My Muse is Mute.

In months gone past, my Muse was vocal.  She did not whisper so much as speak.  Her words were soft, but easy to hear when I let myself sit quiet.

In days gone past, her voice has stopped. I hear only echoes.  Instead she slides into my soul and directs me in silence.  Her pull has lead me to knit, to bake, and even to sew.  Perhaps I’ll wake up tomorrow and feel her pulling me towards my beads.  She is fickle, is my Muse, and sad does this make me.

Where months ago, I saw the rhythms and patterns form into words, I see them now in strings.

 Forgive my silence.  It echoes here, I know.  My Muse pulls my attention away to other things and I cannot help but to express her voice.  Sometimes it appears in script; at other times it finds its way into the click and slide of a needle or a brush.  Sometimes the pencil moves to form not words but pictures.  Sometimes the paint forms a scene rather than it’s description.

She has a short attention span, and still I soldier on.  I try to find the ways to satisfy her song.  From paint, to sketch, to dance, to beads, to knots and wireworking…she seems to like to make of me a jack of many trades but not destined to be a master.