Meditation and the Muse

buddha crystal

Recently a friend sent me a photo of a crystal skull. It was beautiful beyond words and inspired me to use it in meditation. Here’s how I do it:

 I imagine my skull is crystal and my spine as well. As I bring light into my body through the top of my head, it hits the crystal skull, travels down my crystal spine and stops at its base. The light then radiates through my being, moving without effort into the world. This puts me in a clear, reception place for writing, the events of the day, speaking what I want to attract and elevating my consciousness. 

Give it a try; I think you’ll be pleased. 

The Muse lives just out of sight. I write for her, not knowing which ‘her’ I mean. The Greeks say there are nine sisters, all daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, who exist to see beauty created in the world. If I sit down day after day and do my work a mysterious process is set in motion which enlists their help and reinforces purpose.

 Another reality does exist, just out of view, where genius sleeps and treasures wait to be downloaded by dedication and effort. The work we do each day makes our presence known in that unseen place. It allows the muse to become acquainted with our spirit and ultimately to relinquish her gifts. Ask any artist or healer. The real ones, the good ones are humble, because they understand that the information comes through them, and is not born of them. So, don’t be afraid to start your day or any creative project with a request. Fire up your crystal skull, radiate light and make yourself found.

A Moment

tired-dogI’m working too much. I don’t stop because I love what I’m doing. I love being flooded with ideas, words and images. I love fashioning them like a seamstress to fit the page. I finish a piece of writing but there is no rest, my mind goes to the next and the next with excitement and wonder. I am a slave to the muse. I have kissed her face and eaten her ambrosia. I would follow her anywhere.

I stopped sleeping months ago. Midnight to three is typical, midnight to five is better. Today I slept from midnight to seven, which rarely happens. I envy the young who sleep for hours, needing to be called into the day. If I stay up past midnight my body decides it’s a new day and gives me a fresh burst of energy, then I’m really in trouble. 

Gib is working long hours as well. He plays tennis at eight, runs the pallet company until three, then leaves to coach at the high school. He comes home after dark with more work to do and too much on his mind. 

We live like spinning tops swirling in and out of the same circle, but sometimes as he lies on the couch looking into his laptop, and I make my way toward my own pile of work, I’ll pause near the edge of the sofa. His silver hair spreads out just enough to grab my attention; I remember, stop and touch.

I’ll run my fingers against his scalp, gently pull on his long hair and move my hands along his brow. That’s all it takes. His body moves to meet me, his eyes close and his expression changes from one of worry to a deep and welcome letting go. It’s only a moment, but it saves us. We remember and rekindle who we are together.

The moment is broken when I ask his advice, or shake my head in wonder as I glance into the kitchen.

You’re constitutionally incapable of closing a cupboard door, aren’t you?

He smiles, looking at the evidence of his absent-minded path. I never seem to learn, do I? 

My oldest sister, Mary Ann, once told me that men are like loyal dogs. I thought that was demeaning and offensive at the time, but the longer Gib and I are together, the more I take her point. A good scratch behind the ears and all is back on track.