The Anti-Muse

Jeff and Samuel, May 2009

Muse (myooz), n. 1. Class. Myth. any of the nine goddesses who presided over various arts and sciences. 2. the power regarded as inspiring an artist.


I'm in a tippy canoe here in this, my first published tribute. Sometimes I read about others' loved ones, and I am inspired. Other times, especially where spouses are described, I gag on my suspension of too-good-to-be-true disbelief.

So here's a very human shout-out to my very human, very deserving husband on his birthday, or whatever day he chooses to show interest in this blog. :)

First, the title. I jokingly tell Jeff he is my anti-muse. This latest nickname comes from the way he greets most of my ideas with laughter and skeptical eyebrows (albeit above smiling eyes), or blatant "That will never work"s. (He's often right.) And these are the times when he hears me! Generally, I don't blame him for tuning me out.

This aloofness could bug me, squash me even. Yet -- when I'm in a good frame of mind -- I find it oddly empowering, for when I really want to do something, I'm challenged to find a way to make it work on my own. And fast! Two practical cases in point: the grand dollhouse I was going to make from a military trunk left in our garage when we moved in; and the elaborate grape arbor I planned to make from our replaced wrought iron storm doors -- until all materials mysteriously made it to the dump the very weekends I intended to start these projects. Well, at least that's when I discovered their absence; they'd been gone months before.

Jeff knows me too well, knows that I'm full of ideas, but that my follow-through lags sorely behind. No more of my saying, "Wait! Don't throw that out yet. I might make something from it." No more mere thinking. More doing. Jeff is like a filter that makes me evaluate what's doable, what's not, in an effort to make the flow of my time and energy more effective.

For years whenever Jeff says "I love you," I've asked, "Why?" It's a sincerely desperate plea. I want him to elaborate, to give me some nugget of detail that I can savor for days to come. I want him to wax poetic.

He never has. But I've realized that Jeff is not a waxing and waning kind of guy. His devotion may not be a dramatic wave, but it doesn't ebb in retreat either. He is constant.

"Why, why do you love me?" I say.

"Because I just do," he always answers.

To turn the tables, however, here are reasons why I love my husband:

• He helps me see the importance of laughing at myself.

• His face lights up in turn to see each and every child when he comes home from work.

• He sweeps the floor every day.

• He serves others.

• He plays with his children.

• He takes his spiritual obligation to his family very seriously.

• He thinks he's so clever to let the kids stay up late as long as they're scratching his head/feet/back.

• He is steady. He is the cabinet to my pinball, the string to my kite.

That Jeff loves me is more a reflection of his good qualities than it is of mine. To not need a reason to love? Why, I suppose that's the greatest love of all.

Happy Birthday, Jeff! I love you too.