Sometimes your creative Muse is motivated, playful, filled with wild hip swaying, booty bumping energy. Sometimes your Muse can’t wait to Dance, Dance, Dance. Sometimes she has a love crazed hard-on (yes, I said it. Get over it.) to grab that pole and make the world beg for more. And sometimes she couldn’t give a shit.
Sometimes, she looks at that shiny vertical shaft of steel (or titanium, or brass, or chrome) and all she can think about is how cold it probably is right now. How she’ll have to pull out the yoga mat to warm up. How tired she is. Or how long it would take to change out of her damn pajamas and into her booty shorts, tank, leg warmers, 6 inch heels, and sexy cover-up, let alone find all those things in her closet. Le Sigh!
So instead, she decides to skip her workout and visit Twitter for a few last minute tweets before bed… and maybe a stop on youtube for a quick pole video from one of her favorite Sensualistas… and then over to Amazon to pick up that new awesome album by Adele…
But something happens.
Something unexpected, especially since she’s wearing slippers, a pink heart covered pajama shirt, and nothing remotely practical. A tingle, a tickle, an urge to move, travels slowly up her spine. Now, the Muse is no stranger to random movement and assumes it’s just a simple reaction to Adele’s luscious voice singing “Turning Tables” and “Set Fire to the Rain.” But as one song leads to another, leads to another, she starts to feel constrained. Her body is too tight, with her legs folded and spine bent squarely, resting on the office chair. Her mind attempts to protest, “Dancing in slippers is simply too ridiculous, and, well, too slippery.” But the mind is too tired to put up a fight and the Muse, recognizing the unconscious call of passion, uncoils from it’s dark cave and says “Why the fuck not!”
The Muse still doesn’t give a shit; about training or warm-ups or working her abs or building her strength or any of that practical crap. It’s 10pm at night for goodness sake, and she’s tired. But that doesn’t mean she’s uninspired. In fact, now is her chance… to be Deliberately Lazy, Deliciously Dirty, Undeniably Sexy for no damn reason other than she fucking feels like it.
The conscious mind pops out of it’s sleepy stupor to remind the Muse that she’s in no position to be making difficult demands like inverting or pole ups and then goes back to sleep. But the Muse has no need for difficult tricks. She just wants to MOVE, BE, BREATH. The Muse wants to remind us to Live in the Moment because it’s the only one we’ve got.
And so she slinks. Over to the pole for slow, delicious, pelvic circles that take forever. No, longer than forever.
She slides over to the wall (even easier than usual thanks to her slippery slippers) and paints passion into the air.
Breathing deeply, living for movement, tugging on those pink heart pajamas, dragging her fingers through her hair.
Dancing with sweetness, dancing with compassion, dancing with the steady, slow energy of the quiet night until she can’t remember her own name.
And when the night changes it’s melody from the cooling tones of Adele to the butt bumping beats of Kanye, Katy Perry, and some kind of ET alien invasion…
She gives in to that too.
Sometimes you have to give in the Muse fully, completely, without fear and simply trust that your body knows exactly what you need, exactly when you need it.