the muse in our museumPolymnie, the name by which this statue is called, a muse of lyrical poetry and singing.
I wish I had been there. That was the best morning ever. Not only that. It was the best day ever and the best day ended in the best evening. We don’t know where he slept that night, Jesus the living Messiah of indescribable worth. He kept coming and going, even through closed doors for 40 days, visiting 500 who knew him before he was taken up into the atmosphere. Ten days later he came back so his loved ones could touch him. Parodox of parodoxes. The Church was filled with his and the Father’s spirit and we who are united to him can now greet one another with a holy kiss for God. John 20.17. Where is he now, the one whom my heart longs for? He is in the atmosphere and he does whatever pleases him. Psalm 115. He is in the mornings of Eternity and we can know him in his spiritually detectable movements in time and space. No one can disarm him, the indomitable peaceful conqueror, he whose only zealous violence was to clean his hospice and make it once again a place where he can hear us pray and respond to our need. Psalm 102. 17 & 18. Three days. The third day was the best. I wish I had been there.
I love morning. I can’t wait sometimes until it comes. My mother once said, when I had a nightmare, to think of Christmas morning and my thoughts would lead me to relax and have a restful night. I found I could be free of worry and free from harm from evil spirits if I pondered the morning of gifts and surprises. I know my God took a human body and was on earth in a manger, in his king-sized bed.
In the early hours of the day the reappearance of light allows me to see with my antenna eyes. I call them antenna eyes because the head is a sensory receptor that gives me information. Eyes, ears, taste buds, nerves for touch and smell are highly overrated. That is, they can send me information but they can’t interpret meaning in what I see, hear, taste, touch or smell. Only G protein receptors outside the cells can take information to the brain which in turn delivers the messages to the spine and thus to the whole body. So I love what light brings to my whole body. I am amazingly aware of what is outside of me.
May I speak of another kind of morning light? The kind that dawns on my personhood and gives me a sense of who I am as the person bathed in it? I call this identity. I am exposed by a light that is outside of me. It gives me shape and colour to others around who perceive me and identify me. I cannot give myself this identity apart from light. The night is for preying unidentifiable monsters. There is no name for what is in darkness. There is only unidentifiable chaos for which there is no description and no personality. I am in need of being a day child so that I can be described.
So I step into light. I step into mornings of Eternity. There I am. This morning I am a mother, loved dearly by the ones who see me as a fortress of encouragement and understanding. This morning I am a wife, tenderly held close to the heart of the betrothed. This morning I am a servant, preparing my elbows, hands and fingers, my legs, knees, hips and shoulders for helping. This morning I am a writer using words on a light-sensored screen for distribution electronically. This morning I am producing. Yet I am also produce. A maker has been making me since the beginning of time. He says nothing I make for him is without meaning, without polymnie.