Day of the Moon

Yessss...it's Moon day again...my favorite day. I'm hoping it will become yours too. 

I'm hoping you will appreciate a day reserved for all sorts of lunar endeavors and stop thinking of it as the worst day of the week because it's the farthest from Friday.

If the mass media can develop the idea of Cyber Monday, then we of the moon can certainly conceive of the many embracing Moon day. 

 This particular Moon day finds our Lady Moon in the disseminating phase in the sign of Leo. This phase of the Moon means something is

being given, spread around, distributed. Because it's in the sign of Leo gifts of confidence, autonomy, leadership, courage, and being comfortable in your own skin are available for the taking. That is if you have taken the time to cultivate these qualities. Is this bounty currently ripe in your inner garden and ready for pickin'? If so, you will find these gifts simply fall off the branch and into your outstretched hands. Open and receive.

If not, if you're inner garden has been neglected, then at least these attributes are up for investigation. Ask your self if you would appreciate more confidence, more freedom to be you, more opportunities to have your brilliant ideas be heard and the courage, above all, to pursue and express them. Look into classes or books that provide opportunities to practice these qualities in small doses at first. Even though Lion energy is big energy, and you need to be willing to not only take it in but also to let it loose out in the world, because we're talking lunar here there's a softer, more gently penetrating quality to it. Sip it in.

And if you're not into investigating, then dream them. Dream of yourself today as already being confident and free to express yourself creatively and boldly in whatever way makes the most of who you really are. Does the image of the Lion or Lioness appeal to you? Daydream a little.

Is there a shadow side? You betcha. Superiority, narcissism, shallowness, arrogance, looking for 'love' in all the wrong places, self-hate. If these are what's growing in your inner garden, then you've got a little weeding to do. Just take it easy, spare your back, and plant what you want as you weed. Ask Lady Moon to light the way to a more wholesome you. Just be willing.

But here's the best part, because we're talking about the Moon, these qualities are softened and best integrated through intention, reflection, and faith. This means if you're not a Lion type, you still get avail yourself of the best of Leo through the gifts of this disseminating Moon. It may astonish you when you least expect it - a sudden burst of confidence; the lightbulb flashing with a new idea; being honored for your contributions at home, work or play; or feeling happy for no reason at all. Await the unexpected.



Bless this day, bless the Moon, bless our shape-shifting, softly radiant lunar nature! 

Old Woman Solstice

(This is a true story…I do not dream nor fable…)

Deep in the most ancient of forests, during the frosty Yule Moon, a stone cottage with white edged ivy curling around the windows and surrounded by a hedge of holly, was home to Old Woman Solstice. On this longest winter night she sat rocking patiently by her fire of oak and apple wood. The tall figure of a visitor, young and proud, stood facing her.

“You live a dangerous life alone, Madam,” said the Undertaker. “If you die, who will know to put you on a barge and take you to the river so you can float away in peace? Who will know what you taught, and what to do with all your herbs and potions?”

“Do not worry, Undertaker,” Old Woman Solstice replied. “I am well accompanied by my Heather Besom, my familiars Owl and Wolf, and my Spells. It’s all I need when Old Man Death comes for me. The herbs and potions will return to the Earth from whence they came and wait for someone else to rediscover them.”

She continued pensively, “And don’t forget, I have completed my Book of Shadows.”

“Ah, yes, and where is it hidden?” the Undertaker rubbed his long thin hands, dark veins pulsing with anticipation.

“Why would I divulge that information to you?” Old Woman Solstice  replied.

“Because, when your time comes, I need to know what Shadows will receive you, my dear.”

Old Woman Solstice rocked long, lost in thought. Outside the sound of leafless branches scratched against the windows of her stone cottage and snagged the new tender tendrils of ivy towards their naked wood as if to clothe themselves. The fire crackled and the chimney sipped the apple scented smoky wisps.

Startling the Undertaker with a sharp snap of her fingers and a whisper of words he did not understand, her Book of Shadows suddenly materialized. 

“This is all it takes for me to summon my Book, Undertaker. When my time comes it will be here waiting for you.”

The Undertaker looked longingly at the Book. It’s cover was black with gold lettering and decorated with the starry constellations of winter. The Book of Shadows held the key to the Old Woman’s soul. With the Book in his possession he could decree the time and place of her death. He wanted to banish Old Woman Solstice and her power over the Cycles of Earth and Sun, so that the end of all life would be solely at his command. 

Old Woman Solstice placed the Book on her lap and gently smoothed it’s cover as if to comfort and reassure it. The wrinkles on her hands resembled the patterns on it’s surface. She regarded the Undertaker tentatively, and knowing should she die without an successor the disaster that would befall the world where the Undertaker to take control, struck a bargain.

“By tomorrow night, find the River where I will rest in the greatest peace, procure a vial of the water, and the Book will be yours.”

The Undertaker agreed, knowing that just within a 1/2 day’s ride the most peaceable river ran along the southern edge of the forest. He took off his hat and with feigned courtesy bowed to the Old Woman. 

“Agreed. Until the morrow’s eve then.” He left by the back door and stole stealthily through the forest, his beak of a nose resembling an enormous black crow leading the way.

Old Woman Solstice did not sleep that night. She rocked and rocked and whispered lengthy incantations well past the late dawn of winter and into the middle of the day. 

The Undertaker arrived at the River as the Sun reached it’s zenith, penetrating the water to it’s very depth. Such a brilliant Light in winter the Undertaker had never seen. It’s rays gleamed as sharp as the golden blades of the warriors of old. The beams of Light struck the water with a hissing sound making the surface of the river bubble. 

The Undertaker furrowed his dark brow when he saw the river’s normally placid waters start to blister with heat. He reached for his pocket and brought out a vial. But as he went to dip it into the water, the River boiled and steamed with more fervor, so that even tongues of fire leapt crimson and amber from it’s surface. 

The Undertaker growled but the River continued to roil and churn, and with a sudden lurch, spit mounds of fish, cooked through and through, on to it’s shores. One particularly massive fish knocked out the Undertaker so that he fell dead at the foot of the gnarled trunk of a twisting Evergreen. A thundering shower of pine cones pounded down on the grimly crumpled body of the Undertaker thouroughly preventing any Light from entering. The many fish that sacrificed their lives that day decomposed and became a rich layer of fertilizer from whose scent the Undertaker recoiled. His soul had no way to go but through the deepest roots and buried layers of rocks and relics to find a dwelling place. 

Old Woman Solstice got up slowly and with much effort from her rocker. The pain in her bones cut deep to the marrow. She had kept the Cycle of Life safe for another year. But she was not long for this world. Old Man Death would soon come knocking and succeed where the Undertaker had failed. She needed to find another to take her place, secluded from the world, yet forever upholding it’s natural order.

The Book of Breathings

The Book of Breathings were instructions that Isis left for us to know how She managed to breathe life back into Osiris after Set, his brother, had hacked his body to pieces and scattered them throughout the land. 

Ancient Egyptians did not have a concept for Soul as separate from the body. This is why they had their particular burial practices. It has been suggested that the concept of Ba cannot and should not be translated because it is exclusively old Egyptian. Suffice it to say the Ba is the person, their unique power in the world, and it continues beyond this life with the body into the next.

To our modern minds, it may not make sense. But I cannot deny that to my psyche the ancient writings breath a life into me that is like a dream…

Last night I dreamt I was in Egypt. 

Inside a tall dwelling of stone blocks, (similar to a pyramid) I have to climb through a opening as narrow as a well via a wall that is a book shelf full of books. When I get to the top I must leap across to an opening that leads to a room. Once there I have a 360 degree view of the surrounding country side. 

I then see a small sarcophagus that holds an amulet representing my Ba (similar to soul, see below). The amulet is in a separate drawer and it’s for my eyes only and it is in good condition. In another sarcophagus is the Ba of the previous ruler. His amulet has deteriorated which means his rule is done.

I walk out into the crowds of people who are not sure if they will accept me. But when they see me they see the light of my Ba and all is well.

The dream is part of my Book of Breathings. Every night we have this amazing opportunity to see what the Divine is writing for us. This dream gives me instructions on how to live with disappointment, or betrayal where parts of life are ruptured. After a long dangerous climb to the top (dealing with the aftermath of feelings), I can get a wide perspective. It tells me my Ba is well and it’s safe for me to move on and forward. I move towards something new, as compared with moving away from something to avoid dealing with or escaping what’s unpleasant or unhappy. 

Paying attention to my dreams sustains the breath of life with forgiveness, grace, and love. 

Fluffy bunnies dwell here

fluffy bunnies dwell here

 their happy carrots in miniature nests underground,

 along with cat-eyed goblins conjuring a cauldron stew,

  and mystical wolves penetrating light with howling wind.

  

in the majestic antlers of the moose,

   magpies perch joyfully bidding the past fall -

    to the ground!, they scry, with queenly vigor -

     and then splash across the sky in milky way grandeur.

acorn caps upon their tails,

 squirrels scurry to hide the gifts of oak,

  while sprinting by are fox and bear leaves, 

   and the goldenrod cradles sleeping roly-polies.

in this forest 

 there’s room for all.

Walking between tear drops

Decision time .  

The group had grown too, too confining . It felt to her like they were going around and around and around in circles . Their words floated out of their pursed lips like smoke rings . Unimaginative halos of niceties . When things started to get more sharply intimate and real, hazy psychological walls of words would come up . smoke . wisps .  

A little psychology is not a good thing . It made one think they know something . superiority . pedigree . control . Made them experts at hiding behind psycho babble . made it seem noble . appropriate .

Boundaries misused keep other’s at arms length . withhold comfort from the lonely . distance . 

Like avoid triangulation . To her it sounded like strangulation, which is exactly how she was feeling . crushed . squashed . Holding back what she really wanted to express .  

These things she noticed and kept quiet . colluding . compliant .

She had to make a choice .  Forfeit familiarity for the unknown . imitation friendships foster disenchantment . it made her wild with sorrow . sad . solemn . 

It dismayed her to realize she was not complacent . That instead she wanted to speak words of truth that would strike like lightning . That she wanted swords to clash . Blades of words to cut through the fluffy folly of their rules of conduct . etiquette . protocol . 

Let's cut the crap . Live instead on feral dreams and untamed stars where the savage night is on fire ! 

Not here . Not with this group . 

All this fire inside me, she thought . I didn’t think I knew fire . But here it is . hot . blazing .

The fire wasn’t the problem though . She needed the fire for the conflagration of words . forge . combust . She needed her single flame to burn her way through the cooped up feeling . circles . circles .

She’d faced the trial by fire . jumped through rings of smoke . 

Now she needed to walk between tear drops . rain . 

It's Moonday again

My favorite day is Moonday because it's named for the Moon.

For me it's a day to take stock of the week behind and the week ahead. Not in the way of organizing and planning, but by the light of the Moon. I study my dreams for the week past, the night ones as well as the day ones, to guide me in the coming week. The night time ones tell me things I need to know about myself in ways that don't always make sense to my rational mind. Sometimes they highlight hopes, sometimes fears. But always dreams offer something to learn from. Taking time to play with dreams is giving yourself the gift of Lunar perception and intuition. It's a way of getting to know the dark, starlit sky of your own inner wonder and mystery.

I opt for a Jungian perspective on dreams. That means when I look at my dreams my first interpretation is to see everyone in the dream as me. When I share that viewpoint with others, their first reaction is: Huh??? I understand. What if someone dreams of murder? Or some other horrendous thing? I explain that dreams are not to be taken literally. Dreams are symbolic. 

So if you dream you kill someone, I ask what in your life needs to die? Or what do you want to get rid off? Or what's killing you? Symbolism takes the pressure off seeing the dream as literal, and usually, most people have an answer right off the bat. 

It's also important to notice how you feel in dreams. Feelings give the best clues to what's going on in the unconscious. If you take the time to pay attention to your dreams you will learn that dreams are completely honest and guileless. If you are hiding anything from yourself, the dream will disclose that to you by way of feelings. The dream will reveal what your heart needs you to pay attention to. A dream is your closest friend and ally.

Daydreams reveal what you most want to happen in your life. Simple daydreams are easier to decipher. Like daydreaming of a new car. Or a scrumptious Thanksgiving meal. Other daydreams are more like journeys that unfold without conscious direction. Listening to music without lyrics or to tracks with repetitive drumming while relaxing with your eyes closed is a really good way to invoke daydream journeys. If you are the kind of person that doesn't remember night dreams, daydreaming is a great alternative to entering the symbolic world of your psyche. 

Moonday is also an opportunity to notice the 'waking dream'. 'Waking dream' refers to synchronicity or things that happen to appear magical in some way. Maybe you find an unusual feather. Or a friend who you've been thinking about calls. Or things happen in 3's. 

The waking dream is also looking at the events, experiences, and feelings of life as if it is all a dream. As if it all has symbolic meaning. 

For instance, this past week was unusual because of the minor remodeling and maintenance work going on in my home. I can look at it all as if I dreamt it to find how it mirrors symbolically speaking what's going on in my psyche. I can tell you that there's definitely some restructuring going on within me. There's some things that I've been wanting to shift and reprioritize. Some passions I've wanted to rekindle and some feelings I've been ignoring that I need to acknowledge. These are things my Soul requires. 

The work on the atrium, which is in the heart of my home, symbolizes work my heart wants - more beauty and authenticity in friendships. The river rock we added to one wall exemplifies the love and connection I have to rivers - their contained flow and sweet water, but also their power to flood and completely change the terrain. The hard work my husband did to aerate the root-bound soil and replenish it with fresh peat and hummus guides me to look at where energy has been stuck in my life, and what needs a refreshing so new life can grow. This all has deep meaning for me and helps guide how I will consider making decisions in the week or weeks to come. 

The phase of the Moon is also helpful in giving symbolic meaning. Tonight we have a Gibbous Moon. This means the Moon is more than half but less than full. From a Moon Phase perspective, this phase signifies a time for us to look at our dreams optimistically and with confidence. The astrological sign also sheds meaning, and tonight the Moon is in the sign of Taurus. Briefly, Taurus is an earth sign and has much to do with creating Beauty in our daily lives. If nothing else, meditating for a few minutes on what a Gibbous Taurus Moon might mean for you and your life is enough to set a soft, dreamlike intention for the rest of your week. When we work with the Moon in this way we work, not only on our own individual Soul, but with the collective psyche as well.

We can all enrich and deepen our lives with a more Lunar frame of reference. Consider can we bring a little more beauty and optimism to this week? What can we cultivate in our lives that will revitalize our heart's passion and longing? 

Carpe Noctem, dear friends. Seize your inner Night. 

Shaman's Haiku

Dusty mountain path

Surprise, a baby goat baaah’s

Hawk circles in blue

Along granite cliffs

 In awe, hawk circles again

hunting grey rabbits

I am the goat’s baaaah

I am the hawk and rabbit

I am the mountain.

The view from here

Whoa! Ok! After meeting with Mister Bates, I've come to realize this interaction with the muse is not only fraught with pitfalls, but with heights that demand a great deal of competence as well.

The pitfalls are plenty. And equally part muse-induced and writer-induced. However, with regular and consistent practice such things as distractibility and mental fatigue can be eradicated. Writing employs the muscularity of the imagination, replicating the guidelines for a full body workout is sure to do for the imagination what the workout does for the body. Enlist the expertise of a competent coach, recruit a few equally enthusiastic buddies, eat lots of protein, and the writer has a winning formula. No need for a contract. Or so Mister Bates counseled.

Just do remember the part about resting in between.

I remain unconvinced. To reach the dizzying heights of literature, is more than a great sweaty workout, it's like attempting to climb Mt. Everest. Maybe I should aim for Mt. Whitney? Or, hey, Mt. Lukens or Mt. Wilson will do. Just writing this sentence makes me realize how much more realistic it is for me to literally attempt these climbs than to write beyond my current level of competence.

This is were my thoughts had stalled when the muse idea had slipped in. The writer-me was in need of an expert on inspiration.

I hadn't previously given much thought to establishing a connection with any particular muse because I didn't think I needed to. Muses are ancient, I reasoned, what can they possibly offer the modern writer? And, besides, there's at least nine to choose from. Additionally, a perfunctory reading of the functions over which they preside leaves one puzzled.

There is, for instance, one for each of the following: epic poetry, lyric poetry, love poetry, comedy/pastoral poetry, sacred poetry. There's a muse for history, tragedy, and astronomy. I would include their names but they are for the most part difficult to spell and pronounce, and eats up time with spell check. These nine muses were probably born to Zeus and Memory (English translation of Greek name), so unless the muses made love and bore children, which I understand is often the case, the original nine are unlikely to of any use to me.

It has become obvious, however, that one has little choice in the matter. If one just thinks 'muse' long enough, one is likely to get mused. Arbitrarily. Like winning a game of Bingo.

I do have one thing in my favor though. Considering the fact that muses live forever, and therefore do not have to propagate as often as humans to maintain their lineage, I decided it should be a simple matter to investigate the family tree of the somewhat more contemporary muse assigned to me, Lillian Eugenia, otherwise known as Lily Gene.

It turns out records of muse lineage are consistently unavailable since the time of the Greeks. I have had to resort to the use of my super powers - intuition and rationality. In other words, creative writing and research. After much deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that Lily Gene is indeed a descendant of a muse and a greek youth who would likely have been more in love with Apollo than with his paramour. It is also highly likely that the muse and the youth would have been related.

I'm sorry...I know...it's disappointing to come no closer to the actual identities of Lily Gene's parentage. Regarding the matter of the contract, it would be so advantageous for me to establish her pedigree. But there is a very, very good reason for me to discontinue with this path of inquiry - a historical precedent that has been set. Most mortals attempting to expose, usurp, research, or establish the veracity of muses have been turned to birds or flowers, or something much worse.

As luck would have it, one can invoke a muse, but the most effective spells and incantations are the providence of the gods of antiquity. (This helps explain why the need for the contract) So, apparently, I am back to where I started: attempting a long arduous climb with the muse allotted me.

I will probably end up with bloody blisters, dog-tired, and flat on my stomach from vertigo, but, it is rumored, the views are worth it...

Lily Gene reports to the Grand Wazier

Most Honorable Grand Wazier,


I have been diligently tracking the goings-on of my charge. I'm afraid we may have underestimated how magnificently cunning she could prove to be.

This morning I caught site of her leaving the house with a yoga mat rolled under her arm. She was not going to Yoga, I can assure you, because rolled inside the mat was the contract your assistant and I had so carefully crafted.

I followed her on foot down treacherously narrow alleys where all manner of garbage and offal had to be expertly avoided. Every now and again she'd come to a corner and proceed first to the right, then to the left, as if executing a peculiar dance. But I believe she suspected I could be following her and was attempting to give me the slip. I find this behavior remarkably audacious for a mortal so advanced in years. But, with deference for your diligent training, I am more clever. I borrowed my cousin's dog, Grand Aplomb, who has an excellent nose.

We followed her to an old dark building designed in the 1970's with railroad ties for steps and railings, although I surmise the entire building is built of such. She mounted the stairs to the second story with an impressive flurry of quick noisy steps, and stopped at the door of one Lucius Bates, Esquire. Before entering she looked furtively over both shoulders, then with an 'Umph', I speculate of victorious self-satisfaction, pushed open the door. 

I managed to catch a glimpse of Mister Bates, who sports an underbite that protrudes well past his nose. He is short and stocky and smells of cigars, the scent of which being quite offensive to Grand Aplomb, sent him off to chasing after his own tail. The charge, fortuitously did not notice the commotion, so instantaneously did she become engrossed with making a fuss over the alleged inequities of the contract.

I crouched, just outside the office door, behind a large potted plant, and well within range of the conversation, but due to the disorderly behavior of the dog could only retrieve the following intelligence:

Wherein, I had requested a camel in the event the contract was rescinded, the charge is offering a moped. A pre-owned moped. 

Grand Wazier, I believe said moped is being tendered as inducement to lure me into acceptance of other revisions I was not able to overhear, but of which I am sure I will soon be apprised. I cannot stress enough the necessity to maintain an attitude of alert circumspection during these most delicate of negotiations.

I will, of course, keep you informed of any further developments. 

In the meantime, I am holding up remarkably well thanks to the encouraging presence of my cousin, (who from prior experience assures me the charge is altogether manageable), and the diversionary antics provided by Grand Aplomb.

I, Lily Gene, with all respect submit this report, and, as always, holding you in the highest esteem, remain eternally at your service.

'the charge' vacillates

Dearest Friend,

Thank you for your counsel! I am so grateful you've taken the time to look over the contract proposed by Lily Gene. Your point that it appears inequitable and lop-sided is well taken.

The muse insisted on having it drafted by The Grand Wazier's assistant and I was not privy to the conversation because, if you will remember, The Grand Wazier originated from another realm of the imagination, namely Carolyn Casey. I thought I should remind you of this as it is impossible for me to secure access to his Presence, as you suggested, and although Carolyn is always amiable and accommodating, she is extremely busy. Therefore, my attempts to request revision via the assistant would prove to be futile.

Consequently, I am now more determined than ever to seek legal counsel.

Although, I must admit, not everyone is of your opinion, my darling. My artist friend, Judith Parson, is encouraging me to sign. She has had much experience dealing with muses and assures me I have nothing to fear. Apparently her muse has served her well, but I have not yet seen that contract. I must remember to ask her as it should prove to be immensely instructive.

I realize, however, that I've been asking myself the wrong question: Should I or shouldn't I sign?
I sense the answer to that is inevitably a matter of : damned if I do damned if I don't.

If I do, the comfort of my life will be disrupted. As perhaps it should be. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. And as I am not much for parties and social events, I've come to accept myself as a true but friendly introvert, a quality which I find very conducive to writing.

On the other hand, if I don't I cannot help but think this would send up a red flag at Trememdum Mysterium. A writer demonstrating a penchant for pickiness is not likely to attract the attention of the more erudite muses. I am worried about appearing frumpy as Lily Gene has shown to be quite talented at presenting a wide variety of voguish, if not a bit short-lived, voices. I have to give her that. It's also possible she has come to test my commitment.

But it occurs to me, dear friend, the bottom line I must consider is this: Do I trust the muse??


Oh, changing the subject, the atrium that two days ago was 2/3rd's complete is now 4/5th's. Math is not my forte, as you've frequently pointed out, but shouldn't they be done by now? Hubby had alluded to some other 'minor' things that must be addressed - namely patching a couple of cracks in the ceiling. I had agreed not realizing the prep work it would entail such as removing/covering the entire living room and dining room furniture, for after the patchwork comes the paint and that does require the entire ceiling to be painted not just the areas patched. There were nine men here this morning, inside and outside the house, I want to crawl under the bed with Preciousness and wait till it's over.

Yours always.

I, Lily Gene

After the naming of the muse, somewhere in an alternate reality, The Grand Wazier is conducting a ceremony were the slightly ditzy, if not certifiably non compus mentis, muse is taking her solemn vows to inspire and infuse with passion the heart and mind of a certain writer, namely me.

The Vow of Service

I, Lillian Eugenia, hereby known as Lily Gene, do solemnly swear to officially fulfill the role of ‘The Muse’ to Aida Nuñez-Troedsson, hereby known as ‘the charge’. 

I, Lily Gene, promise to uphold the duties of ‘The Muse’ with all the power vested in me by The Grand Wazier, Master of the Tremendum Mysterium School of Experiential Undertakings.

Duties are defined as follows -

I, Lily Gene, promise to awaken my charge at inconvenient times in order to make the most of the auspicious early morning hours; to embed distracting sentences and characters into her imagination during long boring conversations and/or menial but necessary tasks; and to make certain that to-do lists are forgotten and/or left unread.

Revoking the contract:

These duties shall be fulfilled in perpetuity till such contract is revoked through the following words spoken by the charge in the presence of at least one witness:

“I, the charge, no longer take you, Lily Gene, as my Muse,” 

And accompanied by no less than: one camel, a tent, and one day’s provisions, in order to ensure said Muse will travel a far enough distance to provide for the re-establishment and restoration of the charge’s peace of mind.

Signed on this day: Wednesday, November 18, 2015 

Muse: Lillian Eugenia

charge:____________________

I’ve yet to sign as I feel it is incumbent upon me to consult with legal counsel.

'the art' continues

My dearest friend,

You ask how things are going. Well, things have been unraveling as of late.

In my ordinary reality, the atrium project is 2/3rd's done. That's awesome progress and I must say I'm impressed. But my hubby promises there's a lot more left to do outside. Outside? Ok, well then, I can deal with that. As long as it's all cleaned up before Thanksgiving, I'm good. Come to think of it, better make sure I stress several days before Thanksgiving, otherwise I might be construed as having an easy going, permissive attitude towards the whole thing and it drags out to barely a few hours before T-day. So far the project is on schedule and going as planned, so I have no reason to worry.

In my non-ordinary reality, however, things are a bit more chaotic.

The muse woke me up in the middle of the night, as did the cat. Together they came up with a duet, a mix of words - beginnings and endings, with no in-between-ess - and lots of caterwauling. It failed to impress me so I plugged my ears and fell back to sleep.

When I woke up this morning, she was two inches from my face staring at me - the muse, not the cat. I could feel her breath warm and misty on my eyelids. She does things like that just to spur me into action. Action meaning get up and start the routine. But before I got to go to the bathroom she startles me again saying she has arrived at a grand conclusion. She needs a nom de plume.

Really?? What do you suggest?

Lily Gene.

I raised an eyebrow. I had no comment.

She didn't seem to mind my attitude of underwhelm, she has an uncanny ability to be very self-possessed. There's a bit of a stubborn streak that belies that sweet southern belle of a name she's chosen.

Aside from stubborn, the muse is duplicitous as well. She takes me down unknown paths than lead to cliffs and abysses, and then deserts me. Doesn't sound like a Lily Gene, now does it? However, my opinions don't ever seem to matter much to her anyway, and she's simply tired of being called 'the muse.'

Even the cat has a name. And so does 'the lime', she stated matter of factly.

The lime is Char the Lime, a character who as of yet has only a variety of viridescence, the best scent in the world, and a super power - the tendency to fall without getting hurt - ascribed to it.  Nothing more. And whose fault would that be, I wonder?

But the muse continued to act non-plussed and I figure she's got something up her sleeve.

Since I hadn't fully awakened yet, I was caught totally unprepared to find her cousin, none other than CFS, sleeping on my couch. Remember him? His back was turned to me, but we both know well the shape of that long, thin angular body wrapped in a blanket completely covering his head like a cocoon. In case you've forgotten, he longs for the snug assurance of his beginnings - before he emerged as something resembling a giant grasshopper. And, anyway, had there been any doubt, CFS's dog, Grand Aplomb, was on the couch as well.

No wonder Preciousness was caterwauling. The muse had let them slip in right in the middle of the night disturbing the peaceful slumber of my kitty.

I hadn't seen CFS in quite a while, but, as you know, he's the type that sleeps in and wakes up for nothing, so I didn't greet him. I petted Grand Aplomb instead and was instantly rewarded with lots of snorts and slobbery kisses. He is the only dog Preciousness will tolerate somewhat, and being quite invisible, gets away with murder in this house.

I then, injudiciously you'd say, decided to humor the muse, and typed Lily Gene in the computer. Well, let me tell you, she went berserk with delight, pirouetting all about and singing I've got a name, in a tune that was vaguely familiar. Preciousness started caterwauling, Grand Aplomb howling, and CFS just kept on snoring. From my perspective this simply was not promising to be a very productive start to my writing. And, anyway, I had to get to work. But at least I have been able to record the events with a great degree of accuracy given the fact so much is in flux, and able to report to you.

And, you know, considering I left all that madness to the workers in the atrium. It's really amazing they were able to get so much done!

Yours always.

the art of having nothing to say, or writing without the muse

Today is one of those days where I was so busy doing things that the things crowded out all thoughts of writing. No time to spare for it before leaving the house. And to top it off, we are doing a minor remodel in our home and even though it’s small, when it comes to remodeling your own home, the scope is not the issue. It’s always inconvenient. Messy. Disorienting.

Our project is off the hallway in an atrium that’s right smack in the middle of the house. The atrium can be seen from three sides - the living room, the family room, and the master bedroom. The aforementioned hallway is a mess because that’s the best way for the men to get to it, but the hallway is the conduit between the common living areas and the bedrooms, namely the master bedroom. So every time I had to go from kitchen to bedroom, which is quite often in the morning before I leave the house, I had to pass the men getting the work done which just completely throws me off my game. 

I’m a nester. And so is my muse. Together we make sure everything is done first, and like Russina dolls make sure any mess is neatly stacked and put away.. We have breakfast, do a load of laundry, make the bed…well, you know, the usual stuff. Then we get down to the business of writing. But, clearly, during remodeling my daily priorities are by necessity at the bottom of the list. And a whole new, but simple, set of Russian dolls takes their place.

Get dressed before I make my kitchen entrance. (Which confused me because I then brushed my teeth before breakfast.)

Walk cautiously on the stiff heavy paper laid down to protect the floor, which makes a very scary, loud crumpling noise. To the cat, that is.

Assure and soothe the cat.

Open and then remember to close the bedroom door. 

Don’t track the dirt from the paper to the bedroom carpet.

Turn off the heater, because the door to the atrium must be left open for the men. 

Therefore, undress and take shower in cold drafty bathroom. 

Smile somewhat reassuringly when recalling bathroom will be next project.

Re-dress.

And above all skip the complaints because the work is finally getting done. Yay! 

I’m sure you can see why I had no time this morning to be inspired. Too many to-doodles took the place of inspiration.

I think this is why most people don’t write because, even if there’s no remodeling, there’s always just too many obstacles to deal with. The thing is that typically for me, even when there’s lots of to-doodles, my muse tends to have words or phrases that she tosses at me and I write them down so that later I can decipher where those words are going to end up finding their niche. Not quite as neat as Russian dolls, though, more like a 1000 piece puzzle. 

Today there was nothing.

Even so, I enjoy sitting down to write anyway. I am by nature, not quite an optimist, more like a cheerful realist. And by the time I get home the men were tidying up just a bit so they can continue tomorrow. I think how sweet, then wave them good-by and get cracking on the load of laundry I didn't do in the morning. I figure I would then be free to receive inspiration from my muse because we have an hour before I have to start dinner. My muse however, is somewhat like my cat, and so if things aren’t done according to the typical routine she gets a bit crochety. Best leave her be.

So, cheerful realist that I am, I open my writing folder in my computer, and click on one of my files. There is a phrase just sitting there all by itself in a different font with lots of space above and below it. It is a very interesting phrase, although some might say it is a very non-sensical phrase. And I just might have to agree because I have no idea why I wrote it, or when, or even what it means. The fact that it’s in a different font makes me wonder if someone else got in my file, by accident of course. Hmmm…not likely. And it’s so odd I think it requires a formal introduction. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, I now present to you:

A Modicum of rationality and gobs of linearity

Yee-ikes! As you can see, this phrase is totally meaningless. Right? But it’s sort of handsome, in a Harry Porter kind of way. Geeky, yet ever enthusiastic. One could even say it’s inclined towards the fanatical. Sounds British-y too. Even magical, like a Latin spell.

But, what did I mean by it though? What was I thinking? Maybe, it is a spell...

Oh, well. I can’t make heads or tails of it, and the muse is curled up by the fire with the cat, and I’m out of time, so I can’t even end this right and take a proper leave! 

The point to remember is even if your muse deserts you, the computer wont. 

Intention for Creation

Creator, what is your intent?!

This question echoes as each 

Charitable contribution flutters 

Into the basket with a soft whisper;

And with every footfall that walks

Across the grand prismatic web

Of church and temple,

Monastery and parson’s keep,

Where once and future priests and rabbis,

And monks and lamas,

Busy themselves folding and unfolding

The scroll of truths

Too hard and too brilliant to bear.

But I say unfold and unfurl

Till you speak the truth...

As I have.

Guilty I am of self indulgence.

It was I who dared 

To touch the hem of the holy man,

And took back my power.

I who shed my first blood

On the sacred ground

Where the doves fed, 

And lambs and lions lay,

So that my blood mixed with theirs

And now you know your altar was always unclean...

But, humbled, I pray.

I dwell in my tent

And prophesy to no one.

Yet in the holy of holy hours,

On the holy of holy nights,

The One of many names comes

With open hands 

To break the sacred heart with me.

Then wiping the crumbs

Off my lips, speaks but the word

Of divine intention:

Just show up and shine, baby, shine!