A Muse, Ed
The muse is not amused.
I’ve been shushed. And left on shush for what feels like forever but is in reality a few hours. The very hours when we get the bread. And truth be told, I’m glad the muse has shushed me and is getting on with life and its demands. Lord knows I’ve been in the words of the muse, all mush. That is a lot of mush when both muse and artist are having heart and mind mush. Too much mush. Like too much people as an old acquaintance would say when required to join the queue at the taxi rank.
Mush aside. Wait, there can be no mush aside. Mind and heart mush is all consuming and can leave one, rather mushy. A little soft in the head, like an overpaid politician. And that should tell you just how bad the mush has been. Is, still is and will likely remain forever and days after too. And given how the world is burning and flooding, that forever might show up before your retirement annuity pays out. Still, we are here now and doing this Life gig as best as we can, wherever we find ourselves and with whatever we have at our disposal. None of which might be adequate, but it matters little. Showing up, in whatever state we find ourselves is what counts and this too, the muse has shown me.
For a being gifted such lofty gifts, the muse remains amongst the most grounded beings I have known in my long journey on this rock. Grounded in stardust and air. In ground and flower, in giant trees and shaded bowers. Grounded in being. And what are we if we are not humans, being? Still, the strength it takes to turn her not inconsiderable light towards the task in hand and leave behind the rarefied air of mind and heart in mush will tell you everything you need to know of the steel cored fibre of the muse.
I share as much with the Dervish and she bursts out in laughter.
Muse and artist?
Well, my dear fellow traveller, this is a turn of phrase I’ve not heard you apply before. Much less apply to yourself. In fact, you’ve actively resisted the artist moniker. And if I recall, you might have been rather dismissive of the idea of a muse? What did you say about that, let me see — ohh wait, it was something about the muse being an invention of the lame artist unable to set themselves to the daily practice? You remember?
Oops!
As always, the Dervish serves humble pie with a generous portion of relish. Which is a natural trait of a dervish. To remind us to humble ourselves at every single stage of practice and especially at each new level of mastery attained. It’s my turn to laugh, though not as ebulliently as the Dervish, mine taking on a more sheepish tone. I’m left to sit quietly in this discomfort I’ve made for myself and reflect. What I see reflected has all the creamy fluffiness of a sheep in need of a shearing. Suitably shorn of my ego (again) the Dervish gently walks beside me on the stony ground.
Let me remind you that there was and remains nothing untrue in your statement about artists using a muse (or lack thereof) to excuse and hide behind when they feel abandoned by the grace gifted to them to create. And to be fair, I recall you adjusted your views about this at some point, setting me up as a muse; even if it was only a cursory reference.
Ohh, you read that?
My dearest fellow traveller, I read every single thing you publish. Not because I am enamoured by your writings as entertaining as they are; it is more to ensure I am not misquoted nor have anything attributed to me that I do not deserve, or embody. I felt a tremor of discomfort when I read that I was amongst many other things, a muse. A guide yes, but a muse? I could see no way to share what I had felt at that point, so I made space to hold the discomfort and sit with it. After all, even if not especially, a dervish must practise sitting with discomfort no?
I’m silent.
Processing the immensity of this guide’s generosity towards me, I am about ready to burst into tears. Mind and heart, all mush. Eventually I utter broken thanks for the lesson served with such tenderness. We settle into a conversation. We set off on the well-worn path of the admin of Life but soon wander and I’m reminded that of all the things I have been gifted as learnings in this process so far; learning the art of conversing between beings is arguably the greatest gift I treasure in my time with the Dervish.
As we come to the close of the afternoon; pinging phones reminding us both of the real world, she adds;
I’m glad for your movement in this direction. While it is true the practice of the art is the highest tribute to any muse and the art itself; remember that the notion of a muse rooting in you suggests that you’re now open to growing in spirit and heart too. And that’s the highest compliment you can pay to the art itself. Keep growing and allow me to leave you with the artistry of your own words from your all too brief tribute to the muse:
I wish you a love so complete, you can only ever know fragments of it.
A Muse, Ed is a tribute to the human-shaped beings we encounter that enrich and deepen the all too brief journey in this form. We give thanks, everything is exactly as it should be.
© Jesh Baker for Oppi Stoep 2023, All Rights Reserved
