Morning Muses

Soothed by the Morning Muses

Soothed by the Morning Muses

That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour htan he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way. . . . The Vedas say, ‘All intelligences awke with the morning.’ Poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour.

Sigh.  My last creative morning of this all-too-brief vacation.  Tomorrow morning I will report to work at 7:30.  I love my profession, but love much more the luxury of arising at daybreak and having the leisure to enter the studio to pursue art, music, literature, philosophy–whatever muse is stirring on that particular morning.  By the time I get home from school, I am already partly used up, the day is already dimming, and I am fortunate to recover any kind of splendor such as I’ve known these past few mornings.  But–such is the lot of all people, except those who are independently wealthy or retired with sufficient income to pursue daily bliss.  And sadly, some of that class do not experience this kind of splendor anyway.  So, the bottom line is, I am fortunate to know how these things feel.

This morning I let Copland fill the chambers of my heart and home as I prepared and ate breakfast.  As I put away the last of the dishes, I sensed my guitar whispering its invitation to me from the back end of the house, so I responded.  Now that I have had a good morning with music (better from Copland, of course), I turn my attention to studying Logic for my fall course.  I’m pleased to be near the end of that preparation.  And then tomorrow, summer school English with the British Romantics . . . 

Thanks for reading.

I paint in order to remember.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself that I am not alone.


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