Trusting the Muse

I learned to trust the muse a long time ago. So long, in fact, that I can’t remember when it occurred. Music speaks to me in ways that I cannot speak for myself. When words are log-jammed and my brain can’t figure out how to articulate what my heart is feeling, a song is usually the thing that gets me unstuck. Often, when I need it, music can deliver truth in seed form, and hitting repeat is my ticket to linger in a moment that illuminates my darkness.

Those who know me well know that I express myself best on the page, where I can sculpt my thoughts into something useful. I often wonder why I don’t hear theme music at those critical junctures in life. Where is the soaring score that underlines the fact that you have just passed some life test, completed passage into some higher level of wisdom or maturity? When my father passed away suddenly, I found myself at one of those places where more is required of you than you know how to deliver.

In 2002, Kari, the third child of my six, became the first to get married. I only had a few minutes to speak with my father at the reception that day, busy as I was circulating amongst the family and friends who had gathered there. My father was leaving the next day to visit my sister Linda, out west in Idaho. I asked him about his health, and the fact that the doctors wanted to see him immediately. He said he felt fine, and would see them in the fall.

A week later I received a voice message from a park ranger in Yellowstone stating I should call the ranger station. When I did, the ranger informed me that they had found my father sitting against a tree staring at Bridge Bay. It was a coronary event. The sailor’s last look, staring at the water. This was on a Sunday. The next day I called and spoke for the last time with my cousin Kathleen, who was in the final hours of her battle with the cancerous wolves that had been on her trail for far too long. It was a hell of a week. I was to do a reading at Kathleen’s funeral on Friday, and my father’s eulogy the next day.

We packed up the van and drove from North Carolina to Maryland. I gathered with my brothers and sister and we did as families do in those moments. There were arrangements to be made, and my father's affairs to be put in order. So much happened that week that, come Saturday morning, I still had yet to write a eulogy. The house was full of everyone getting ready for the day, and I couldn’t find words to say, or a quiet place to form them. Feeling the tension mount and the time grow short, I slipped out of the house and into the car. I rolled up the windows, and sat in the air conditioned silence. Nothing. I was jammed up; too many thoughts and feelings descending on me at the same time. I decided to put on some music, something peaceful enough that I could have it in the background without it disturbing the rush of coherent thought I was praying for.

I turned to an old favorite, David Wilcox’s album How Did You Find Me Here. I didn’t have a plan, I was just searching for a slow song, quiet, gentle, comforting -- all the things I needed that morning. As I relaxed, the words began to break loose, to untangle themselves. In a matter of a few minutes I had a theme and began writing furiously. When it was finished, I sat back and closed my eyes. I had been hitting repeat on the title track for over half an hour, to stay in the mood of the song that had helped me break out. And it was then that I really heard the words coming through the ether.

Now inches from the water
About to disappear
I feel you behind me
But how did you find me here
I feel you behind me
Laughing in the water
To wash away these tears
I feel you behind me
But how did you find me here

And so a song I leaned on in a moment of desperation delivered my heart back to me in a way I could verbalize. I went on to try and give the best eulogy I could, and after, to rest in the solace that comes when family gathers around the table. The muse knew what I needed, and God, who is the best friend of the weak, used it to bring me through. I’m a believer.

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