Inspiration tends to lurk in the most surprising of places. Perhaps the nature of the word means that those places aren’t surprising at all. Sorry, I’m enjoying a rare moment of peace, drinking a glass of wine and indulging in a rather decadent mug of mango sorbet and such things make me feel a tad more philosophical than if I were covered in the pesto my daughter was unsure about at dinner this evening. I’ve been thinking a lot about inspiration during our family vacation this past week.
Writers and musicians and artists of all kinds throughout the centuries have spoken about their inspirations- their muses. For most, the term muse insinuates a buxom redhead, unavailable by attachment or class or death or something equally as tragic and romantic. I wonder, however, if that’s just the easy way out. That the great artists, (aside from Rosetti and Morris, whose tragic love triangle was actual truth fleshed out in page and canvas-Jane wasn’t even all that great looking, if you ask me), were just terrified to admit that their muse was the way their coffee grounds clung to the sides of their favorite mug in the morning. Or the cliched sunset at the end of a long day. Or even something as trite as a smile from a stranger. A conversation with a diner waitress. A wet kiss from a toddler. Something humble and seemingly, ordinary, are often the brightest of muses.
It resounded in my ears this week as we hiked the green mountains, picked my favorite black-eyed Susans in the wild and ate the wild blueberries that sprout up in between the rocks, that all of this beauty was inspired, for ordinary, average, ME. For me to to be awed by, to be struck with, and bowled over by God’s goodness, his intricate care, his delight in our joy. This creation was made beautiful for us.We were the muse for the colors, the textures, the flavors. There is no other reason why a sunset is as striking, why the water’s edge is as blue or green or gold depending upon where you stand. This was inspired, by us. God’s children. That puts a different meaning to the word, doesn’t it?