I am open to remembering a time when I was excited about something I created and someone else
crushed my enthusiasm. What is flooding my memories are more examples of my muse/creativity in my
life. I am remembering pieces of art produced in high school art class which received praise from the
teacher. I do not recall family or parental encouragement or discouragement. High school was when I
first created art without the expectation of following a preconceived pattern or result that would look
like the example. I am remembering a color block piece that I created that was blue and orange. I had
used colors that were the same "hue" so the result was the appearance of movement between the
sections. I recall that I gave this art piece as a gift to a teacher and she was very happy and appreciative.

​What comes to mind... at the times of my life that I was creating art, poetry, pottery and jewelry I was
not seeking validation outside of myself, my Self. Creating was enough, my own appreciation was
enough. I can bring to mind the details of pieces I created, so clearly. When I do, such a sweet smile
appears on my face, my body softens, my mind is calm. I feel you, dear muse. I need you. I value you.
There will be space and time for you now and always. Welcome home.

The gift of a bowl from my time as a potter. From the time of my second year in college when I took
pottery and jewelry making class. I was surprised that I went so quickly there in the mediation. I could
smell the clay and the slip. I could feel the blue jumpsuit I bought from a gas station so I did not have to
change my clothes. I could hear the rock and roll music playing in the studio and I could feel the
warmth of the sun through the wall of windows. I recalled the feeling of the clay beneath my fingers
and palm as I used strength to center the mound of clay. Oh, the feelings of entering that room...
uplifted, joyous, accepted, belonging, at home and at rest.
​
My sweet muse is a white bird, though often seen as a shadow in front of the sun... so also black. She
has always been here, always. She has been present in the poetry of my younger self, in the short story
I wrote in high school, the pottery and jewelry in college. I have held her back, at bay for many years.
She has shown me today that perfection is not the goal, only participation. It is in the doing that she
comes to life in me. Whatever is produced is wanted and beautiful. (As in many insights these days, the
value of my creativity does not come from others.) I am enough, I am much more than enough.