Muse, hurumph. She is arriving at all the “wrong’ moments these days. Stretching my imagination, I can see that perhaps she is pointing to all these moments, acts and breaths, being of equal value, rather than simply the ones where I Get Stuff Done. Perhaps I am struggling to trust my muse these days, ripping up to do lists as fast as I can wrestle pen and paper back from little fingers and get them written.
It has come to my attention that one way we can mark our time on this Earth is by 18.2 years, a lunar cycle’s length. I understand nothing of what this indicates, but the math shows I have just rounded an astral curve and passed into my third go-round. Following the moon has ever felt right to me and it is satisfying to do simple arithmetic, so I bow down and await further insight.
Spring has been arriving as if yoked to a pendulum, swinging us this way and that away with high winds and all that brings. “Vata Deranged” is the term my yoga teacher used to describe how such prolonged airy and disruptive forces affect us. Resting in trust of mother nature is, perhaps, the real underlying tension of these days.
This week, though, we have been luxuriating under gray clouds and frequent rainfalls; the clouds with their heavy moisture are lingering still over the land. Last month’s generous planting of peas is beginning to push out of the soil and plants are opening up everywhere beckoning us all towards Summer.
There is an ancient and clear reverence for water infused in the culture here and it’s in my bones as well. Orchards, acequias and quiet fountains fill my heart space with humanity’s struggle to live wisely. I fling myself into shade cast by stately trees and imagine digging holes, establishing more trickling fountains where I can perch and be watered by them daily. Gladly, I will drive miles and miles to be near a stream and lie down for awhile.
Again, I breathe to slow down, I practice pausing before acting to lessen the weight brought about by mindless reacting, always hoping to solves problems before they arise. I am feeding my muse her requisite fresh air, beauty and laughter, best I can under these oftentimes absurd toddler rearing conditions. Dreaming of the next eighteen-plus years, wondering how my bones will be feeling under my skin by then and if this restless mind will be any more capably reigned in under my heart’s care.