After I posted the last message about the Muse, I felt a tiny buzz in my head. It flitted around like a pesky mosquito, nibbling at the membrane of conscious thought. I gave up and went out to the sun porch where I sat gazing at the misty woods, vibrantly green after the recent rain. I let my mind run free, and it turned to the Muse. On impulse I spoke to her.
“Dear Muse, you are so helpful to me. I thank you and wonder, what is your name? Muses are supposed to have names.”
“I’m so thrilled that you care!” she trilled. “I thought you’d never ask. My name is Sarabelle.”
I couldn’t hide my chuckle. “Sarabelle. That’s a nice name. It reminds me of Clarabelle Cow, Minnie Mouse’s friend.”
“That’s one reason I don’t tell people my name very often. But she was a sweet cow. I knew her well. Now keep thinking. What else does my name remind you of?”
“Hmm. Let me think. Sarabelle, Sarabelle… Ah! Yes! Cerebral!”
“Not bad! You catch on fast. Tell me more.”
“You live in my head, like part of my brain. You keep me focused. You light up ideas. You…”
“Bingo! I do all that and more.” We had quite a conversation, Sarabelle and I. She told me that although her name implies a thoughtful mode, she’s really quite playful. “I would have chosen Sarabella if it had been up to me,” she chirped. “That sounds more playful, and that’s what muses are about. Being playful. But when Mother Nature let me know that cerebral includes the whole brain, and not just the motor activity part, I understood. I do work with the whole brain, not just one part.”
She reaffirmed the importance of working with her, respecting her powers, making use of her gifts, and being diligent to keep her exercised. “I get fat and lazy if people don’t keep me busy,” she whispered.
“I’m so glad we had this talk,” she said. “Tell the others about my name. Let them know what I’ve told you, and assure them that I’ll be there for them, whenever they are ready. Anytime y’all (she has a light southern accent) need help, whisper my name. It doesn’t need to be loud enough for anyone else to hear. I’m there, twenty-four-seven. Ask and the answer is yours.”
With that, she faded out in a flurry of tinkling chimes, sounding for all the world like Tinkerbelle. Perhaps they are cousins. I’ll have to ask.
Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal