Invoking the Muse

Yes, I changed the blog format.  Got tired of the white text on black.

The writing prompt (from Deena Metzger) is:  Picture your muse, and invoke her.

My muse is fickle.  She flies in and out and flits about at her own whim.  She laughs at the idea that she is my muse, belonging to me, meant to come and inspire at my beck and call. Her job may be to inspire, but she has her own existence and doesn’t just wink into being when I choose, remaining dormant in the in-between times.  She is a being with work and purpose, and with a life of her own.

And so, she visits me when she desires or deems it necessary.  Or not even that – when she just plain decides.  She has that edge to her, a snittyness, a self-absorption.  She is fairy-like, ephemeral, arbitrary, spontaneous, even a bit reckless.  Sometimes she tosses just a glimmer of an idea my way, as though sprinkling a dash of fairy dust.  If I catch it, I might shape it into a poem, or jot down a seed of an idea to examine later.  (Or never.)

There are times, though, that she settles down with me for a little while, opening my eyes and my mind to something new, intriguing, beautiful.  She is a muse who loves beauty and surrounds herself with color, light and fragrance.  Does it help me at all to solicit her aid, to pray for her to visit me?  I really don’t know, but it can’t hurt.  The old stories all tell us that the gods want our attention, our offerings.  And really, we do need them, our muses.  Is there anything more valuable than creativity?  Creativity is life.  Even at night when we sleep, we get to visit our own dream theaters, where creativity reigns.

Right now I feel her hovering nearby.  I crave her magic.  I am not happy when, as Rumi says, “I’ve been so woven into the mesh of my trivial errands.”   Where she goes when she is not here I do not and cannot know.  I guess it’s none of my business.  All I can do is entreat her to visit me as often and for as long as she can.  And so I am offering her now the aroma of citrus and peppermint.  I hope that will call her to me.  Muse, please come and enrich my life!

P.S.  SoulCollage® often functions as my muse as well.  This morning I did a little birthday reading, 3 cards (body, mind, spirit).  What an inspiring little blessing of a reading!  The second and third are probably pretty obvious; they are called My Exuberant Child (what my mind needs - more play!) and Hummingbird Child (a spirit gift, for sure).  The first, for my body, I call Omen, and it represents my instinctual self paying attention to the messages of the natural world (the shooting star).

  

Finding Our Way Home - My annual Persephone ritual (March 28th) and a new poem

I've written a bunch of poems since my Persephone book came out in 2010 (check it out here), but none about her (that I can think of, anyway).  Some Hecate ones, for sure.  But the other day I was preparing for my annual Persephone ritual for women (check it out here; there are just a few spots left) and a new one came in her voice.  There are so many themes we could focus on with this story.  What I usually do is work with whatever theme has been up for me.  Lately that has been issues around the importance of place, and more specifically of home, with all that the word implies.  Anyway, here's the poem as it now stands.  I may edit some more, but here goes:

Home

Home was always

Mother.

Where she was

I was, and

I felt safe

and loved.

I know that

every child

must leave

home, leave

her mother.

But I –

I was not

ready.

Now,

in the times

that I am with her,

the place is

familiar, but

no longer

comforting or safe

in the old way.

I have become

her equal.

Now,

I don’t know where

home is

for me.

Her home? His?

In the mortal middle ground?

I begin to suspect that

I must carry

home within me,

that I must find home

wherever I am.

After all,

All places

are my place.

All realms are

my realm.

They were given to me

in the exchange.

Here is what

I realize:

I must find a way

to welcome, and

to be welcomed.

Only then

will I know

where – and to what –

I belong.

Finding Our Way Home

When I begin to plan my annual Persephone Rising event, I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about what has been up for me.  One theme has been the importance of place.  Deena Metzger (yeah, I know - I'm stuck on the work I did with her) said that the 20th century was one of exile and displaced persons.  Being rooted in a particular place is not a given for us.  Most of us do not live where our ancestors are buried and do not have that long history of being steeped in place and rooted in the land.  So, this idea will definitely be part of the focus this year.

Here's a new poem.  It's called Olly Olly Oxen Free

Olly olly oxen free!

Come home –  you are safe!

It is time to set foot

            on the sacred ground

            of your home place.

Your place is here.

Your time is now.

You have walked, ridden,

            tramped, traveled,

            run, flown and sailed

a long while and

a long way to get

            to this place.

Here you can rest,

            sink down roots,

            plant trees for future generations,

            surround yourself with whatever security

is possible in this life.

Yes, you have had to

            find it yourself.

There is no map, no manual,

            no guide, no GPS to get here,

            no matter what you were told.

But, come!  Touch base!

This is the seat of longing

that has been summoning you.

You may call it home.

The Pathless Path

Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Traveler, there is no road,

you make the road by walking.

                                   - Antonio Machado

There is a longing in me for a way, a home, a way home, for a container full of meaningful ritual passed down from the ancestors and the companionship of others.  And yet, every time I have come close to that, I have balked, left, rejected it or ejected myself.   This life has been one of el caminante quien sabe que no hay camino. 

Machado understood the pathless path.  He must have had similar longings. (http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/208676-sept-12--last-night-as-i-was-sleeping---antonio-machado)  He dreamed of water, beehives, fiery suns and God in his heart.  He chose to see these dreams as illusions.  But what if they aren’t and the dreams really are delivering the goods?

There is no road, no path to lead you into your heart to find these things.  And perhaps no path is needed – only an opening.  It is as though you – I - wander around looking for what we have all along.  Don’t all the mystics say that?

But we are caught in a concept of walking a path, stuck in a construct of linear time.  If only we could lay that all down at the altar of the heart.  If only we could de-throne the mind.  If only the mind itself would abdicate its rule, saying, “Here is the orb and the crown.  Heart, I bequeath them to you.  You are much more fit to rule.”

And the fountain in the heart would flow without end.  The bees would work at their honey-making.  The sun would radiate warmth and bring tears to our eyes, and God (Goddess, Source, the Mystery) would be there.  The pathless path would meander in and around the gardens of the heart, circling, spiraling, not needing to go or arrive anywhere.

And the heart would say, “Come home!  All is forgiven!”  And you would.  You would dwell there, not needing to seek anymore.  Only to lean out and look at the colors and waves and people and trees.  To know that where you are is where the worlds touch, where all is possible, and nothing needs to be done.

It may not be obvious from this post, but I am beginning to ferment ideas for this Spring's Persephone event for women.  Things are bubbling away in the dark.  We will see what emerges. 

Borderlands

I've been thinking a lot about living in the borderlands (continuing on from recent posts).  I think I may be sticking with this theme for a while.  And it relates to the theme of the importance of place that Deena Metzger raised in the workshop I went to this fall.  Today, out of the blue (which is often how poems come to me), I wrote the following:

Once,

feeling untethered

and unraveling,

I found myself

at the edge

of a great void,

toes jutting out

into emptiness,

breath caught

in my chest.

I couldn’t help

but peek over.

All I saw was

nothingness, and

fear gripped my heart

and squeezed.

Slowly and carefully,

I exhaled and

forced my feet to

shuffle back

onto solid ground.

Since that time

I have mostly

stayed safely away

from the edge.

I knitted myself

back together.

But I live now

on the fringes,

not far from

the precipice.

Why do I do this?

Living close to my fear is also

living with the brightest, deepest,

most vibrant colors.

This is where

my people are.

This is where

I have made my home.

This is where

the intensity of living

beats most clearly.

Living in the

borderlands requires

all we have and

all we are.

Where else

should I be?