Saturday Muse

My muse was a young lady with pale skin and a graceful face, framed by long wavy red hair that went down to her waist. She was a small person, attractive in her pink top and a matching pink belt with small silver ornaments lining the the edges. Her eyes were revealed the joy and passion she had for life.

Which I felt in her hands as we circled the floor to the drums and guitars of the Saturday band. It was a special night, when a local dj and the dance hall owner brought their guitars to the stage and joined the band at midnight, cranking out powerful country songs - Fast As You, Eight Second Ride, Hank Wouldnt Have Done It This Way, pure American Honky Tonk.

It was something to see, when I lifted my arm over her head and she spinned at the edge of control, her long hair spiralling around in a circle that brushed across my face.

About an hour after we danced she came up and apologized for messing up. Doesnt she know that anyone who brightens the dance floor like that cannot mess up? I told her no, she had the beat, she did great. What felt out of control to her are leads I have been doing for years, with many partners, and she did great.

Memorable is what it was when I danced with her again, and told her as we left the floor that how much fun that was, and that is the only criteria that should be used on Saturday night. Being perfect is irrelevant, passion and celebration are the goals.

A muse is a guiding spirit, a source of inspiration, or any one of the nine daughers of Mnemosyne (memory) in Greek Mythology. Each of the daughters was a caretaker of the arts. In her case it would had to be Eratos, the goddess of song and dance. Why else would I still be thinking about her, writing about her?