In the dark of night with a single candle aglow, as I often do, there comes an ascention upon my shoulder as though a gentle hand has been there laid to give assurance of self and inspiration from an unseen source. Letters begin to string together formulating words upon the blank screen before me. Like the rushing streams of Spring the words flow through me coming hence from the same said unseen source.
As though my inner light has been set afire with new found dreams, aspirations and joys, incomprehensible to the human understanding, my fingertips play gleefully over the keys in rejoicing solidarity with the gentle hand upon my shoulder.
The entrance of the Muse, angel, or whatever spiritual name one chooses to give to the hand upon the shoulder is a welcome event in the life of the writer. There is nothing worse than sitting in front of a blank screen wondering what to say next. Sometimes the writer will wrack their brains for hours and hours in front of the screen in vain. Nothing. Nothing comes to mind to fill the empty space or start
Tchaikovsky described the Muse as an immeasurable bliss that overcame him. It is in vain to describe this bliss that comes over all of us when we have our ephiphany or 'ah-ha!' moment. It's as though the heavens open and great Hallelujiahs are sung in rejoicing; the dams blocking the river of creation have been opened and it becomes an unstoppable force. The words flow by the thousands weaving a new story, a poem, or a song in the world giving the appearance of madman hammering away at the keys oblivious to all that is transpiring around him. There is nothing but the writer, the keyboard and the composition; it is bliss - pure and holy.
Writers, however, do not have the corner on the Muse market. Each person, in their own vocation and life, is visited in the moments when all seems hopeless or there is no resolution to a problem plaguing them.
Has your Muse come to visit lately?