Author: Gin Getz

Wild ways

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

If I were a wild river
Cutting at my own roots
Severing the past like grass to a sickle
Slicing cleanly through
Exposing a new path with each
Swipe of blade
Swell of water

Now no more than a
Down low moving
Ceaseless silent forward stream
Oozing seeping weeping sweeping
Close to freezing
The chant of monks in the woods

Warmer seasons bring singing waters
Rushing roaring ripping over rocks
Rejoicing in their wild ways
Scoring the bank with strong voice
Rhythm of pulse and force

I don’t hold back
A tempestuous scream
Dancing naked down the side of hill
Head thrown back and hair unbound
Bellowing like waves in the open sea
Aloft in my mind like memories
The pulse of power and passion
Releases me unruly and raging

Then a silent turn through the woods
Leveling out
A deer through the aspen
Disappearing in a flash
Quiet still silent serene
The pond of reflection
Nothing
For you to see
Only me
A face in the mirror I’m not familiar with
So much older paler tamer
I vaguely recognize her still
A second glance does not reveal
Anything beyond the surface of glass
The surface of the still forest pool

Rain begins with no more than ripple
And then an explosion of storm and swelling
Paint me with vivid strokes and colors
Cochineal crimson and raw umber
Emerald, amethyst, sapphire and tourmaline

Forget your civilized ways
For just a moment
Torn like pages from a book
Left to blow in the wind
Tangle in the untamed grass
And slowly decompose in the shade
Of the Blue Spruce
Whilst the Red Tail shares a lonely laugh above

But time demands
The path of the river revisited
Calm and contained again alas
Prim and proper
Clothed and clean
And see I can make that work too
Same waters
Different path

But this course of the river
Is not what calls me
Inspires me
Drives me
Wild

Driving home

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

At the bottom of the hill the truck pulls over, a seemingly automated response, and we step out without a word, each on our own side, headlamps over wool caps shining the way, bending over under the wheel well to unhook the chains from around the back tires. We’re getting this down to record time. Then shake off the snow, slush and mud like a wet dog in from play and return to the haven of the truck, pressing our cold wet fingers up against the heating vents to revive them before continuing on down the road.

Exhale, deep and full and rich, our breath steams the windows, adding to the fog we drive through as we descend this little mountain. All this oxygen. We have adjusted. It is easy. Natural. The body and lungs quickly forget the struggle from ten years of high altitude.

The pale blue glow of the dash on my husband’s face as he focuses on the road ahead, a narrow path of vision, white tracks on a white road with white branches bending over. We see only as far at the headlights allow, a narrow tunnel, all white ending abruptly in black. The unknown void beyond. Nothing too interesting. We’ve seen it all during the day. No surprises lurking (like the sudden sheer drop off fifty feet down into the vast expanse of the Rio Grande Reservoir found on our drive home in Colorado) except the regular crossing of the deer, calm and oblivious to our big truck with its potentially daunting grill. I swear they have a sixth sense of the speed which we drive.

We drive slow. With each bend in the road, we descend, the snow thins, pale old grasses emerging, and deer become more plentiful, bounding before the narrow view of the headlights. Houses twinkle like stars on the snowy hillsides. They sky is hazed over with probability. Chances are there will be more snow tomorrow.

Our last night of commuting. The back and forth ritual of separating work from rest, day from night, business from pleasure. It has been years for both of us. Years since we had to separate the two. There is comfort in the overlap. A solid sense of place, of belonging, allowing the two extremes, work and play, to intertwine. Becoming our life. Life without boundaries. All consuming. Defining us, each day, all around the same sense of place. And harder to walk away. Work follows you home at night when you live with it.

Redefining of self. I am not this place. I am not my job. Who am I then? Odd the sense of comfort we take from these simple knowns and givens. And the unease we find without.

A new world we have walked into. On our own four feet. Bob’s two. My two. A solid couple. Not me as a part of his life. Finding a way to fit in, to make the most, to enhance and enrich, an accessory, finishing the outfit just so. We survived and thrived. Survived living in a construction zone. In potential poverty. In limbo. In the midst of stories lingering heavy like fog carried from the past to the present where they carried no weight but undoubtedly obscured ones view. In the middle of the in-law’s battlefield. In harsh elements and extreme conditions. Now what? What next?

I can’t tell you much about it yet. Like a new parent preaching about how to raise a child. It feels so wonderful we become euphoric and want to share. But in reality, we must await the solid test of time.

I’ve never been one to hold back.

We start with simple tasks like chaining up the truck tires. Do actions define us?

My mind has got ahead of me again. Forget it for minute. And just concentrate on the task at hand. Driving down the road, dodging deer, on the snowpacked road.

Before we arrive at our temporary home, the last night in a new place that quickly got old, snow begins to fall. Big fat chunky flakes glowing like a million moths in the headlights. Mesmerizing. Dazzling. A confusion of elements and light. Somehow calming and comforting. We have seen this before.

Ramblings on a snowy Thanksgiving day

/ Gin Getz / 12 Comments

A holiday in a new home and the first in eighteen years without my son. Not bad, not really, at least (I’m forever the optimist). Only different. All new.

New experiences. Of course it would be better if he were here with us. Better for us, that is. He, well, he’s spending the weekend at Whistler, snowboarding. So my heart shall not bleed for his loneliness on this holiday weekend.

Here, for me, it’s all new. And that’s OK too. New view from the window in front of my computer. Under a pale grey sky are bright white and tan snowy, rolling hills reaching only as far as patches of dark timber scatter off into the distance. Nothing above tree line. No hills across this river with avi shoots torn into their sides. Instead, houses with lights I know I can see at night. The ground twinkles with a constellation or two. Something I haven’t lived with for more than passing spells in twenty years. New state, new home, new job, new neighbors, new friends.

And old familiar scents grounding me. Bread is baking in the oven.

I write to a (new) friend:

“The house now heavy with the waft of baking bread. I have read your blog posts, one after the other. I should have spaced them out, allowed them time to settle, but breaked for no more than changing loaves in the hot oven. My mind as heavy as the bread scented air with thoughts stirred up from your writings – at once thoughtful, beautiful and horrid. And still a broad smile spreads across my face to have had the opportunity to read, share, and meet… It is good. Somehow at the end of the day, it does end up good, you know?”

I’m feeling sappy and sentimental. Bear with me, or pass me by today, friends, but I’m feeling my age, my sex (yes, I am a woman, and allowed if not expected to be emotional, thank you!), my life and world settling into newness like heavy snow on tall tired grass.

I have much to be thankful for, this new friend included in my lengthy list. (Karen and my other fellow fans of four leggeds, please be sure to see the writing of Tricia M. Cook in the Mountain Gazette. I believe I may not be only one to find a new friend.)

I’m thankful for a new girlfriend and look forward Ladies Night at the local Ace Hardware and someone to kick up snow along a new backcountry with old snowshoes and young dogs.

I’m thankful for chains for the pickup. I would like to agree with Tricia that “girls don’t do chains,” but truth is we’d never get to our new home without them. So although getting wet and muddy jeans and jacket, and frozen fingers each morning before work is not ideal, at least we get there. (Snowmobiling home the 6 ½ miles we were used to in Colorado, believe it or not, was easier.)

I’m thankful for that snow and slush and even the glaze of rain than fell on top and hardened to a sheen that holds you up for just a second then drops you down past the surface into the soft snow below. It’s a good work out with each step. It’s this stuff that makes these trees grow. And there are some BIG trees here. Beautiful big fat hearty happy fir trees. Sweet smelling and picture perfect with boughs laden with the load of snow. I’m thankful for these big trees and to be living amongst them.

I’m thankful for neighbors. What a pleasure it is! Neighbors! Such good ones. Plowing us out as we’re busy plowing out someone else. Helping each other out of the bar ditch on the side of the road (a seemingly regular occurrence for vehicles – without chains – around here). Baking bread and sharing a hot coffee or cold beer (or locally brewed hard cider). The folks at the local internet company that make you feel at home in town when you walk in their office (even when you don’t bring them a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls).

I’m thankful for dogs, mine, my neighbors, and the ability to let my dear dog be both a family member and a dog, and a very happy one at that.

I’m thankful for Nature. She is new to me here. I am learning her like a stranger on a second date, not sure yet where you stand together, how close to sit, what the other person eats and drinks, and when and where to drive her home.

I’m thankful for my readers – friends, family, strangers, those I have not met but feel somehow close to, and those that haven’t written me directly but peak in from time to time or on some random search – for putting up with my ramblings.

I’m thankful for my son in a wonderful, exciting, challenging and unique university experience (or happily snowboarding as the case may be this weekend), far away but so very close. And my husband by my side. Completing, balancing, grounding me.

So I’ll try not to feel too terrible sorry for myself that my son is not here to complete my day. Because when I look around, it’s pretty complete even without him. But that’s how a good relationship should be. Fine without, but better because you’re there.

No more than a whisper

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Wilds whisper yet I long for their roar

In the hollow silence I listen for depth
The eventual splash of a bucket dropped into the well
Does not come

I learn to accept a bubbling brook tucked into the trees
When what I wanted was the bellow of the ocean
Crashing waves and endless horizons
Not before me but within me

Snow falls
Not so much a storm but a gentle covering
White wash
Settling
Erasing the past
A part of my passion and dreams
Colors
The horizon

Standing out alone
She adorns me with tiny jewels
Glistening silver and white
That last no more than an instant on my naked flesh

And then I am left
With nothing

And the net appears

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

For those who read my post “Cowgirl Up” earlier this year, you might recall I have a track record for acting before thinking. It’s that tough girl syndrome, and I’m not so sure it’s a good thing. However it has landed me in some interesting situations. Sometimes flat on my butt.

And sometimes, just sometimes, that craziness pays off. Those few times are probably responsible for that naughty little voice inside egging me on with just enough confidence to try it again. That little voice urging me, “Sure, give it a try! What do you have to lose?” At forty-five, with a husband by my side and a son in college, dog, cats and a dozen horses, a writing career that is refusing to take flight and a fabulous property that we can’t seem to pass on… Plenty.

Leap! And the net will appear!
I told him
He believed me.
And tell you what, for a while there, I was pretty sure that was a stupid thing to say and do.

Leap! And the net will appear!
We had held hands and jumped.
Left behind everything we built and most of what we owned to forge ahead like the pioneer I dream myself to be, looking for the perfect place to settle down.
And there we were like the rabbit falling endlessly wondering where time was going and when we’d reach the bottom.

Eight days. All it took was eight days and the pieces of the puzzle began to shift into place. The picture they are forming into, I might add, is even more beautiful than I imagined.

But of course, during those eight days, it was he supporting me. My weakness was wrought with spells of tears and fears and foolishness.

Perhaps moving 1400 miles and five states away with no more than a blind rental in place is not the way to make a move. But no one told me you were supposed to have it all lined up, job and all, before you give it a go. Bob said he had heard it is usually done that way, but again, he trusted. After all, he hadn’t done this sort of thing before. I was the expert. Ha! God, I love this guy.

I haven’t figured out if it is fate, fortune, or just dumb luck. But sometimes things work out. Fall into place. Come together just so.

Go figure. I don’t know how or why, or who or what to thank, but I’m mighty grateful. Saved my butt yet again.

And this time, made me look pretty good in the eyes of my husband.

“See,” I can tell him, “Told you it would work out!”

But I don’t say that. Because I think secretly he knows I was pretty scared there for a while. But don’t tell him that.

Seduced by earth and sky

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

The sky appeared above as a familiar lover
I have not slept with in years but still haunts me in my dreams
Spread out on top of, over, next to, entwined with me

I vaguely recognized the warmth against my back
Wind like lazy fingers through my loose hair
A recognizable sweet musky breath

Swelling wide above me was Colorado
Bright and blue, clean and open
A crisp dry chill through my nose and throat and lungs
As we climbed the hillside on the clearest day I’ve seen since moving here

It took me there and I was reminded there was not where I wanted to be
I left for a reason, for a hundred reasons
Finances and family, tourists and timing, altitude and in-laws
Histories I was placed into but don’t belong
A burning desire to change, expand horizons, ignite a new adventure
A secret hope to find the Forever Home

A desire to grow
Yes, just grow
As in a garden
A tomato
A lilac bush and hollyhock
A pig that can put on some pounds
Funny the things that interest me.

My father just forwarded an article entitled “Curious Things about Colorado” which included the fact that Silverton, the town closest to us on our west, has no growing season. Really. None. On average, a total of two frost-free weeks per year. I was hoping it was more like four at our ranch. On a good year. After all, I have managed to scratch out lettuce, chard, kale and carrots from soil laden with mounds of horse manure piled and protected in raised garden beds we built from the old bridge across the Rio.

Yes. On a good year.

And still I look back and see an attractive comfort and that entices me. Because it was known. I could find and fill the coffee pot in no more than moonlight when I woke at my usual early hour. Know the number of Stellar Jays that would appear from the Blue Spruce each morning and squawk above my wool capped head until I spilled out their daily rations. I could tolerate the heavy storms and mornings out feeding the horses with the thermometer so low it read, “OFF” because I knew the sun would soon shine and from exactly what point on the eastern ridge it would pop its glowing head.

It is hard to let go of what you had when you have no clear picture of what you have.

So we are seduced by desires of the past. Holding tight to false hopes that we can carry the knowns and givens with us as we step forward into the future and find ourselves floundering in the present. Clinging to the safety of the side of the pool. Afraid to let go of the handhold. Not because I want to return. Yet that comfort temps, the familiar lover you can not leave because a warm body in bed is better than no body at all. At least that is what we are often told.

I challenge that assumption.

Easy for me to do as my lover lies safe and warm beside me and the thick gold band on my finger, combined with my stubborn sense of commitment, reminds us both we will watch each others wrinkles spread like the hoar frost down by the river bank and still lie next to one another and spoon close on cold nights many years from now.

Today we find ourselves out under a low grey sky, hats and shoulders turning white amid the first good snow of the season as we walk in the dream state that first days in a new place seem to necessitate.

And for today at least, I am freed of the burden of the seduction of the dazzling blue.

The time between

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

On a high pine bow at a bend in the river rests an osprey. Motionless. I see only the silhouette of the black and white bird. Perhaps awaiting his next meal from the gently moving waters below. Or perhaps for the raptor this is no more than a respite. The time between.

The waters remain unfrozen. A mild autumn. A silky flow of silver over smoothly polished stones. No more than pearls of ice form on low limbs overhanging the north side of the embankment. Small patches of hoar frost spread in secret spaces hidden from the sun along the shore. White as fresh snow, a reminder of what should be, what will be.

It is not easy to get here. A tangle of vines and fallen trees, grabbing my jeans, snapping branches, leaving welts of whip marks across my cheeks if I don’t duck in time. Keeping the river wild. Deer tracks. Signs where the coyote has crossed. No tell tale signs of rubber tread ahead of us; only our own following. Huge ponderosa stumps, roots and all, pile up like a log jam at a sharp bend. The water is choosing, creating a new route, cutting into the softer bank on the now receiving side of this flow.

They say winter is late to come here this year. I have nothing to compare it to. I seek references, association. There is a comfort in knowing. Putting the view before us in its proper place. A tidy jar on a shelf. Likewise, an unease in everything seeming so new.

We read about the many storms that have covered our old mountain, tucked her in tight for the season. That we understand. It fits into the links of the past we carry with us though we try to let go. If we were there, now would be our time for reveling in our solitude. Reconnecting with the trails and secret places that only we go. Reclaiming our big back yard.

I am aware of the selfishness of solitude. On one hand a breeding ground for deeper thinking. Undisturbed silence to allow our brains to bloom. My thoughts, my terms, my time. On the other hand is community and intelligent conversation. Are greater thoughts raised in the back and forth between interacting minds, or in the void of solitude? The challenge of defining and defending.

We are not there. We are here. A new mountain, new land, new back yard. And newness carries unease that only time can soften. The time between. Between the hardness of discovery and that softness of understanding.

Newness reminds us nothing is known for certain. We float precariously. Perhaps that is a more realistic point of view than feeling grounded, solid on assumptions.

I look down river again and the osprey is gone.

Beauty redefines

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Beauty is redefined
By necessity
It is what we expect it to be
What we look for
What we are comfortable with
In context with our past
Our present is relative
As is the view before us
Now seemingly a bit odd
An awkward moment that sticks around
We shall get used it to in time.

Must beauty be big and showy
Blatant and bright
Or can it be subtle, slow, vague, and mysterious
A distant view revealed between dense timber
A play of light gracing the valley below
Through a break in the clouds while snow softly lands on our shoulders

Slowly we begin to see, to feel, to understand the difference. We absorb it all, the moisture in the air softening smiles, plumping out the creases the high altitude had carved on my paling skin.
Big trees thicker than our arms can reach around, with our noses touching rich and sweet bark.
Beauty that soaks in like the heavier air, damp and dark and a patchwork of long shadows.

My old mountains screamed. Blaring sun, rugged peaks, stark blue and white
These mountains sing, a quieter tune, we hear only if we listen and look through the trees
Softer, easier, but somewhere in them, I think, she holds secrets just as deep
She begins to open herself to me
I am the one now reserved
I need to let go and release myself fully
How else can we receive

How many layers can we lose and still remain in tact
Can we peel beyond naked and vulnerable
Down to bare bone
Hard and dense as granite
Expose the inner core
Then find what we are made of
Our essence
Perhaps no more than air and water
Thin and light and a little bit ethereal
That which holds us together
Or spreads us thin
Binds us
Or blinds us

When there is nothing else left to protect us
Contain us
Identify us by
But waters smoothly flowing
Over solid rock

Raven

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Silent are the wings of the raven as he passes
Casting a shadow long against the withered brown grasses at my feet
Laid over in the wind like hair in my eyes
Escaped from beneath the safe and warm confines of a wool cap pulled tight

Under a still grey sky
Laid out above like the inanimate object
I try to reach and reward myself with a soothing touch
Something warm, like flesh, soft and pink
But feel nothing
Only the weightlessness of the air above

Raven on the fence post
Static statue on a barrier to no where
No boundaries to define in the fallow field
Like some random spot out in the open sea
Just a few posts remaining
Semi upright
As time and gravity pull them slower than the eye of a generation might see
Old cedar carved deep with creases like wrinkles on an old man’s brow
Then surprisingly speckled with a shock of brilliant chartreuse moss
Unexpected life where one might suppose no more than death
And a tangle of wire coiled like snakes hiding in the tall brown grass
Prepared to grab the unaware footstep

The world around me as a mirror to my soul
Now tired and tamed and worn by the wind
Dreams and desires whisked away for the season
Seed heads reaching mid thigh
Dancing like drunken old men leaving the bar past midnight
Leaning on one another as they make their way down the twisted cobbled alley

Where does it lead me
As I seek a trail through the woods
No more than a tangle of vines and fallen trees
Leaves from the past scattered like forgotten promises

A stir in the stagnant air
Raven takes flight and the flapping beat
Throb like lungs of a running horse
A deep and guttural pulse as legs pour forth in a frenzied rhythm
Across the wide wild open plains

A breath I can hear and feel and smell
Warm and sticky and so wonderfully sweet
And for but a moment
I am carried through those parting grasses
And my dormant wild ways are awakened
For but a moment
I am unbound
And take flight with that feral black bird

Deer Season

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Leaves fallen
Feathers plucked
Skin left naked and raw
Open to the whim of the wind

She steps away
Stripped of her robe
Fallen at her pale feet
Exposed and vulnerable
And lies upon a new land
Cold and hard and uninviting
Not a whisper spoken to her
No secrets to show her yet
Nothing but a cold blank stare
Impenetrable
Unfeeling

She longs to feel
Against the freezing ground she presses her boney spine
Arches her neck and looks up at a sky she does not yet recognize
A stranger above her
Her eyes roll back
Hiding blue as a sky behind thin clouds
White reveals a void
Releasing a guttural moan
An unfathomable sigh
Giving in
Giving up

She remembers standing up
Taking a stand
Vaguely recalls what she stood for
A dream behind billows or a dancer behind a veil
And for a moment she blends into the brown and rotting leaves
Blowing about her like a dirty halo
The rich musky perfume overwhelms
Dulls her other sense
Her wildly racing thoughts
And she rests
Quiet as the sleeping doe
Awaiting the hunters footsteps