She's a bit of a night owl. Not that she doesn't enjoy early mornings, like I do. But it's when the sun sets and my conscious mind is winding down that she really wants to talk.
It's taken me a while to get to know her, although she's been around all my life. She has a cozy relationship with my Intuition, but hates being mistaken for Her.
"We are not the same," dearest host, she reminds me. "We just share an apartment."
And it's true. I've learned to tell them apart over the years. And if I'm honest, I'll admit that my relationship with Intuition is much more developed. And amenable. She's eternal. And is never wrong.
My Muse, however, is a young child. She has no limits. No pre-existing notions. No barriers. She has fantastical ideas but hates to be directly questioned. She is impish and seems to enjoy being coy, or is it obtuse? She likes to be in charge. She plays games with me, flashing me with ideas only to avoid answering my natural curiosity. So I've learned not to ask. Nonchalantly I dance with her. A dance in which I tamp my eagerness and hide my intentions, my need to know more, and act as if I'm merely a casual observer of her adventurous frolicking. Really. I've learned how to talk with her to keep her from shutting down.
She loves to run around in the forest. She loves the trees, who she says are actually people. She loves moons and volcanoes. She hears things in the silence. She's a child. But not exactly. She's tapped into the other dimensions.
Giving her free reign is my daily courageous act.