(Today's post and illustration is in honor of "National Fairy Tale Day." Enjoy!)
In the beginning, there was the Mother Muse, the goddess of creation, memory, nature, healing, love, poetry, and all things divine. According to legend, she bore nine daughters, each with her own special attribute, at the foot of Mt. Olympus, sired by the king of gods, Zeus. These daughters make up the Muses of Mythology, the inspiration for those who excel in the arts and sciences, some believe even to this day.
Protégées of the Muses are said to include the Sphinx, who learned her riddle from them, and Aristaeus, who owed them for her artful skills of healing and prophecy. Upon the birth of the Muses, some men, so elated by their presence, sang constantly, forgetting to eat or drink until they perished, turning to locusts who sing continuously with no need for sustenance.
The Muses were much revered, and Mt. Helicon became a sacred place of homage to them, where sacrifices of water, milk and honey were made. Apollo taught them to sing, and Athena caught and tamed the wild horse Pegasus as a gift to them. Yet like many sisters throughout time, the Muses could be competitive, even vindictive. Folklore has it that after winning a musical contest with Thamyris, the Muses robbed him of his eyes as well as his ability to make song. Other musical contests found them turning those they defeated into birds. After they out sang the Sirens, they plucked out their feathers to make crowns of them.
Their most volatile competition, however, is little heard of, as they swore one another to secrecy at the shame they felt at its outcome. In their later years, when they feared their power to inspire and protect was weakening, the Mother Muse bestowed upon them a gift—a beautiful silk purse of many colors. Mother Muse warned that her daughters must wait a fortnight, and then open the purse at twilight.
Curious and ever competitive, the Muses speculated about what kind of gift the purse contained. Each was sure the gift would enhance her own inspirational attribute, and they argued over which quality would dominate. Would it be history or melodic music? Comedy or tragedy? Perhaps it would be dance or love poetry. Divine hymns or astronomy. Or maybe the purse’s contents would enhance the gift of epic storytelling.
The nature of the Muses’ argument turned from contemplative to physical, and they tugged at the purse, arguing not only about what it contained, but about which of them should guard it. As they tugged and pulled and argued, alas, the purse ripped to shreds, and the contents spilled out. There at the foot of the mount, nine sparkling jewels rolled past their feet, disappearing into the flora and fauna that surrounded them.
Heartbroken, the sisters confessed to the Mother Muse what had happened. Angry at their selfishness, the Mother Muse never told them that the jewels were really eggs that in a fortnight would hatch into tiny glistening dragonfly-like creatures. Called Musements, they would fly about, dusting the gifts of the original Muses onto those who braved the lonely places one must go to create. The sisters never knew the Musements existed, but in a tribute to her daughters’ honesty, the Mother Muse bestowed upon the Musements the gift of proliferation.
It is said that the Musements live on today, inviting creative souls to push their limits, to craft and hone their best works. Ever playful, they dare us to find them—in the sparkle of asphalt, the twinkle of water, among the frolicking fireflies flitting about on a summer evening. The spark we see may be a dew drop atop a blade of grass, a tear streaming down a child’s face—or it may be a Musement inviting us to be still, to focus, to seek inspiration from within and beyond ourselves through the endless bounties of our world.
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