It’s an early Saturday morning and the dew is still moist upon the grass. The pond chorus of tree frogs sings in adulation to a watery sun, and I peruse Facebook writing groups and observe it; there among the memes, the shoutouts, and the sweet words, are comments sour, the signs of “muse abuse.”
My heart is shocked when I see it. It is no different to me then when I hear someone say something deprecating to a child.
My muse and I have a deep love and appreciation, much like a mother shares with her own baby as she pushes him about in the stroller, savoring alongside of him the every wonder of his first encounters with our beautiful, raucous, complex, glorious, hideous, estranging and elevating world. As mother, I am guide, interpreter and provocateur, but like good mothers everywhere, don’t mistake my cultivated calm and deliberately positive bent for something it is not. I know all about bad realities, and as mother, I can protect in an instant.
My muse is like my beautiful son was as a baby. We lived, he and I, in a cocoon of affection so impregnable that no one could touch my opinion of how wonderful a child he was. He was sweet, original, intelligent, adorable and funny. He would place his little dimpled hands alongside of my face and look deep into my eyes through eyes devoid of any negative judgment. The love I felt for him opened wide all my capacity to love, taking it far beyond the limitations of romantic love and into that other territory of profound duty, nurturance, curiosity and respect. This is why I don’t consider my muse in the traditional, classical sense as one bestowing gifts or as some sort of pseudo lover. My muse is one enduring and dutiful, not one transient, fickle, or randomly assigned to me by whim. We are of each other.
When my son was young, I was extremely careful to balance both the teaching of skills with the reality of sharp observation and protection. It was my job to put him ahead of my own needs, in many cases, since he was young and vulnerable and could not do this himself. As he has grown in capacity, I have had to subside in the maternal loving and fretting department and let him be. I’ve had to assure him he is a decent and capable young man, one I love and admire for his many gifts, his wicked wits and his offbeat sense of humor.
Unexpectedly, in the pseudo empty nest of his–now vacated–stroller, a new occupant appeared: my muse. He has waited longer still for my love and care, my attention, and longed-for careful unwrapping from the thin tissue coverings that kept him safe until now. Yes, my muse is a him, for as I learned with my son, boys are, to me, the sublime combination of sweetness and truth, honor and ardor.
This muse that occupies the empty stroller is not here in my employ. He is a wanted thing, a waiting thing, who deserves time and attention, and I love and cherish him like my son. My muse is delightful but vulnerable. He is cute but can grow spoiled. He requires a strong hand to guide him best, but above all, just like my son, his efforts must never be criticized. Each blunt crayon scribbling is a wonder from the hands of a child or a muse. Each represents the slow acquisition of a skill. I must speak to my muse with love and reverence even when his efforts are neither lovely nor reverent. This is what it is to mother a muse; it is to hold in check the wells of unkindness deposited in each of us, to bring forth from the muse its singular half-breeds and original pairings, the fruits of its untrammeled and playful mind.
I’m asking you from the bottom of my heart–in case your muse should one day play with mine–that you consider your language. Does your language to your muse and about your creations invite the best behavior, motivation or product, or does it require some compassion and reconsideration? Will your muse be a positive influence or the type of playmate who is unfortunately not welcome for a second visit at my home?
I’ve found muses to be extremely loyal but highly skittish critters. As prey animals, they’ll run like mustangs at a hint of danger. My muse stays sweet by my side on a diet of love, respect, and curiosity and not on an empty rice straw fodder high in silica and hard on the teeth.
18 Replies to “To Sweet Language, Oh Muses Come”
I really appreciate this post. I haven’t perhaps considered my muse enough, but I’m pretty sure she would be a cat, not a boy. Capricious, a little naughty, but such a delight. Thanks Tonia.
Crystal, I know two excellent feline candidates for the job! Thank you for reading.
I’ve never heard of the muse conceived of as a child. I’ve always bought into the notion of muse as whimsically benevolent conferrer of ideas and inspiration, one whose attention means you caught her eye somehow, but you’d better stay attentive and interesting and keep always in mind that it is you who woos her and not the other way around. The notion of muse as my child…this is a new and interesting way to think about things. It moves it from almost optional choice to absolute responsibility. Wow.
Roslynn, thank you. For me, it IS a responsibility. While I love the idea of muses diaphanous in Grecian woods etc., etc., etc., how would you know you didn’t get chosen by a Satyr instead?? The whole fickle, toying, torturing muse things feels very unsafe to me, and besides, I was never one to wait for notice: if I want something, I’ll screw up the courage to ask for it. A child analogy is a better muse notion for me bringing to balance responsibility, love, constant nurturing. Thank you for reading.
I’m pretty sure I don’t have a muse as wonderfully precious as yours. What a beautiful tribute to yours.
Marsha, well, thank you. Out of love for my son, I had to find my muse. Thank for you reading.
You are a lovely mom, and a wonderfully deep writer. Your posts are a pleasure to read. 🙂
Aw, thanks, Marsha. It’s a mutual regard.
A truly beautiful piece. Thank you.
Thank you, Valerie. Someone who collects rainbows must well speak the language of her muse. Thanks for reading.
Since I consider my own “muse” to be the Holy Spirit, I have appreciate this piece …..the love and respect of what is truly a gift and never a burden is evident 🙂
Mmmmm…I love that, the Holy Spirit. At least he won’t manipulate for extra cookies or one more story, will always keep you on your right path. You are one S-M-A-R-T woman, coach. Thank you for reading.
I appreciate your description, and the comments made by others. Now I feel inspired to give some thought to how I nourish my own muse. She is a bit of an independent spirit, not content to dwell in one place for long periods of time. Perhaps I need to consider how to entice her to stay.
Denise, your muse can play with my muse anytime!
This gives me much to consider. I really don’t think often of my “muse” or speak of him/her either. Still, I’m able to see the point of being kind and gracious to or with our work/words.
Melinda, one of our friends thinks of her muse as the Holy Spirit. To me, part of the fascination with the topic is how everyone sees their muse a little differently or simply, doesn’t think of a muse at all. I can hear my Dad reminding me of his anthem, “There is more than one right answer,” and he is right. As for kind words, it’s just what works best for me. Thank you for reading. I’m happy you’re writing more.
I once worked with a gal who was the daughter of a pastor…her favorite saying was, “It takes all kinds to make a world.” I never forgot that little piece of wisdom 🙂
Melanie, that IS the secret: accept the many kinds and don’t try to change them.