Gray is an appropriate surname for Allen. It is how he sees the entire world.
He keeps to a routine, getting up at the same time every morning. He goes out for a run, he showers, he gets dressed and eats a balanced breakfast and goes to work. In his small office at the bank, he answers questions about other people’s money and makes appointments to meet with people and answer questions about their money, stopping only to eat a balanced lunch. Then he goes home, fixes himself a balanced dinner, and whiles away the few hours left until he goes to bed at the same time every night. Sometimes he takes an hour to straighten out his own money; sometimes he goes out for a single drink with a friend; sometimes he goes to the library to get a book, usually one about economics or finance. On weekends he may go for a longer run, or go to the gym to use the pool or the fitness machines, or maybe go for a walk or a hike if the weather is nice. He always makes sure to have time, however, to prep all those balanced meals that he eats throughout the week.
He is not unhappy. He watches comedy shows and laughs loudly, calls his father and his younger sister to chat, and plays basketball with his neighbor’s son sometimes. And there are traces of an artistic spirit around him—he will play music almost constantly, everything from stirring string orchestras to eerie electronic beats. There is art in his home, bringing color to the walls. But he never looks at it anymore.
Sabasa could not come with me to meet with Allen today, for the reasons that she explained—the more time she spends with her charges, the less her impact. So we came up with a plan that we thought would work well. I would go to Allen and be near him throughout the day, while keeping in communion with Sabasa so that she could come to know him, too. In theory it was a solid plan, but in practice there were a few difficulties.
“But take a good look at him,” she told me for the third time, as Allen was taking out his lunch—chicken salad on a gluten-free wrap, vegetable sticks and a mixed-fruit bar. “Is there a core of despondency in his spirit?”
I had already told her I did not know what that meant and so did not know how to look for it. To me, Allen looks healthy, body and spirit. Maybe a little apathetic, but I would not call it despondence.
She tried again to explain. “An artist who is not making art will wear his spirit thin. It may take years, but soon it will rub a hole in his soul where darkness can come in. Of course, even then he may take advantage of that darkness—I had a charge a few years ago who made such beautiful work with shadows…”
I had not known, before taking on this charge, how distractable Sabasa could be. This was the fifth time her words had wandered off the target in the past hour.
I told her I had seen no sign of despondence in Allen’s spirit. She sighed—something else I am growing familiar with—and said she would just have to look for herself when she got the chance.
“What is he looking at?” she asked me a dozen times. “What is he listening to? Did he just smell something?”
I admit, my patience was tried in having to relay every detail of Allen’s surroundings to her. No, excuse me, not every detail—“just the things he notices. The smallest thing could be an inspiration that he uses for the rest of his life. I managed to inspire an artist once with a wind chime, and she went on to write a symphony!”
But more and more throughout the day, I came to believe that Allen’s surroundings are too familiar to him to generate any interest. Besides, he has gotten out of the habit of looking around, of listening to anything but what he himself puts into the environment.
“He does listen to his music,” I suggested. “Could we do something with that?”
“No,” Sabasa said bluntly. “That is the product of someone else’s inspiration. I could use it to provoke motivation, but not inspiration.”
I was failing to see the difference. I sighed myself and went back to watching over Allen.
Clearly holding onto her patience as tightly as I was, Sabasa said to me, “Try to see if there is anything out of the ordinary that makes him take notice. Just the smallest thing. I can work with whatever he gives me, but he has to give me the start.”
I was beginning to wonder whether I had any role in this at all—was I going to be little more than a watcher in my own case?
But then Megan walked in.
She is one of those rare people from whose soul sunlight beams. One looks at her and feels the muscles around the jaw loosen. She has that brilliant quality that Persuasions love—the ability to lift the spirits of others without even trying. Of course, she does try. She is cheerful and caring, and she likes to see other people happy.
“Hi, Mr. Gray?” she said. “I’m a little early—should I come on in?”
Allen, not immune to her influence, blinked at her. “Oh—yes, of course, please,” he said, getting up to show her to a seat. “Miss Gilbert?”
“Megan, please,” she said. She shook his hand with a strong grip.
I was looking at them both with a Cupid’s eye now, and it was a relief to fall back into the familiar. They have similar temperaments, I think—both slow to anger, both generally positive, although Megan more so than Allen. They are close in age, and in a similar stage of life, I think. Megan was meeting with Allen to get started on the process of finding a house. And it certainly does not hurt that Megan is lovely—tall and bright-eyed, with dimples and short spiky hair and meant-for-walking boots. Allen was not quite certain how to respond to her, except to know that he liked her on sight.
I was just thinking that the trick would be to get Megan to look at him thus favorably when Sabasa interrupted my thoughts. “Asa’el, the inspiration must come from her!” she said. “See if you can’t get Allen to pay attention to her—maybe her tattoos? Or her clothing, perhaps?”
I was none too reluctant to get Allen to pay attention, though I wanted him to notice her spirit more than her appearance. Still, I drew his eyes to the intricate tattoos on her left arm, and he diverted the conversation to ask about them.
“These?” she laughed, glancing down. “I don’t know, I started with one and then I couldn’t stop. I do try to make it somewhat cohesive, but I don’t know, sometimes Totoro sneaks in.”
Allen grinned. “I loved that movie.”
She grinned back. “You don’t still?”
That surprised him. “Oh, well—I guess I just haven’t seen it in a while.” He cleared his throat and turned a few papers around on his desk, sliding them to her. “So, let’s get started, shall we?”
“That was an opportunity, Asa’el!” Sabasa protested.
That surprised me. “What do you mean?”
“Memories can be just as much inspiration as anything else,” she told me. “A dearly loved childhood movie—”
“If it was an opportunity, why didn’t you take it?” I asked—well, I more snapped it, I confess. “And isn’t a movie the product of someone else’s inspiration?”
“I don’t want to join you until I know which direction will be the most productive,” she said with yet another sigh. “But please watch more closely.”
It has been a long time since I felt so put in my place. I resented it, though I knew that Sabasa was right—she was depending upon me to help her in this case. So I turned my attention back to the two.
Readers, I can tell you, if I were to change my discipline, I would not become a Muse. I have no talent for rousing inspiration. I tried to make Allen look at Megan’s clothing and her earrings, listen to her voice and even smell her perfume. Nothing distracted him any more than he had already been distracted by a beautiful woman giving him her undivided attention.
Throughout the meeting, however, I was thinking about what Sabasa had said about memories being a source for inspiration. I have wondered ever since taking this charge about what inspiration really is, and to me it seems that it is something that rises out of one’s self. A Muse can feed it, but since Sabasa cannot move until it has begun, that means the beginning is not with her.
So if inspiration comes from one’s self, why cannot the inspiration be one’s self?
I suggested this to Sabasa. She was hesitant. “It’s a good idea, Asa’el, but I wouldn’t know where to start with it. Allen doesn’t seem to be a very reflective person, so how would we get his thoughts moving in that direction?”
She phrased that as a deterrent, but I saw it as a challenge. I turned my attention back to Allen and Megan just as she handed him a form she’d finished filling out. The first thing I noticed, and I made sure Allen noticed it too, was her handwriting, big and looping and confident.
One thing I have learned as a Cupid is that a good way to get one thinking about oneself is to compare with others.
Allen’s eyes went from the form in his hands to a notepad on his desk, crowded with his own stretched, horizontal handwriting. The difference was marked, and somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered how personalities could be shown in someone’s handwriting.
He looked up at Megan, and I could see the connection forming as he wondered what kind of personality would bring about her handwriting. She raised her brows, and he opened his mouth, and I leaned in—
And that was the moment that Sabasa arrived.
I must say, the force of her coming was considerable, in the best possible way. She appeared behind Allen and spread her wings, and his eyes went opaque with visions of swirling lines, black on white that created pathways and black holes and tunnels and walls, and he began to think about personalities and essence and people and the way they express themselves…I was very nearly caught up in it all myself.
Megan, however, was excluded. She saw only that Allen stopped short, that he looked away from her, and said nothing for a long space of time.
“Mr. Gray?” she asked.
“He’s being rude,” I said to Sabasa.
Focused on her charge, she only waved one wing at me. “This is our moment, Asa’el. We cannot lose it.”
I am not sure if ‘our’ in that instance meant hers and mine, or hers and Allen’s, excluding me, as well. Of course I would not want to intrude on her work, but in a way she was hindering mine.
“I’m sorry,” Allen managed to say, reaching for his notepad even as he said it. “Miss Gilbert, I’ve just thought of something…I wonder, could we finish this another time?” He looked theatrically at his watch.
“Of course,” she said. She thought, as he meant to imply, that he had remembered another engagement, and so she got to her feet. But she was a bit offended that he was putting her off, though I tried to tell her that he did not intend to insult her. “When—?”
“I’ll call you,” he said, too blunt for politeness.
Now she sniffed and got to her feet. “Well, thanks for your help,” she said, and that was sincere. But when he didn’t answer, already turning to his computer, she sniffed and left the office in something of a huff.
I watched her go rather mournfully, then turned back. Sabasa seemed to have no further need of my help, so I left her to her work. I am not certain she noticed me leaving any more than Allen noticed Megan’s departure.
So we accomplished what we set out to do, but rather less than I might have hoped. I will have to talk to Sabasa about that. There is a lack of balance between us as yet, but we will find it. It will just take time.