A Rose for the Muses

I have never really wanted to admit it to myself, but I think it's finally about damn time.  Actually, maybe even too much, too little, too late.  Because there seems to always be someone (sometimes more than one) in my life who, whether they are consciously aware of it or not, seeks to curb my powerful, God given creative drive.

Yes, the muses of Greek "mythology" almost daily "look upon me with favor, for my talent and creativity."  But make no mistake, is it a dialog.  They give to me because I pay them heed.  I listen to their whispers on the gentle winds.  I spy their works of magic in the world around me, often when no one else can even be bothered to so much as stop amid their work a day hurry, to look at all the natural beauty and untold mystery around us all, each and every one.

And you can do it too.  They are waiting.  Somewhere, there is the neglected, gently blushing face of a tender rose, sprouting from a crack in a sun kissed alley or forgotten grotto, just waiting patiently for the fleeting celebrity of a photographic image, a drawing, or the ever so small, but undying devotion in the giddy imbibing of a child who stops, if only for a single fleeting moment, to supplicate, and drink in its humble glory.

Although envy can often be a powerful impetus for personal development, it can also be is a sickness.  So do not hate the skyward struggling rose that blooms.  Pluck it if you must.  But know that the terrible moment of your own reaping will also one day come.  And on that day, will you know the gentle fragrance of the fleeting rose?  Or cause vengeful crimson gore to pour from the fingers of the almighty hand that comes to silence your own personal growth?  Once and for all.

Seize the day.  Smell the flowers.  Before it's too late.