The Muse is Fire

We look for her. When she isn’t around, we wonder why she doesn’t visit. We long for her. Plan for her. Leave little offerings in the dark. But she does not come. We wonder if she has chosen another lover.

And then she does.

When the muse arrives, the energy changes. Things begin to cohere. I feel moved or called-upon. Ideas appear from the vacuum state and take shape in the world. My body shifts into readiness—supple, agile, alert. Breath alternates between excited bursts and slow, grounded knowing. Eyes widen in awe, then narrow in focus as she presents the task-at-hand. The next quest. The next offering.

She will not be summoned by force. That is not how she works. You can only make yourself ready. You sweep the temple, tend the altar, sharpen your blade. You show intent. You work on yourself while she is away—becoming a vessel, a worthy container. You make yourself available. You do the work—not in desperation—but in devotion. You do not pretend to be ambivalent—you simply stop grasping.

There are moments where she overtakes me entirely. Not because I am brilliant. But because I am open. Willing. Just at-the-ready.

She is an all-consuming fire. When she enters, I let her move my body as she will. I speak in tongues. I am overtaken. Is this God? Is God just another name for Muse? Maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s still spark. Still fire. Dangerous and powerful.

She demands surrender. She demands risk—your time, your resources, your safety, even your own good name. She demands your trust—not that it will be easy, but that it will be worth it, that you must. And she demands an open heart.

And then…she leaves. She must. It would be inappropriate for her to stay too long. She always knows when to go.

She leaves simple instructions: *Find yourself, and you will find your path.*