~ regardless of the season ~

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Is one's voice what some call the muse?

I wrote a poem once about the muse. I think of it as a call of the wild. Of that which moves the soul, which draws passion to the heart.  That which no words can capture, except perchance  in metaphor; but even that is limited.  Perhaps dance can capture it, or music.  The muse, the voice, the life force and essence.

How does one follow their voice?  What does it mean to find one's voice?

Is it that which one would be, would say, would do if there was no one or no entity before whom or which to stand approved?

I used to not enjoy receiving homeschooling or unschooling magazines; as they would remind me of all I thought I should be doing, but wasn't. Such as making bread from scratch or building a house or redesigning something in my home or sewing...the acts of self-sufficiency.  We did bits of that through the years.  But honest be told, I don't like to sew.  I don't like yard work either, but I like a beautiful yard.  Though to me a beautiful yard would have lots of flowers of variety, even what some consider weeds. And of course blueberries.

Oh how I delight in blueberries.  To hike upon the Roan Balds or at Grayson going along Wilburn Ridge toward Mount Rogers, one can fill there belly's delight with wild berries of blue. In season of course.

Aye, I think I'd make a much better gatherer than farmer and garden tender.

I imagine wild flowers and blueberries would be good for my voice; whether singing or prose or paint or dance or tune.  Gathering a bundle of life...regardless of the season...

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