushroom cap.  Maybe it's the cascade of snowflakes that catch in my eyelashes or the crackle of twig snaps beneath my boots as I follow a chickadee call.

I have to believe that my muse has always been with me. But there is something here in the country that helps her more than survive.

So I have to ask, do you believe? Where do you find your muse? Does your muse thrive in certain conditions?