The Muse may speak in Flowers 🌺

Dear Ones, This Sunday - paint flowers with me and the Muses. A daylong paint and sip in Sonoma and virtually. No experience needed - really. Just come. You will have so much fun - there is still time to get cake and rose’ or sparkle water and brushes and a canvas a big as you choose. ~ Shiloh Sophia The Muse May Speak in FlowersMy muse usually shows up in leather, lace, and feathers with rhinestone sunglasses, glinting in cowgirl boots with gold wings. This is how I've come to know her since she made her company available to me. The first time she spoke to me, her language was red-winged blackbird, and pomegranate seeds the color of moon blood on white sheet red. She didn't come with platitudes. She came with instructions and keys. Oh, so many keys to so many doors I know nothing about. And she only occasionally allows me to try one to fit in the lock. She doesn't let me try if I am good. She only offers them if I am willing to be bad. Not bad as in bad versus good, but bad as in badass. Because my Muse is a badass. Yours is too, most likely. She won't offer us her gifts if we stay safe. She always wants a bigger canvas. She always wants a bigger brush. She always wants too much water. Because she told me sometimes size does matter and it would be much better if I painted naked and barefoot. She walks me to my edge and then tips me over Into that muse place where all the colors bend and come alive in me. The place where I remember who I was before all of this heart-breaking open stuff of life. Today, she showed up differently. I haven't seen her quite like this before.She tempted me with an old lure, lightning for breakfast. But then she added soft, full-hipped orgasms in the sunny afternoon, the ones that start at the top of your head and shimmy down to the tips of your red toes. Today, she brought me pain à chocolat. A chocolate croissant from Paris where she dreams me alive. You see, I was there for weeks and now every dream I have is taking place in the streets of Paris where we're all having Tea with the Muse. You see, I haven't been feeling so well. You see, this life has been too busy for me. But it's not her who abandons me. It's me. Who abandons me. Then I can't hear her voice so clearly. The tones, they are muffled. The colors, they are muted. And the riddle is that I cannot hear her if I abandon myself. I cannot hear her speaking in sunflowers speak. For a minute, just a minute, I resisted. I protested. Haven't you seen what is happening in the world?Isn't having Tea with the Muse a frivolity? She rolled her giant eyes, of course, and as she did, I swear dragonflies flew all around her, their wings glistening. Where had they been hiding? Then I started to court her. I courted her when the stars still shone on the waters. I sat in the deep well waiting and looking until the sun shone on my freckled shoulders. When I saw her, of course, I was dazzled. She flirted with black-eyed Susans on her nipples, a star jasmine crown of white, oh, the scent of her, coral-colored roses blooming around her hips, a peony at her vulva, pink with magenta strokes. In her hand, she carried ripe peaches from the tree just right there, and the first pears of the season. There was a long train of geraniums trailing behind her of every color. Hummingbirds hovered around her head and the bees, I could hear them singing as she approached and pulled me from the water and that was whenthe ravens began to sing and cluck. She took my hand and in my hands the seeds of foreign flowers flowed, perhaps flowers from France. She told me that flowers are the language of poetry and that I better get used to hydrangeas that speak in periwinkleand gladiolas that hum in yellow and rhododendrons that talk too much. She warned me: Get your ass to the canvas or else, biatch. I know she threatens when I'm in danger of losing some deeper sense of self. It's just been slipping between the cracks. Or I have been slipping through them.So here I sit, having this Tea with the Muse, feeling the fog depart and the numbing soften. Her hands are on my hands now, clicking and clacking as I attempt to tell you about a visitation from La Muse and I invite you to call upon your own. Hint: She may speak in flowers