The Music

I wait in silence,

   the invitation ever present

   for her to slip into my awareness;

   to whisper into my ear

   the thoughts,

   the words, I know are hiding,

   somewhere, 

   ready to emerge from the fog,

   needing only a little push to

   begin the burst of music,

   the song my heart is longing

   to sing.    

Her name is 

   Saraswati.

   My muse.   

   She is the music that

   plays softly around me,

   enveloping me in some other

   consciousness;  she is the music I

   hear inside my heart.

She is of the air, as is

   my Libran self.

   We of the air have, they say,

   the ability to reason,

   to communicate.

   My ethereal Saraswati,

   goddess of learning

   and wisdom.

   Goddess of the arts.

"Come,", she says.  "Give me your

      hand.  Let me show you the strength of

      your music.  Let me be the source;

      your bolster and your guide."

I acquiesce, knowing her

   devotion to me is

   without agenda, 

   without motive 

   other than 

   introducing me to

   my music; my voice.

   

I talk to her 

   softly, 

   silently, 

   not willing to disturb the melody that

   swirls in an eddy around me,

   moving from 

   heart 

   to mind 

   to fingertips.  

Is it her story I'm telling?

   She says not.  I say that

   perhaps it's ours to share.

   She considers.  

   She likes that.

   We are a team, 

   a wondrous team,

   holding hands while we dance to

   the music -- to our music.

The music is 

   our connective tissue.

The music is 

   our joy of discovery.

 The music is 

   our love.