Sunday, September 11, 2011
My Moody Muse
My muse stares from her holy perch, brooding, and fluttering; signaling me in her urgent, yet hushed way. “Yes, I’m here’” I say; meeting her where the elastic tension of my life expands and experience and emotion collide.
With those gypsy eyes of hers, I knew that we would be doing the tango and not the waltz. But her smile shines so white with sacred purpose, and the endless sea of passion that is her heart, makes it impossible for me to resist her. I love her, and have become accustom to her smoldering mood swings and reflective silences.
She’s a romantic philosopher, an ageless poet, considering the stars, and the scars, creating a sonnet of all that’s trite and true. She speaks with an honesty that’s often embarrassing, but I write it all down anyways, in fear of offending her and chasing her off to search for another channel with which to stir the world’s soul.
She’s collected the precious stones of my journey and examined each one. Fascinated with her discoveries, she gently excavates the underside of my soul…that hidden place where love and fear spoon in conflicted comfort, and my smoky dreams rise like incense in search of her blessing.
We dance in intimate darkness, and in graceful secrecy we conceive our unorthodox and brilliant children, casting them far away from ourselves forever.
We have become one, my moody muse and I, as surely as this moment is one with eternity and creativity is one with God.