Distracted thoughts while sitting here writing a book…

February 20, 2013June 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

I am getting attached. I was afraid this would happen. Some of you may be rolling your eyes and saying the same. You thought this would happen to me too.

Attachment. To this land. This place. This climate and culture. To the sound of wind and water coming in waves through the open front door where Gunnar rests with dusty eyes and tired paws, sore from the eight hour ride yesterday. Riding “home” from the nearest town. Riding through beating wind with heads hunkered down and hands frozen to rough rawhide reins and lifting our brows from time to time to squint at the hard harsh landscape I thought would be so easy to ride through. Unable to hear the clang of each step of the horses steel shoes cruel and heavy on the miles of rocks that this land grows far more that trees. Returning with saddle bags packed with eggs, wine, sugar and a leg of goat. Returning with a head full of stories following our visit with Ginny, for whom we rode one day in, one day out.

Attached to Ginny and our scattered seeds and blossoms of conversations peppered with laughter and spiced with tears. Attached to Alcides, our neighbor and new friend, the gaucho who lives in the dark mud shack beside our seemingly decadent seasonal dwelling, even through the uncertain state of winter where stories have made it up to seem almost as desolate and unforgiving a place to be as… winter in our home in Colorado. A friendship based more on hand gestures and smiles and understanding eye contact since words between us are few beyond, “Buen Dias!” and “Matέ?”

Attached to horses, true partners and workers who know the trails and the way through rock slopes and over barren passes better than I will during this one season here, no doubt. I used to think I knew what it meant to need your horses, rely on them for work. But it is far more so here. The only means of transportation, here to there, or there to what seems like the middle of no where and then beyond. Our outfitting business and wilderness ditch work seem so trivial when compared side by side. Here it is so much more. It is the real deal. The horses know the difference.

Attached to working dogs resting like the rest of us in the heat of mid day. They spread like rugs tossed from a dusty house to dry under the cool of the shade tree.

Attached to cheap box Malbec wine. Eating what we find, are given, can pack in, can cut up and make from scratch. No more than that, and still it feels so bountiful. Goat meat, goat lard. Meat hanging in the shade in a screen box. Fry bread and French fries. Butternut squash and tomatoes that taste like… tomatoes.

Attached to ponchos, matέ, rolling R’s. Sand between my toes and in bed where we brush it out each night before climbing in and bringing more. Chickens and chicks running seemingly wild. Siestas and late dinners. Cooking on wood only. Heating water with fire. Planning an hour before you want to shower to make sure the water is good and hot.

Attached to the silence of no motors. None. Nada. No planes. No signs or sounds littering the big wide skies except for birds, black and white and wild with a squawk that stirs images primal and prehistoric. And sometimes it looks here little has changed in all that time. A million years or more. Whipping wind and weather, the volcano in the distance, and a brilliant depth of stars and yes, I think maybe there are more here than I saw even back from where I came.

Attached to the harsh, hard life that hides under the rocks and brushes sand from your eyes and looks out as far away as Chile. Life. Alive. Wild in the wind. A passionate place as Bob builds a Valentine for me in the rocks by the river and we make love in the heat of the sun on sand.

Attached to the desk from which I sit here writing, hard and heavy wood, the sound of the river through the French doors, the window panes I stood in the sun and wiped clean of cobwebs, sap and sweat after how many years this morning, and the hollyhocks and roses dance in the wind while the willow bows gracefully wave like fine and feminne fingers overhead, surrounded by the stories and histories of the beautiful woman for whom I am writing. For her, for myself, maybe even for you.

A brief greeting from the Rio Trocoman

February 12, 2013February 12, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

A brief greeting and I return to silence.

My words are engaged elsewhere. Being used to write the story for which I came here. There will be time later to share this all with you, and so much there is to share! For now, communication is challenging. It is easy to do without, and easier still to forget I have a life beyond the here and now. Except for a sadness I feel when I think of my son, so many miles away.

For now, the occasional trip will suffice, computer packed into saddle bag, and a horse ride across river. From here where I write, with the river to my south and sun to my north, far enough away from electricity and internet, wood for making matέ and meals, candle light and stars, a sandy beach for our bath, and the only trail in is by horses. I could stay here longer than I know I should.

Please trust when I tell you this much. The story is emerging. Coming to life. Birthing slow and steady in the heat of mid day with note books and binder, pens and tea cup spread out before me on Ginny’s antique drawing table surrounded by her painting and ponchos, antiques and photo albums. Not always in the direction I thought it would lead. Like a river cutting into soft gravel in a sudden downpour and changing course. Yet to where the water leads remains the same.

Until next time. I send love and light from here where both are so bountiful.

Deeper into the dragonfly’s den

January 30, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

(I am trying to capture the rich essence of this beautiful woman… a work in progress)

We are packing up once again, and beginning the next stage of this journey. Away from the Chakra on the edge of town, the noise, distractions, visitors, Ginny’s Embassy, Gin’s hosteleria and café. Tomorrow we all head to the higher country. Farewell to the song of a hundred roosters and a thousand barking dogs. An exaggeration, no doubt, but I swear that’s what it sounds like at six in the morning. And by seven, the sound of hammers, saws, tractors, local music, flocks of parrots, and horses outside my window nickering for me to feed. The latter is the only sound I am used to.

I have forgotten the ability to filter noise. Back in the day, long ago, when last did I live in a town? And then have lived where the sound of a passing plane twenty thousand feet overhead is enough to pull me from the table and out the front door to see who is here.

Now again, we return to quieter days, simpler ways, and that is where my creativity blooms. Time to allow the writing to flow at the river we will now reside beside. Not, for now, our Mighty Rio Grande, so many miles away and tucked safely and silently under a growing blanket of winter snow. No, here, I shall begin to know the rio Trocoman, and feel the land of which my dear Ginny is a part.

We go without great expectations, only desires to connect with this river, this land, and to focus on the work that has drawn us here.

I will keep you posted. In the meanwhile, for more information (and for those with the desire for peace, tranquility and life on a private and pristine stretch of a Patagonia river… the place is available for rent!) please see www.horsespatagonia.com.

Until then… admittedly I know not when “then” will be though I do know we will be without internet and electricity… I share love and light from the upside down side of the world from which I came. And from where I stand, here and now, it feels very much right side up.

Silver fingers in the moon

January 26, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Sometime late
tonight I will be
sitting in front of

the fire, tucked into
the rocks and out
of the wind, with

my dog by heels and
my husband beside
me, and I will look

up to the north and
see Luna in her
full, fat splendor.

I will imagine on her
silver face, upside
down though she seems

to me here, a smile
as smooth as the Mona Lisa.
And you, you who I

love with a heart as
big as that moon, will
be so very far

to the north, and
I imagine you
will look to the

south and see her
rise, and we will both
be watching the same

full moon from
opposite ends of the world.
And I will imagine

her as a mirror, and
send a shimmer as you
so often did with

shiny things
when the morning sun
spent its wealth on

our breakfast table, across
your face where
my hand would otherwise

be, offering a gentle touch.

Wild ride

January 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

I stand in the wind at the casco and watch. Here in Patagonia where trees take on the shape of the elements, grow in the direction the wind blows, or simply refuse to start and let the seeds scatter to a more tranquil land.

I can not share with you all I see as it seems on the surface still and not yet within, not yet absorbed into that deeper place where words are found and stories born. There will be time. I feel the soaking in, warm and gradual and rich as the summer sun browning my shoulders that have never been so exposed in January.

Start and stop. I stare at my words like unfamiliar faces. Hard to describe what I do not yet understand. And yet, that is exactly what I must learn to do. Describe a life not with the depth and perspective of intimacy as I have for my own life and feel for my mountain. But as a storyteller, nothing more than the impartial observer, happy to share a tale. And what a wonderful tale this is. The story I am here for.

Though are we ever truly impartial? Can we observe the world around us without becoming a part? I do not believe I can. Fortunately, I have learned to love this woman before we even met. As such, her story will be told with a loving touch, a knowing grin, and eyes wide from amazement. (She is helping me work on the humor part. Not my strong point, but one more of hers.) This is the story of a woman with MS? Oh yes. But her story is so much more…

Now is the time to absorb, and I am saturated. Spending my days pouring into the life of another to gather stories like seeds, and hold them tight as to not let them blow away. And still the wind roars, and sheepskins hung along the fence to dry flap like thin flags on a pole, and gauchos ride in proud and handsome on their beautiful horses, people coming and going, most of whom don’t understand a word I say and of course I do not understand them which is very frustrating place to be, and the sound of hammers and saws and rooster crows and barking dogs and local gaucho rap songs tangle about me in the twisting winds. More distractions than an artist’s open mind can figure out a place for on the table filled with bounty and ready for the feast. So hungry for silence yet wouldn’t miss all this for anything. And realize I am so absorbed, I forget to look back. Forgot back “home” there is cold and snow and familiar faces, my horses and cats and just one quiet rooster that doesn’t wake until after I do, and a language I can understand, but none of that matters here and now. And that is the best place to be.

Let the writing begin. Why I am here. Why we were brought together.

(And yes, Jorge did stay on that horse…)

Old rocks and new
sand worn from wind
and time, so many

millennia of relentless
elements overbearing
softened and smoothed

to a treeless hillside
void of
shelter as the lightning

touches down near and
the low bushes smell
of burning oil, we

curl our shoulders
forward and tilt our
head down

as rain hard as stones
drips through my saturated
hair and down my

still pale from
the northern hemisphere’s
winter forehead and

into my gringo blue
eyes and must be
brushed away by

a crumbled rag dug
from my pocket
the last place

I can find
dry and warm
and familiar.

A turning point

January 18, 2013January 20, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

(photo of me taking photos of this beautiful land, by Golde Wallingford)

A shift in the winds. Perhaps it is the smell of horses. The grounding ritual, if I may be so bold to give it that name, of shoveling manure. The smell of a horse’s neck and soft touch of the silky spot under the mane. Doesn’t matter where you are. That side of the equator or this one. The smell remains the same. It does not bring me back there. But lands me here more solidly. Funny such a simple thing like smell or shoveling can complete you.

Arrived. Adjusting. Settling in. A beautiful world. Beautiful people. Overwhelmed with love and light, tears and laughter, constant noise from early morning roosters to the late night barking of dogs, people buzz about like harmless flies, music, crickets, birds sounding like a pond full of frogs, the pounding of horses feet on packed gravel, and a language I am trying so hard to understand.

At times I am a window, looking out, quietly absorbing, soaking it all in. Let it shine.

And then the gift of rain. Smelling of a different earth. Patagonian soils. Old and rich and proud. Arid mountains, expanding views. Here at the casca, so safely tucked into the trees as a home in winds should be, shading arms enwrapping. Sweet, sweet rain. Cleanse me of the past and pour me into the future as I float on the languid waves of here and now, these rolling hills as big and wide and open as the sea.

Rain, the song as sweet as the smell. Fat, swollen, heavy drops falling by the bucket full, each one dancing to its own wild rhythm upon the metal roof, rolling together to the puddle on the sandy earth just before my dusty boots, kicked out before me as I sit on the stump of wood under the eve just outside my new front door.

How funny to finally check in on the computer and remember back “home” there would be snow. It would be cold. How funny to consider how little time I have looked back. My apologies to those I love. Change is both overwhelming and self absorbing.

If it were easier to post, I would share more with you. The trip, tips on travelling with a dog, beautiful new friends beginning with Barbara in Buenos Aires, and here our dear Ginny, like the sister so many ask if we are, and Golde and Jorge and little Milton who is happy to play with my dog, the horses, the air, the culture, the language, drinking mate and taking siestas (I have learned are the best time for finding a rare moment quiet enough to write). The hardest part is losing my solitude. That is hard indeed for the intentionally lonely soul.

I am not big on looking back, though I want to share stories and details and parts of this story that I think you might enjoy reading. Where does each day go, as we sit down for dinner at the hour I used to turn in to bed?

It will come in time. Patience is the greatest lesson here. At least the most obvious. There are others. There will be more. More important? I try not to judge, only to learn and do.

The internet may or may not be working, and the power outs regularly. A reminder of my adoration of living off grid, and gratitude that we can connect over the internet at all, in Colorado and here in Patagonia.

This is what MS can look like.

To watch Ginny up on the horse today. Exhilarating to see. And to imagine the joy, the cup overflowing within her, being in a place she belongs, comfortably, confidently. Seeing her energy rise. Her posture resume. One could say a queen upon her throne, but without the airs and pretention, and in fact, a most earthy act indeed. The Phoenix with wings which the horse has given to us. Beautiful indeed. An awakening. A slow and gentle healing, if for no longer than the time in a place this woman feels a home, her self. In the saddle. And yet, I feel it is longer lasting than that. There is more. She is brighter, more alive. I see an improvement already in her, and I wonder how far she will progress in this positive directions. I am pushing her. Doing less for her on one hand. Standing up to her (I say with a smile, for we are two strong women that at times will butt heads in the most graceful way, with power and words, as we women are known to do). Forcing her to find more strength within, for I know there is plenty. Challenging her creativity. Encouraging her to walk more. To focus more (how like changing winds she can be). To keep direction and keep it positive and get things done. There is so much to do. I am thinking she should draw. Where is that peach with the leaves? She wanted to draw that. Creativity heals, she says, and she knows.

Enough. For now I sleep. I cannot absorb it all. Sleep allows time and space to soak it in. So here I am, typing away as my sweetie breathes deep and warm in the early stages of the deepest of sleep beside me, and I prepare to close down this fantastic tool called computer, and return to the most primal state I can. Sleep, wrapped around my sweetie.

The beginning

January 7, 2013January 7, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

like leaving a lover

on one hand

and with the other

holding onto my hat

as we dive down into the wind

Since Solstice

Sometime just past noon, the cabin is drained, power shut down, everything put away well enough. Food scraps and the remains of the cookie jar set out for the Steller’s jays, magpies and pair of ravens that will have to make do without us for a while. Another pack rats caught in the trap under the house tossed out into the snow. Christmas lights taken down and put in away in the attic. Four boxes of food for a friend in town clean out the fridge. And everything we’ll need for nearly four months away, piled and packed into the toboggan sled hooked behind the snowmobile.

Funny to be so bundled up in down jackets, long johns and thick winter boots. We’re heading towards mid summer. Such is travelling to the other side of the world. People do it all the time. I never have.

I’m not going to say deep farewells this year. I’ll be back soon enough. Long enough. I’m in no rush. Leaving behind the worse snow we remember. Bad snow. For us that means: not much. Better that we’re not sticking around wishing for something we do not have. Elk tracks down on the reservoir flats make it look like a feed lot without fences. They coyote are loving life. Feasting on snowshoe hare that are also abundant this year. Their advantage lost in low snow.

Just past two weeks after Solstice and you see the difference. Already I feel the sun stronger on exposed flesh. My hands without gloves for the first time this year. Nose and cheeks, weathered and creased skin at the corners of eyes and lips and it feels so good. It feels. I remember last winter in northern Washington where the sun held no power of touch during the deep of winter, filtered by mauve light under the soft inversion.

Last night I stepped out to walk with the dog under the brilliant and unlimited depth of our night sky to say farewell. I will not see the same constellations for nearly four months. And although I’ll be a in “remote” location, I can only guess it won’t be this many miles away from another light, another human being. But it is our altitude that brings sparkle and luminescence to otherwise emphatic black. It is this altitude that brings us closer to touching the skies.

And tonight I watch the sky on fire in the coldest place in the Lower 48 as we drive through Alamosa and the San Luis Valley.

Now in a hotel. With TV, pizza and wings and the dog on the bed between us.

on one hand

how quiet

without the call

of the coyote

on the other

TV and traffic and the buzz

of central heating

oh yes, the adventure begins

Do I call this Day One of this adventure when I feel our life is always an adventure and even this one, I’ve been working on for months? How about Day One of this chapter?

The introduction

January 6, 2013January 7, 2013 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Three months ago we met, though still not face to face. A strange coincidence. Those seem to be the best kind of meetings, have you noticed? Something about the things we cannot explain. She told me there are no coincidences. I don’t know what I believe, but I do believe getting to know Ginny has been somehow magical. I wonder how much more so when we finally meet. In a way she’s turned my world upside down already. Because of her, Bob, Gunnar and I are heading to the other side of the world. Patagonia.

Let me tell you a little bit about Ginny. Oddly enough, I know a lot. I have spent these three months pouring through notes, writings and information on websites that she compiled over the past several years covering her life stories, from birth to present. What a life it is!

Gin and Ginny. You might just get confused. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it if you stick around a while.

I am Gin, and just the writer. Working to put the pieces of the puzzle together into hopefully one beautiful picture. A memoir manuscript with consistency, interest and intrigue, capturing the essence of this remarkable woman.

The story is Ginny’s.

The adventure, well, that’s all of ours. Even yours if you’re ready to go for the ride.

Tomorrow, we leave our mountain and begin the journey south.

The fun begins.

And so, now.

Finally, an introduction.

For those who have been wondering where I am going and why.

For those who would like to “meet” a truly remarkable woman.

Tonight, I share this treat. An introduction to Ginny Carrithers.

Following is a rough draft, a condensed bio of Ginny Carrithers, and an introduction to her memoirs.

For now, we shall call this “Dancing in the Winds of Patagonia”

One remarkable woman’s inspiring adventures of living life fully with MS.

Welcome to the world of Virginia Tice Neary Carrithers. Welcome to a world that covers two hemispheres and spreads wide across the worlds of the Aspen art scene, Thoroughbred horseracing, jet setting and a fairy tale world where Prince Charming still sits at the head of the table. This is the story of life as wild as the land she chose to settle in, and as fast the winds that now embrace her. Ginny’s is story of extremes and challenges. Beginning with a childhood laced with trauma, Ginny has confronted, overcome and learned to live with physical and emotional obstacles throughout her life, and managed to come out laughing. Her drive and passion led her to the highs that are hard to keep up with, and lows that would be devastating to so many of us. Hers is a story of living the high life and ultimately choosing the simple life.

On the surface, this is a fun, fast and racy story of one woman’s wild journey generated by her own strength, positive outlook, and brilliant, shining character. It is a story of the power of creativity and nature. Deeper down, this story is one of personal growth, healing, and inspiration that the reader (viewer) will want to cheer, cry, scream and ultimately hug and rejoice for the celebration of character that Ginny Carrithers is.

Her story begins in 1949 in New Orleans, Louisiana. From the beginning, her strength and resolve are challenged with life threatening bouts of the croup. Hers was an odd and lonely childhood on private island with a psychiatrist father, and mother that had her first nervous breakdown and was institutionalized when Ginny was only nine. From her earliest days, art, horses, and nature where her consolation and inspiration.

Life begins to bloom at age 15 as her body blossoms. Her world widens and begins to speed up with boys, cars, and wild rides to Aspen with her best friend, Janice. Yet again, Ginny’s world is severely shaken by her brother’s car crash which left him forever in a wheelchair, her father’s suicide, and her mother again institutionalized.

With her great resolve and joy of living, Ginny continues to create her place in the brilliant world filled with wealthy and powerful men, painting, and horse racing in New Orleans where she lived the young beautiful life. Her notable accomplishments include becoming the first licensed woman in Louisiana to train Thoroughbred racehorses, commissions for her equestrian art, modeling and acting and being a body double/stunt woman in a James bond movie. This woman was indeed living the “racy” life, with a whirlwind of travel, power, passion, and fame.

In 1976 at the age of 27, Ginny has become paralyzed and is given the diagnosis of MS. A chronic, progressive, disabling disease. And still this woman is not slowed down, does not back down. For Ginny, it opened new doors. After a year and half of paralysis, Ginny goes into remission and begins her work for the National MS Society, becoming a world-wide spokes person, creating and donating her own artwork, raising millions of dollars over the years, creating promotion and awareness with her talents of horse racing and art, and inspiring so many, not only those affected by the disease, but so many touched by and finding themselves in the embrace of this exciting woman.

It is during this time that Ginny meets Ashley Carrithers. The year is 1986. Another one charmed by this lovely and vivacious woman! It is because of this connection that two new worlds are opened up for Ginny. The first is Patagonia. The second is motherhood. Ultimately, it is the combination of these two that transform Ginny to the next stage of her life.

As their relationship begins, Ginny is living the Princess Dream come true, continuing the jet set lifestyle though now between hemispheres. There she is on the Estancia, riding her white Arabian, continuing to evolve with her artistic endeavors. playing polo, flying out on their private airstrip. She is on one hand the wealthy Patrona, juggling baby, paintbrush, estancias, a challenging marriage, building airstrips, buying land, travel, travel, travel… Yet all the while the darkness of MS follows her about like an uncomfortable shadow. A shadow that at times can be fierce and cruel and painful and all consuming. And somewhere between those two extremes, she is learning about healing. She sleeps outside alone on the ground. Builds her fire, drinks her mate. She finds a deeper, stronger place of visions and medicine cards and animal guides.

After the divorce, Ginny continues the back and forth between North and South America, and ultimately chooses to remain in Patagonia. She is drawn to remain because of her daughter. Because of the simpler life. The grounding. Nature. What matters most. She finds her own strength, learning to live without the Prince Charming fairytale and become her own woman. Still the artist. The artist of life. She is continually challenged as she deals with the progression of her disease, her broken back, her independence and loneliness, her desire to continue to give and reach out to and share with others, her connection to the earth, her creativity, her horses, her limitations, and her broad and beautiful spirit shining possibly stronger than ever.

This brings us to The Present. This brings us to Ginny, today, dealing with a debilitating disease while living in the dramatic setting of Patagonia. And still finding ways to give, motivate, inspire. New ways to share beauty and life. This is her spirit. Brilliant and warm as we all have seen or are seeing.

This is Ginny Carrithers.

On the surface one sees a beautiful woman and talented artist living a dream come true complete with fairytale lifestyle, world travel, wild adventures, fast horses, and elite connections. The high life. Look again and see the lows of trauma, drama, loss, and the side of the same passionate, vivacious, driven woman learning to live with MS. Multiple Sclerosis for some. Messenger of Sprit for Ginny. MS became her call for transformation and inner growth, for waking up and living her life real, strong, self guided, empowered.

The greatest element of this story is still just beyond my reach. It is within Ginny. Her true essence, her spirit if you will, which you can read so much about on paper or the computer, but no doubt will change me and complete this story. After months of becoming relatively obsessed with the life of this remarkable woman, we will finally be meeting. And there, my friends, lies the missing link to this story.

And so it is that the rest of the story, in fact the part we will begin with, starts there. Next week in Patagonia.

In the meanwhile, I can promise you this. Ginny’s story is a wild ride. Hold onto your hats, sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride. Ginny’s story will take you first to places you’ve only dreamed of, and then to a place and space within that you secretly long to be.

(for more information, please see Ginny’s web site at CreativityHeals.org)

Well, sorry to leave you hanging. You’ll have to read the book to find out all the juicy details. In the meanwhile, stick around and enjoy the adventure as Gin meets Ginny, the Mountain Man leaves his mountain again because of his woman’s crazy whims, and the Pup heads to Patagonia.

Parting ways

January 4, 2013January 4, 2013 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

The dog jumps up on the second story window and tries to get out. I don’t blame him. I feel like doing the same. We watch the boys head out on snowmobile, towing a toboggan sled containing houseplants started from cuttings that came from California, Washington, and somewhere back east from before I was born. And cats. Three of them. Two are 16 years old. A gift to Forrest when he was three. Because his mother doesn’t like mice. I had never had good luck with cats. None lasted with me for more than a year. Maybe I was doing something really wrong, but I swear, it was not intentional. Mostly, I guess, just bad luck. Like it was for the little black cat that got hit by a car. Guess my luck (and theirs) changed. Many a dead mouse later, these two girls aren’t good for much more than a snuggle now. But you know, there’s still great value in that.

First the horses. Then the chickens. Then the plants, the cats, and THE BOYS. This dog knows something is up.

Bob, he’ll be back tomorrow. Time for us to pack. Tie up loose ends, close this place down, and get ready to head out.

Forrest, well, we won’t see him until the first of May when he’s done with school for the semester. College in Canada.

Seven thousand miles away we’ll be. Geez. 7000 miles. It looks like less when I write it that way. Or his way. Over 11,000 km. No, that way is bigger. Way bigger. Let’s not go there.

I was not ready to see him go. I never am. I wonder if I ever will be.

New beginning

January 2, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Here’s to a new beginning. Today and every day we choose to see the newness. And here’s to being a part of it, not just watching it pass by.

A new beginning
today, as every day.
Is it any different?
the crutch of familiarity
balancing
inevitability of change
when so much around is changing
solid ground moving beneath still feet

The act of choosing

Today I choose here. For now.

The sound of the pot of water on the wood stove hissing into dry air. Breathing. My husband’s, my son’s, my dog’s, my own. I can make out each breath, underscored by the sound of a purring cat. Is this what the world sounded like in the womb? Or the sound, perhaps, of drowning. And then there is nothing more.

Though maybe there is touch. My dog’s cold nose against my hand waking me. My husband so soft and warm, his back to me. I roll towards him and fit just right. He doesn’t stir but settles into the comfort he is now so used to.

The little things please me today. Time with my son. We don’t need an elaborate celebration. Save that for those who need a thrill. There is no need to put on airs for more. We have plenty.

It’s not like you wake up one morning and sit up in bed with your feet on the cold floor and say to yourself, “Oh my, I changed!”

No. It’s slow, steady, deliberate. Think molasses. And yes, chances are that means thick and messy, too.

Two weeks into my seventeenth year I boarded a plane for France and stayed there for a year. That was almost thirty years ago. To pay for the ticket, I had spent the summer working as a camp counselor at the local Y, caring for 18 8-year old boys, shuttling them around by subway between the boroughs of New York City, holding the door that wanted to keep closing open against my skinny little back until all my skinnier little kids were safely on board or off. When I returned back to my parents’ apartment, nothing was the same. You don’t go backwards, do you? You can choose to do something over, try it again, that sort of thing. But the same? Really… never. Something is always different. Though sometimes, of course, that difference is pretty profound.

At what point did I change? Maybe when I was still working as the camp counselor and my superior had taken mescaline that day we were schedule to take the boys to another borough, and I knew it was up to me to take care of the kids by myself, and it didn’t cross my mind I could not. Maybe it was when I boarded that plane alone and was flying across the ocean at night, and saw darkness I had never seen before, and found such peace in the hum of massive engines pushing steel through the black sky.

I don’t know. We usually don’t know when we go through change. Only upon reflection do we figure it out. So what can I say? Maybe tomorrow I’ll look back at today and wonder. But I don’t think I’ll have it figured out for a while. And I’m finally starting to get this much. Maybe we never know. That mystery thing. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

Gin Getz

On the intimate connection between person and place. Sharing words and images of wilds within and around.

Author: Gin Getz

Distracted thoughts while sitting here writing a book…

A brief greeting from the Rio Trocoman

Deeper into the dragonfly’s den

Silver fingers in the moon

Wild ride

A turning point

The beginning

The introduction

Parting ways

New beginning

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