It’s changing.

Seems like it’s early this year. When the clouds cleared this morning, I looked for snow on the peaks around our valley. Not yet. It’s close though. I feel it.

There’s frost on my boots in the cold gray morning as I let the horses out for the day. Breaking ice upon the water bowl as the chickens remain in the coop until the sun brings promise of golden warmth.

Across the valley, grasses brown. Flowers are fading, turning to seed. The landscape changes to earth tones. Browns and tans, greens and grays. Late blooming gentians and asters and ever blessing yarrow remain. Tips of the willows along the creek and a few patches of aspen start to strut their stuff and we are stirred with the excitement of changing seasons, the promise of vibrant color, and then the ensuing calm that will cover the land when the snows begin to fall.

I long to be a part of the seasons in one place, continuous and connected in the ever changing cycle, a part of the quietness that winter brings with her heavy cloak of white holding us down tight. I want to witness the frozen air of dry brown autumn wind turning pale as grass clings fiercely to its seeds, defiantly refusing to bow under the first snows of fall. And then I will yearn for swollen buds on the tops of aspen to promise new life in spring and await the late greening grasses to fill the horses’ bellies after a long, cold winter sustained on dry hay.

I may not be here to see that, feel that, this year, but I know it will happen some day soon. I am eager, but will wait my turn, will wait for this cabin to be finished, the barn built, and a wood shed stocked plum full.

Now I sit in our little camper, waiting out another rain storm loud on the thin metal roof, staring out of rain streaked windows at the solid cabin calling to be built.

In here with seemingly incessant drumming overhead, having trouble sitting still when what I want to do, what I’m called to do, is get that roof going up… it is a test of patience, when after all the tests of patience I have endured, what is one more? I will not pace the minimal floor space of the tiny camper; instead take a deep breath, inhale, exhale, let it go, and get to work… writing.

After all, I still got some ‘splainin’ to do…

Reminiscing on Riverwind:

               Out on the deck, beneath stars and under branches of old oak trees, I lay in bed, sheets still warm and worn, enwrapped by gentle wind, the song of the river and my husband’s gentle breathing. He lays beside me, already asleep, our limbs still intertwined, back to belly, belly to back. A lullaby of crickets and tree frogs and the honey fragrance of flowering madrone enchant me. I listen to white noise wafting up through night air to where we made our bed, serenaded by sounds of water flowing over smooth rocks, ever moving, ever changing, reverberating with the promise of impermanence.

               It is both time and love that heal all wounds.

As for that bomb we dropped? Yes….It’s true. We have chosen to part with our beloved Riverwind , and be with this high wild land.

You can click HERE to see the listing.

Please may I share the song of Riverwind and boast of an ode to that haven of a homestead tucked away in the mountains along the wild and scenic river? It was a transformation of heart and hearth, healing the land as we healed our souls, creatively toiling to bring the land to life. I will share it all some day. For now, I will let the silence of that peaceful place sing for itself.  

It will not change hands over night, as it was not built nor brought back to life that quickly too. Things take time out here. What’s the rush, you say? And part of me longs for the tranquility of the place that healed our souls as we healed the land.

Yet there is also the part that says, when you are ready to move on, move. Why cling to what you must release?

Sounds easy. It is not.

The hardest part is the people. Leaving people. Leaving community. Leaving the family and friends I have known and loved on and off for nearly thirty years. My closest family (G&S), my sisters (Jan, Cindy, Lori, Christina and more who have opened their heart and soul to include me over all these years as we wove our own stories and shared seeds and recipes, roots and cuttings, and a camaraderie and connection that I will never replace.

But really… I don’t want to write of that now. It’s hard. It hurts. And I’m not gone yet.

So yes, there’s lots more to say and share but for now, I’m changing the subject. It’s not really denial. More like just distraction.

So without further ado, here are some updates on cabin building.

We’ve been at it almost three months. In that time, we got a solid access road built, dirt work/site prepped and foundation dug out, wash water system in, well and pump, concrete footer and stem wall poured, floor joists and subfloor installed, wood beams defining walls, windows and doors roughed out, and most recently, ridge beam and rafters hoisted up and into place.

Next, we’re going to get those roof panels raised, metal on the roof, and close in the windows and walls. And of course, install a wood stove.

I’m thinking it might actually all get done.

Before the snow flies? Well on that, we’ll see.

Here are a few pictures and videos explaining how it works.

I know… Seems like it’s all Bob. Some days it feels that way. I’m just the back up guy. The one with the level and tape, pot and pan, handing him the drill, trying to manhandle the timbers, climbing the ladder, catching the beam, and trying to get it to land just so. Remarkably, it often does. But Bob, he’s the chainsaw guy. Which means, he’s been the one to actually fell all the trees, prep them for milling, and once hauled clear across the west as he’s done, then cut the timbers to length. That means a lot of handling and cutting for each log that goes into place. For Christmas last year, I got him this really cool tool. Not real romantic, I know… It’s called Big Foot, an attachment to a chainsaw that enables you to cut angles really true. Not just 90 degrees, but whatever angle we need. Figure, adjust, set and saw, and there you have it. We make it sound easier than we make it work, but it does work. I mean, look at all the angles he already cut. Most are 90 degrees, but those gable ends end up beautiful (beauty being in the eye of the builder, of course).

It’s going along good. Right on schedule, which is a pretty impressive thing for a couple of older folks who should be wise enough to know better than to start all over again.

               I am getting there. Closer to that place deep inside that whispers, “Welcome home.”

               Connection comes, with land as with people, in time and age and stories. It comes with living through droughts and floods, fires we fend off together and snow storms that keep us apart. It comes with seeing our children grow and our parents age and our dreams emerge and some things fall and fail while others take root and grow.

               Some of us are seekers. You know, always looking. For something. Usually ourselves. That’s what I think I’m finally finding.

               And in the meanwhile, I will settle in some days, and move around on other days. I will try and sometimes fail. I will give and sometimes falter. I will work and tire and wake again and get back out there again and again. I will tend and plant and nurture. I will dream. I will love. And I will live. Not like my parents wanted me to. Not like society expected me to. Not like I thought I would have, should have, could have. Probably not like anyone else. But finally at fifty-eight, I’m growing my own skin, comfortable with my bones, able to look in the mirror and though I may wince for a moment at what I see, for the woman looking back at me is much older than I thought I’d ever be, I’m learning to feel at home in that skin and bones that is me.

               I am growing up.

               That does not mean I will suddenly be serious and stern. I will not wash up and get a desk job. I will not be that boring, stuffy, straight, sensible-shoe sort I used to think all grown-ups had to be. I don’t plan on cutting my hair nor keeping my fingernails clean. Chances are I won’t ever become the one to say the right thing at the right time, and certainly won’t ever have all the answers. Nor will I stop making mistakes, dusting myself off, and trying yet again. Maybe I won’t ever settle down.

               As you see, I’m not there yet.

               Maybe we never arrive.

               Maybe this has all been growing pains, the changing of the tides through the turbulent sea of midlife and menopause and the pursuit for finding the forever place, as I furiously worked my way out of one shell and built a new one around me.

               We all have a story. This is mine. Chances are, you have felt this too. It’s a simple tale, old as time. A story of seeking, forever seeking, some sense of belonging. And getting to that place of realizing what we’ve been running after is within us all along.

This summer was meant to be about more than building. It was a chance to see if I’d fall for the land.

Guess what?

I did.

A part of me woke up here. A feral part, admittedly, but a part all the same.

The wilds. Drive me. Wild.

In wild places, with room to roam, my soul not only stirs, it soars.

This is my temple.

This is my therapist.

This is where I belong.

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin