I became a pan this afternoon. A small tin. Not quite a cup, for cups have tall sides and are deep enough to be filled with a beverage. I was not shallow enough to be a plate, for a plate is thin and flat and stable, meant to hold piping hot delicacies. No, I was a pan. One with pin-holes in order to sift out valuable gold from the riverbanks along the wild west. I was the Gold Rush. Stories rushed through me, pulsing in many facets of thought until my head ached with possibilities. Every action I noticed became a story of its own.
An old woman was jogging ever so slowly on the large indoor track. Her mustard shirt was quite damp with sweat, her face sunken and defeated. Despite her slow gait, she was running. She kept running. I watched her a long time; every lap was a new victory. She overcame her weakness through every step. I praised this heavy-set woman inwardly, vibrantly.
A girl with a brown braid and a Mona-Lisa kind of smile was reading a book. This isn’t a strange hobby, I know. A lot of people read. Yet, this girl was riding a stationary bike and reading and smiling and I was happy for her. The act of exercising your mind and body as one intrigues me. My inner self ran up to her and patted her on the back, shouting “ATTA GIRL YOU RIDE THAT BIKE! YOU READ THAT BOOK!” No, my inner self is not eloquent, but she is certainly heartfelt and incredibly exubrant.
I was also trying to read a book on the exercise bike. This girl and I had this in common. I believe that the book that I held between my sweat-stained fingers was the source of my throbbing inspiration. This was a book that was written by a writer about writing. Written by a writer to train writers how to write. The writer is kind; I’ve met her once. Her face is soft and gentle, aware of the imperfections in her winkles but regarding these small dilemmas as stepping stools instead of stumbling blocks.
She told me, throughout stories and suspense and most of all eloquent wisdom, to be kind to myself. Think slowly and methodically. Allow yourself to breathe now and again, for a slow steady breath is the source of life. Allow your mind to say what is needed, what is desired for the soul to rest and the hand to be exercised, to increase endurance. Do not fear the typo, the misspelled word, the misunderstood phrase. Nothing is perfect, but all things are beautiful.
She taught me to wait. How to love writing, instead of craving to have already written. Taught my mind to sift instead of dig, to sift through fragile memories stitched together by consequences and humorous coincidences. The gold jingles out into the tin, accompanied by all of the ugly fights, the sickness, the pain of misguided hormones and broken hearts. A miner looks at the ugliness in the pan and cringes, scouring out the junk with grimy hands. He holds the gold until his fingers turn white.
A writer looks into the pan. A small frown of concentration appears on her forehead. Slowly, carefully, gingerly, she smiles. A knowing smile. She reaches down into the smorgasbord of thought and swirls it around. The iridescent gold brushes hatred, envy, jealousy. Beautiful moments graze deepest tragedy. She pulls out her hands from the muck and scoops out one single memory.
It is a bad one, sick with sin. And yet, there is a gleam of gold at the core. The promise. Within the darkest pit, within the darkest memory, comes the most meaning. It is this ugly piece of shimmering tar that the writer carefully places into a velvet satchel and ties with a simple black bow.
It is her secret keepsake: an unforgettable memory found in the center of unimportance. It is in the normality of misplaced love and judgement where unexplained beauty finally has a chance to sift into our midst. Sifts into the cool stream of a river that’s never going to run the same twice.
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