BeMused

It was the perfect afternoon for relaxing at a biergarten.  The sun was shining, a slight breeze blowing - so the husband and I took the kids out to our favorite.  Across the outdoor seating is a park for the kids to play in, and knowing their inability to sit for long periods of time, the usual accoutrement (notebook and pens) were hauled along in my purse for entertainment.  On that day, it happened to be making paper airplanes.  

So the meal was eaten, and the lounging began - the lazy afternoon made all the more relaxing with our Weizen and Radler, as the kids created planes of all sizes, running off to test each one as soon as it took shape.  This went on for a good deal of time, before one of the children - frustrated with their planes’ performance - came by begging for the pens.  Not long after, smiles abounded as the planes began to soar - the kids jumping up and down and clapping as they managed longer and longer flights.

Later that evening, when we returned to our abode, the frenzy of plane making continued.  Scattered all over the floor of the house, dotting the hallway, on the sofa, in the beds - both children were proud of their aeronautical achievements.  And as I tucked my son into bed that night, he looks at me and smiles, sheepishly, saying they have discovered the secret to the perfect paper airplane.  What is it?  I ask, mainly to humor him.  He reaches up above his head to one of the planes teetering on the windowsill.  You have to write something in the plane, he informs me.  But it is something special - nothing else will work, he solemnly tells me.  Well, what is it?  My interest definitely piqued now.  This is the secret, he whispers, as he slowly opens up the plane - and there, written in his cat scratch handwriting are five words:  

Buy my chicken and fish.

What item will someone ALWAYS find in your kitchen pantry?

Tea.  And not just one tin, but at least ten.  I am not capable of resisting names like Royal English or Chinese Flower, Dragon Well and Empress Grey. Then there's Snow Geisha, Christmas Morning, Caravan - tea names that are appealing not only to my taste, but convey my ever wandering mind to distant lands and ages - as I sit there, sipping slowly, lost in a cup of tea. 

Bang!

I awoke to the sound of my european windows slamming shut.  I nearly jumped out of bed, in a literal sense.  The window slowly creaked back open, most uneasily, waiting for the next gust of wind to send it forcefully back into the window frame.

The thunderstorm was a surprise.  We were forecast for a bit of rain today, but not anything as intense as what I was witnessing in the early morning hours.  The gusting wind, howling and hissing, made good use of our cross breeze to voice its displeasure at having to weave its way through our apartment.  I could feel the zephyrs racing along my skin and through my hair, as the humidity pushed against me, the smell of imminent rain hanging in the air. The low rumble of thunder vibrated through my body, providing a soundtrack to the muddle of grey clouds being hurled about by the wind.  Then the flicker of lightning, starting slowly then catching up to the pace of the gale, first alternating with, soon accompanying, the thunderous clap of Thor’s hammer.  

Then the rain fell.  

I stood there at the window, absorbing the storm with all my senses, when it hit me.  I always know it’s coming, especially at those times that I am privy to nature’s tempest.  Something about the hiss of the wind through the trees and the thrumming of rain as it hits its mark - these forces play together in a cacophonous concert to batter down the barriers that my practical self creates to separate me from my creative self.  So once Zeus and Aeolus have made their point, availing themselves with wind and rain, I do my best to head into the woods surrounding my abode.  For it is here, in the dark wood, that the glorious Muse breaks through.  She is as a brilliant sun that illuminates the forest floor - whose rays weave between the leaves, creating shifting mosaics of shadow and light, planting the seeds of a new tale in my mind.  She grows it through the subtle whispers of a gentle wind, the warmth of the dappled light on my skin, the playful melody of birds as they flit from branch to branch.  Here, my creativity becomes unrestrained.  Here, the veil disappears.  Here, I step between worlds.  

And it is here that the words flow and the story begins...

Humans are a funny bunch.