Here. Now.

Where autumn gently unfurls, brown and gold, rich and lush, closing us into the season with winds stirring from a distant sea and majestic trees dripping with mushrooms and moss.

Where deciduous leaves turn from vernal green to glowing gold and burnt crimson while wild skies turn from unbroken blue to strata grey and the steady sound of rain dancing on metal roofs equals that of the swelling river.

Oh the river, the placental web of this wild and free land, where salmon appear like magic this year, making their maiden voyage and a splash in the news, glimmering and slithering their way through rapids as we watch in awe from the kitchen table while the coffee gets cold and homemade bread and farm fresh eggs are left lingering on the plate pushed to the side so we don’t miss a moment of this magnificent show.

Where I’m fed generously by the land, pampered by spring water and warm moist air, the abundance of the garden, and luxuries of indoor plumbing and a queen sized bed.

Yes…

And at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.

Except maybe there.

Where ice spreads like wildfire, snow settles in and brown grass stands strong, defiantly poking its way through wind drifted white, and the ominous sky stirs a primal hunger somewhere deep between our ribs, buried tight beneath layer after layer of wool and down.

Where expansiveness and spaciousness and intensity of thin air, and the bigness of high and wild that rip your breath away make you realize what it means to be fully alive.        

My heart is torn.

Torn between the good boy, and the bad boy… It’s always been a thing for me.

Between high and wild, and low and lush. Between strong and gentle, between hard and soft. Maybe there is a middle ground, but I am not a middle person.

How can I love two lands?

It’s as complicated as having two lovers.

Can a person dream more than one dream?

Can we love two places at once or must we be monogamous? I yearn to be wed to a place, tied to the land, faithfully remain, grounded…

As I am committed to my man, so do I long to be to the land.

Twenty something years ago, I finally found a man willing and able to live the wild way I want. And as luck would have it, we fell in love: hard, fast and solid. But finding “home” together, the place where we both belong, has been a trip, a joint quest, twisting and tangling our way as far south as Argentina and north to Alaska, and too many places to count in between.

At the end of the day, at least for today, we find ourselves back where we started. Only, I’m from a different place than he. Must we decide between the two, between his and hers, when what we have both found is that we love one place as we love the other, as long as we are with one another?

The apple does not fall far from the tree, some say.

But some of us have planted more than one tree.

I am no closer to being decided where I belong. I know it’s not the people. There are good folks here, and good folks there. It is the land and what it does to me somewhere deep inside, the stirring of dreams, both of which I never knew could be so tempting until I tasted them.

Here, at Riverwind, we are finally caught up.

After months of preparing this place for our being gone over summer, milling timbers to take, sowing seeds to plant, preparing this place for our absence; followed by four months in the high country where we were either working or tired or hungry and too often plenty of all three; then returning to get this place back in shape, ready to show, and in the process meticulously tending the land we have nurtured and groomed and polished like a hidden gem found within a river rock finally allowed to shine…

As we sat by the fire in last light of day, we gazed around in awe. Tired and sore, it felt good. We have cared well for the land. It’s what we do. We’re worker bees. Stewards of the land. What would we rather be doing?

And where would we rather be?

At this very moment, right here, right now, I am content. I am where I am meant to be.

For now there is settling in. Acceptance. Grounding. And I know I am where I need to be. What tomorrow brings will be revealed when tomorrow comes.

For now I need time. Time to write. Finally. Some days it feels long over due. Other days, it feels just right. There has been time to soak it in, to let it ripen, and now time to pull the cork and savor the story as it begins to pour forth, dark and rich and robust.

Finish what you start. This past summer I committed to get a cabin built with my husband with lumber we harvested and milled 1250 miles away. We did. Two summers before that I committed to heading out horseback across the west, out there on some inner journey, to see where the open road would lead me. I did. A long quiet ride.

But you know what? When I set off on that journey, my intention was to write, to share the story, have it be my next book.

Now it’s time to get that done. Write that story. How it really was. Much more than I could share from the road, the little bread crumbs on my blog posted to keep my family and friends assured I was still alive.

Writing the story of the journey will complete that chapter, sharing what I set out to find, and what I found, and sharing the reality of the trip along the way. It was a wild ride. I think you might enjoy. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s all make believe. You can decide for yourself.

And then perhaps I will finally be to the point where I no longer have to prove myself to me.

And then what? Maybe after that summer, and last, maybe just maybe I can slow down, settle in and savor just being.

Where ever I may be.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin