Dedication to my Inner Muse Beloved

Midlife carries many epic callings. At this juncture, for me, the cry within to release the burden of the dominant, wounded masculine has reached its crescendo. My soul is using the age-old manifestation of bodily symptoms to declare its story. You see, I’ve had this persistent cough for weeks, now. It came on as the result of a cold, but its voicebox yearns to echo out a deeper message . Something within is begging to be coughed up — to be projectile vomited outward into a wild, open pit in the Earth. It yearns for a transformation that only the great composter, Mother Earth can bring.

At its peak, my coughing fits are accompanied by an intense lower back pain that vibrates a diffuse tightness all the way into my lower abdomen. These moments are all-encompassing. It feels as if my soul is gripping my body at its roots as a way to summon a new era of connection and creativity. The fulcrum point can no longer be sourced by a voice that excludes the radical spontaneity of the Inner Muse Beloved!

My Inner Muse Beloved arrives in many forms. She first courted me in the middle of the night as the soft voice of a mature lover speaking over my right shoulder. She only said “Hi” but the way she said it buckled me at my knees. I’ve also felt her arrival in the form of a young girl with bouncing blonde curls beckoning me for play time. When I chose to join her, we skipped through the house singing songs and jumping on furniture. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so free as I did in that moment.

Also, my Inner Muse Beloved sometimes comes along as a scared little boy longing for love. He wants to be held, with soft fingers of one hand running through his hair while the other hand cradles the bottom of his skull. He wants to be made into a radiant love figure. He wants to know, that despite being in male form, that his natural femininity will be celebrated in her fullest majesty!

So, this first blogpost, is written to invoke and honor my Inner Muse Beloved. This is my moment to relinquish (yet again) the shaming voice of the wounded masculine that put her in prison, disallowing her voice to proclaim its truth to the world. May the pain in my low back and abdomen be the portal for transformation. May the wound be the womb that carries the chrysalis into butterfly freedom.