Visiting the Muse

"I don't believe the muse visits you. I believe that you visit the muse." - Michael Lewis

Not long ago, I reevaluated my writing routine.  

As in, I didn't have one.  

I waited until inspiration hit me and then hoped that I had a pen and some kind of paper to scribble on.  Most of the times I did not.  Most of the time my best thoughts, ideas, or scenes came to me when I was sweating on the treadmill, getting ready for work, singing my way through traffic, in between emails, or collapsing into bed at night - when I was too tired to pick up a pen anyway. 

When I did have an open space of time (usually on the weekends) and I sat down dutifully at my computer, I held up my hands and said, "OK, inspiration, come to me now!" like a khol-eyed magician with a mustache and long purple cape.  And I waited.  And the blank screen and I stared back at each other. And I decided to go do laundry.

The muse, it seems, liked to tell me things when it was convenient for her.

Well, how rude.   

Of me.

Asking inspiration to come to me, only when I was ready for it, was like asking a butterfly to alight on my hand.  It was all demand and no patience; a self-centered approach to putting thoughts on a page that negated the Love and Mystery associated with creativity.

The idea of the muse dates back to c. 700 B.C., when the Greek poet Hesiod wrote his Theogony (literally, the birth of the gods), an account of how all things began in the world. Hesiod writes of an encounter he had on Mount Helicon with the Muses - the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, who were believed to be the inspirers of all things artistic and skilled.  In his epic poem, Hesiod asks each of the Muses to inspire him.  But they have their own requests, as well:

" ... and from a laurel in full bloom they plucked a branch,

 ... and then breathed into me

divine song, that I might spread the fame of past and future,

and commanded me to hymn the race of the deathless gods,

but always begin and end my song with them."

It seems in this ancient tradition that the Muses expected reciprocity in this relationship.  I will give to you if you will give to me in return.

Waiting for my muse to visit me - as with waiting for any hope, any change, any dream - will only result in frustration, disappointment, and lost opportunities.

Instead, I'm adopting a new approach:  I'm visiting my muse.  I'm asking first if I may visit, and when I do, I bring along the good manners, small gifts, and gratitude that any good house guest would.  I don't demand anymore; I ask.  I spend time with my muse.  I listen to what she has to say.  I am reveling in the relationship that is slowly starting to develop.

And it turns out that my muse is quite happy to have company.

Filling the Void

"We become aware of the void as we fill it." - Antonio Porchia

The times in our lives when we have had something taken away from us are often the most difficult.  This could be the loss of a thing (real or imagined), a person or relationship, a dream, an opportunity - the list goes on.

Each time I lose something, I am always surprised by the physical pain that the loss inflicts.  The person, or relationship, or thing, or hope has mass - mass which holds up my ribs and the walls of my chest.  Mass which keeps my lungs affixed and holds my heart in place.  I know these things have mass because when they are gone, the void they leave behind - that emptiness - hurts.  It is like the removal of an organ; the neighboring tissues lose their surety.  The sudden trauma radiates outward.  It is hard to breathe.

On a recent trip I walked along a beach that was littered with shells.  Millions of empty shells washed ashore, some so long empty that only the spiral of their heart remained, tumbled smooth.  Other shells were nearly pristine and newly abandoned, attached still with the delicate ligament that held their halves together.  For miles you could walk along this shore and see nothing but empty shells.  So many empty shells covered the shore that they cut your feet. 

I was struck by this pastel shoreline of so much emptiness.  But this is what emptiness reminds me:  it is a physical realization not only of what we love and why, but of how we must grow, with or without it.  I have learned (rather reluctantly) that recognizing what can be the value of that emptiness and then working to fill that void are two wonderful gifts that can propel me forward (if only I will embrace it!).

A shell that is abandoned will either be inhabited by new life, filled with ocean water, or washed over with sand until every particle is so tightly packed you don't feel it beneath your feet.  A well you dig in the sand will soon be filled with the tide.  Even particles move in to fill the spaces where stars explode or collapse.  Looking at it this way, no void truly exists.

So when I feel the pain of emptiness, I ask God to fill it, and I am always amazed at what He provides.  Sometimes it is an exciting new idea which gives me energy and clarity.  Other times it is a friend, offering support in unexpected ways.  Other times it is simply a quiet assurance that I don't normally have in an anxious time.

What fills the void is not always the same thing or shape as my original loss, and so, I still feel a lingering pain.  But the discomfort changes:  my perspective shifts, my energy and creativity are redirected, ever so slightly, onto new trajectories, and my friendships and faith develop a richer hue than they had before.

The question, then, has become not "Why does this loss, this emptiness, have to happen to me?" but rather, "How can I fill the void when the emptiness comes?"  It will come, and it will come often.  But it doesn't have to be so painful.  It can be a blessing, in fact, if we just let it.

On Hidden Things

She was discovered on April 8, 1820 by a peasant farmer named Yorgos Kentrotas.  Kentrotas was digging through the ruins of Milos, and he found her in pieces beneath the crumbled village.  He immediately knew she was valuable:  carved of marble, she is ethereally beautiful.  Towering above six feet, her lines are all graceful curve and strength.  A likely representation of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty, she exuded powerful presence and something otherworldly, even in pieces. 

Created sometime between 130 and 100 BC, she waited almost 1900 years to be discovered by the modern world, but her reintroduction was delayed.  Kentrotas, the peasant farmer, hid her in pieces in his barn.  He knew that she was more than aesthetically important, a god object that represented more than he could understand; she was valuable monetarily.  And so she waited, in his coveting.

What did Kentrotas do, while he waited for the right offer?  Did he sit in his barn with her for hours, admiring her, as Greeks would have done 1900 years earlier when she would have been displayed on a pedestal, moving her viewers to acts of awe and worship?  Did he stare at her face and wonder about her creator,  her origin, what her embodiment in human form could be?  In those dark, cool hours, was there a mystic inspiration she passed to him, goddess of love and beauty that she was, that inspired more revelry?  Or did he keep her hidden for himself, out of panic that once the Ottoman authorities discovered her, she would be ripped from his presence, or worse, that his life would be endangered for hiding her at all?

Or worst of all:  did he simply look at her, chunks of female form in marble, and wonder how much he could get for each strike of the chisel?

One reason that the Venus de Milo has always affected me so is because I find she represents all that we keep hidden.  She is the beautiful talent, the craft, that we were given to share with the world.  These glorious things that we have to offer were meant to be on display, to move others to thought and action.  She also represents what we have stolen away:  the parts of ourselves that we keep hidden in the barn because we are afraid of revealing them, of having them taken away from us, or worse, that we selfishly believe are ours alone.  We can be the ones who ought to fight for her ransom, to restore her to the world.  But we can also be the ransomer:  the fearful one who leaves her in pieces in a dark room, her glory hidden, waiting for the right price.

As this new year turns over, I find myself asking how I will restore my Venus de Milo to the world and what a brave fight that will be.

Little Things

"Little things seem nothing,

but they give peace,

like those meadow flowers which individually seem odorless

but all together perfume the air." 

~ Georges Bernanos

It is so easy to miss little things.  Obscure to the eye - or, dare we say, unimportant, for noticing little things requires attention, patience, and slowing - little things are frequently ignored.  A little sparkle of light, a little insect, a little shift in the air or fragrance of a space, a little gesture:  these are often overlooked because our busy lives, or worse, by our attitudes.

Last weekend while walking Lucy, I noticed the big things in the park:  the cold; the edge of the playa that was dirty and murky with mud, trash, and dead leaves; the endless brown that is always with us in West Texas.  I was tired but knew I needed to walk.  Lucy was restless from being in so many cold days.  The holidays were over and there was only bleak January to introduce a whole new (and uncertain, I felt) year.  I was in a bad mood and miserably, pitifully, guiltily trampling over the little things that made up this bright and beautiful moment.

But when I walked around the side of this tree, something made me stop:  a bit of fluff on a branch.  I thought it was unusual, so I snapped a picture.  I couldn't see it well because the sun was in my eyes (blessed big thing), so I kept walking.

It wasn't until I got home and looked at the photo that I realized what I had captured.  A beautiful white feather, perfectly suspended on a bare branch with the morning sun streaming behind it.  A beautiful cold, crisp morning, full of possibility.  Another day.  A life with health and thought and companionship.  A chance to be.  If I had a dollar for every "forgive me" moment, I would be a millionaire.

Truly my personal purpose for this year is to see and appreciate, as best as I am able, all the little things that make up this great and glorious life and be thankful even for the cold and the brown and the murk and mud. I'm taking my cue from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:  "It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."

Tsiology

This is my beautiful old teapot, which I have recently resurrected, and the wisdom on my teabag.

I learned a new word today:  tsiology.  Tsiology - n.  a treastise on tea.  This word comes from an early 19th century pamphlet on the state of the British tea trade.  It was published by a British tea dealer, and remained in four printings, but eventually, the subject - and the word - lost its place in the lexicon of the day.

It's a beautiful reminder on writing about what's important.

How many treatises have you written?  What subject in your life deserves its own pamphlet?  These are questions I have asked myself recently.  Sadly, I haven't written nearly enough, and I certainly haven't written anything that I feel deserves to be circulated.  This must change.

Today, I am wishing you the inspiration to write your own courageous pamphlet.  Pour yourself a cup of tea, find a place to rest, and write your treatise.  Let the wisdom of tea - and your own heart - be your guide.

Walking the Trail

My in-laws have a wonderful trail on their property that I love to walk when we visit.  It feels otherworldly to be encapsulated by trees and shadows, with only a bit of sky visible between branches. St. Francis welcomes our entrance, and at night, you can see dozens of fireflies burping their soft light.  I am so glad I'll get to walk the trail again in a few weeks.

Bunny People

These are a few of my favorite pictures of the bunnies.  Greta is sweet, calm, and always concerned about what I'm doing with the camera.  And Honey is exactly how she appears:  indignant when the food is late and ready to hop with her friend.

With our recent adoption of Lucy from the Hereford Humane Society, we've had quite the petting zoo at our house.  Every day is just a regular ol' lovefest.

Bitterweed

Last weekend I decided to walk the Llano Estacado Nature and Wildflower Trails, a 3.5 mile path that winds through an archeological site.  This area was once a dependable source of water:  a natural spring lake with miles of shallow marshlands that attracted giant creatures and the native peoples who hunted them. 11,000 years later, what seems an unbelievable myth has disappeared into the ground and all that we see now are miles of hot, dusty earth and our ever-attempts to make sense of this place.

Alone in the heat, I thought about the irony of this wildflower trail and the bitterness of lost water.  

But as I kept taking pictures, I began to realize that even in the absence of water, life endures.  

It hardens, grows stronger and more brilliant. 

As I thought this, my shutter clicked and a coyote moved across a field.

Bloom where you are planted.  I can do this, too.

Flowers photographed include globe mallow, giant dagger yucca, prickly poppy, and bitterweed.  Lucy is photographed with slender stem bitterweed from our backyard.

Eclipsed

Sunday was an eventful day in Lubbock.  It was the last day to view a solar eclipse that the U.S. hasn't seen in 18 years.  To celebrate, we had a picnic in the park where we could watch the eclipse. However, I got caught up watching other things ...

 I know I won't wait another 18 years to have a picnic like that.

Fuchshund

When we visited the Dallas Museum of Art, I was happy to see Gustave Courbet's "Fox in the Snow" again.  Although it is violent, I find it very beautiful.  The shawdowing -  the blacks, blues, and grays - the contrast of the fox against the brightness of the snow - all these elements (I am poorly describing) create a painting I could view every day.

But then again ... 
 

I don't think I need a painting when I already have a little fox-hound at home!

Horny Toad

A few weeks ago we had a little surprise waiting for us by the front door:  a Texas horned lizard or "horny toad."  This little fellow was so docile and sweet.  His face, skin, and feet were full of wonderful detail.

  

David had never seen one in person and was enthralled.  I hadn't seen one since an afternoon playing on my back porch in Post when I was 4.  Once an endangered species, they are now protected. We both wondered why this rare little creature picked our front porch for a rest.

 

We put him in our front garden, where he quickly disappeared, but that hasn't stopped us from pausing there everyday to see if he's still with us.

A Reminder

For the past few months I've been suffering from the most terrible attitude about where I am. Such an attitude can completely consume you, debilitating your work, relationships, and spiritual journey.  

After a very tearful conversation with a close adviser, I was reminded that I must pass through this desert before I can expect to live in greener places. "You must pass through this desert" has dominated my thoughts the past few days and has brightened my perspective.  It is no accident this came to me at the end of Lent, near the end of our desert of waiting.  

Wishing you a blessed Easter and Paschal season.

This is apple country.

A few weeks ago, we finally got to visit Apple Country Orchards.  Situated right off the road a few miles east of Idalou, I'd seen these orchards dozens of times driving the long stretch of 114 to Dallas.  Each time I passed it, the trees blossoming or sleeping empty with the season, I wanted to stop and explore.  I finally got my chance.

The 6,000 tree orchard is run by Cal Brints, who knew I was coming.  We ate a BBQ lunch with tart potato salad, smoky baked beans, and - you guessed it - homemade apple pie.  I had lots of questions for Cal, the first of which was, "What is the name of your dog?"  "Red," he said.

The apples in our country are some of the sweetest in the nation, he explained.  The constant sun concentrates the sugars in the apples, making them very, very good.  It was 100 degrees the day we went.

The weekend we visited, Cal was working on de-fruiting the trees.  All the trees we saw were thick with budding fruit.  Too much fruit means not enough room for the fruit to grow.

Since picking season hadn't started yet, I settled for their apple butter and fresh cotton blossom honey.  Choosing from all their canned goods was hard!

Red Yucca

 In "Gardens of Sand and Cactus," Walt McDonald's subject watches his wife transform "this desert we call home into ... / wind chimes and swings, bird feeders in every tree."  She salvages bone, rusted wire, stones, and broken salt blocks from the landscape and transforms them into "artwork" for her desert garden.  Visiting my great aunt and uncle's farm near the canyon, I was amazed as a child by the pieces of wrought iron and rusted sheet metal dotting their land.  They had a vegetable garden and lots of crepe myrtle bushes that bloomed pink from tiny green pods all summer, and castaway materials, including old farm equipment, broken pottery, and forgotten cinderblock made their outdoor space interesting and useful. To some people, such a garden, staccato with drought-happy plants and a lack of delicate blooms, wouldn't be a garden at all.  But I have to disagree!  There is beauty in such a pragmatic space - one that I slowly find myself trying to recreate in my own small garden.

Beautiful cactus and succulent garden from the Zilker Botanical Garden

This year, I planted bright purple celosia.  An annual, it won't come back again next year, something I am rethinking as I try to make the most from a waterless, hot climate.  The dusty miller, with its silvery leaves, and a hardy lantana did come back this spring, so I planted more of it.  The best prize this spring?  Two red yuccas that I will plant this weekend in my front beds.  Not a true yucca, hesperaloe parviflora is actually in the lily family.  Drought-resistant, it attracts hummingbirds, butterflies, and bees with its salmon-colored blooming stalks and thrives in the heat.  Other plants that go well with red yucca include Russian sage, salvia, agastache, echinacea, allium, and lavender.  I hope to slowly add these to my front gardens so that eventually I have a xeric space that unobtrusively fits into this landscape.  What do you wish you could add to your garden?