The Muse

Field Notes on Attention - No. 2

Lately, I’ve been seeing my Muse in a new light.

What does she really do for me?

I had always assumed she was what writers have long imagined her to be—a metaphor for inspiration, imagination, or moments when ideas seemed to arrive unexpectedly.

For me, ideas come unexpectedly while I am elbows-deep in gardening …

or my hands are stretching, turning, kneading a sourdough …

or slicing apples for the next homebrew.

It’s as if an unease has settled in my chest. I don’t feel like my Muse inspires me.

It’s something more … vital.

It’s something that’s been there all along.

I can feel it.

At last, the shapes begin to sharpen

and I see …

The Muse does not write through me.

She teaches me where to look.

She orients me.

Inspiration is a gasp.

Attention is breathing.

One is a moment.

One is a practice.

I do not invoke the Muse.

I attend her.

I grasp what the Muse has meant throughout history.

However, I may have misunderstood her.

Memory … perception … song …

She wasn’t dictating.

She was leading.

Gently.

Perhaps she was never whispering poems into my ear.

Perhaps she was quietly turning my head.

Inspiration may describe the Muse well enough.

I’m circling something a little different.

Attending.

For now, I see my Muse as the one inviting me to plunge my hands deeper into the mud.

She whispers, “Look there.”

The Muse did not change.

I did.

Which makes me wonder...

Perhaps the Muse was only ever meant to make us pay attention.

As if by breathing,

I pay attention…

What, or who, has quietly taught you where to look?