Author: Gin Getz

Good advice

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Alright, this one got long. Grab a cup of coffee and sit back when you have some time, if you’re willing to read it through.

At my age, you start to hear it more often:

You should teach that! With all your years and experience, you have so much to share! Is this a compliment, or another way to tell me I’m getting old?

In my case, it’s stuff like herbs, wild crafting, writing, cooking and baking, off grid living, and horses, which I spent a lot of years already doing.

There are plenty of experts out there. I have no interest in being one.

See, I’ve never believed I would be a good teacher because I still feel the best way to learn is by figuring it out yourself. Not being told by someone else how to do things their way. Find your own damn way.

 At least, that’s how it works for me. Always thought it would be easier if someone could give me the answers. But then is that really learning, or is it remembering what someone once told you? For wisdom to sink into your bones and your belly, you have to live it. Yourself. Your own unique path. All the damned mistakes, misunderstandings, misjudgments, mess-ups and all.

Funny thing is, all the same, I’ve always secretly longed for a teacher, a guide, a guru. Sometimes just for reassurance. Because more often than not, likely I won’t agree with what he or she is telling me. But it’s a good prompt. It’s comforting. And people love to give advice so they can feel they have all the answers. But is it always in your best interest? That’s for you to figure out.

Sometimes help is a great thing. The encouragement of courage. The direction for taking the next step when sometimes you can’t see where your feet are meant to go. And it reminds you, you are not alone. Which with writing, can be a thing.

Other times, you need to figure it out yourself. After all, it is your path, and your feet ultimately that will walk it.

I think it comes down to this: Do you believe in yourself? And do you believe in others?

Believing in yourself in so far as you can stop counting on others for wisdom you already have or will figure out. Everyone is not wiser, better or more than you. You got what you need, got what it takes. You got your own trip around the sun. You have the ability to make it brighter every year. No one ever can do that for you.

Believing in others in so far as trusting that they too have the wisdom they seek inside them. They can figure it out for themselves. You are neither better nor less than them. They don’t need you to teach them your trip. You are not the expert. Everyone’s got their own trip. Let them take it.

Okay but… truth is, I have worked with coaches, and I love that. They’re different. Coaches help you find your own answers. They don’t give you theirs. That’s fun. That helps. They are more like cheerleaders. Not teachers, guides or gurus. And who amongst us couldn’t use some cheering on?

Mentors are similar, with the added bonus of they might hold a little more weight. They might actually have something you are looking for. Maybe answers. Maybe a career or life path you’re trying to follow. Sometimes a specific skill or trade or way of thinking. Good stuff here too. And a good reminder that this is where age and accrued wisdom really pays off – when you are able to share it with others. Not just amass it for your self. What good is that?

Though do remember that wisdom does not necessarily come with age. It’s not a guarantee any more than expecting wisdom to come from books or school or teachers telling you. It comes from experiencing those truths, yourself, then contemplating what they mean. It comes from learning by living. Not just going through the motions, but understanding them. Wisdom is the beautiful balance between knowledge, experience and deep understanding. Age can be on your side there.

All this rambling is inspired by this.

This past week I’ve been spending a lot more time than usual at my desk staring at the screen. In part because of the rain. In part because it’s work. Not the fun, inspiring, creative writing of getting my latest book moving along. This week has been work to get the book proposal (for A Long Quiet Ride) ready to send out. This is big and scary stuff. Finally reaching out to the pros and saying, “Is this good enough? Am I good enough?”

Of course what I really want is someone to tell me, “Yes that is good” before I even send it out. But no one does. First of all because no one but Bob has seen it. Though of course he always says it’s good.

Where are the mentors when you need one? The elders who can lend an ear, or a hand? When we’re really feeling lost, that’s when we most want a guide or guru. This week I was feeling I needed one. Guidance. Answers. Direction. A pat on the back. Something.

And then I got the answer I needed.

It came in the form of an owl.

If you take things as signs (as I tend to do), you know Owl is a symbol for inner wisdom. She’s also a symbol of the Divine Feminine.

Last time Owl came to me was after my long quiet ride, on our ride back from Colorado to California. It’s dark early morning, Bob’s driving out of the place where we camped for a few hours for a quick rest, almost halfway home, somewhere in Nevada. Crow and Bayjura are rocking back in the trailer, calm and still despite the movement of the trailer after all they’d been through. We’re pushing it, rushing to get home because we heard Canela was missing. As we ease out of the parking lot onto Highway 50, an owl crashes into the windshield. Hard. I knew it had died. I cried and screamed because I knew what it meant. Canela was dead.

This time, this past week, this handsome little fellow crashed into the glass on my kitchen door. Chances are he was after the phoebe who lives in the eve over the door. I rushed out to check on him, so afraid of what I’d find. Lifted his limp body in my hands and held him close to my chest as I brought him inside.

A moment later, I felt his talons grip strong on the flesh of my palm and my heart alighted. Within minutes, he was able to fly free.

I shared that story this weekend with a couple of soul sister poets with whom I get to gather with online once a month.

“You already have the mentor you need,” one blurted out firmly.

You know sometimes when you hear the right answer (even sometimes when you don’t want to) it hits you in the gut strong like a punch? Bam. Yes. You know it’s true.

This was one such time.

“What more of a mentor do you need?” she continued.

“Draw on your connection with the Earth, with the Divine Feminine.

She knows where you need to be, what you need to do. Ask her. Within.”

Yup. Gotcha.

The choice is yours.

How do you choose to see?

With self empowering wisdom? Balancing understanding with a continual childlike open mind?

Or feeling you don’t know enough, don’t have enough, aren’t enough, and all the answers will come from someone else? Like where, what? The perfect parent, teacher or Prince Charming?

It’s not just for work, like getting this proposal together. It’s about life.

A friend wrote recently so sad that as a new mom not enough people where showing up, helping out. When I was a young single mom, likely I felt the same way. But that’s grumbling, whining, blaming, being the victim of our life rather than the creator.

I asked her who she reached out to in kind. She hadn’t. Ah ha!

If you need a friend, go be a friend.

Don’t wait.

Don’t be the victim of your own life.

Have the courage to reach out, create connection.

Have the courage to do something beautiful for someone else.

There’s healing in that.

There’s connection in that.

There’s love in that.

We all want the same stuff. We want to feel safe, to belong, to be loved.

If you want something, if you need something, nobody knows but you. Don’t wait for someone to carry it to you when chances are they have their own issues holding them down. Go get it. Chances are, they will receive you, beautifully.

Sounds like I’m giving advice. Really, I’m just talking to myself. Reminding myself. Or trying to drum the wisdom in.

So what’s the best advice I was probably given, didn’t listen to, and eventually had to just figure out?

(besides “give more than you take,” “listen without judgments or assumptions,” and maybe just “be good.”)

It’s this:

The answers you’re looking for, the advice you’re seeking… It’s already in you.

Listen.

Inside.

Not to something or someone out there. Not all the time at least. Not for the really big stuff, or the ultimate answers.

Be your own guru.

You have heard this too.

Others can point to the moon, but only you can find your way there.

Life will test us, allow us to learn, hopefully not always the hard way.

If you’re gonna leap, and I hope you do, get to weaving your own damn net.

Find your own answers. Your own truth. Your own goodness and beauty and truth.

Stop looking out there.

Start looking in here.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

A rainy day

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Sometimes

it takes a rainy day

just to let you know

everything’s gonna be

alright.

(today i’m simply sharing some of the beauty from yesterdays warm wet storm, along side this sweet old song by Cris Willamson that I remembered while standing out under the soft rain)

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Simple late winter welcoming.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Today I’m simply sharing some pictures from yesterday (yes, even the blooming flowers), and a little lilting piece (from something bigger) I was working on and thought you might enjoy.

               Here.

               Now.

               Early morning.

               A morning like so many in the six years I have called this place home.

               Familiarity grows like the pear trees planted along the side of the creek, an amaryllis started on Solstice preparing to bloom on the window sill over the kitchen sink, blackberries and poison oak that promise to sprout and spread even in places you wish they would not.

               In the quiet hours before the sun hints at awakening, with full moon low in the west veiled behind a lavish shroud of fog, I wake with arms and legs around my sleeping man. I am comfortable with his earthy scent and even breath and a little reluctant to rise. I slip on sweats, pull the covers back up around him, then quietly find my way around in the dark.

               Stepping over snoozing dogs, lighting the wood stove, filling the coffee pot at that kitchen sink, all as I have done so many mornings before. I feel the ease in knowing where I am and what to expect. What time the sun clears the mountain to the east. When to hope for the last frost late spring and when the first frost of fall will arrive. What bird belongs to the flicker of wings that distracted me from my work or the song that rises each morning around the same time I wake. When to turn the soil, start the seeds, when to water, and when to drain or cover pipes. When to watch for leaves turning gold and brown blowing down, and when to look for new life at the tip of each naked branch, swollen and slowly unfurling in fertile subtleties.

               Familiar. Is it the place or the pattern? For I have done this here. And I have done this other places I have been, and still will be.

               This place, this pattern, has become familiar; intimate and expected as the view out that kitchen window which as the sun comes up and chores are done, awakens to an ever green pasture where horses graze, chickens free range, dogs play, and a brave cat or two may creep cautiously not too far from the house.

               Familiar too is the sound, the ever present prevailing sound of the river, which ebbs from summer’s gentle roil over smooth rocks ever shaped by the ever movement of the ever changing flow – to winters rage and roar. A sound so familiar I often forget it is there.

               In this semi-silence I am able to hold the world, embrace it like a big bear having found a honey hole, and my heart feels full.

               Comfort in the familiar.

               I do not take these things for granted. I have known what the unknown feels like. I think I’ll choose a balance of the two. The first keeps me grounded. The second, on my toes. Both can be magical or mundane.

               The same worn boots left by the back door. Same old truck parked out front. Same cast iron pans curing on the wood cook stove. Same table, same chairs, same sofa, same rug. Same silly jokes that still make me laugh every time.

               And comfort in accepting change, as the road map of my life unfurls on my face. Stories embedded within wrinkles that spread across my skin like dusty webs, and every graying hair that begins to outnumber the brown. I can laugh at my own fleeting vanity, because truth is, though I’m not thrilled with how I look now, I can’t say I ever was. Good looks are not what got me where I am. I’m more of a guts and grit sort of gal.

               The inner landscape has changed, too. There is a calmer storm blowing within me now. Muddy waters have stilled and settled. Menopause, depression and drinking have been left behind. Hot flashes and explosive emotions have subsided. I sure don’t miss them. Neither does Bob.

               Some days I look within and expect those frightening facets to surface again. But they do not. Can I claim to have slayed those evil beasts? Or rather, did they simply fade away, one more good thing that comes with age?

               So it is into this calmer, quieter space that I feel myself finding a new familiar. Settling in. Not that I’m settled down; it’s more like the gradual un-letting of the belt cinched around my well worn levi jeans. You can only fight it for so long. Then you stop holding in, exhale, let it out a notch, and realize it’s not such a bad place to be.

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

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

January leaves.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

With a wooden palette strapped onto the forks of the tractor, Bob makes a platform upon which to stand for washing the high windows overlooking the river. Hillbilly ingenuity. Not OSHA approved. Tends to be how we do things. And we get them done. I think of all the years we ran the guest ranch business and weekly window washing of these huge picture windows on the south sides of several rental cabins was part of the Saturday morning workout. On second thought, I’d rather not think about that.

Now the windows sparkle and the river course shines luminous, unencumbered. A heron perched in a lofty ponderosa just up and to the right of Bob’s head as we linger at the breakfast table catches my eye. We’re not in a rush to get back out there. It’s cold. Takes a while for subtle winter sun to do its thing. The heron, we notice, is waiting too. He’s up there preening as the sun clears the mountain to the east. Even as I open and close the window between us to take his picture, he’s going no where in a hurry.

Later I sit at my writing table, and with newly clean windows front and center, the view is distracting. Long shadows seemingly dancing through fir trees across frosty ground on the shady path. The radiance of the river. The intrigue of gnarled branches and swollen tips on ancient oaks. Birds. Don’t get me started on them.

Keep your head down, I tell myself, and get back to work. We’re getting there. Writing is slow. Hard some days. Some days I just wish it were done. Not unlike the journey I’m writing about. Well, not quite that challenging. Though it is somewhat amusing that writing about an adventure takes longer than taking the adventure. What’s with that?

It could be easy. There’s an easier way. There’s this tab I could click on my computer screen. It says, “help me write button.” Really. What’s with that? I’m not going to find out what it does, how it works, but even seeing it freaks me out. As in, is this the future of writing? Is this the future of creating? Of art? I don’t like it. I’m not going there. It took me until two and half years ago before I even got a phone. I’m still cursing it, but it’s a mighty powerful tool. Will I one day say the same of AI?

Yet I can’t help but cringe. Can computers be programmed to create? To feel? What about imagination? Art is an expression of the human experience. It is emotive. Are we programming computers to try to do this for us? To express passion and pain, grief and joy, fear and comfort, loneliness and belonging? All of these are shared through art. Can we resort to machines for conveying these universal emotions, this part of the human experience, or the experience we once called human? The uniqueness and best of life lies in our capacity to feel. Feelings are the delicate threads that hold humanity together. They are tested severely right now in real life. Hope lies in allowing our hearts to sense these threads that hold us, weave us all together. Art in all its shapes and forms helps us convey those threads. Seems to me, what we need is more depth and clarity to the real deal, not a quick cop out. We need to both feel deeply and see the humanity in everyone. That is where beauty lies, even in diversity and differences. Or maybe even because of those things.

This is the creative process. Creativity, expressed through writing, painting, music, dance, any of the arts, draws humanity together with these fine threads consciously woven of mystery, wonder and awe. This is a universal truth.

What happens if we take these cords away? Is that where discord arises? Can computers feel? Can they be compassionate? At what point will we draw the line of progress?

I wonder how far from the consciousness of emotions will we wander, and what the threat to their expressions entail. How far we may go? How far from creating, from feeling, from compassion, from the human experience? When will know the limits, know when we are going too far?

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Standing.

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

This has nothing to do with writing or rain or riding through the wilds.

It’s political.

Because I choose not to be.

I don’t get what’s up with our world. But I can’t not see it. So what’s a gal to do? You see; you feel; you care. And then what? At some point, you’re gonna stand up and do something. Hopefully, something good. We all need that.

More and more of us can’t watch the news. Bad for mental health. It’s like watching a brutal boxing match, or ancient gladiators in a pit, or a really bad WWE show. Two sides in a barbaric fight, a fight to the death, while the spectators, show leaders and ringmasters egg the battle on, laughing at the foolish, bloody pawns they’re playing against each other.

No thanks.

If I was standing on the fence, which at times I feel I am, how could I choose sides when at their core, both sides are good? Good folks with good values wanting a good life for their children, but somehow pushed to this dark place of devaluing and dehumanizing the other side.

“We’re not the same,” some friends say about other friends.

Bullshit.

Y’all look the same to me.

Y’all want to be safe.

Y’all want to belong.

Y’all want to be loved.

So why are we ripping one another apart?

I don’t care what side of the fence you stand on.

Because it is not a fence between two sides or walls between us that will keep us safe when the danger is already within. Building bridges, not walls, is what will make us stronger.

Remember these bold words of Ronald Reagan, “Tear down this wall!”

Let’s do it. All of us. No matter what side you stand on.

There’s no room within this country for walls.

Me, I’m gonna kick the bricks when I see them stacking.

Not kick the builder, the contractor or even the client wanting them stacked.

I’m standing together. With all of you. With this country. With my home.

United we stand.

Divided we fall.

Remember?

I’m standing.

Please, stand strong, people. Together. Without a stinking wall between us.

One Nation. Under God. Indivisible. With Liberty. And Justice. For all.

I might be a sappy idealist and optimist, but I’d rather go down feeling like I’m doing the right thing, a good thing, and helping my neighbor rather throwing bricks at him.

I’d rather see the beauty that is all around and in everyone, because no matter what I’m told, shown or news I’m fed, it’s there. Beautiful stuff. Good stuff. And love.

Yes, there’s a lotta junk and bad stuff too. But you know the story: What wolf do you choose to feed?

Fear fuels hatred. Don’t be a weenie. Have courage. Choose love.

May all be safe.

May all belong.

May all be loved.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Simple musing.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Mornings hang cold and heavy, mysterious, shrouded in thick fog. Woods aglow in emerald moss. Branches draped in languid swaths of lichen. Water drops cling to swollen tips of the oaks gnarled branches. By mid day, the ground clouds dissolve into high blue sky, revealing distant hills dusted with snow. Sun is a welcomed visitor, warming sprouted starts in the greenhouse, while cats lay in its illumination sprawling across the old worn rug.

Rain has held for days now. Before bed I sit out under stars, oh the magic of the stars that have been hidden from sight for weeks, with my tobacco pipe and river babble and distant prattling of frogs in the marsh on the other end of the meadow. Frogs I rarely see, only hear. I used to stalk them, felt I had to see them, maybe to prove they were real. Invariably, as I got closer, they would fall silent. I never could find them in the reeds and mud. I have since learned to let them be. Live with them harmoniously. Enjoy the gift they share of song on moist nights; without annoyance of this two legged creeping up in chunky rubber boots as if they wouldn’t notice.

This is enough.

The river calms, slightly subsides, subdues to an even background drone. It is noticeably quieter, though you’re never without the river’s pulse here. Last week, I noted the return of robins, little leaves emerging on gooseberry branches, and delicate buds on tips of dogwood.

Who knows if the braced for snow and cold will come, or if she will be mild, gentle with us this winter.

Bob has been away. In his absence, I find myself speaking to the dogs and horses, cats and chickens as we putter about the ranch finding plenty to do in the sunlight. Probably, I do this even when he’s home. Apparently, I’ve got plenty to say. No one around here seems to mind. They are as used to my chatter as I am with their silent yet attentive response.

I will keep this short this week. There are other places I get to ramble, as the story of a journey, inner and outer, unfurls in ways I didn’t realize it was meant to go. Not too different, I suppose, from how journeys actually progress.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Choose magic.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

The garden roses finally called it quits for the season, right in time for wild Manzanita to begin their bloom while daffodils break through saturated ground.

It’s a beautiful world. Magical, if you will. I will! I will find magic.

This is a photo dump of magic from last month: roses blooming through to the New Year.

It’s also a sharing of some deep thoughts, because well you know, that’s where my mind goes.

I thought you might enjoy.

We all could use more beauty. And more sharing. Good stuff. Connection. Common ground.

These are things I have to tell myself.

What takes more courage?

Fighting?

Or getting along.

Because I will not be divided.

And I will stand strong for a country capable of holding its center together.

Don’t fall, I tell myself. Don’t allow yourself to be ripped apart at the seams. Like the baby before Solomon, two halves are not the same as one whole.

Heavy sigh…

I want to shift…

Shift from seeing hatred

To seeing holiness

With everyone I meet.

Shift to seeing Sacred

Magic

God

Love

Whatever you’re called to name it.

Say it. See it.

Live it. Be it.

Try. For you, I shall find the courage to try.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

On rain and writing.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

If the two were together, black ink would be smeared across the page, some Rorschach picture divulging my secret psyche. Not, of course, to determine what the image reveals, but rather what I choose to see.

Alas, they remain apart.

And this is what I see.

Out there, outside fragile weather worn glass separating me from the elements and allowing continual comfort from the wood stove as long as I remember to stoke it, rain continues.

Everything is drenched – beyond saturation – running off in drips, smears, pools and rivulets. Streams pour around fence posts and tree stumps; puddles amass in deep imprints left behind by horse hooves; the meadow is a marsh.

Pounding rain on metal roof deadens the roar of the river. Puddles gather on the deck, the driveway, the pasture.

The chickens seek refuge in the dog house while dogs do the same by the wood stove, soggy obstacles to overcome on the living room rug.

Inside rain gear hangs dripping by the back door; boots still damp when you slip your sock feet into them. Towels used on soggy dogs never seem to dry, while splatters from their shaking fur leaves white cupboards speckled brown.

The horses are pissy, flinging their heads, telling me to turn it off and I wish I could. Days like this I wish they could come lay by the woodstove, too. Instead, mid day they stand under the roof where they spent the night, wishing they were somewhere else. We never stop wishing. Because, you know, we never forget what it feels like to lay in soft lush grass while the sun enwraps us in its ethereal embrace

In the garden, roses finally quit trying to bloom. What a run they had this year, clear through to the last of the year. And yet as I walked through the rows earlier today, trying to be gentle in my bulky muck boots in search of some collards or kale for tonight’s stew, the humble, hearty calendula stood brightly defiant, refusing to succumb to battering rains, continuing to share her sunny smile. The yellow and orange seem out of place, adding to her gentle resistance.

For now, I sit at the table in front of the window that looks over the ghostly glow of the computer screen and scribbled open notebook, down toward the swollen river, through saturated moss and lichen growing like eerie bedclothes on every leaf-bare branch of gnarly oaks sprawling the distance between the river and me.

The stillness of the keyboard counters the constant motion of the river.

Some days my fingers do not dance. As if they wonder why, what’s the point, when what I want to do is give. But I look at the blue screen between the window and me, and wonder if it’s worthy.

Sharing the story of something in the past takes me there. Sometimes I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to be there. It was hard, scary, lonely. It was also big, bright, and beautiful; expansive in view and of soul. It brought me back to life. Maybe to the point of living more than I ever had before.

There was so much I didn’t share. There was so much I couldn’t share.

I am struggling to share that story now. The intensity, the wildness, the hugeness I experienced out there. The wild side I could not, would not share as I was riding (or walking or being shuttled) through it. Some things need time to ripen, to age, to roll around in the mouth to find their full, rich flavor. Or to sit on the shelf and collect dust for a while, which doesn’t hurt a thing.

My attention easily drifts out the window. I get dizzy watching the river rage.

Stop it. Get up. Away from the table where I sit for too long. Get on the ever damp rain gear and muck boots and get out. Out. Out there, in it.

Let the moist air plump and swell me and get the dogs dense coats soaked clear through to their skin again as we laugh at our folly and splash through puddles the size of ponds and marvel at the beauty of watching bountiful drops of water fall from overhanging branches and do their circle dance on the surface.

A moment later, the dogs stir up a heron from the salt pond, rising silent, arching upward as a graceful, majestic bow. Somehow primitive, ancient, blue-gray against tan-brown winter woods. I hold my breath and feel goose bumps rising beneath all these impermeable layers separating me from the elements.

In the blatant and natural simplicity surrounding me, I choose to watch herons rise and rain fall and puddles shimmer as a waving mirror. I choose to listen to ravens calling and the river roaring and rain beating down on the roof overhead. I choose these simple things over and above more complex things like news feeds and programs, with AI masking the mystery and magic that is really there, right in front of us, if only we take the time to look, to listen, to feel.

I would rather stand defiant like unpretentious calendula.

I would rather rise up, lighten up, and shine.

Even through this leaden sky that might otherwise try to hold me down.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Closing.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

An inward pause.

Standing still. Taking a slow, deep breath.

Silently witnessing as one year withers and a new one unfurls.

The annual undulation; time and space between thoughts, between plans and projects, between seasons, between years.

A reflective time, quiet and dark and moody. Open or closed, the eyes refrain from looking out there, and are instead drawn within. Somehow sightless, you soundlessly feel your way through heavy fog, sensing your place along your inner journey, as the cold dark river rages through your veins, intuitively and instinctually, as is the nature of things this time of year.

In winter she sleeps

Fragrant bright and wild.

Where have you been?

Where are you going?

And most pressing and pertinent of all:

Where are you right now?

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Solstice Rising

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Rain falls; fog rises.

Between the two

We shine.

                             

Yesterday the river rose to the occasion, busting beyond the confinement of her bank, roaring loud and heaving with brown waves, spreading to a rumble in the saturated ground beneath my feet as I stand there amazed at humbling might while even the dogs and horses watch in wonder.

Sacred water.

Sacred time.

Solstice is a natural celebration of the pause between the darkening and lightening, between states of wonder and beauty and awe, simple as watching the river rage and a candle flicker and rain fall into swollen puddles alive with shimmering reflections.

This morning I woke to stars spilled across the sky, sparkling behind black branches of the sprawling oak. And then from out of the earth, or is it more magic from the sky, fog formed, shrouding the stars with a silent embrace.

Yet I know the magic about the fog, the mystery beneath the earth, the wonder of planting a seed and knowing maybe, just maybe it could emerge into fruition.

Somewhere I’m certain the sun rose a moment earlier and the cycle of new light, new life, is celebrated anew.

As I await the sky to lighten, in this deep still silent space of new light I have yet to see or feel but somehow know, I stir with the wonder of a candle. Of planting seeds, which here happens on my kitchen counter on Solstice every year, and now sit over my propane fridge awaiting the moment of emergence. Of darkness out there, which shall be shorter each day. Of light within – not to protect and preserve, but to shine and share.

What are you waiting for?

What are you here for?

~

Our community has a beautiful gathering to celebrate Solstice. I had never had the guts to attend. Groups don’t tend to be my thing. Basically, social gatherings scare me shitless.

It’s easy to use the excuse of Solstice being a sacred time to turn within. Because, yes, it is. It is also the pause before the waxing of light and new life. It is that space in between. If one has the courage to open to it, there’s a time and place to be alone, to reflect on what you want to release from the last dance around the sun, and contemplate your intentions for the next cycle. And… a time and place to unfurl like seeds, be vulnerable, be brave, get out of your shell and connect.

Thanks to the honesty of and love for some dear friends who reminded me I’m not the only one… I went.

Thank you for encouraging the courage in me to step beyond my comfort zone, and get off my side of the mountain for just a little while. It was beautiful.

Now more than ever…

Come together.

Partake. Participate. Life is too short and sweet to miss out on this stuff.

Have the courage to care more.

The gusto to give more

The grit to do more.

The guts to be more.

It’s not that you are not enough.

It might just be that the world needs more of who you are and what you do.

Thinking of those who give and do and care so much, like hidden stars in that dazzling day sky.

Bowing with grace and gratitude to and for you.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin