Three Muses

I share my days with three muses, capricious as cats, who sometimes focus my attention.

First, there is Samara, the youngest. Like any good muse, she responds to many names, depending on her mood. Mar-za-pan, Mar-zilla, Mara-licious. I think we'll call her mini-Mara.

She trills and bobs her head when I hold her gaze. She walks to me to see me after tumbling out of a bag of yarn. Or lies with all four feet in the air, belly exposed, prnt'ing and barely cracking an eye when I poke her. She is always happy to see me, though like a shy faerie, she hides herself from strangers. Some days she runs just to be alive.

Most mornings, she is the one who wakes me to share a vision she can't contain. The fire light of dawn, the molten copper of morning, faeries in the grass, fog like snow upon the lawn were all her gifts. She doesn't care that I have a headache, she needs to inspire. To her, the world is a fresh, new toy to play with and to share.

Then there's the elder statesman, Smoke, the dark prince, the demon, the sorcerer and enchanter. The oldest, if diminutive, lion of this pride, he roars for his dinner in the evening. He remains curious between long, contemplative naps, the friendly one, the one who casts a spell charming everyone he meets. Mournful for the many friends he's lost, he cries at the back door for their return, or calls that he will soon join them.

His is a domain of pure imagination. He weaves the spells of intrigue and mystery that sometimes infuse my brain. I think his visions are dreams from his mornings in the sun. Though slowing with age, he is perhaps my oldest, dearest friend.

Finally, there is the middle child, Pristina, the Tina-fish, the Tina-nator, Ms. Jealousy. She was much like Mara when she was younger, a self-contained brat-pack of one. Now, she has become more staid, though still a wildling. On cool mornings, she finds any scrap of sunshine to settle in. She curls up with an attitude, claiming her position as a territory, daring me to take it away.

With her I must be still and very quiet before she deigns to join me. Touching her is sometimes encouraged, sometimes off-limits. She has become solitary, yet ever-present. In the deepest parts of night, she stares at me until I awake, then her eyes consume my soul.

This morning, she jumped into my lap and granted me a gift I had never seen before. Achingly beautiful but impossible to describe, there are lone amber hairs set against the pewter fur on the back of her neck. They glow in the light slanting through the window, sharp and reflective, like fiber-optic strands phosphorescing in the morning sun. Individual hairs like spun bronze threads set against a gray velvet coat, like the imperfections in a tapestry that makes a perfect whole. It took nearly nine years for her to find the perfect light to reveal her secret to me, beauty well worth the wait.

Some days, these muses provide me a vision of inspiration. Some days, they are the only inspiration I have.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III