Autumn for me is the season of the muse… she arrives in the rustle of dry leaves underfoot and the soft earthy scents of moss and mud.
I decided to begin the first chapter of A Wild Spirit (now that the the layout and ideas are more firmly strung together (rather than rattling around like wooden beads on a thread), with the season of autumn as she wanders through my psyche, trailing long sleeves of frost and dew, through the icy portal towards winter.
She’s such a delicate entity, made of pure reason and yet prone to throw off the season’s delicately coloured skeins and stride along in white and silver, moon-struck lace, just to catch one unawares… sprinting ahead with random ideas, thoughts and dreams of a final completion to another year and the beginning of another book… my tenth.
Yet, in this season of withdrawal, when leaves fall, let loose by the retreat of sap and energy, we too may go within and seek out the next phase of our being. Just as I attempt to do same… there she is, entering my dreams with odd sounds and symbols. Clattering around like a cook in a kitchen who can’t find the right implements to create a feast, all in my sleeping psyche.
At first she leaves only remnants for story, prose, art or poetry but then in she comes with the rubber mallet, leaving larger deposits of data for my battered brain to work through and it’s precisely at this moment it’s time to retreat to the studio… no matter the given hour, to write or paint until she leaves me to my slumbers…
As this inner dialogue progresses, amounts of information are downloaded in huge juicy bites (sometimes, sound-bites) then it’s left to me to conjure it into some sort of order, understandable for mortal ingestion.
When spirit speaks
in muffled tones
and autumn drifts
into wintry zones
you can feel the calling
in your very bones
…speaking the rhythm of nature
When mind clouds gather
and winter winds roar
the muse enters
through a forgotten door
taking your mind to leap and soar
…singing the rhythm of nature
When the mind is free
to wandering
allowing the time
for pondering
a landscape appears
beyond all mortal fears
…whispering the rhythm of nature
…and so the journey of creation begins as I dive into wintry solitude with my whispering muse.
Walk softly… listen to the season’s muse… Awen /|\
All photography, art and words copyright Penny Reilly, all rights reserved
Penny Reilly Artist Beyond the Gate 
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