Art by Carl Jung
Did you know that there is an octopus in Tasmania that crosses the road? According to anecdotes from local fisherman, female octopuses attempt to migrate from the waters of Norfolk bay to the ocean to release their eggs into the sea.
To do this, they have to cross the Eaglehawk Neck isthmus, a narrow strip of land - and road - that connects the Tasman and Forestier peninsulas.
(It's a true story! I learned this from an author named Erin Hortle in this year's Melbourne Writer's Festival, who was inspired by this phenomenon for her novel, The Octopus and I.)
For me, this wild imagery conjures up the notion of ferrying intuitive and creative ideas from the watery realms of our deep imagination. We too go through a process of incubating fertile dreams before carrying them over the threshold, from the intangible to the material.
Of course, not all of these unborn ones make it across the channel. We are not here to do and be everything imaginable. But the ones that do emerge, the ancestral visions that call to be birthed, go on to create new life in the world.
The role of the muse is to accompany us on this journey, to help us midwife these creative imprints. Regardless of whether we are conceiving a new project, chapter, or stage of our identity, the muse is an ally in the body of work that is the unfolding of our life story.
My online course, MUSE, begins on Monday.
So if now feels like a fruitful time to dive into the mythic realms of creativity and soulful self-expression, this Sunday the 23rd is the last day to enrol.
May the glimmering inkling of your creative visions bloom.
With silver princess gumnuts and eight-limbed reveries,