Muse Hymn Box
Australian, Sydney-sider, Jan Kricker, has been writing, working with the muse for a number of years. She has travelled to Delphi and drunk from the waters of Castalia. She shares her vision of this glorious, shadowy creature.
My Muse? The filmy moments when she might have appeared seemed belong to my childhood. A recurring dream floating high in the sky, bouncing up to touch the telegraph poles, the trees, and knock at the door of an adventure land where marvellous possibilities awaited, within the certainty of a secure outcome. Yes! Enid Blyton was my muse then but she faded with the coming of adolescence : the shock of reality and the acknowledgment that the world was not populated with gossamer and stardust no matter how hard I squeezed my eyes shut and sought a continuation of the dream. The bad faeries at my christening awakened in me instead their legacy ...an acknowledgment that Pandora's box indeed held a parallel universe with the possibilities of hurt and cynicism, of alienation and for many, disorientation. They revealed the possibility, as the Siddhara had already discovered, of suffering, and if not suffering, the fear of it.
Of couse this was not articulated, just a faint but increasing awareness that indeed my muse laughed at, not in derision, but with a sympathetic knowledge of the ways of men and the sure understanding of the journey ahead and its outcomes. Knowing she would walk beside me and with me comforted me. She gently prodded me to seek the paths of knowing, of understanding, of rationalising and now at last I realise, of accepting. She knew where to start, she knew where to lead me.
She started where all dreaming starts, where life starts. I lifted my pen at her prompting, and from it flowed an acknowledgment that I couldn't run with the faeries any more, but that my prose could conjour up the beauty of mountain ranges at dusk, sun rising across misty lakes and meandering, always meandering, streams. She had led me to places all the gods came from, where all babies come from trailing their 'clouds of glory' with a knowing look in their eyes.
So under her inspiration I wrote of these peaceful tranquil places and I searched to find them. And when I did I immersed myself in them. And invariably integral to this life-giving force was.. water. More important than the sun which shone through it, more important than the rocks it plunged over. Here indeed I found the angels playing. When I look back over the years I can see where my muse has led me and sat idly watching as I touched the dreaming of many peoples, and their dreaming touched me. She led me to the Castilian Waters at Delphi and shared their secret springs with me, the playground of the old Greek gods. As the valley stretched before me the ancient firs shivered in sympathy and I drank in their wisdom. She led me to the tumbling streams of Gippsland, and the old Dream-time fish watched as I bathed in their deep pools and absorbed their strength. She took me to the flood-swollen gorges where the spirits of old Maoris shouted encouragement and courage and she swam with me in the champagne bubbles of a rolling surf, laughing with an infectious joy before she disappeared and I was alone again.
But she had bequeathed me a legacy of joy and courage and as I sat in the cooling stream high in the mountains near an old Buddhist temple I knew that if I followed the path she had set me on, I would find wisdom too.
Heather Blakey asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work