Currently on a brief vacation to Squamish, BC, bringing Forrest back to University, and enjoying time with all three boys in the rainforest. Today I share only images, not words.
Author: Gin Getz
Here and now
The simple act of replacing the calendar, changing the number we write on our personal checks or type on our business memos from 11 to 12. That’s it, nothing more. Except what we make of it. A big deal. A time of reflection.
I’m never one for resolutions, but big on reflections. This year I attempt to reflect less on the past, more on choices, paths, futures. Directions. But I have no crystal ball. Unable to look ahead, uncertain of the here and now, I find myself reluctantly turning back. Reflecting on the past. It’s comfortable, safe, known.
And confusing, because memory distorts the past. I forget sometimes why I left.
The big move. It was going to bring me to a new wild world. Raw land, and an open canvas, a new life unfolding, unfurling, one grain of sand at a time. I anticipated a deep relationship beginning, blossoming. The slow initiation. Two fresh lovers unsure of one another, eager, reaching, curious, tasting, touching.
We leaped; a net appeared.
The jump itself is exhilarating. Then the dust settles and we look around and try to make sense of where we are.
Here. Now.
I return from a snowshoe where I crossed over others tracks. In hopes of not disturbing the skier’s lines, I found myself post holing on the side hill. I don’t understand the etiquette yet. Every place has a different set of rules.
I’m used to being alone. My tracks. My rules. As selfish as it seems. It is what I was used to. I shared those little lines about the mountain set by my humble snowshoes quite happily with the coyote and bobcat and fox and martin, and grumbled under my breath when the moose chose my path, punching deep holes, long strides, just wide enough for my snowshoes to tip over and suck me in to some great white abyss.
Was it last year I went three months without leaving the mountains, and saw eight people all winter? And I was content.
Careful what you ask for. After years of spending isolated winters or summers with Mother-in-law-from-hell and her entourage, small but damaging as it was, I said I wanted neighbors, good neighbors. Now I have them. I have met more caring, interesting, involved, active neighbors in one month than I met in ten years in Colorado. Mind you, they are closer here. But I’m certain it’s more a matter of attitude, not distance.
And yet, already I see that wonderful as this is, it’s not the life for me. A social life. My hermit ways are only growing stronger, more defined. I hear them now clearly, growling, snarling, sneering and threatening to rebel.
When out of one’s element, by necessity perhaps, we learn to define who and what we are. What matters most. What parts of the past have formed us and do we allow to carry through into our futures?
I am missing my hermit ways. You can adjust, loved ones have assured me, to a social situation. Yes, I can adjust, but do I thrive? Like a wild cat in a zoo? Is captivity the best choice?
It’s no big deal, I tell myself. Then why do I feel distraught? My eyes are burning and wet but refuse to shed a tear. There is nothing wrong and yet nothing feels quite right.
Perhaps when my horses are here, though even then I shall find myself a hobby horsewoman having horses without horse work. Another part of the definition I had formed for myself that was left behind.
And the greatest part of me left behind? The deep wilds. And my part in them. My connection to them. I turned my back and walked away. Severed the cord. And find myself left like a babe learning to breathe.
Perhaps I can learn to breathe here. Deeper, richer, fuller than the thin air of the high mountains.
In the meanwhile, I feel somehow empty. Gasping for breath. That fish out of water.
And find my mind, without the connection with the wilds around me, resembles a blank canvas, an empty page. There is a hollow void.
The choice, then, is how I choose to fill it.
Or leave it sparse, and turn the page.
Confessions of a snowshoer
(an excerpt from a longer piece that got too long…)
Here’s what my first impression looked like. Deep powder, back county, dark timber. A solitary woodsman with an armful of split wood, a little log cabin, smoke welcomingly wafting from the chimney. Snowshoes left by the simple stool on the front porch, while the wood is carried in, the fire stoked, and the smell of warm stew and drying mittens permeates the air.
Snowshoes. For me, they did then as they do now represent the real deal of living with snow in the back country. Pure and simple. Economical, practical, solid and safe.
OK, it is many years ago. There we are at Thanksgiving. The most beautiful Thanksgiving I believe I ever was a part of. The turkey and pies carefully lifted from the heavy old cook stove crackling in the kitchen corner, upon which a big tub of water was warming for washing the old antique dishes spread out for this bountiful feast, most with chips and nicks from years of use and secrets of stories from many a meal shared in this cozy little cabin. The old heavy wood hand hewed table was laden with home grown goodies, and the room washed in the soft golden glow from a half dozen kerosene lamps carefully tended and chimneys cleaned each day. No electric lights, no music, air so soft and voices kept as low as the lights but laughter still spilling over like wine, staining the tablecloth a jubilant, vibrant red.
The little rough cut wood cabin, casement windows trimmed with wisteria vines then barren of leaves and fragrant purple flowers, trellising up the side and softening the obstruction that the house was to the mountain further still. It somehow fit into the woods, discrete and modest, into the mountain, not stuck on its side or the mountain cut, carved and suited to fit the home.
I still choose to mix my cookie dough with a fork, mash my potatoes with an old hand masher, and wash my hair at night so it’s dry by morning rather than resort to an electric hair drier. In the morning, I fry our eggs on the old cast iron skillet and our coffee percolates in an old steel pot. I’ve survived over thirty years without a TV and I still don’t want a phone. A dishwasher here would be as seemingly as out of place as a microwave oven.
Downsizing, scaling down, simplify, creating the chosen simple life. The pure essence of life. Simple pleasures. An appreciation, commitment and passion for that which matters most. My family, both two and four leggeds. Nature. Wilds. Air and water.
A simple walk in the woods.
In winter, that means snowshoes. A quiet, solitary, snowy walk in the woods.
Solstice Wind
And in the dark
The wind rises and twists and heaves
And circles me with a fierce embrace
Somehow lifting me body and soul
A black sky overcast
Void of sparkling depths
Air moist and heavy and balmy
The big trees that stand sentinel
I find finally moving dancing swaying
To a song I hear in the murmur of the wind
The forest comes alive
Here so trimmed and tamed and thinned
Now in the enigmatic depths of darkness
Whispering to be wild
In the deep ferocious bellow of the sky
Still somehow subtle soft contained
A secret promise remains held back
Unable to let down her hair
Throw back her head and howl
The hush of the mountain’s cry
A rumbling I finally feel
Low down and primal
Damn it, would you roar!
Let loose unsuppressed and unrestrained
Even the wind is sugar sweet soothing and polite
I want you to rip and tear
And burn and pulse
And let me sense your surging
Stirring
And I awoke
Looked around
And wondered what the hell I was doing here
Waiting for the darkest hour
As the wind teases
It doesn’t take much to arouse me
Set me off
And I am gone
Covertly covered by the wind
Remains of last season
The remains of last season
Visible as an odd curiosity
For I have not seen the leaves green here
Somewhat strange to arrive at the start of the dormant season
And wonder how life will transform and blossom
Now we approach darkness
Hesitant like stepping into frigid waters
The darkness does not concern me
I barely discern the difference
Here where day and night ooze and overlap
Lacking strong shadows and clean lines
Oh wild beast
Contained
By civilization
It does not become me
My eyes narrow and pulse quickens
I pace the cage uneasily
You pinned me to the wall
Did you think I would settle in softly
And not lash out?
It is uncomfortable
I shift awkwardly and cannot make eye contact
She stares back intently asking for recognition
Recognition I am unable to give
Only a blank stare in return
Shallow
Touching no more than the surface of the reflective glass before me
For a moment I become the Little Prince
Standing at the center of my little world
Silent and alone I can see forever and forever is not far
I call out and hear my echo
It is a small world
Too small
It is not that I feel large
Only confined
I see last season’s leaves still clinging to a dormant branch
And I see beauty in even that promise of what was
What will be
A certainty I am not yet comfortable with
Instead I curl up like a kitten in the windowsill
Basking in sunshine I only remember
Yesterday
Yesterday I looked back. I never like to do that. I’m one of those that believe we’re supposed to focus on the here and now. The Zen approach. And if you must let your gaze wander, allow yourself no more than a quick glance back to see from where you came, or a good gaze ahead to make sure you’re heading in the right direction.
But I did more than glance. I stared and studied. Looking at photos for a creative venture. Just work, you know? I had to.
So there I was. Taken back. At our ranch outside of Creede, high in the magnificence of the San Juan Mountains along the wild and free Rio Grande. Sounds so simple and straightforward. But life never is. There are always currents running deep if we allow ourselves to dive in. And only in the depths do we feel the strongest pull. And I felt it. A longing. A terrible burning for the past. A crazy overwhelming desire to be where I was not. There. Outside of Creede.
Sure, I know the temps “there” had already dropped down to twenty five degrees below zero and another two feet of snow just fell and the horses would have had icicles on their nostrils and my arms would be tired from shoveling snow and carrying firewood… and still I wanted to be there. I don’t like to admit that. I’d rather say it’s fun to be gone, to be away, to be free.
But it’s not. I’m lost. I am not home. I am not in the mountains that became me. That I became a part of.
I am here standing open and exposed on a snowy hillside staring at the view before me like trying to find recognition in the eyes of stranger. It is mild mannered, polite and pretty. I find myself longing for raging, ravaging and wild.
God I hate to admit that.
Looking back longingly. Remembering the beauty, the silence, the solitude, the serenity.
Where the only tracks for over a dozen miles besides mine and my boys on most days in winter would belong to the moose and coyote and snowshoe hare. Where the only noise was the squawking of the Stellar Jay, the comforting crackle of the woodstove or hiss of the tea pot, or the occasional airplane whose engine seems so out of place we would put down our forks, step away from the breakfast table, press our cheeks against cold glass and look up. Up, up into the most strikingly vivid blue sky I have ever seen.
Oh, and then there is spring with the untamed rush of brown waters, summer with the intense burst of wildflowers and blue birds, the brilliant bright gold splendor of fall…
Damn it! I thought leaving would be easy.
Instead I found it hurt in a way I did not expect. An aching. A longing. Have you ever turned your back on a lover, only to wish you never spurred him, and wanted him back when then it was too late? But still you remember the feel of his breath on your neck, the lips you know you will never touch again brushing against yours, fingers at the base of your spine? The embrace of the familiar lover. Lost.
I could go back.
But life isn’t about backwards
“…One either progresses or retrogrades…” (Mme. Du Deffand)
Says she as she clings to the past like a cat with claws stuck in the curtains unwilling to let go. But one can’t hold on forever. At some point, that cat will fall. Only to land on solid ground.
This post is taken from a longer article just completed and submitted to Creede Magazine.
Wild ways
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
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
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
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
Gin Getz 