Saving the best (lessons) for last.

Okay not really last (I hope) but late.

Really late.

In fact, this lesson took me fifty-something years to figure out.

It’s about people.

The photos today may not be, but the writing’s about people.

The thing about people.

See, intertwined with this journey of place is one of people.

Because true belonging is a balance, unique for each of us, of connecting with people as well as with place.

Ones sense of belonging is found with and created by connection.

Connection. Connecting with land has been easy for me. Connecting with people, well, this is the part I’m finally getting.

If you’ve known me a while, likely you know that people were not my thing. I was awkward. Shy. Reserved and withdrawn. At least I usually felt all those things.

And yes, scared.

People scared me. Being around them, talking with them, trying to connect with them. Never belonged. Connection felt like an impossible mission; I felt more disconnect than connection. And then would rehash and ruminate for hours, days and years all the things I surely did wrong in those (rare) encounters.

So in my defense or some sense of self preservation, I became a bit of a recluse, a hermit, a wild woman who lived “way out there.” And I did my best not to deal with people.

I’ve lived like a lone wolf. I’m not saying that’s a good thing. However… I once proudly boasted of not leaving the mountain for five months at a time, and going from fall to spring seeing only nine people, two of which were my husband and son.

It’s not that I didn’t like people.

It’s just that I chose to be alone.

It’s just that…

I thought I’d be better off.

I thought I’d be safer.

I thought I had all I needed, was self-sufficient, could do it all by myself.

And guess what I learned?

I was wrong.

Isolation created separation.

And separation created depression.

And in that self created state of disconnection, I found myself in a rabbit hole that got deeper and deeper and deeper still.

And into that hole I fell, deeper and deeper and deeper still.

Until I finally hit the bottom, dusted myself off, and climbed back out.

It took taking my Long Quiet Ride to wake me up to the greatest truth.

It was a trial by fire.

Throwing myself out there, in front of the bus, being at the mercy of people. OMG.

And out there, I learned two things.

First, people are good. For the most part, I mean like seriously, obviously, good is so far above and beyond bad. The fact that our population has grown to over eight billion of us is proof enough for me. Good wins.

Second, I need people. We all do. No matter how independent we fool ourselves to be. We are interdependent, and that’s a good thing. On that trip, boy did I need people. For direction, for suggestions of safe passage, for companionship, for connection, for some sense of wholeness that was left as a gaping hole while I was out there trying to do it alone.

Here’s the deal. The fear that prompted me to build my armor and protected walls didn’t keep me safe, only kept me separate.

Believe me, I had spent a lifetime of plenty of time alone and proving myself capable. That’s not what I went out there to do. I didn’t know what I was looking for but I figured it out fast. Got the message, loud and clear. And right away.

 And from the very first day, I realized, I didn’t want to be alone.
I wanted to connect.

 I longed to share a meal, a story, a hug, a laugh. I wanted to be a part, no longer apart.

Now, some things remain the same. I still choose to live “way out there.”

But some things are very different.

I have learned the thing about people.

And I have learned to love people.

In small doses, admittedly. I’m still not keen on parties, potlucks and group gatherings. One-on-one is more my style. Even if it’s one-on-one with the woman at the checkout or the guy in line before me, tea with a neighbor or a long walk with an old friend, getting the story of the person sitting beside me in a waiting room, or (this will always be my personal favorite) a lingering dinner shared with my husband and son with candles, fresh bread and simple homemade food, and lots and lots of laughter and love.

I believe it is a universal truth that everyone wants to belong, to be accepted, and to be loved.

Hatred is a defense. I know all about that. It’s armor. It takes more courage to drop it than to hide behind it.

But in doing so, in freeing ourselves of our so-called protective shield, we lighten our load.

Only then can our wings unfurl big and bright and wide. Only then can we rise and soar.

I’m living proof that we can learn, we can grow. We can forgive. And (I humbly bow to those who have) we can be forgiven as well.

I’m sharing this because I wish others wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made. But I know life doesn’t work that way. We have to make mistakes in order to learn. We have to live to learn. What we’re told or taught may be intelligent, but it is not wisdom. It becomes wisdom when it soaks into our heart and soul. Then we really get it.

It took me a helluva long time to learn what a lot of you knew all along. That’s a lot of unnecessary pain, for myself, and for others. That’s a lot of loss, because really, I did miss out.

But I got it.

Finally.

A late bloomer.

Better late than never.

What does this have to do with the adventure we’re currently on, building an off grid cabin “way out there” in Colorado, while still wondering where the hell we’re meant to remain?

A lot.

Because people matter as much as place. Because people are a part of the place. Because people fill my heart in a way that the wild world cannot, and hopefully I can fill others’ hearts along the way. Because connection matters, belonging matters, and no place will ever be “the” place without that bond and love and connection with the people around you.

How can I love a place without loving (at least most of) the people who live there? Am I so shallow as to love a pretty view but not the people, the stories, the interrelation of the people who are there?

The thing about creating or finding community  and the place where I belong is ever present if not on my mind than in my heart.

I don’t want to ever be isolated, separated or lonely again.

I may not be totally rocking the social scene. I’m still a quiet, wild woman, silent sort that needs more time in the trees than in town – but finally I learned I do need that time in town. With people. Connecting. Belonging. And much to my surprise, it feels so good.

Yes, it’s scary. Yes I am often still afraid.

But I have to. That’s the courage I’m building.

Though I may choose to live “way out there,” reaching out regularly allows me to live as I do, and be a part, not apart.

I am a part of humanity.

And it’s a good place to be.

Wherever that physical place may be.

And yeah, that’s the biggie I’m working on.

People are basically good. Everywhere. And I can find my people where ever I go. If I have the courage enough to open.

So the question in my heart now is, how do I figure out that balance of loving the land and the people who live there, and choosing where we are meant to remain?

How can I choose one place when I find a connection with people I meet all over the place?

Oh, that’s a biggie. I’ll save all that for another time.

I’ll conclude with a few updates from the past few days. Nothing ground breaking quite yet. Soon. Believe me, you’re not near as anxious as we are to get moving forward on this big job. But before working there is living, and right now, we’re still working on those details, and there are a lot, because it’s not just about building, it’s about living, and living takes a lot, and living does come first. A lot of little details, and some big ones too, like working on the road to access our camp and worksite with some seriously Old Iron and gravel from our land.

And the shed. Oh the shed! The shed is an amazingly awesomely wonderful gift from Bob’s sister that is turning into something we didn’t know how bad we needed, and now wonder how we’d manage without. It’s got enough room to house all our tools on shelves in plain sight, have a work table out of the elements (and elements are a thing up here, with rain and hail a daily thing). And though the shed also serves as safe storage for all those things we managed to stuff in the horse trailer on the way out here, we’re finding it even provides us with a mud room – a place to leave our muddy boots and hang out weather gear, and up here, that’s a mighty appreciated thing. It’s huge – big enough to live in, far bigger than our humble camper. Though rest assured, it’s not going to stop us from building. Just help us along the way.

The things that were easy and reliable for me to share back in California – the constant and reliable beauty and abundance of the garden we created – well, not so much here. Between the mice and mornings still freezing regularly,  my so-called garden, though covered with agribon and a heavy tarp at night, is not a happy place.

Though the rest of the wilds here are. And wild it is. With endless room to roam and mountains to wander and treasures to observe. All in all, it’s big and wide and wild and my heart and soul are soaring with the ever-changing but all the same expansive view before me.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin