Muses, part II

Across the street lives a little girl - that's her, holding a finicky, pouty Cleo last week - who's at the age where she really enjoys greeting people. I might be working in the garden, or reading on the sun porch, or walking about the yard wondering why the Pirates traded their entire starting lineup for minor leaguers: regardless of where I am, and how many trees, walls, or meters stand between us, her voice will somehow reach me from her yard: "Hi, Kerr!"

The other day, the effect was touchingly silly. L and I were setting out on a drive, and we passed by our neighbor's back yard, with our windows down. From the other side of a solid, six-foot-tall wooden fence we could hear the call as we drove by: "Hi, Kerr!"

I've had that image in mind as I've thought about how muses and Cleos communicate. The first thing you realize, perhaps, is that it's on their terms. You might be thinking about something else entirely, or you might be (like Coleridge) enjoying a good opium-induced sleep, or you might be fiddling with the radio in your car - and then, bang, a signal comes to you, unexpected and often unsolicited.

Of course you can try to solicit the signal, or to invoke the muse, as dozens of poets have done. And you can certainly try to get Cleo to tell you what exactly she wants. But such attempts are feeble, and they're rarely rewarded. Babies communicate in their own way, at their own pace. Muses descend upon the bard's shoulder when they're good and ready.

The point? I guess it's simply this: try to be ready when the voices do arrive. Have your pen at the ready; have your car window down. The little girl across the street is only a little girl for so long: enjoy her pure joy and inclusiveness while it's so fully in the open.