Do I have buried treasure within me? Big Magic Inspired Originally Written 5/19/2021

5/19/2021 - Big Magic by Liz Gilbert

Do I have buried treasure within me? Sometimes I am sure that I do and other times I am not so sure. How to tap into it is always the question or how do I unearth it?

I talked to my brother on the way home from the beach yesterday and he asked me how I thought about the things I write. I told him is the secret is that I don’t. When I am in the zone, I don’t think at all, I just write. It is when I think, bringing my mind into the equation, that I stumble - I freeze - I cannot seem to let the pen flow, or in typing, it is the curse of the cursor just blinking at me. It reminds me of the times in college when I would have an assignment due, people remarked on my procrastination and I’d say I’m thinking about it and when I quit thinking, that is when I will write. When it would come, that place of peace, I could be up for hours putting pen to paper or my hands typing on the keyboard. Ideas flowing freely. I would often try to create or stage that moment - when I read these things back, I could tell, they were more disjointed, less free flow. Sometimes a deadline would loom and I could sit down to write something, anything, but the sentences would not flow. There were a lot of pauses. Of course the other key is to think about what I wanted to say - just the act of thinking, no writing - reading sources and considering what I would want to capture. I am contemplating this method for the historical picture book I am writing. Do the research, my favorite part, in fact, I can use a lot of time researching - eat, drink, sleep with the material, the dates, the players, the time period. Look at the images, close my eyes, imagine being there, in that time…

I saw a postcard on eBay for Natatorium Park. It was a shot of Lover’s Lane - this small path along the Spokane River, a shady spot - when it is hot in Spokane, the sun is hot, but when you step into the shade, it is ridiculously cooler given the hot high desert there - at the base of the Bitterroot Mountains - part of this odd phenomenon called the Channeled Scablands. This landscape at times looks other worldly, bits of basalt left from the glacier that melted and slid through the area dragging bits of rock and debris. Slicing into the land, leaving these large gashes in the earth. Leaving behind rocks and crevasses - the sage grows freely, on a warm day you can smell their sweet and woody fragrance, especially potent after a short summer shower. One place where the occasional thunderstorm occurs and for this Midwest girl it is heaven. That smell of rain coming, the light changing from the relenting sun to the dark clouds, often a band of dark against a bright sky. The sagebrush seems to perk up, reaching their branches to heaven, to receive the rain. However much or little may come. The land scattered with bright yellow flowers that look like something from the sunflower family with the blue, green, purple of the sage. 

It is in this setting we find the Spokane River - flowing from the mountains into the scablands, rocky basalt piles here and there, the stark sharp grey/black amongst the yellow, green, sage, clue, purple - people planted the trees that link the path - lover’s lane, with a code wooden fence along the river. A dirt path for those early park goers and paved for those who came later. Men in their hats and women with parasols finding a bit of cool and privacy along the river - which in summer ambles along slowly, a cool breeze comes off it for those along the shore. Hiding behind a parasol, perhaps a stolen kiss or clammy nervous hands hold quick to break apart if another couple strolls too close. Older couples smiling knowingly at the younger couples. Remember new and budding love, remembering their first kiss along the banks of the Spokane. With sounds of music and laughter, the smell of candy and popcorn, the distant sound of a bell from a game or the trolley signaling its return to the downtown area of Spokane. An eagle or osprey could fly by, maybe a salmon surfaces to take in some sun, perhaps further down the river a coyote drops its head into the river for a drink, or a deer, walks in to cool legs on a hot summer day.

The postcard only shows a glimpse of this space, this world. The back of the postcard written in older handwriting talks of a cool walk on a hot summer day along lover’s lane, describing the river’s beauty - as if whomever wrote this wanted to remember this day, rather than send it off to someone - she (or he) wrote about their experience in that space, in that place, who knows who they were or what happened to them, but that memory lives on in a postcard, perhaps left with a pile of postcards and once they died, a family member or friend sorted through boxes to find this card and not knowing what to do with it, gave it to a collector, no one is reading the backs, but now, I want it, I have made a bid for it on eBay and I hope it becomes mine, maybe just the sight of it has enough to spark a memory…