This is not for those who want a quick one liner to rapidly read, cringe at or smile, and go on about your day. I ramble.

For those with the patience and interest to read, I hope you’ll relate and enjoy. And for those to whom I have yet to respond to your always appreciated comments to the last rambling I wrote… I am sorry. It matters, you matter, and it all comes in time.

Time. Slips. Away.

This morning, the regular light frosts of summer turned to a heavy freeze.

I woke to frosty breath, arms and legs wrapped tight around my man to keep warm. Now with the little heater turned on and the sun up over a full ridge south from where it was two months ago, our little camper drips with condensation, streaking the windows, making a little puddle on the wool rug and wet spot on the table cloth beside me as I write. The thermometer read a mere 25 degrees. What will it feel like at 25 below?

Sure, the roof is done, and in another week or so, Bob and I will have the walls and windows closed in. The shell will be complete.

But we won’t move into that shell just yet. Building is more than making a shell, and it takes more than a shell to live up here, out here. You gotta be prepared. You gotta know. You gotta have some things lined out. A shed full of firewood is of the essence. Likewise a pantry put up for when you’re snowed in. Closed in shelter for us, the horses, the chickens who still call the horse trailer home. Indoor plumbing would be sweet and an outdoor spigot for horse water when the creek freezes over, which this morning reminded me, will be a thing.

These things take time.

It’s not that easy here. The cold and harsh and isolation are real. Not forgiving. You gotta take care of what needs to be taken care of because there is not much margin for error.

And you gotta be tough.

Some days I tire of tough. I want to soften.

I can’t – at least not just yet.

Toughen up and finish up.

In the meanwhile… this morning, reality hits. I’m thinking about how close we are to finishing this part of the project. And thinking about how much more still needs to be done.

I’m whining. I’m sorry. I want to be stronger. Tougher. Harder.

But at the same time, I want to soften. I’m tired of being badass sometimes and want to settle in and be held and cared for and pampered, but that’s not how it is for me. Not the marriage I have. And though on days like this it sounds tempting, it’s really not what I want.

If you want me to soften, allow me a place in which I feel safe to be soft.

Building a balance between a rock and a soft place.

Where did summer go?

When the thermometer rises to fifty, we’ve been getting our yoga mats and spreading out for field yoga to begin our day. That won’t happen today. It won’t reach 50 until mid day, and this morning the ground is covered with a hard heavy frost. The coffee pot and cups were frozen down to the counter outside where we wash.

I know where summer went. I see it in the finished roof and nearly closed in walls and windows. I feel it in my tired arms from wrestling timbers into place, sore legs from up and down the ladder as we set the roof and laid the metal, and skin weathered and worn with the only reprieve a ball cap for shade and the occasional bath in that outdoor horse trough heated beneath by fire.

Now as I look out there from the window of the little camper windows veiled with condensation (the only running water to be had in this camper) I am proud of what we have done of course. And at the same time, see how much more we still have to do. Opening (and tightly closing) doors. Floors and ceilings. Window trim and interior walls. Exterior finish and backfilled soil. Cabinets, counters and shelves. Tables and chairs and a bed. An indoor bathroom. With running hot water. And all the pretty things that make a house a home for me: curtains and rugs and pictures on the wall; candles and crystals and racks for my cast iron pans.

The horse barn and greenhouse will come before that. I have my priorities straight. Like most of the horsewomen I know, I don’t sleep well unless I know my critters are sleeping well. So the next project will be the barn. Before such luxuries as that running hot water.

Next year.

But for now, be here and now.

What do we need to do today? Oh yes, poke a hole through the brand new roof to install the pipe for a woodstove.

And as the season passes far too quickly, or so it seems, so does time.

Where does it go?

At some point in the process of losing time, you wake one day and realize not only your youth, but the first half or more of your life is… gone.

It’s not that I’m afraid of aging and honestly, I don’t really feel old, whatever that is supposed to feel like. It’s just that there’s so much more to do and it feels as if time is running out. It’s like one friend told me, as is the case with the end of the roll of toilet paper. Things go faster the closer you get to the end.

My energy is not what it once was, and maybe that’s okay. I’ve spent plenty of years buzzing like a bee and running like a feral dog. Slowing down ain’t all bad. I am not who and what I was in my thirties when I would wake before five to have enough time to write, light the fires and feed my family, could single handedly saddle a string and guide horseback rides, come home to straddle a log and peel the bark the old fashioned way for the cabin we were building then. And then wash up mighty quickly in a cold concrete slab showerhouse, put on the apron and cook up a lovely feast for a crew.

No, I’m not that person anymore. And I don’t wish to be. I don’t look back longingly. It was hard. I’m good leaving the past in the past. What I’ve got now is wonderful. And maybe even who I have matured into doesn’t feel too bad to be.

Matured. As in, grown up? Finally? I dunno. Maybe.

I don’t really know what that feels like. I just see what it’s starting to look like.

I want to let my hair go grey and my skin show the road map of my life in lines. I want to be at peace with what time and life and living does. Maybe even proud.

I don’t want to look shiny and new, young and untouched by years and experience nor as someone sheltered from the elements. I don’t want to be plastic and pulled tight and fight gravity and try to be something I am not and don’t care to be any more. I am deeper than that. Richer. Happier! Beauty is found in diversity, in black and white and all the shades of gray. I’m not interested in trying to be today what I was yesterday.

Honoring the changes of time. Accepting of how life happens.

At the same time, it’s strange to see myself not who and what I was even ten years ago. My image is not what I expect. I don’t want to be vain. But I think for most of us, it’s harder to find beauty in frosted wildflowers turning brown for the season, in withered leaves and shriveled fruit turned to seed.

There’s not much of a mirror here at camp, but I caught a good glimpse of my head in this little tin decoration hung on the outhouse door. The sun was shining and the light caught the juxtaposition of mirror and me just right. And guess what? I was shocked.

When did my hair get so gray?

When did I get so old?

This summer aged me.

It’s not an easy life here. It’s hard and harsh, though it is what I choose. But it takes its toll on me too. The image I saw shocked me. It looked as if I am withering and wrinkling, yet I still feel tough as nails and strong as I ever was. Strong as I need to be to live this life we’re living.

And yet…

Some days I want to be more. Or maybe it is less.

Pretty for my husband. Girly. Soft. Gentle.

I want him to look at me and still say, “Wow.” And yet I know it has never been those words I just used that he ever used on me… and yet he still said, “Wow.”

If you haven’t noticed, all the photos of construction are always of Bob, and the few that have come here to help. (Thank you, Chris and Lee and Forrest!) Never of me. Huh. Makes a person wonder, no doubt. I’m the one who takes the photos. Yet I’m also the one up there, out there, cutting, drilling, screwing, lifting, lowering, and staring in wonder and awe (often through the lens) at what we managed to build. Together. As Bob reminded yet another person giving him all the credit, as those of us women in so-called men’s worlds are used to hearing, we’re in this one together. I just don’t have the photos to prove my point.

Alas… I want a little leisure and comfort and ease. Just a little would be nice.

I want to wear nice clothes, at least clean ones. Without holes. We’re not talking dresses, dress boots, slick hair and make-up and that sort of thing. But more than what I see when I show up for work wearing the same work pants I have worn all summer long (testament to how impressive these Dovetail Workwear women’s work pants are, I dare say). Or I sit down for dinner and I’m still kinda feeling dirty and disheveled and wish I could look a little more like the lovely ladies I see on social media, primped and pimped and preened, with bright red botox lips and false furry lashes, hair dyed and quaffed just so, painted nails and skin pulled so tight it reminds of the old lady in the movie “Brazil.”

No, I really don’t wish to be her.

That woman is beautiful too. But she is not me.

I guess what you see is what you get.

Some of us are meant to be rough and rustic, rawhide and worn, warm leather, flannel shirts and dirt in our nails and our hair pushed back by the wind.

Am I right in feeling I’m not the only one?

I wish I believed that with age comes is wisdom.

We know that’s not always the case.

Without contemplation and reflection and the compassion of true understanding, age is but a number.

I want it to be more.

I want to have something to share, to give, to be a safe place where others can come to soften.

I want you to know what took me too long to learn.

And I am wise enough to know you will have to learn for yourself.

I want to share the lessons that took me way too long to figure out.

And I know you too will one day kick yourself for having had to wait so long.

I want to continue to learn. Something, every day. For as long as I am blessed to live, to age, to grow old.

For now, I sit back and stare out these wet windows onto the worksite that’s calling me loudly, “Get back to work, woman. There’s things to do.”

Time is a wasting.

Winter’s coming.

There will be time to write when we’re settled into the season. I’ll make damn sure of it.

In the meanwhile, no time to be soft. Time to build. To kick ass. To get it done.

I got it.

Oh, one more thing before I leave you today.

Remember Harry? The snowshoe hare the dog found on the drive to our camp? The little feller grew beautifully. He was ready to go. And so, we released him back to the wilds this week. You know there was a twinge of that bittersweet sadness as we set him free, even though we knew that is where he was meant to be.  

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin