Some mornings, the Muse wakes you up before you’re ready. Sometimes it’s not the capital-M Muse, the one who brings poems and revelations, but a smaller muse. An impulse. A nudge. Or a spark.

I call those sparks musettes. They’re little sensory moments that might lead to writing, or might just make the day shimmer. Either way, they’re worth paying attention to.

This morning started early. Word Raccoon took an ibuprofen, put on The Office Ladies, and quietly turned off my alarm like I wouldn’t notice.

I woke up at 8:30. I knew it was payback. She didn’t get caffeine yesterday after breakfast. That wasn’t on purpose, I just forgot. By the time I remembered, it was too late to caffeinate further without ruining sleep. So we read until we drifted. 

Or, she refused to settle, watched shorts, half-listened to podcasts, and drained my phone battery to 30 percent.

On Dear Hank and John today, John Green confessed he once ate an SD card because he thought it was a chip. He was awake. That makes me feel slightly better about once putting an AirPod in my mouth in my sleep.

They said something about poetry on that same podcast, but I had to skip a lawnmower segment. Too gruesome for WR. I might check the transcript later.

Anyway. Muses.

I’m still reading Nine Gates by Jane Hirshfield. Still beautiful. Still a little cryptic. I rarely know exactly what I’ve gotten from a chapter, but I can feel something shifting. I’ve been told that’s the way to read it. Open mind, open heart, no expectations.

After yesterday’s reading, I had a poetry block scheduled. That’s rare for me. Poetry still feels like something you’re supposed to catch out of the corner of your eye, not summon. But I sat down to see what would happen.

And within minutes, a poem came. I’m calling it Poems Everywhere for now, though it hasn’t told me its real name yet.

Then a memory surfaced. Riding a bus in Chicago as a teen. It stepped forward like it had something to say. That one might be Novel Chicago, though I’m still listening.

So yes. Apparently, you can schedule time with your muse. Which delights and disappointments me. If that makes sense.  

I use “muse” in a few ways. There’s the Muse, the source. The one that you’re like, “Would you please slow down and let me get out my notebook?” when they’re talking, though they are just being them and that makes it even better and even more awe-inspiring. 

Then there are the little everyday muses, the urges to make something that come from who knows where. 

And then there are the musettes.

A musette is a tiny spark. The sentence that rings. The overheard phrase. The squirrel climbing the tree with a sunflower chunk. The taste that surprises you. The smell that pulls you backward through time. 

(Trust me, I wanted to take us into a full Jane Austen 250th birthday sidebar and the entire Proustian quote re: Madeleines, but I’m trying to practice narrative restraint. When it suits me.)

Musettes don’t always become poems. Sometimes they just make life feel textured and good, if you’ll pay attention. 

And you’ll know your Muse when you find them. They don’t even try. They just are.

Do you suppose Muses feel put upon? 

So that’s what I’ve been thinking about. The Muse. The muses. The musettes. Sometimes they sneak in through a cracked window. Sometimes they arrive in your slippers, holding tea on a chilly morning. 

They don’t always behave. But they’re always worth noticing.

There’s more I want to explore about the Muse and the smaller kin. Another morning. Another page. 

Okay. Time to read, write, and do the life things before Barry’s gig tonight. Family and friends are coming. I’ve seen the setlist. Fun oldies ahead!