My Muse

I'm one of those quirky creative types. And if you're reading my blog, chances are good that you know this truth about me. Often when I'm writing, I think of the old idea of "the muse," that creative spark or special catalyst that sometimes sets sail in my soul. As I mentioned in my last posting, I've been thinking alot about "home" lately. And as I've thought about my years in that little town, I can't help thinking about an incredible lady who shined her bright light in my life. Here's a piece I wrote several months ago while thinking of her...

As I meet children through my work, through church, or in my community, I hope for their sake that somewhere in their little lives they might find a living, breathing guardian angel like mine. If only they could be so lucky to find a muse--a safe place wherein lives the keeper of the magic of childhood. My dear, sweet, beautiful friend died many years ago, but her music, her laughter, and her magic lives with me still.

Our time together was full of beautiful moments, moments in which the music of life and the peace of divine love seemed to emanate from her rambling house on that quiet, shady street in south Alabama. Moments of music, moments of beauty, moments of teaching, moments of laughter, and moments of simply "being" were hallmarks of our time together and were so formative in my young life. These are moments of eternity for me, times when I realize that she is ever a part of my life.

Each time I sit at a piano and lose myself in a Chopin prelude, compose a simple melody, or even belt out a passionate torch song while driving my car in city traffic, I smile and thank God for the music that my angel friend gave to me. I tasted the early thrill of performance on a makeshift carpeted stage during our no-pressure, high-energy annual recitals. We played and sang, danced and laughed, living out the music of childhood without pretense and without shame.

Somehow I find myself returning to this bliss in which unabashed creativity is my friend once again. Through the music that she offered to me, I can release angst and tension, express my innermost yearnings, and even worship my Creator. I remember many times when I grew convinced of her magic as she intuited the condition of my inner world just from the way in which I played her shiny, black grand piano. There surely were many days when I remember piano lessons and practice sessions ending with her quiet reassurances..."Matthew, why don't we hear this next week. Instead, let's go and get a Coke. Tell me about your week..."

As Lou Gehrig's disease began to slowly rob her body of the freedom to move, swallow, blink, and breathe, I wrote a song for her. I composed the song while under her tutelage, but the task of actually transcribing the notes and measures seemed too daunting at the time. As her illness progressed, however, I found my muse once again. I painstakingly wrote my song, "Saranne's Song," on manuscript paper and played it for her during a visit, as tears of grief and thankfulness coursed down my face.

I am reminded of another song, a song that my dad wrote in her honor and sang (and wept) at her funeral. "I sing with the angels when I praise His name / I sing with the saints in heaven / And they know / I must give back the music / That He has given to me / I cannot silence the sounds of praise that are ringing in my heart."

My dear friend gave back the music even as her own song--and her own life--was stilled. The magical songs of acceptance, creativity, faith, and joy that she sang over me, over generations of students, over her church, and over my family continually reverberate, and the music is effortless and sweet. Oh, that I might continue this song...