For the last week, I've been writing blog posts in my head. I've been talking to you guys about so many things, most of them sad, because it seems that's mostly what the world is filled with lately. But then, before I could get time with my laptop, some other tragedy or horror was announced, and whatever imagined prior conversations I was having became moot as new thoughts and conversations pushed the old ones aside. I have such a jumble of thoughts to express right now. So I'm turning off the news in an attempt to force any new atrocity to wait. I'm putting in my earbuds. I'm closing my bedroom door and hoping that the Muse shows up-the one that helps me funnel my thoughts onto this trail of words that are being forged by this blinking cursor.
Muses are real. Did you know that? I can feel them. I think everyone can if they pay close enough attention when they are doing something that they feel passionate about. However, to be honest with you, I think it's the absence of a Muse that proves their existence to me more than anything else. A friend once told me that she could tell from reading my posts that "writing comes easily" to me. Easily, HA! When I can get into a "zone", when I feel the inspiration that allows me to express myself, when my "Muse"-if you will- shows up, then yes, it is easier, but it never feels easy. It feels like labor, but in the end, I usually have something to show for it. Sometimes I'm even proud of that thing. It makes it worth it. However, when the Muse doesn't show up, when I sit and stare at a screen, when minutes tick by with nothing accomplished, when structuring every sentence is torture- that feels more like a stillbirth.
I think creative geniuses have lots of Muses, and I think they are good at accessing them. They know what music, what mindset, what physical setting will call forth their creativity. They hone these skills over time, but it's my opinion that they're born with their minds and spirits wired for it. The door between the creative realm and reality swings easily for them.
Yesterday, with the news of Robin Williams' passing, it occurred to me that the door that allows one's Muse to pass through admits more than just creative inspiration. It also admits demons. I don't know why, but doesn't it seem that the price for the amount of beauty and creativity one puts into the world is paid it's weight in the amount of demons one has to battle? How many artists, how many actors, how many writers and poets can we name that are notorious for not just their talent, but for the demons they've battled? It makes me wonder if demons and muses are cousins. Maybe twins. (Twins makes sense. It goes with good and evil, yin and yang, the paradoxes that are entwined all over the mysteries and understandings of our world.)
I know this is a silly fantasy, but often when I hear about someone passing by their own hand, I wish that I had the power to time travel back and show myself to them like a Dicken's ghost. I wished this yesterday. I wished I could have shown Mr. Williams how loved he is. I wished that I could have shown him the world without him in it, so he could've seen how much he's being missed. I wished I could have made him understand that he wasn't really alone, that it was only the demons talking extra loud. But then I realize it may not have even mattered. Maybe knowing all that would not have been enough. Maybe he was just tired- tired of battling the demons everyday. Or, maybe he was just weary of living in this world. I understand that. I'm weary today too. There's a war in Israel, a Christian genocide happening in Iraq, people are beheading children and spiking their heads for the sake of their own God, and we sit in our living rooms and view it all on YouTube.
God help us all, and I mean that.
But then, also today, I read Anne's Lamott's Facebook post in which she reminded us that laughter is just carbonated holiness. I like to think about laughter that way. And I think about all the carbonated holiness that Mr. Williams brought into the world. I'm thankful for it, and I'm planning to drink it in whenever I watch his movies. I'm going to throw my head back and let all that beautiful holiness roll out of me in the form of laughter, and I'm going to think his name into the Universe, and I'm going to thank his Muse, and I'll be glad for him that his Demons can't torture him any more.
Rest in peace, O captain, my captain.
Muses are real. Did you know that? I can feel them. I think everyone can if they pay close enough attention when they are doing something that they feel passionate about. However, to be honest with you, I think it's the absence of a Muse that proves their existence to me more than anything else. A friend once told me that she could tell from reading my posts that "writing comes easily" to me. Easily, HA! When I can get into a "zone", when I feel the inspiration that allows me to express myself, when my "Muse"-if you will- shows up, then yes, it is easier, but it never feels easy. It feels like labor, but in the end, I usually have something to show for it. Sometimes I'm even proud of that thing. It makes it worth it. However, when the Muse doesn't show up, when I sit and stare at a screen, when minutes tick by with nothing accomplished, when structuring every sentence is torture- that feels more like a stillbirth.
I think creative geniuses have lots of Muses, and I think they are good at accessing them. They know what music, what mindset, what physical setting will call forth their creativity. They hone these skills over time, but it's my opinion that they're born with their minds and spirits wired for it. The door between the creative realm and reality swings easily for them.
Yesterday, with the news of Robin Williams' passing, it occurred to me that the door that allows one's Muse to pass through admits more than just creative inspiration. It also admits demons. I don't know why, but doesn't it seem that the price for the amount of beauty and creativity one puts into the world is paid it's weight in the amount of demons one has to battle? How many artists, how many actors, how many writers and poets can we name that are notorious for not just their talent, but for the demons they've battled? It makes me wonder if demons and muses are cousins. Maybe twins. (Twins makes sense. It goes with good and evil, yin and yang, the paradoxes that are entwined all over the mysteries and understandings of our world.)
I know this is a silly fantasy, but often when I hear about someone passing by their own hand, I wish that I had the power to time travel back and show myself to them like a Dicken's ghost. I wished this yesterday. I wished I could have shown Mr. Williams how loved he is. I wished that I could have shown him the world without him in it, so he could've seen how much he's being missed. I wished I could have made him understand that he wasn't really alone, that it was only the demons talking extra loud. But then I realize it may not have even mattered. Maybe knowing all that would not have been enough. Maybe he was just tired- tired of battling the demons everyday. Or, maybe he was just weary of living in this world. I understand that. I'm weary today too. There's a war in Israel, a Christian genocide happening in Iraq, people are beheading children and spiking their heads for the sake of their own God, and we sit in our living rooms and view it all on YouTube.
God help us all, and I mean that.
But then, also today, I read Anne's Lamott's Facebook post in which she reminded us that laughter is just carbonated holiness. I like to think about laughter that way. And I think about all the carbonated holiness that Mr. Williams brought into the world. I'm thankful for it, and I'm planning to drink it in whenever I watch his movies. I'm going to throw my head back and let all that beautiful holiness roll out of me in the form of laughter, and I'm going to think his name into the Universe, and I'm going to thank his Muse, and I'll be glad for him that his Demons can't torture him any more.
Rest in peace, O captain, my captain.
Beautiful
ReplyDelete~Paula