The Muses Are Speaking, Rev. Josh Pawelek, May 4, 2025

Calliope the mouse, after speaking with Jaime the baby

            Our ministry theme for May is imagination. I want to tell a story, which is both a thought experiment and a spiritual reflection on imagination. Full disclosure: I wrote this story to elaborate on a dream I had this past Wednesday.

            Once upon a time there was a baby. His name was Jaime. When Jaime was born, like most babies, he cried. Leaving the dark, comforting safety of the womb, squeezing down the birth canal, journeying from that blissful, unconscious, unknowing oneness of the womb into the often bright, antiseptic light of the delivery room, into the latex-gloved hands of the delivery nurse, taking that first full breath of terrestrial air, filling those infant lungs that have never before been full, the body’s senses suddenly engaged, a cacophony of incomprehensible sensory input—it’s a shock to the system. I’ve always assumed this is why most newborns immediately cry. But most newborns settle down quickly once they’re wrapped tightly in a soft blanket, lying upon their mother’s chest, nestled in her loving, joy-filled embrace.  

            Jaime didn’t settle down. Jaime kept crying. The doctor noticed and said, “give it time.” So his parents gave it time. Jaime didn’t stop crying. The hospital staff ran some precautionary tests. Jaime was a healthy baby. But he wouldn’t stop crying. Until he finally fell asleep. Then he seemed peaceful. But when he woke up, he started crying again. The medical staff did everything they knew to do, continued checking vitals, running various tests, researching what might cause a baby to cry unceasingly. They couldn’t diagnose the problem. Eventually they discharged Jaime and mom, saying ‘give it time.’ The family went home. Jaime kept crying. The parents were distraught. It was hard to bond with a baby who cried so much. Sometimes it was a full-blown wailing cry for minutes on end; sometimes a sob that seemed to come in slow waves for hours; sometimes a soft whimper for half a day.

            When Jaime was asleep, his infant mind would dream. Since he was a newborn who had very little experience of being conscious in the world, he had no way to name the images in his dreams, let alone make meaning out of them. But if Jaime could have described his experience of dreaming, he might have said that it felt really good, that it felt a lot like his time in the womb, when it was dark, soft and safe, when there was no distinction between him and the rest of reality, when he was one with everything—that beautiful, blissful time before the water broke, before the squeezing, the bright light, the noise, the sterile odors, the physical touch. If Jaime were able to speak, he might have said “I miss that time.” He might have said, “this new world is too much. It’s all coming at me constantly. It keeps pouring in. Some of it is scary. Some of it hurts. Some of it feels wonderful, like when my parents hug and kiss me. Some of it is beautiful. Some of it is absurd. All I can do is cry. Things were so much simpler back in the womb.”

            One day Jaime was lying in his crib, whimpering softly. He had just woken up from a dream. He’d been dreaming about a mouse, though he didn’t know it was a mouse because he’d never seen one before. He opened his eyes. There on the mattress next to him was an actual mouse. Jaime’s whimpering intensified.

            “Hi Jaime,” said the mouse.

            Jaime couldn’t talk, but he understood that the mouse was greeting him, and in his mind, he said hello and asked “who are you?”

            “I’m Calliope,” said the mouse. “I heard you crying. I know what’s happening. I can help.”

            “Can you help me get back to the womb?” asked Jaime, in his mind.

            “I know how much you want to go back,” said Calliope, “but you were born. You’re here now. Still, I see how the world is pouring in and overwhelming you. That’s not supposed to happen. You’re a baby. Really all you’re supposed to be encountering in these first few weeks of life are your parents’ smiles and hugs, breast milk, blankets, diapers, that mobile over your crib, maybe someone shaking a rattle in your face, and people talking mostly gibberish to you. That’s all it should be. But somehow the whole world is pouring in. Like in the womb, you’re still experiencing yourself as one with everything, but there’s so much more now compared to then. It’s too much. When humans are born they lose their sense of oneness, but that didn’t happen to you. So I want to help you turn it off.”

            “Turn it off?” The idea had never occurred to Jaime. He didn’t exactly want to turn it off. Yes, some of it was scary. Some of it was painful. But some of it was glorious, beautiful, hilarious. He could not stop his tears, but often they were tears of joy. He didn’t want to lose that. “I’m not sure I want to turn it off. That sounds kind of boring.”

            “I completely agree,” said Calliope. But as you grow up, there are ways to bring that sense of oneness back into your life.”

            “What ways? How?” asked Jaime.

            “You’ll learn to use your Imagination,” said Calliope.

            “Imagination?”

            “Yes, with your imagination, you can access the oneness of all there is, and in response you can generate new ideas. You can create works of art. You can build a better world.”

            “But how will I learn?” asked Jaime.

            “You’ll learn. It’s easy for children. Children have very vivid imaginations. The challenge is continuing to use your imagination as you grow older. Lots of adults forget to use their imagination.”

            “How can I make sure I won’t forget?” asked Jaime.

            “Remember my voice, Jaime,” she said. “And believe me when I tell you, the muses are always speaking. Listen for their voices. They’ll guide you. I predict you will have a great imagination.”

            Calliope darted over to Jaime’s toe and kissed it. Then she scampered down the side of the crib and into a hole in the corner of the nursery. Something shifted in Jaime. The world was no longer pouring in. He stopped crying.

****

            Twelve years ago I preached a series of sermons on creativity. At the time I was very influenced by a book called Imagine: How Creativity Works, by the popular science writer Jonah Lehrer. Lehrer was eventually accused of and admitted to a variety of publishing transgressions—plagiarism, mis-identification of sources, mis-statement of research findings and more. The publisher recalled the book. Lehrer disappeared from the science-writing scene, though he has published other books since then. I won’t say anything else about Lehrer’s professional troubles. But I do want to recall a notion I presented in my April 15th, 2012 sermon on creativity. I’m recalling it not because it is based on anything Lehrer said that was later found to be inaccurate, but because it no longer rings true for me spiritually.

In the preface to the book Lehrer points out—and I quoted him in my sermon—that until the age of the European Enlightenment, [at least in the western world] “the imagination was entirely synonymous with higher powers: being creative meant channeling the muses, giving voice to the ingenious gods. (Inspiration, after all, literally means ‘breathed upon.’) Because people couldn’t understand creativity, they assumed that their best ideas came from somewhere else. The imagination was outsourced.”[1] His book counters this idea. He discusses an array of scientific experiments and data to show that imagination and the creativity it produces happen within. Creativity is, in short, a bundle of distinct mental processes that combine to give rise to new thoughts.[2] No external forces—or muses—necessary.

            I affirmed this idea in that 2012 sermon, but now I’d like to recall it. Calliope says to Jaime, “believe me when I tell you, the muses are always speaking. Listen for their voices. They’ll guide you.” I’d like to make the case that muses really do fire our imagination.

            Before I make that case, I should say that, generally speaking, Lehrer was correct about the human portion of the imagination equation. Much of it is internal. Scientists can observe and measure specific neurological processes that take place in our brains when we’re using our imaginations. One of the most widely-cited recent studies is entitled "Imagination as a Fundamental Function of the Hippocampus,” published in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B in October, 2022.[3] The study’s authors propose that the hippocampus—which has always been associated with memory—also plays a role in the generation of hypothetical experiences, a process they call ‘generativity,’ which is another word for imagination. A 2023 article in Scientific American called “Where Imagination Lives in Your Brain,” offers a helpful summation of the Royal Society article for non-nonscientists and cites other studies that confirm the conclusions about the role of the hippocampus in imagination. We learn that the hippocampus works with other areas of the brain. One writer says the hippocampus is like “an orchestra conductor that cues up neurons in other regions that represent the sights, sounds and smells that either are part of a recollection or ‘fit together in some imagined thing.’”[4]

            As far as I know, no one has ever used the scientific method to prove the existence of the muses. But I do note it is common for artists and creatives of all sorts (a group which includes scientists, engineers and mathematicians) to say they feel as if their art, their creations, their ideas come not from them but through them, as if some external, even divine power has breathed it upon them.

            While I was reviewing the scientific literature on imagination, I started researching muses in ancient religions. The term ‘muse’ most commonly refers to the nine muses of Greek mythology: Clio, muse of history; Polyhymnia, muse of sacred hymns; Euterpe, muse of music; Terpsichore, muse of dance; Erato, muse of literature and science; Melpomene, muse of tragedy; Thalia, muse of comedy, Urania, muse of astronomy and astrology; and perhaps the greatest of all, Calliope, muse of epic poetry and eloquence. But they aren’t the only muses. In religions and cultures across the globe (ancient and current) there are many divine or semi-divine entities that play a muse-like role. In Arabic Middle Easter cultures there are stories of jinn inspiring poets and oracles. In Chinese culture there are stories of the immortals or xian inspiring poets and artists. In India, the goddess Saraswati plays a muse-like role and is often invoked by poets, musicians and students. In Norse mythology, Bragi, the God of poetry and eloquence, was often invoked by the skalds for inspiration. In West African cultures oral historians, or griots, are believed to receive inspiration from the orishas.

            I imagine that the prevalence of muses and muse-like entities in so many cultures reflects a deep, long-standing human desire to explain the common experience among artists and creatives that their work comes not from them but through them.

            Here’s my argument for muses, which I offer as a thought experiment. What if the experience of the womb, common to every human being, is exactly as I describe it in the story: an approximately nine-month period of pure, uninterrupted oneness with all creation. A time of blissful, peaceful unknowing in which there is no distinction between ourselves and the universe. Our first human experience is oneness. Though we don’t consciously remember, our bodies remember. And if you have a concept of the soul, I’d argue that our souls remember as well.

            Then comes the birth rupture. The water breaking, the squeezing, the bright light, the noise, the sterile odors intruding. We suck in air for the first time. We cry. Then in most cases, we settle down and begin life as babies, slowly learning the ways of our caregivers and our culture, the experience of oneness now behind us in the womb time, though with us in our cellular memory.

            What if, all around us, every minute of every day, there are signs pointing toward the truth we knew in the womb, that we are one with all there is? What if every blade of grass, every snowflake, every human or animal touch, every shoreline, every hermit crab, every tree, every stone, every mountain, every meal we eat with loved ones, with strangers, or alone, every piece of music, every poem, every dance, every painting, every sculpture, every sermon, every summer breeze, every raging storm, every ant, honey bee or butterfly, every growing thing, every story, every lighting of the chalice flame, every prayer, every sunrise and sunset, every drop of water, every sunbeam, every star, and especially the vast darkness of space—what if all of it—every glimmer of recognition—points us toward that truth our bodies knew in the womb that we are one with all there is? What if all of it is the muse speaking? Calliope assuring Jaime that as long as he listens for her voice he will remember. Would you not weep in response? Would you not feel like something is coming through you, and that in fact you’ve known it all along, known it since your birth?

            And what if, in response to these signs, your hippocampus lights up, fires, blazes, explodes with electrical impulses, and within your imagination the ideas of your life, the music of your life, the poetry of your life begins to flow?

            I say we are surrounded by muses. Our task is to listen, to remember what we’ve always known, and to unleash our imagination.

            Amen and blessed be.

[1] Lehrer, Jonah, Imagine: How Creativity Works (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing, 2012) p. xvi.

[2]Ibid., p. vvii. For a helpful overview of the content of Imagine, check Lehrer’s March 19, 2012 interview on National Public Radio at http://www.npr.org/2012/03/19/148777350/how-creativity-works-its-all-in-your-imagination.

[3] Comrie AE, Frank LM, Kay K. 2022 Imagination as a fundamental function of the hippocampus. Phil. Trans. R. Soc. B 377: 20210336. https://doi.org/10.1098/rstb.2021.0336.

[4] Wickelgran, Ingird, “Where Imagination Lives in Your Brain, Scientific American, June 8, 2023. See: https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/where-imagination-lives-in-your-brain/.