Clumsy with sleep, wrangling the trash can into the car in the garage, thinking about how I’ve only got a few minutes to make my daughter lunch and get her to school on time, I pass by the same pile of rags in that I’ve been walking by for the last two years.
And the muse says, “Wash the rags.”
“Now? You’ve GOT to be kidding me,” I declare.
Silence.
I try bargaining. “Surely, there are more important things to do with my time than washing the rags.”
Silence again.
“Okaaaaay! What—EVER!” and I sound just like a petulant teenager.
I throw them in the washing machine. I dry them all fluffy and fresh smelling even though they’re stained and ugly. I fold them neatly and put them in a tall tower. It’s enormously satisfying.
Then the words start to dance in my head and my heart breaks open and the tears begin to flow. And I hear the voice that crippled English professor from college that I was so desperately in love with reciting William Butler Yeats, “..the foul rag and bone shop of the heart...”
“You want me to write a poem about my rags?” I ask the muse, incredulous. “Shut up.”
“As you wish,” she replies which frightens me.
“No, I apologize, I didn’t mean that. I just meant it’s a weird topic for a poem and the truth is I’m afraid it’s going to hurt and that it won’t be much good when it’s done.”
She’s silent again.
So I add, “I really DO NOT have the time for this today.”
But I know that’s a lie and she knows it too. So now I’m writing a poem about my rags.
But of course, it’s really about love.
Are you listening to your intuition, your muse? What has she asked of you lately? What happens when you honor the "still, small voice?" When you ignore it?
