Providence

Just back from our annual vacation to the Uintah mountains in Northeastern Utah. Beautiful country. Country very dear to my husband. I have learned to love it. Learned because, at first, I was so out of my element, what I knew, my comfort zone. Now, it refreshes me.

For my husband, it’s all about the fishing. For me, it is the scenery, the quiet, the research. It is an old land, the aspen trees marked with dates and history and old gold mines and ghost tales and folk lore. A writer’s treasure, really, but it took me a long time to see it that way and take advantage.

On evening, a storm began behind us as we sat on the shore and fished. Thunder began as just rumblings, but soon into much more. When the lightning got too close I ran for the truck. Everything is more up at that altitude and lightning stands the hair up on my neck, no matter how far away.

Squalls moved through the canyon every night. We had rainbows two nights and skies that grabbed my heart. So much snow still clings to the mountain they look ghostly as the sun disappears for the day.

I spent one raining evening stealing words from the hand-outs they passed out in the campground. I love stealing words, finding words. I run a list of words that catch my eye and then write poetry or descriptions using them. It makes for a good way to stretch writing muscle.

A page is a page and nothing is ever wasted. Old writing can be revisited, old and new pieces mooshed together. I love doing that and I think, sometimes, it is providence.