a muse may appear in many forms
A brief introduction to the arts and praxis of bemusement
P A R T O N E
What you see is what you get.
For those who have managed to squeeze themselves into the miniaturized world of the modern, any place beyond the borders of their little screens can seem like just another room.
For the hopelessly netted, what was once the great out-of-doors now appears as a sort of so-called virtual simulation — which some call “the big blue room” — a dimensionless space lit by a distant, mechanized disk, about the size of a coin.
During the darker periods within this virtue-less space, a smaller, unreliable light seems to appear with some variability, accompanied by barely visible pinpricks of nothingness nearby — all of which is often inconveniently occluded by a dreary, depthlessness, muddled with murky shadows and the grayness of ghosts.
It has been observed that, even during short visits to such a place, many moderns feel vaguely unsettled by the lack of familiar sights at hand — the insta-gratification of clickable icons, scrolling screens, shiny meta memes, emojis, and so forth.
Befuddled — and more than a bit beset by the bothersome rag and bone, rough and bumble of a disorderly, non-digitized space — a bewildered visitor might be forgiven for feeling the need to beat a retreat back to the reassuring safety of their cocoon...
...To that many-mirrored panopticon — with all the mod cons! — where Mr. and Mrs. Everywhere can return to their regulated routine, believing that the unmediated, messy strife of life, and all its trials and tribulations — from the becoming of birth, to the heartaches of youth, the aches of aging, and that final fade into the gloomy shade of death — and all that lies between and beyond — will be comfortably kept at bay.
Sometimes, though, a desire arises in some brave souls to break on through — to the other side.
A sudden need to breathe in the wonder of a living, breathing world, smell the rain, feel the breeze on one’s face, and reach down to touch the good earth.
To look up to a vast sky where the sun warms the soul and guides your way. Where rainbows beckon, stars wheel through the night, faces form in the clouds, and shadows take familiar shape and accompany you home.
A world where living — and life itself — inspires a deep desire to share, and to shape.
Where sharing the journey, in the fullest human way — holding a hand, having a walk, and having a talk, face to face, heart to heart, no holding back, from joy or from pain, in the sun or in the rain — is the highlight of the day, and the very definition of the way.
A time may come when you may feel the call to see that bigger, brighter world for yourself.
You may feel that call in the form of a hunger, an itch, a gentle nudge — or a precipitous push. If you happen to be listening, you may half-hear a haunting tune. And if you open your eyes and look, at just the right moment, just out of the corner of your eye, you may see a shift in the shadows, the glow of a firefly, a trace of luminescence — was that a shooting star? — and you might just catch a glimpse of a muse, hidden in the half-light.
You may feel that call in the form of a hunger, an itch, a gentle nudge — or a precipitous push. If you happen to be listening, you may half-hear a haunting tune. And if you open your eyes and look, at just the right moment, just out of the corner of your eye, you may see a shift in the shadows, the glow of a firefly, a trace of luminescence — was that a shooting star? — and you might just catch a glimpse of a muse, hidden in the half-light.
Because there is many a muse waiting to be found in the living, breathing world.
With opened eyes, you will learn to see muses everywhere, and you will find muses within reach — and muses within each.
If you know to look.
And know to listen.
Listen up! The muses may be singing to you.
Listen for them — in the roar of rushing water, the rumbling of drums in the dark distance, in the piercing cry of a hawk circling high above.
Listen quietly. Your muse may pause to whisper a word in your ear, and then breeze lightly by — or linger with you, in the warm laugh of a lover.
The muse may catch your ear, and draw you close, with the hushed tones of a traveler telling a tale by the light of a fire — or stir your soul with the sound of a piper’s reeds, murmuring in the mountain mist.
A muse may wander by and whistle a slightly-familiar tune, just to get your attention — or jingle you gently, with the sound of sleigh bells, muffled by freshly falling snow.
One day, you may hear a muse in an encouraging word from a friend. The next, in the kindness of a stranger.
Listen closely: the muse may speak to you in the quiet patience of a teacher — or softly echo the wise advice of a long-ago mentor.
Remember: the muse may choose to use a voice from this life, call to you in a voice from the next — or speak to you in voices heard long before you were ever here.
Listen quietly. Your muse may pause to whisper a word in your ear, and then breeze lightly by — or linger with you, in the warm laugh of a lover.
The muse may catch your ear, and draw you close, with the hushed tones of a traveler telling a tale by the light of a fire — or stir your soul with the sound of a piper’s reeds, murmuring in the mountain mist.
A muse may wander by and whistle a slightly-familiar tune, just to get your attention — or jingle you gently, with the sound of sleigh bells, muffled by freshly falling snow.
One day, you may hear a muse in an encouraging word from a friend. The next, in the kindness of a stranger.
Listen closely: the muse may speak to you in the quiet patience of a teacher — or softly echo the wise advice of a long-ago mentor.
Remember: the muse may choose to use a voice from this life, call to you in a voice from the next — or speak to you in voices heard long before you were ever here.
You may not know when, or how, the muse will appear.
Without warning — with the flick of a finger, an arched eyebrow, and the pluck of a string — a muse may suddenly shift into the shape of a swift shaft that flies like a flash swoosh! right through you, cuts you right down to the bone, and right into your deepest core — filling your entire being to the brim, with awe and wonder. An immensity of feeling that may take your breath away, make you well up, rise up, and sing right out loud.
In fact, your muse is most likely to arise when you least expect it, often in the blink of an eye. The muse may even come to you late at night, with scenes and scenery, stage notes and new lines in hand — or pop up, presto, out of context, unannounced, right between the lines: Surprise!
If need be, a muse will slyly wink at you, lurking in the mystery of a curious coincidence. Or lure you in slowly, with little seeds, left along time’s long trail.
On the other hand, ignoring the muse can lead to a hard lesson — from a polite kick in the pants, to a plunge that takes you right to rock bottom.
Still, any visit by the muses can be a gift.
Whether it’s in a lesson learned, or an epiphany embraced, it’s best to listen to the muse.
Because listening to your muse can lift you up — and liberate you from a cold, cold winter wasteland of closed doors, dark rooms and dim souls.
New eyes make a new world.
What shines in the eyes of the muses will show you a new world — lighting it up, for you to see it through your own eyes.
The muse will show you what you have never truly seen or felt before.
Not the muse’s truth. Not an official, sanctioned, given truth. No, the muse’s gift is to call you to see truly, for yourself, through your own eyes, in your own life.
Sitting still and looking at the angel, the muse will call you to see the pattern that connects what you perceive, with what you receive, what you understand, and what that begets — and where that gets you. “Get it?” the muse asks. “Got it!” “Good!”
“What you see is what you get,” the muse says. “What you do with that is up to you.”
Sitting still and looking at the angel, the muse will call you to see the pattern that connects what you perceive, with what you receive, what you understand, and what that begets — and where that gets you. “Get it?” the muse asks. “Got it!” “Good!”
“What you see is what you get,” the muse says. “What you do with that is up to you.”
As Professor Campbell taught, the discovery of meaning, purpose and truth, in the modern world, is dependent upon one’s effort to learn, for oneself, through one’s own experience, what that experience means — and then embodying what one has learned.
In the life of full engagement, in fully embodying what one has learned, one becomes the doing, the doer, and the deed. The string, the strumming, and the strummer. The tale, the teller, and the telling.
In that oneness, you are holding the brush, and you are also the brush, the ink and the clouds... You flash like a lighthouse, illuminating a sea of forgotten treasures, and you become messages in bottles, borne by the moon’s tide, onto your own beach… You reverberate with the stories told, and act out the deep truths revealed, in the revolving theater we inhabit, here, under the stars... You resound with the temple gong, you ring to greet the morning hour, and you rise up as incense, burning, curling, to meet the dawn of a new day...
It may happen only once, and for only a moment — but it will be a moment you never forget.
That moment with the muse will resonate, re-collect and re-connect you to your talents, to your dreams, and to all the elements of your being — your body, speech and mind, your history, your future, your heart, your soul, your memories and your emotions.
With a passion that impels you to engage your all, fully, in concert, and in truth, in whatever you do.
Whether you’re the one who writes the songs, or the one who sings. Behind the scenes, or in front of the camera. In the field or in the lab. At the blackboard, or at the drawing board. Whether you’re a tinker, a tailor, a saint or a sailor. Whether you’re the dancer or the drummer, the shaman, the shepherd, the hunter or the baker, the piper, the poet, the ploughman or the painter.
In the end, though, it’s really no matter to the muses which path you take, or which play you perform. Because it’s not the path that’s taken, it’s the passion that’s awakened.
The muse calls you — to awaken you to your own calling.
The gift of the muse is a skeleton key that unlocks the many doors, seen and unseen, that exist in each moment. Doors that, when opened, reveal the golden thread already woven into your life — gold for you to glean, and then weave, into all you do.
Whatever is behind the door — whether given, found, begged or borrowed — make it your own, and then pass it on.
Whatever is behind the door — whether given, found, begged or borrowed — make it your own, and then pass it on.
What gifts have you received? Where have the muses taken you in your life?
WITH MANY MUSES
M A N Y M U S E S