Dear Muse, Goddess of Creativity
muse1 /myo͞oz/
noun
(in Greek and Roman mythology) each of nine goddesses, the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, who preside over the arts and sciences.
a person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.
Dear Muse,
You have been with me for some time. Thank you. Your presence is a gift.
You are so many things to me — a storyteller — a wise soul, a seeker, a companion, a force of light.
You are beautiful — etched in the wonders of everything I have ever experienced, read, and dreamed — guiding me out of my darkness. My memory blends together like some fantastical dream.
Photo by Илья Мельниченко on Unsplash
I write a story. I am still under your spell and you take me under your wing. My fingers move in a symphony of your creation.
You are a drug without pain — one that awakens the deepest corners of my mind.You show me what it is to create — you let me find something I thought I had lost. It feels like glitter permeating every surface of my work — my desk is covered in fairy dust and I am somewhere else. I am inside my creation and it is beautiful. It feels like a dream.
I travel to the deepest corners of my imagination, across time, to the secret spaces of my soul — you flood me with light like an open window.
Photo by Ioann-Mark Kuznietsov on Unsplash
But then the moment subsides. I am left hollow, like a tree dead on the forest floor with no roots left to drink. You close the door. I try to find you again, looking at the last words that you left me with — but it is in vain. You’re gone. It is like a small death — I forget the words. I am left a robot, spitting out cliche after cliche, your guiding light no longer here.
Photo by Angel Luciano on Unsplash
I am common, I am ordinary, worse — I am mundane. I can’t make sense of you.
I show up. I beg you to come back to me. Silence. I begin cleaning up the mess of glitter you left scattered on my desk. I brush the glitter into a small jar with my hands and stare at it. It’s still beautiful even trapped inside the jar.
Photo by Andre Sebastian on Unsplash
There are two of you — I see that now. One full of creativity, wonder, and expression. The other leaves me —this muse is full of silence, stillness, and nothingness. I see her now — holding her hand to her lips, telling me to be quiet. I am left waiting for Godot, my art led astray by logic — by my demands. I plead to you to come to me. But there is silence. I sit in it, accepting my fate. You point to the jar.
I open it and dip my finger in it and see that this glitter is actually real. I keep writing. My clumsy words tumble over one another until there is a paragraph on the page. I can edit it later, I tell myself. I show up again. It is time now, I tell you, Muse, come back to me. You wait a bit longer — you want me to deserve your presence.
You return. This time you are clearer — and I understand that your presence although momentary, is a gift. You reach out your hands and offer me roses. I take them and cut them into a bouquet. You take the petals and scatter them before me. That’s enough - you say — you’re on your own.
You teach me. You allow me to find the strength that existed — the goddess of poetry and lyric — the maker of words — the one my mind tells me is unreachable.
You are Calliope, Brigit, and Maa Sarawati. You know me better than I know myself. I can see you now — you are sitting beside me silently waiting for me to begin. You have been there all along, reserving your inspiration for when I most need it — carry me through the monotonous. You make the mundane beautiful. You are like glitter. You are everywhere and I see you now.
Photo by Mink Mingle on Unsplash
An Open Letter to the Muse — She exists in every writer, artist, and creative. May you always find your way back to her.
