Years back, Bob and I read a book by Dave Ramsey about financial security. It was interesting but not real relevant as I’m firmly planted against living beyond our means. That means, debt is a four letter word for me. (Well I guess it really is four letters, isn’t it?) I don’t like loans. In fact, I don’t even like bank accounts. I’m an odd egg for sure.
Our biggest takeaway from that book was a phrase we embraced then and continue to live by:
“Live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later.“
The premise being, if you don’t have money, don’t spend it. Live simply. Be thrifty. Do without. Save up rather than go into debt. Don’t be buying what you can’t afford. Frugal choices pay off in the long run.
It’s worked for us. We’ll drive a 25 year old truck rather than some “economical” new car that costs more than we make in a year, live off what we grow and pass on Trader Joes… but own the land on which we live.
Even if it doesn’t have a house?
I’m not saying it’s the best way, the right way, or the ideal way for everyone. But it’s worked for us. More or less.
(this is a sneak peak video into our little camper)
It took us a lot of years (like, um, around 50 and 60 respectfully) before we had the courage, grit and gusto (let alone the financial capability) to leave the old family ranch behind and break out on our own.
Finally.
Ours. All ours.
And now…
Here we are.
Still living like no one I know.
For better or for worse. Just how it is.
Go ahead. Laugh at how we live. We do too. It’s a little nuts. But we love it.
You can say it: We are living Red White and Blue. Red neck. White trash. Blue collar. And proud.
We live in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 with a nearby outhouse, no indoor plumbing, hauling drinking water from town and pumping wash water from the creek. We do our laundry by hand in an old churn style wash tub and hang it out to dry on a line strung along the horse fence. All in all, you learn to wash little things like socks and underwear, but realize there’s not much sense in washing the jeans when they’re just going to get dirty again. So, you don’t.
When you’re living at camp, cleanliness kinda goes by the wayside. Yes, I like a tidy home, but you can’t be real picky out here. There’s dirt. Lots of it. And mice, spiders, bats and flies and stuff that take some getting used to. I’m use to it.
Washing isn’t top priority. You save your fork after every meal and though I wash my hands and face in a bucket morning and night, I’ve cleaned my hair only three times since leaving California well over a month ago.
It’s a dirty life, but I love it. Sure, I look forward to keeping a clean house someday. Like when I have a house. But in the meanwhile, I love where we’re at and how we are living and that makes all the dirt and dust and grease and grime okay.
It helps too to have a very patient, loving, and a little bit blind partner living the life along with you.
(yes, that’s hail. and yes, it’s still freezing regularly in the morning, in case you were afraid to ask.)
As for progress and updates and the latest news from up on this high, wild land, well, our son was as usual a huge help getting our floor joists lined out (Thank you, Forrest!!!!!) and Bob and I got the plywood down (see the celebration dance below).
After a month being here and a season before that preparing to be here (and to be gone from there), all of it caught up with me, wrapped me up hard and tight, and laid me out.
And I guess that’s okay. Can’t say I had much of a choice.
Maybe if I gave less, did less, demanded less of myself, you know? (Sometimes, don’t you feel the same?)
But I don’t. (Do you?)
As long as I’m living, I’m going to live. Fully. And yes, intensely.
Even in my own quiet, wild way.
Not half-assed, but full on. Building, living, writing, creating, witnessing, listening, loving.
Even when it does to me what it did yesterday.
Knocks me out.
Even that, I did full on.
Nothing part way about it.
Complete shut down.
A day in bed.
And today, this morning, with the cacophony of summer birds song filling the air with the same intensity of the strong light of morning sun flooding our wide open valley, and the pride of seeing the cabin slowly come to life (very slowly though it seems), and the gratitude for my husband for allowing me a day to shut down (and dealing with the normal high vibe intensity that is a wild wave he manages to float upon with ease), that intensity softens, just enough, as the rooster crows and the hens run around work site as if we churned up the ground just for them, and the horses lay prone in the morning peace, and the pup ever ready for play waits patiently for my energies to return…
Admittedly, it’s not an impressive size flag, yet this is the little flag was strapped to my pack horse as I rode across the west on my Long Quiet Ride. So it’s seen this country, been waved to, honked at and warmly welcomed around campfires and kitchen tables of complete strangers that had the compassion and curiosity to let me in.
Likewise, singing is not my thing and won’t be my future, but this song played over and over and over again in my head and on my lips, and I found myself singing aloud time and time and time again with the clip clop clip clop of eight hooves in unison while I was out there, often with tears in my ears, falling in love with life again, and falling in love with this country – I can’t say “all over again,” but more like for the very first time. It was then and there, out there, during those moments of seeing flags, receiving innumerable random acts of kindness and prayers, and witnessing the beautiful generosity and trust, welcoming and kindness from absolute strangers that changed me forever and made me love this country and be proud to belong to it.
Happy 4th of July!
Cheers to this beautiful land we are blessed to belong to.
No, it’s not perfect. Neither are you. Neither am I. Yet each of us – all of us – and this country we share – becomes better with commitment, connection and contribution. Remember:
United we stand.
Divided we fall.
Let’s stop the whining. Stop the bitching and moaning. And definitely, stop the fighting. Let’s get our shit together, peeps.
Come together. Mind the gap. Fill it in. We’re all in this together.
Rather than focusing on the faults, let’s strive to find the beauty. In the land. In the people. In yourself. In the person next to you, no matter where they’re coming from or where they’re going to. They’re here. Sharing this beautiful land. This beautiful day. This beautiful life.
And what a beautiful country we’ve got to share! Have we forgotten? If so, it’s time to crack open our shells and find out for ourselves. Get out there and check it out. Go on, be brave, step outside your shell and see. Look around. Lean in. Look deep. Find some beauty, some magic, some wonder and awe. It won’t be hard to do. Open your eyes then open your heart and watch the walls fall down.
My fellow Americans, it’s time to tear down the walls we’ve been building, fill in that seemingly black hole between us that keeps us from coming together, and stop allowing ourselves to be thrown in the pit against one another. It’s time to find the courage to open our hearts, find some good in people we meet, neighbors near and far, strangers we pass on the street. We’re all in this together. Let’s strengthen the threads that connect us, and remember we’re all wrapped up in those stars and stripes together.
Whatever our beliefs, seems like we all pretty much want the same things. A safe home, a beautiful land, and a bright future for our children.
So what are we arguing over? Don’t you see how that weakens us all?
Have the courage to step away from dividing. Have the courage to stand together.
My coach reminds me, “Hurt people hurt.” I don’t want to be that person. Do you? Come on, let’s get over it. Stop hiding behind fears. Be strong enough to be nice enough.
May we all find common ground, beautiful threads that connect us, and tear down the walls that divide.
Another morning sitting at the table in this tiny trailer to write while my husband leans back in bed less than ten feet away holding his coffee cup in his hands as if in silent prayer, and the dog lays with gentle deep breathing at my feet beneath the little table that serves as kitchen and office, work space and desk, and the first of today’s sun pours in from over the hills to the east, spreading across the table like spilled milk.
So much I want to share with you this morning. My hands are unable to move as fast as my mind, and my mind cannot keep up with the hugeness that is my heart right now. I want to share with you about the dozen mama elk descending from dark timber on our lower pasture whilst we sit by the campfire witnessing the nursery band of their babies held safe to the side by the sentinels while the mothers graze. I want to share with you the haunting sound of a family of coyotes at last light, singing to one another, but stirring us in the process, simply by bearing witness to their wailing, while our pup even sat still in reverie close by, amazed at the mystery of his distant cousins. I want to share with you the intoxication of being high, really high, top of the mountain high, above treeline and dizzy with elevation high in thin air with rubbery legs and a tired euphoric pride from having hiked from our camp to the high peak of these mountain, standing their together, my man and me, in absolute awe of the land we are becoming.
I guess what I want to share is simply the intimate connection between person and place; exposing the sensitive openness of the soul into nature and wilds. This is what I can give you today. This is what I offer to share with you with humble outstretched arms and a very vulnerable heart.
Already we start to see forever. That’s what we do and who we are.
We try to keep ourselves reined in. We’re just committing to today. We’ll see how things go from there.
Only we can’t help ourselves. It’s what we do. Connection with land grows, tight and strong and intense as we toil. So from the get go, we’re planning and plotting where the garden will go, the big hay barn, the calving shed… the three bay garage for our son…
Slow down.
We felt the reality of age in the last couple months – the back and forth of unwanted time on the road, the physical limitations of our bodies, the unpredictable yet governing weather, the desire to enjoy the magic of whatever mountains we live in and the insatiable need to grow roots.
Can we grow old here? Can we grow old there?
We are not snowbirds. We don’t want two places, two lands, two lives. We are grounded. We work the land. Give more than we take. We become a part of the land, as the land works its way into our veins from open wounds, beneath our fingernails, into our pores, into our bones. The land finds its way into our callouses and sweat, and our blood seeps into the waterways and into the roots of the hungry trees.
I am monogamous with the land as I am with my lover, like my beloved ravens. I have mated for life, but I am not certain where we are meant to build our final nest.
The search for the sense of belonging is not found in the view but in the intimate connection between person and place that comes and grows with time, care, tending the land, committing to the community, good times and bad, hard times and easy, stories and dreams and dramas.
I don’t want advice. If I wanted a life like you, I’d have it. I want a life like me. That’s the wisest thing I can encourage you to do too – find your own way, listen to the song of your heart and have the courage to dance to that tune.
We’ll listen for the wisdom of the land and of our hearts. We’ll see what this summer brings.
Already I know I am not going to want to leave this land come fall. I want to commit. Wherever I am. But here, there is something that stirs me, tempts me, digs into my bones. I will want to see her wither and brown, then grey and white, brittle and frail and frozen. I will want to witness the silence of winter when morning birds head to lower ground and the creeks freeze over and the branches are stripped bare of quaking leaves. I will want to stand out upon her frozen grounds and listen to the distant call of the coyote and the raven, the few hearty enough to remain, and say yes, I am with you, I too not only endure, but find the beauty and awe and wonder and grace in the wide, wild, white open slate that winter will bring.
But for now I want to just be here. Experiencing the wilds. The wilds that hold us, open us with frozen mornings and biting winds, and define us with the challenge of our heart to not only endure, but to burst free.
You see, first there is this: the footer. The solid footprint upon which to build level and square, solid, straight and true.
A slab is poured.
And a rather permanent footprint is created.
This is something solid, serious, the real deal.
It means something, though I’m not sure I can define what.
I know it means it’s happening. We’re doing this. Building a little cabin way out and way high.
But it feels like it means something more.
It’s also about building dreams, a life, hand in hand as we build the walls.
Slowly. Slowed by our aging energies. Slowed by the elements. Slowed by the schedules of others we’re working around.
Is slow such a bad thing?
Maybe it just means more time. More time to consider and refine our plans. More time to hike and explore and ride and write. More time to sit and stare at the view, in silence, together, as our hearts feel as radiant as the sky.
And along with solid grounding, those cement roots we sew into the ground, there lays a message of commitment. One of the scariest things to consider.
So today I’m thinking long and hard about commitment because… well, I’m trying to figure out how committed I am.
Is commitment the ties the bind us – the burden that has our hands held tight behind our back?
Or the devotion and responsibility that keeps us tied, which in kind creates a bond more powerful than that of freedom?
At times, you know, it is both.
Commitment can be our ocean. It is the vastness that holds us up, and that threatens to take us down if we don’t learn to swim. We must soften into the water. Allow it support us, and adjust to its ebbs and flows. That which is dense and rigid is more likely to sink. Like the concrete on the footer. How do we stay afloat in this ever changing world, these ever changing times, my ever changing mind?
Commitment takes time. It can’t be forced, but takes a subtle power and pressure like water sculpting stone. One more reason to slow down. Let it sink into your bones. Let it become you. If it will. And maybe it won’t. See if it will somehow soften you, change you, and move you to evolve.
It is a choice. Dedication, devotion and duty are the glue that adheres us, what holds us to person, to place, to profession. It holds us to center, though sometimes it is just… sticky.
It is not born but comes with time, like a fine wine rolling along your tongue. Committing to growing a garden, a dog, a horse or a kid, a relationship, a book, a building. These things don’t happen over night.
Commitment takes time and work, patience, forgiveness and acceptance. It takes a certain type of kindness that is intertwined with love. And commitment takes change. Yes, to remain committed, we not only grow into it, we flow with it. Thus along the way, something happens. We become more, we become less, we become something a little different. We change.
(Perfectionism is, if not the polar opposite, than the bucket that dosed the flame. Check out what Brene Brown has to say about that in her book, “The Gifts of Imperfection.”
Are you committed? To person, to people? To place? To your craft. To your chosen lifestyle. To your beliefs and creed and faith? To the place that you call “home?”
Red flag warnings flare again today. Strong winds rattle the little camper. Dust devils twirl and dance along the dirt road where the horses run. Logging trucks stir lingering amber clouds in the far distance. Dry and dusty and this feels like the Wild West. And today, it feels like home.
The work site stays somewhat protected against the east facing hill, tucked between the little camper and the new bathhouse. The dirt work is done. Right on schedule for a cement pour happening later this week.
With light frost and ice kicked out of the dog water bowl outside, and inside the little camper the thermometer read 42, I’m excited for solid wood walls and a wood stove.
But we’re a long ways away from that.
In the meantime, plenty to do to keep me busy, and (in theory) out of trouble.
But then there was this.
Trouble.
It’s a thing for me.
Horses.
The livestock auction was this weekend with sixty horses being run through, mostly by horse trainers and traders, and not too many buyers. I could have bought a few.
I refrained.
And limited myself to just this one.
The new boy.
I don’t know what they called him at the race track, but the folks who sold him to me called him Jessie. A good, historic Western name. We’ll see if it sticks. He kinda looks like Cinco to me. See, before him, there was Tres, and there was Quatro, and two other sorrels with stars before that. This guy has a blaze, not a star, but sorrel he is, so we’ll see which name takes hold as he settles into life on this mountain with us.
So far, so good.
Getting a new horse (and this is something long overdue for us) is kinda like having a baby. You’re never really ready, and the timing is never right.
Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do to get through.
And I need horses to get through…
In an ideal world (if there is such a thing), we’d bring the new guy home and put him in a little pen and spend some quality time with him, bonding and getting used to one another for a week or a month or whatever it took before I was certain turning him out didn’t mean he’d run away. But it’s not slick and perfect here. It’s a little wild and western, rough and rustic (and did I mention, very dirty?).
So we bring the new guy home and put him in the corral where I keep my two old horses nearby at night. Leave him there a couple hours while he meets the old guys over the safe panels.
And then we turn him out.
Okay, so it’s 160 acres of fenced off open ground here, crossed fenced to maybe 80 acres. Turning a new horse out onto 80 acres seems a little nuts. And an ex race horse, at that. I expected all hell to break loose. It didn’t.
The old guys met the new guy, nose to nose, ran back and forth once in front of the camp for maybe 100 feet. Then put their heads down to eat. That’s kind of how it’s been ever since.
He’s a sweetie, a little unsure of wild open spaces, but bonding well with the old guys, and learning good lessons from them, from me, and from the mountain. How to cross washes and drink from creeks. How to lay down to rest in the morning sun and graze close to camp in the evenings where you’ll be treated and brushed and put in the safe pen for the night. And most important, of course: How to come to mama when called 😊
This guys is a keeper for sure.
Alright, enough about horses. I gotta get back to work…
… and a few photos from the past few days, leaning in and stepping back.
About the power.
Bob and I have lived off grid as long as we’ve been together. That’s twenty something years. And twenty something years of relying on solar power.
We’re no pros on solar power but we make do (with help on big stuff, without a doubt). It works. Well.
I thought I’d take a few to share with you what’s working for us here and now. I’m not saying this is “the” way. It’s just our way. And it works for us.
The tiny little camper we’re living in has a tiny little solar panel, battery and inverter that actually works well enough to keep us in a few tiny little lights. Good thing to note is that the batteries are sealed, which means safer in a small space, and if left for the season well charged, don’t freeze. We don’t use this much and I’m not big on lights anyway. I’m more a candle, oil lamp and solar twinkle lights kinda gal.
But we do have needs. And the tiny little system in this tiny little camper wasn’t going to cut it.
Back in California, I did some research into a portable solar system that would satisfy our simple needs. We’d need to charge devices, power tools and (yup) Starlink. The regular household Starlink, not the portable one designed for on-the-go. I decided on the Ecoflow Delta 3 Plus. This is the system we purchased on Amazon at about a thousand dollars: EF ECOFLOW Solar Generator Delta 3 Plus with 220W Bifacial Solar Panel.
So far, we’re glad we went with it. It felt like a pretty big drop in the bucket at the time, but we’ve had no regrets what so ever. Super simple, straightforward and reliable. It’s been more than enough power for us. Could have gone a little smaller, perhaps, to accommodate our minimal needs, but maybe we’ll get something else to plug in – like a portable cooler or something to keep groceries cold. Right now, we just make do. Refrigeration is great, but it’s over rated and not necessary. We go to town once a week and only get enough perishables to last that week. Cheese, butter, yogurt do fine. Likewise do most veggies. We don’t eat much meat but a pre-cooked roast chicken from our little local market, between meals made with the chicken and then soup made with the bones, lasts the better part of a week.
For emergency back up of charging devices, or for charging when we’re out in the field, I still love to use my Goal Zero Venture 35 mini battery/inverter and the Goal Zero Nomad 20 portable folding solar panel. I got this set up for my Long Quiet Ride, and rode with the little solar panel strapped on the back of the pack horse charging one unit, and a second small battery pack in my horn bag to get me through the day. I stressed about losing power a lot, but made it through. Now it just serves as a back up, and a seriously sweet stress reducer.
Of course, today is Summer Solstice. A beautiful blessings indeed. Solar power is having it’s heyday and the need for lights is just about nil, with the sun so early to rise and late to set, pretty much coinciding with our needs.
As for these photos…
Here’s an assortment from the past few days. Some are leaning in. Getting up close and intimate. (I finally unpacked my big camera, so that’s been a pleasure for me to work on in well needed breaks from the dirt pit – more on that next time!). Others are stepping back. Seeing the bigger picture. All of them, for me, are about finding beauty and awe with what is right there before you. It’s easy here. Looking closely. Feeling what you see. Quietly. Deeply. Intimately. Mine is not a view big and bright and shiny enough to attract a big fuss and crowds. But it is more than enough for me.
Finally a warmer evening. No rain and hail this afternoon to cool things down to cold. So he heats a bucket of water over the fire and offers me a soak, out under the wide open sky that throws her usual evening show of colors nearly gaudy – blues and violets and magentas and grays, blending boldly in untamed air.
As I slip my dirty feet into the pail, a part of me melts. Between the warm water, watching ground-in dirt abrade, and the generosity of my husband to share this simple gift, I soften.
Two weeks ago yesterday, we left our oasis in California, and today Colorado feels like home. Here, there, wherever I am. Wherever the soil rubs deep into my pores and comes to rest beneath my nails. Wherever the air fills and burns my nose and lungs and wherever the water in which I bathe becomes me. That is where I am, where I wish to remain, where I belong, forever.
Camp is set. A place to sleep and cook and clean. A road to come and go. Water to drink and a place for chickens and horses, dog and this meager thing I call a garden. A place to do laundry, store tools, wash after another dirty day.
We are ready to move forward.
And so, we break ground.
And as the sod is peeled back, revealing rich soil below, deposited a millennia ago by the industrious work of beavers, the story in my heart unfolds just as deep, just as wide, just as rich and wild.
And then we return inside. Into the comfort of what is now home to my man, my dog and me. A tiny trailer, 8 feet wide and 14 feet long, that I decorated as I do, with crystals and warm colors and an assortment of things that make me feel cozy. Things that make me feel at home, as does the sound of that rooster’s crow.
Prayer flags in the kitchen window that were custom made many years ago. The only missing message is faith. Something I am returning to. The path is unique to me. The direction is all the same.
In fact, this lesson took me fifty-something years to figure out.
It’s about people.
The photos today may not be, but the writing’s about people.
The thing about people.
See, intertwined with this journey of place is one of people.
Because true belonging is a balance, unique for each of us, of connecting with people as well as with place.
Ones sense of belonging is found with and created by connection.
Connection. Connecting with land has been easy for me. Connecting with people, well, this is the part I’m finally getting.
If you’ve known me a while, likely you know that people were not my thing. I was awkward. Shy. Reserved and withdrawn. At least I usually felt all those things.
And yes, scared.
People scared me. Being around them, talking with them, trying to connect with them. Never belonged. Connection felt like an impossible mission; I felt more disconnect than connection. And then would rehash and ruminate for hours, days and years all the things I surely did wrong in those (rare) encounters.
So in my defense or some sense of self preservation, I became a bit of a recluse, a hermit, a wild woman who lived “way out there.” And I did my best not to deal with people.
I’ve lived like a lone wolf. I’m not saying that’s a good thing. However… I once proudly boasted of not leaving the mountain for five months at a time, and going from fall to spring seeing only nine people, two of which were my husband and son.
It’s not that I didn’t like people.
It’s just that I chose to be alone.
It’s just that…
I thought I’d be better off.
I thought I’d be safer.
I thought I had all I needed, was self-sufficient, could do it all by myself.
And guess what I learned?
I was wrong.
Isolation created separation.
And separation created depression.
And in that self created state of disconnection, I found myself in a rabbit hole that got deeper and deeper and deeper still.
And into that hole I fell, deeper and deeper and deeper still.
Until I finally hit the bottom, dusted myself off, and climbed back out.
It took taking my Long Quiet Ride to wake me up to the greatest truth.
It was a trial by fire.
Throwing myself out there, in front of the bus, being at the mercy of people. OMG.
And out there, I learned two things.
First, people are good. For the most part, I mean like seriously, obviously, good is so far above and beyond bad. The fact that our population has grown to over eight billion of us is proof enough for me. Good wins.
Second, I need people. We all do. No matter how independent we fool ourselves to be. We are interdependent, and that’s a good thing. On that trip, boy did I need people. For direction, for suggestions of safe passage, for companionship, for connection, for some sense of wholeness that was left as a gaping hole while I was out there trying to do it alone.
Here’s the deal. The fear that prompted me to build my armor and protected walls didn’t keep me safe, only kept me separate.
Believe me, I had spent a lifetime of plenty of time alone and proving myself capable. That’s not what I went out there to do. I didn’t know what I was looking for but I figured it out fast. Got the message, loud and clear. And right away.
And from the very first day, I realized, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to connect.
I longed to share a meal, a story, a hug, a laugh. I wanted to be a part, no longer apart.
Now, some things remain the same. I still choose to live “way out there.”
But some things are very different.
I have learned the thing about people.
And I have learned to love people.
In small doses, admittedly. I’m still not keen on parties, potlucks and group gatherings. One-on-one is more my style. Even if it’s one-on-one with the woman at the checkout or the guy in line before me, tea with a neighbor or a long walk with an old friend, getting the story of the person sitting beside me in a waiting room, or (this will always be my personal favorite) a lingering dinner shared with my husband and son with candles, fresh bread and simple homemade food, and lots and lots of laughter and love.
I believe it is a universal truth that everyone wants to belong, to be accepted, and to be loved.
Hatred is a defense. I know all about that. It’s armor. It takes more courage to drop it than to hide behind it.
But in doing so, in freeing ourselves of our so-called protective shield, we lighten our load.
Only then can our wings unfurl big and bright and wide. Only then can we rise and soar.
I’m living proof that we can learn, we can grow. We can forgive. And (I humbly bow to those who have) we can be forgiven as well.
I’m sharing this because I wish others wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made. But I know life doesn’t work that way. We have to make mistakes in order to learn. We have to live to learn. What we’re told or taught may be intelligent, but it is not wisdom. It becomes wisdom when it soaks into our heart and soul. Then we really get it.
It took me a helluva long time to learn what a lot of you knew all along. That’s a lot of unnecessary pain, for myself, and for others. That’s a lot of loss, because really, I did miss out.
But I got it.
Finally.
A late bloomer.
Better late than never.
What does this have to do with the adventure we’re currently on, building an off grid cabin “way out there” in Colorado, while still wondering where the hell we’re meant to remain?
A lot.
Because people matter as much as place. Because people are a part of the place. Because people fill my heart in a way that the wild world cannot, and hopefully I can fill others’ hearts along the way. Because connection matters, belonging matters, and no place will ever be “the” place without that bond and love and connection with the people around you.
How can I love a place without loving (at least most of) the people who live there? Am I so shallow as to love a pretty view but not the people, the stories, the interrelation of the people who are there?
The thing about creating or finding community and the place where I belong is ever present if not on my mind than in my heart.
I don’t want to ever be isolated, separated or lonely again.
I may not be totally rocking the social scene. I’m still a quiet, wild woman, silent sort that needs more time in the trees than in town – but finally I learned I do need that time in town. With people. Connecting. Belonging. And much to my surprise, it feels so good.
Yes, it’s scary. Yes I am often still afraid.
But I have to. That’s the courage I’m building.
Though I may choose to live “way out there,” reaching out regularly allows me to live as I do, and be a part, not apart.
I am a part of humanity.
And it’s a good place to be.
Wherever that physical place may be.
And yeah, that’s the biggie I’m working on.
People are basically good. Everywhere. And I can find my people where ever I go. If I have the courage enough to open.
So the question in my heart now is, how do I figure out that balance of loving the land and the people who live there, and choosing where we are meant to remain?
How can I choose one place when I find a connection with people I meet all over the place?
Oh, that’s a biggie. I’ll save all that for another time.
I’ll conclude with a few updates from the past few days. Nothing ground breaking quite yet. Soon. Believe me, you’re not near as anxious as we are to get moving forward on this big job. But before working there is living, and right now, we’re still working on those details, and there are a lot, because it’s not just about building, it’s about living, and living takes a lot, and living does come first. A lot of little details, and some big ones too, like working on the road to access our camp and worksite with some seriously Old Iron and gravel from our land.
And the shed. Oh the shed! The shed is an amazingly awesomely wonderful gift from Bob’s sister that is turning into something we didn’t know how bad we needed, and now wonder how we’d manage without. It’s got enough room to house all our tools on shelves in plain sight, have a work table out of the elements (and elements are a thing up here, with rain and hail a daily thing). And though the shed also serves as safe storage for all those things we managed to stuff in the horse trailer on the way out here, we’re finding it even provides us with a mud room – a place to leave our muddy boots and hang out weather gear, and up here, that’s a mighty appreciated thing. It’s huge – big enough to live in, far bigger than our humble camper. Though rest assured, it’s not going to stop us from building. Just help us along the way.
The things that were easy and reliable for me to share back in California – the constant and reliable beauty and abundance of the garden we created – well, not so much here. Between the mice and mornings still freezing regularly, my so-called garden, though covered with agribon and a heavy tarp at night, is not a happy place.
Though the rest of the wilds here are. And wild it is. With endless room to roam and mountains to wander and treasures to observe. All in all, it’s big and wide and wild and my heart and soul are soaring with the ever-changing but all the same expansive view before me.
Gin Getz 