Muse Clues Bread Crumbs

“Somebody said they saw me, swinging the world by the tail, bouncing over a white cloud, killing the blues.” Rowland Salley


I know, I know. It’s been way too long since I last blogged. When was it? March? Well….let me just say… since I persuaded the muse to visit, he hasn’t been back since. I’ve made it too hard for him to find me. I moved! I mean I packed it all up and by that I mean that my stuff is now sitting in three different storage units, one in Nashville and two in Oxford, Alabama.

You know, all of my furniture, and my domestic poetic views, packed in banana boxes and stacked up in three 10 X 10 storage units. My kitchen rooster collection, tea cups and teapots, antique stained glass windows, all of the cross stitch I did while I was pregnant and/or nursing (which, by the way, was a whole lot of fine art!) My children’s plaster of Paris hand imprints and huge Rubber Maid boxes of family pictures, baby blankets, Christmas ornaments and quilts. Bird feeders, wind chimes and ceramic garden art I got while in Mexico are packed in a large garbage can along with my shovel, hoe and pruning shears.

My one-of-a- kind antique Cinderella pumpkin carriage bed that makes me feel like a princess when I sleep beneath its crown… my shabby chic dresser and chest that are about 175 years old…my parent’s first couch – an Empire period settee from the 1840’s are all sitting beneath boxes of bath towels, dinner plates and Tupperware. All of the things that materially make me “Donna Byrd” are strewn miles and miles apart from each other. Oh, yeah…I forgot to mention my books, my best friends that actually kidnapped me and took me off to places I could only go in my dreams, are put away into twenty five boxes and are pouting in the back of a hot storage unit.

I miss me. It’s made me feel out of sorts. I’m not quite myself, but then again, who am I really? Especially when all my props are in storage somewhere?

I gave much of my furniture away to my children. I visit them and sit on my couches, but they put their own decorative pillows on them. I sleep on my favorite bed, under the best worn sheets in the world, but they put a new, chic comforter on it. It’s pretty, but not what I remember it to be like (kids, please don’t be mad that I’m saying this. It’s really beautiful and looks great with the antique rug you bought.) I look at my white piano, but it’s in the dining room, gorgeous against the blue wall. The antique English drawing table and chairs that my siblings and I got my parents for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary sit in the middle of the room and I’m glad it’s just “still in the family.” Much of my cross stitch adorns their walls. I was tired of it, but heck, it suits their house.

I visit my son John at his apartment too, and see my furniture, once again. His living room set. His bedroom set. All of my kitchen rugs, hall runners…. ALL OF ME!!!!!MY LIFE!!!!!

No wonder my muse can’t visit me. He can’t find me. I’m scattered like ashes across several states. Do people’s belongings truly make the person? Tell me it’s not so!

My belongings have been put away and I’ve been divided up, four ways! Bill and I spent time with our children in Nashville at their home. We “hung out” with the band and met all the cool people. We sat outside on their back patio, on the swings and lawn furniture we gave them, enjoying hibiscus and zinnias I planted last April and put in their safe keeping, while we escaped from the noise of band practice. We’ve been trendy, had great coffee at the Frothy Monkey and learned to eat organic foods at Burger Up and Chiptole, enjoying the company of the best kids on Earth.

We’ve also stayed weeks on end with my cousin Linda and her husband Richard (Bake.) They live on Topsail Island by the beach and they gave us the down stairs of their lovely home. We were able to walk on the nearly deserted beach any time we wanted and sit every night on their porch and watch the sunset over the intra coastal waterway. I swear there is a tree there at Stump Point that looks like it should be on the African savannah. At sunset, the sky would turn red behind the tree and I would start looking for elephants and giraffes. Then I would hear the sea gulls squawking and ocean waves making their beach “white noise” remembering where I was. When it turned dark (I mean really dark) we would go to the deck and lay on their patio lounges and let the stars come down within swatting distance. How long has it been since you’ve seen the Milky Way and watched meteor showers?

One night, Bill and Bake got to see a whole nest of sea turtles hatch on the beach. They were there on sea turtle duty making sure the babies made their way to the ocean. Bill got to hold a baby turtle in his hand. Oh, the life!!!

We also got to stay with lovely friends at their home in Oxford, Alabama. Our baby, Cody still lives in Oxford and we got to see him as much as his busy high school schedule would allow. We thought that would be everyday, but really? It wasn’t. He had his schedule too. But, we stayed in a lovely home and this time we got the basement! What a lovely place! Truly! We could spread out, watch TV until we fell asleep and use the top notch computers in their office. We felt so busy and alive with the technology. Bill even started writing a blog. Ideas were birthed! Dreams born. Quite a productive place. We also enjoyed a beautiful vista of Mt. Cheaha, watched sunsets over a picturesque barn and observed our friend’s horses in a beautiful, rolling, meadow from a distance. I’m a bit afraid of horses, but hay! (ha) I thought they were animal royalty. Even the rooster and hens were fascinating. What a gorgeous place and wonderful people.

Lastly, we stayed with my parents in my childhood home in Tarboro, North Carolina. Memories were at every turn. When I would look down my street, I would see my twelve year old self and my best friend, Janet, riding our bikes up and down the street, laughing at our girlish secrets. I would see the neighbors’ new houses, but really “see” the forts we built on their lots before a single foundation was layed. As children, we were warriors. We played “war” before we knew what war was.

Bill and I slept in my old bedroom. Kind of strange, as it always is….sleeping in your childhood home with your lover.

But…I have to say. It is also the place we were married. We had a garden wedding. I literally mean, a “garden” wedding. There was a beautiful garden that my grandfather maintained on my parent’s property. Corn, beans, tomatoes, okra, all bordered by beautiful flowers to draw honeybees. There were several dogwood trees beyond the garden and in the middle of two of them, Bill and I were married. I visit that exact spot every time I go “home.”

I walked out to the place where Bill and I took our vows. I stood between the dogwood trees and looked about me. To my direct left, there was stacked firewood for the winter. To my right was a grape vine with fruit almost sweet enough to pick. Dead ahead, there was an apple tree, loaded down with the weight of its fruit. To the left there was a fig tree, and yeah, plenty of fruit for the picking.

I took it all in. There was a lot of fruit and wood for warmth in the winter. But behind me, where we stood before the minister to take our vows, was my dad’s sailboat.

Now, I know that sounds odd. But there it was, in its sailboat “glory” tucked into itself, but yet a sailboat. Strong, wooden, a bit old fashioned, but beautifully crafted, right behind me. I laughed out loud.

I realized our life had been so fruitful. Everywhere I looked, there was fruit. There was the firewood there for cold and bitter times and best of all….there was a sail boat, always at the ready to sail us away to our next chapter. Our next adventure.

With all of this said, we hope to close on a house Friday in Nashville. It will be twenty five minutes away from most of our children and it’s lovely. If the deal falls through and we don’t get it, I’ll be relieved and if all goes according to plan…. I’ll be relieved. I know it sounds crazy for people to feel like this who are in our 50’s. But hey….dreams have been born and the sail boat is behind us, waiting to take us to our next destination. God has a plan that is always unfolding. I’ll keep you informed on what happens!

And Muse...wherever you are? I’m still waiting for you. I’ve given you clues like bread crumbs to lead you to me. All of my poetic views have not been stored away in a box somewhere. I have made new ones and collected them like friends over the summer. But if you get desperate in your search for me, just look up. I was spotted by someone, bouncing over a white cloud.

When the Muse needs a Muse

“Thus with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: ‘Fool!’ said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write.” Sir Philip Sidney, (English statesman, 1554-1586)

OK. So what happens when the muse needs a muse? Believe me. It is not amusing! My computer and I have come to an agreement: If I don’t give it any words, it will not write anything down for me. There is a standoff. I stand across the room from my computer and my computer stays turned off, silently accusing me of negligence and being a wannabe blog writer.

So, today, I confess to you, my reader, that I am drier than an instant potato flake, as shriveled and as hard as the orange I found this morning hiding in the back of the vegetable bin in my refrigerator, as uninteresting as last week’s TV Guide and as uninspiring as this rainy day in March…I have nothing to give, nothing to say. I need help….I need inspiration….I need my muse to rescue me from myself!

In desperation, I’ll lure him to my table, to sit and talk with me. I’ll set the atmosphere like I would a well-dressed dining table for tea, hoping he will see that I went to “all that trouble” and stay awhile.

First of all, I have to get dressed for our little tea party. I put on my good jeans, pull on my boots and splash a little color on my face. Because I can think more clearly when I can see, I put on my contact lenses. I don’t want to miss anything he might want to show me. I brush my hair and dab a bit of perfume behind my ears. I don’t want him to see me slumming around the house!

Satisfied that I won’t scare him off, I make my way to the living room and select the music that always seems to draw him like a moth to a candle. My muse loves Celtic music and it is St. Patrick’s Day. The luck of the Irish must be with me and I put on the Gaelic tunes. I can almost swear that I hear the wind chimes tinkling as he stirs the air by the kitchen window.

I get out my tea cups and remember a Leonard Cohen song that always inspires me. It’s called “Suzanne” and it’s about a young woman who was a muse for dozens of Beat-Poets during the early 60’s in Montreal. She lived in a little wooden cabin and had a poetic view of the river. Cohen would come and see her in the evenings and they would sit at her table. She would light a candle that she had named Anastasia, and then pour them each a cup of Constant Comment Tea. They would sit for a few minutes in silence, drinking their tea, and then they would begin to talk for hours. Cohen probably milked her for all the artistic inspiration she could give. He became the poet laureate of Canada.

“Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river

You can hear the boats go by;

You can spend the night beside her

And you know that she’s half crazy

But that’s why you want to be there

And she feeds you tea and oranges

That come all the way from China

And just when you mean to tell her

That you have no love to give her

Then she gets you on her wavelength

And she lets the river answer

That you’ve always been her lover.”

I smile to myself. I realize that Suzanne did set the atmosphere, and like her, I light a candle and take it to the dining room table. I must attract light with light to get my muse to bite. The law of attraction? I put my computer down on the dining room table, my cup of tea and oranges in hand. I sip slowly and look at my poetic view.

I am surrounded by some of my favorite things. My big wooden book cases, envied by some, flank one side of my room. My teapots and lovely cups are displayed in the oak secretary that sits directly in front of me. I look at my angels of bounty that smile at me from the buffet and my cross stitched “welcome” bell pull by the door that leads into the kitchen. I bask in the golden light of my candle and table lamps, waiting for my inspiration to arrive.

I sit at my table, with my eyes shut. Peace begins to seep into my mind as I pray for the light to cover me and shed it secrets like an ancient tomb that’s just been discovered. I feel my muse slip into the chair across from me, waiting for me to pour his cup of tea.

I pour it slowly, not wanting to startle him. I am so relieved that he came! It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. And we have so much to talk about. I stare at him openly, my eyes taking in the miracle of him, the brightness of him. And all of a sudden, I feel the ice begin to melt in my heart. He brings his own flame and adds it to the glow I have created for him. I just sit there warmed by his presence and the tea we share. The melting ice creates a flow and I realize I am finally connected to the river.

The current is ever so slight, but it flows out of my eyes, down my cheeks, into my heart. I am on his wavelength. He “lets the river answer that I’ve always been his lover.”

I don’t doubt my muse. It’s just that when I can’t see him, I feel uninspired and insecure. It’s been the longest and coldest winter of my adult life, physically and creatively. But I trust him. He always comes when I set the atmosphere. I just haven’t had the presence of mind to do so.

Later in “Suzanne,” Cohen writes:

“And you want to travel with her and you want to travel blind

And you know that you can trust her

For she’s touched your perfect body with her mind.”

Now I know that I am nowhere near perfect, but I am perfect in the fact that I was perfectly made to discover mysteries of the earth and understand them with a creative bent. As long as I keep setting the atmosphere by invoking the light, playing inspiring music, making tea and sitting at a blank computer screen at my beautifully set dining room table, my muse will come. And I trust him enough to close my eyes, take his hand and travel blindly by his side. I do love his mind!

The Muse Dances with the Stars

“When I started out, I didn’t have any desire to be an actress or learn how to act. I just wanted to be famous.” Katherine Hepburn

Hello MOMS (Mothers of Musicians.) Do any of you have children that were born with stars in their eyes? All of my children have either deep blue or light hazel eyes. But if you looked deep into them…really deep…you would see stars. Little stars that dance with teasing promises of fame and fortune. Stars that came from the gene pool of their dad, Bill.

Now don’t get me wrong. If you knew me in my younger days, you would have seen a star fleck or two in my eyes. I played the piano, knew a little guitar and loved acting. I had dreams of being on a stage in a distant city somewhere. But Bill’s family had a history of stars that broke through the dream realm and saw some true action. My stars were from recessive genes and Bill’s came from a dominant super gene pool.

Bill’s grandmother must have had irises that were shaped like stars. As a girl of sixteen, she ran away from the safety of her parent’s home in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, to be a singer and dancer on Broadway. She actually did it. She lived the dream only to die before she was twenty years old. His grandfather, her husband, outlived her and lived out his own dream. He was a soloist for a syndicated radio show that ran from coast to coast. Even after he lost his singing voice to laryngitis his musical career didn’t end. He was a song writer, big band musical score arranger and piano bar player in New York. He made a living from his talent until the day he died. Believe me, MOMS, the genes (or stars,) play an important role in the future generations. Have you looked deeply into your child’s eyes lately?

I can’t remember the exact time that my children told me that they were going to be famous. They never really said, “I want to be famous.” It was always that positive, matter of fact statement: “Mom, I’m GOING to be famous one day.” What does a mother say to that?

In order not to crush their fragile egos or deflate their spirits, I would always tip toe around the issue. “You are going to be famous? Well, of course you are famous to your Momma. You will ALWAYS be famous to me.” And with that, I would give them a hug to seal my agreement with their statement and show them that I loved them regardless of whether they became famous or not. I thought that maybe they needed to feel significant.

A year or so went by. I was a witness to hundreds of “shows” put on by the Byrd children, cousins and a few neighborhood rug rats. The kids would beg us to let them stay up a little bit longer so that we could witness the best show they had ever done. Much of it was silly, childhood nonsense, played out on a living room floor and couch. But to them, it was the real thing. They were in their own school of the arts, imitating their parents and the things they saw and heard on TV and the radio. At the end of each production, they would always say, “I told you Mom. We’re going to be famous one day.” I started wondering if they knew something that I did not.

At the time, we lived in Orlando, Florida, forty-five minutes from the Space Coast. Sometimes at sundown, when the sky would go dark, we would all go out in the back yard and lay down on the big trampoline. There, we would gaze up into the heavens and look at the constellations. It was like our dream bed. I would wear my mom’s costume, shorts and a tee shirt. They would wear their super hero pajamas and capes, ballerina tutus and tiaras. On that bed, all dreams were possible.

On special occasions, we could watch the shuttle launches from Cape Canaveral. Even though they were almost an hour away, we could see them from our back yard. They were like miracles, fiery fingers of man sent to touch the hem of God’s heaven. Witnessing these events inspired all of us. If astronauts could ascend into heaven, surely we could attain anything we hoped for. It was like dream fuel and the stars of the sky reflected on the dark pools of my children’s eyes

I’ll never forget the day that Natalie and Stacey were eating a snack in the kitchen. Both of them had on their “dream” costumes, tights and tutus. They were eating strawberry ice cream and it was dripping down their chins onto the sparkly studded stars that spread across their little chests like tiny constellations. “Mom, look at me in the eye,” Natalie said, her command interrupting my mommy business. I went to the table, sat down, grabbed her hand and looked straight into her eyes. Her eyes were dark blue, like an early summer’s evening, when the light hasn’t quite left the Western horizon and there in the corner, I saw a bright evening star, rising to challenge me. “Mom, you don’t believe us do you?” “Believe what?” I innocently asked. “That we are going to be famous!” she sang back to me.

I looked at her and Stacey, and realized that maybe they were privy to something I didn’t know. Maybe they did know something about their future that God hadn’t let me in on. They were talking about THEIR life. Who was I to disagree with them or tell them that I saw them in other occupations that were normal and more, “down to earth.” Maybe they WERE supposed to be famous one day. I didn’t know. Yet, they talked with such conviction that I decided to agree with them, not just to their faces, to make them happy, but in my heart. I thought that if I came into agreement with their destiny as they saw it, then maybe their dreams could become true. “I have decided that I do believe you. You are all going to become famous.”

That is when I became an enabler of dreams. When I came into agreement with their dreams, the muse in me was loosed. John got piano lessons, Natalie, acting lessons, Stacey and Isaaca, dance lessons, Jeremy a set of drums and Cody, the baby, just got to play a little bit longer.

I was truly “dancing with the stars.” Look into your children’s eyes and see what is shining back at you. If you see twinkles winking up at you, don’t ignore them. You just may need to invest in a trampoline and do some star gazing.

My children are much older now and are still in pursuit of their musical career dream. No, they are not yet famous, but still believe that they are going to “make it” in a world where very few do. Maturity brings a more balanced viewpoint. Jeremy told me not long ago that, like Ray Charles, “I never wanted to be famous. I only wanted to be great.” I realize that you don’t have to be famous to be great. Greatness comes from within.

Until next time…Teach your children and Fly them to the Moon!