The rain forest returns. Warm, wet, heavy air held suspended in undulating gray skies. Electric green moss wraps around rugged oak limbs. The roar of the river through open window where we sleep at night drowns out the cadence of heavy rain on hard metal roof.
Here in the far north of California, spring makes her first intimation with the return of the robins dappling the meadow, Canada geese flying in formation low along the river, Pacific bluebirds and several other songbirds I have yet to spot even in the nakedness of leafless giant oaks, all gracing us with joyous chatter. I imagine them happy to be home. Discernible leaves of shooting stars emerge on damp soil, new life awakens on the gooseberry bush, and the first daffodils of the season promise to burst open in what may be a matter of days.
I’m not ready for winter to end. Yet. Yet…
It’s hard to figure what to do next when I don’t know, like drawing straws, it all needs to be done and soon. Some days it feels like there’s no way we’ll get it done. Other days we remind one another: we’ve done this before. We can do it again. Yes, yes, please remind me that again and again and again.
Some days I get scared.
Can we do this? Again?
Not yet old, but already, I feel it. We’re older now. I don’t have the energy I had in my twenties when I built my first two hippy houses in the desert south of Santa Fe, stacking and stuccoing straw with a baby on my back.
Nor do I have the energy of my thirties when building the first of several Colorado cabins while guiding horse rides in the morning, peeling logs in the afternoon, and evenings spent cooking for the crew. All the while trying to impress my new lover and somehow sort-of home-school our son. I guess I did okay with that lover because he’s still by my side. As for home-schooling, God knows how he learned so brilliantly because it wasn’t my doing.
Nor do I have the energy found in my forties when we built what was meant to be the forever house, from the ground up. Falling trees in deep winter, deep snow, hauling logs across frozen river by snowmobile, and again pulling on the old draw knife day after day after day as my husband and son raised the walls.
Now I’m nearing sixty and though I sure feel far from old, I no longer feel that infinite fire and limitless energy I felt in younger days. Maybe that’s not all bad to let it simmer.
But the reality of facing the formidable task of building a cabin tight enough to winter in, putting in off-grid systems, setting up shelter for the horses, a coop for the chickens and something to keep plants alive… all this (and more) at an elevation of 10,000 feet which means high, harsh and wild…
It’s a lot.
I could use that infinite fire right about now.
Some days the stress of what is not getting done weighs heavy.
Some days the grief of what I’m leaving nearly paralyzes me.
Some days the excitement of what we’re starting electrifies me and takes my breath away.
Things change. I changed. I shall continue to change.
Yet as stand here with my hip against the kitchen sink, holding a warm cup of coffee between hands weathered and worn by time and place, darkened by sun and soil and years, something within me feels this sense of peace of the familiar, something I need, we all need. That need feels pressing right now, that knowing no matter where we find ourselves, even when the world seems upside down, inside out and backwards, so much still remains the same. Solid. Grounded. Sturdy. There is comfort in that knowing, soothing as the hot black liquid I am slowly sipping.
At this very moment, as I gaze up from dirty dishes I’m pretty good at ignoring, my attention scans outward, across pasture. Horses head down, chickens underfoot, bare branches of sprawling oak with tips not yet swelling, last years leaves still scattered across the patchwork quilt of ever green grass and tenacious wet snow.
What I am looking for is not yet there. It’s still early. Wait. It won’t be long. The 18th of February. That’s the date marked on my calendar. It is not only my mother’s birthday, but the date I begin to listen for his call. Then, or soon after, like some primordial clockwork that does magic of seasons and cycles of the moon, I will hear his song. I listen, for I may hear him long before catching the sight of his orange flash in the otherwise still winter scene, a landscape drawn in shades of gray.
It’s often later. A few days. A few weeks. But my stirring starts early and builds, always excited by these little harbingers of changing seasons. Sure, I can wait. I have waited before. Here, there, other places I have been, have lived, have looked and listened. He always comes. As the bluebirds when aspen or oak buds begin to swell. The pair of ravens that gather the shedding horse hair just in time to build their nest. The geese at river’s edge, hoping for a place safe from rising spring waters. These things come.
And so too will the unassuming Redwing Blackbird come, sharing his shrill whistle as I lean closer to the window to hear. Perchance he’ll rest on a branch of the sprawling oak that in summer shades the house from midday sun but now stands still with bare branches extended like fingers of an ancient witch; or perch on the stalks of willow that bend and sway with lessons in learning to give.
And even while I wait, anticipating what will come, the song bird, the change of seasons, the change of view from a change of kitchen window over a change of sink, for now at least, I am here. And right here, right now, there is no place I’d rather be.
Winter’s going way too fast.
The greenhouse is alive with spring starts of broccoli, cabbage, kale and chard, keeping company with overwintered geraniums and that sprawling avocado tree because I swore I wouldn’t buy the fruit, but man, I do love them. Seedlings spouting on the kitchen counter: tomatoes, peppers, basil, snapdragons, marigolds, all leggy from lack of sun.
(“How can you garden,” you may ask,”when you said you were moving on?” And my response, just as you’d expect: “How can I not?”)
Ten inches of rain one week, snow the next, then a clear spell long enough to dry our boots, but not those logs waiting to be milled before the next storm arrives.
You know that feeling of having to be indoors but so dying to be out there? Yeah, that one. Me, I can keep myself occupied indoors between writing and drawing out plans for the new house. And there’s always cooking, cleaning, baking, herbal crafts, little inside things I love to do, like happy sappy 70’s songs remembered from my childhood, distracting me from the longing of wanting to dig my hands deep in dirt, which right now, is not happening. The soil is either to wet to walk on or hard from freezing temperatures.
It won’t last. Nothing ever does. Give it time. It will change. And before you know it, I’ll be back out there longing for these languid days, which likely I won’t get again until next winter rolls around. And geez… hard to imagine what next winter will be like.
So don’t.
As for Bob, he’s making the most of it his own way, as he does. Indoor arts and crafts are not his thing. His way of having his boots dry out is hauling the first load of milled lumber to our new place. California to Colorado and back again. Three days driving, each way, taking the loneliest road, or four when you run into truck troubles and weather, both of which he did. Then back to me just in time for Valentine’s Day. At least I hope, as another winter storm has settled in.
Why mill and haul from here when there’s plenty of logs to build with in the mountains of southern Colorado? A seemingly endless supply of dead standing blue spruce killed by the beetle infestation that washed over those hills like a tsunami. Enough of those trees will hopefully still be good enough for using as full logs, but they have not the integrity, heft nor girth, we want for posts, beams and dimensional lumber, counter tops, shelves, ceiling and floors.
Meanwhile, here in northern California, the beetles hit too, but not as hard, fast and heavy. At this point, the damage is just the right amount for giving us dead trees to clear from our property; and all the lumber the Old Mill, my old man and I, can crank out. Beautiful lumber. Doug fir. Still hard and strong and perfect for what we need.
So, we do it here, bring it there. It may seem inconvenient at best. And yes, Home Depot is an easier option. But that’s not ours. Or us. Making the most of what we have.
Which right now is a forced break indoors, while the “wintry mix” outdoors keeps coming down.
We’re pretty hearty, but we have our limitations. Milling in these conditions is a big NOPE. It’s a nasty, sticky, soggy mess. I’d rather get covered with sawdust on clear afternoons when the wind blows my way. That time will come.
You know how it goes. One thing waits, while another happens.
Ever changing.
Some days so slow you feel stuck in stagnant waters.
Other days, hold on to your hat and brace yourself for the wild ride.
Time changes.
Changing times.
Like seasons.
Take time.
Time to stare at flames in the fire pit, or falling snow.
Time to slip on your boots and run out in warm rain.
Or slip off your shorts and immerse yourself in the river.
Time to smell orange peel, chocolate, the warm dry pup.
A new baby, damp rich earth after a summer rain.
Time to feel the sensation of that summer rain wetting brown skin burned by yesterday’s sun
or winter sun like a gentle hand on red cheeks, the only flesh brave enough to be exposed.
Time to celebrate last years leaves fragile as fresh eggshells crumbling beneath your boots
or cheer for melting snow if you drum up the courage to step out in hot bare feet.
Time to hear that river, that endless river, the never ending background sound of this land
or that sleeping dog’s heavy breath.
The inhale. The exhale.
The pause in between.
Time to rush around.
And time to sit.
Still.
Put the damned devise aside and see the magic you would have missed.
Time for solitude and socializing.
Time for reflecting and planning what is next.
Time to let go.
And how about, “time to get your ducks in a row?”
Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
You know, ducks will do that. It’s what they do.
And in a way, that’s a good cliche for what I’m trying to do.
Figure things out.
Things.
I dunno. Writing. This blog. Where we’re going. How to hold onto here. And there. How to afford it all. Life. That sort of stuff. Big stuff.
Right, at my age, shouldn’t I have that figured out, my ducks all nicely lined out?
Don’t kid yourself.
You never stop.
As long as you’re living, you’re learning.
At least, that is what I tell myself.
Makes me feel a little better when I realize how far I’ve come.
I once read an essay by the remarkable Wendell Berry that began with,
“I have never not known where I belong.”
Me, I have never known. I am still searching. It’s what I’ve always written about. The searching. That journey. It continues. Maybe someday I’ll get it right. Maybe I’ll get there someday…. Or maybe the non-attachment, the learning to flow, the openness, courage, challenge and adventure that searching has allowed me are enough. Who knows? We’ll see.
In the meanwhile, I have learned to love my wild life. Finally. Or should I say, for now. Because you never know what the future brings. Though I do believe the past has brought me to a beautiful present. It took a lot of work. Was it worth it? Yes indeed.
Moving has never been my intention. I always wanted to remain. Permanence, grounding, the forever place, that sort of thing. But life happens. And then next thing you know, I’m moving again.
Though I still sometimes think of myself as a lone wolf, I am not. I have my forever place in heart and soul, a foundation always with me, no matter where I am. My husband. Our adult son. Rock solid. My rock stars. And really, because of them, because of the “who,” the “where” doesn’t matter near as much.
That said, “where” sure can be interesting!
So, yeah. Guess what?
“Where” is changing again.
You got it. A new adventure awaits.
No, it’s not a wild horse ride across the West this time. Though it too will involve making my way from California to Colorado, with my horses. And once again, the adventure will not just be about being there, but about getting there. It will be about the journey. And then, it can be about what happens when we get settle in and get to work.
We’ll see where it goes. All I can do is start. So here it goes, friends. I’m starting to blog again!
Change. Big change. Scary.
I’ve put a lot of thought into this, probably too much, and still I’m kinda confused by it. Here’s why. On one hand, I love our peace and privacy. On the other hand, I think it’s an exciting idea to share our life and world. Living as we do, it’s hard to reach out, connect and contribute. Putting stuff “out there” is one way we can reach out and maybe even do something good.
If you haven’t noticed (and likely you did not), I’ve been avoiding social media for my mental health. Has it helped? Well, something has. Maybe it’s age. Having menopause behind me. Having my husband still with me. Maybe even the joy I find from my dogs, cats and horses. In any case, I’m happier than ever I was.
So why risk that by putting my writing, an intimate expression of me, out there again? Believe me, I’ve been going back and forth, finding courage then chickening out again. I’ve probably brewed this over way too much.
When I have trouble figuring out something big, my deciding factor is usually asking myself this: Would I regret it more if I did it, or did not do it? Believe it or not, I’d regret not writing, not sharing, not connecting, not having the courage to put my words out there. I need to try. That’s always been my mantra. Try.
Looking back nearly twenty years, I started blogging with the long since deleted “High Mountain Muse” site. It was initially created to be a “how-to” platform, sharing off-grid building and homesteading skills. It turned into a literary expression that resulted in my first two books.
See, I’m not interested in telling anyone “how to.” All I can share is “how I do.” There are plenty of experts out there. I’m not one of them. I am comfortable with simplicity and humility. And yet, I also believe there is much to be said for having the courage to put yourself out there and share. Not as an expert, just as a unique individual (or couple in this case) doing things a different way. Not necessary the best or right way, but our way. Doing what we can, what works for us. I don’t even want to tell other people “how to.” I think part of the journey is figuring it out ourselves. So if I can do any good that way, it would be in inspiring people to drum up the courage to try, whatever beautiful dream they imagine, their way.
What I can do, however, is share my world, my view from the front porch, or from some secret place deep inside. A simple, slow, quiet world. Expressed with courage and creativity, beauty and love. And in doing so, I hope you find some part of yourself, some inspiration, some enjoyment from reading what I share.
All that said, this blog was, and likely will be again, part “how we build an off-grid high mountain homestead from scratch,” and part how we live (or at least try to live) with care, creativity, contemplation, connection, commitment and contribution. The balance and harmony of inner and outer life. Sharing the untamed view – out there and within. That includes the soulful element. Diving deep. Things like the solace of nature, the peace in simplicity, the joy of open space and time, the awe and magic of the wilds, the pleasure in hard physical labor and rewards of a hot bath, and the comfort in love. This is part of the picture, that inner and outer landscape, just as is building the homestead, growing the vegetables, tending to the land and animals, and caring for one another. Thus part of what I share is transparent and hopefully inspirational with the reality of the difficulties, challenges and rewards of finding balance of body, mind and soul when your world is splattered with mud and sawdust, sore shoulders and frozen toes.
On the revamped “About” page, I shared this as an introduction, or reintroduction if you’re familiar with me and/or my work:
We move. We grow. We evolve.
I do. I have. I will.
So has, does and will this website.
For now, it’s about honoring my craft: writing. Writing of the wild view, out there, and within. And sharing the wild ride of building all over again: off-grid, out there, a bit off-kilter, and admittedly, a little out-law.
It is in part about building an off-grid, self-sufficient home and homestead life in the high (10,000 ft elevation/zone 3) mountains of southern Colorado. That includes life with my husband, family, animals, gardens, farming, ranching and slow living.
It is also about expressing heart and soul of nature and solitude, isolation and connection. It’s about love – love of life, partner, family, community and yes, even self. Therefore, it’s also about point and purpose, and the meaning of life – which is ever evolving, with changing bodies, minds and souls that aging allows.
Mostly, it is about writing. For me.
And for you, I sincerely hope, it is about enjoying reading, connecting, finding yourself in these stories and words, and delighting in the wild ride it takes you on.
So, there you go. My big confession. I’m back to blogging.
The plan is to write here regularly again, likely one time per week. That means I’m putting my other books on hold for a while. Yes, I always need creative expression. But I also need the focus, and right now, my focus is not about menopause, midlife passages nor my Long Quiet Ride. It’s about moving – and building again. All over again. At our ripening age. Like fine wine. Fragrant, rich, deep and earthy. At least, I hope that’s how it is. Of course we’ll be as we always are: off grid, out there, and again, high and wild. This time, at an elevation of over 10,000 feet. For those who know my passion for farming and gardening and creating the self sufficient homestead, that’s an interesting challenge I am – we are – willing to take on. I won’t be the first, nor the best, and of course, not an expert. But if I say I’ll do it, I likely will.
So begins the journey, the wild ride, the adventure of starting over again, out there, off grid, high and wild, together.
Before I take leave today, I’d like to share a note to subscribers (did you ever think I’d blog again?), and/or whoever may find this site anew.
If this is not or no longer of interest to you now, please follow the unsubscribe directions from WordPress that I think are linked at the bottom of each page. (If not, please let me know and we’ll figure it out). And if you think this might be of interest for someone you know, please, pass it on. Remember, writers write to be read.
For those that want to stick around to see where this goes, great, thank you, I am honored.
We’ll see where the writing, and this journey, takes us.
For now, we’re here and now. And right here, right now, there’s no place I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing, and no one I’d rather be with.
Five years ago today, we arrived here after leaving what was meant to be our forever house. We didn’t realize what we were getting into. It’s California, we said. Surely it will be easy. It wasn’t. Or maybe we’re just getting older. Starting all over again was harder than we were figuring. When we arrived, the house was so rank we spent much of that first summer sleeping in the van while working on the remodel. The pastures where we thought we could graze horses were overgrown with dried weeds. The land was scarred from old fires and tangled with all kinds of invasive things that poke, stick, prick, scratch and itch. And the hill where our garden now grows was a mysterious mess of vines and gravel. Thank you, my beloved Bob, for seeing the diamond in the rough with me. All that weed whacking and mowing, digging and trenching, falling and milling trees, and moving manure and dirt paid off. Today, the land shines. Sure, it’s still rough and rustic, a continual project and never slick around the edges. So are we. But it is a peaceful sanctuary: happy, healthy, abundant and beautiful. A place where bucks join us on fresh summer evenings and wild geese come to raise their young. A place where the redwing blackbird chooses to nest and earthworms multiply faster than ground squirrels. A place where we sleep out on the deck under twinkling stars and ancient oaks, and the Riverwind breeze keeps mosquitos away. Where tree frogs, toads and crickets serenade us to sleep and the rooster joined by a cacophony of birds wakes us at dawn. Where bees, butterflies and hummingbirds sip natural nectar. Where green grass grows and the twenty-something fruit trees we planted flourish (in spite of those nibbling bucks). Where bears outnumber truck traffic by around three to one. Where the sun is our power and the river our bath. Where horses roam without fences and the bounty of the garden is shared with friends. I know, it need not be forever. Nothing is. But today, even in this heat (well, maybe) it holds me. Safe and strong and beautifully. Filling me for whatever comes next.
Gunnar left us yesterday. Stubbornly and strongly, as was his way. He was 14 years old. With how hard and fast he lived, and all his injuries along the way, we never thought he’d make it to ten.
We all miss and grieve the loss of our pets, usually claiming “he was the BEST.”
This one was not. He was the hardest. But maybe that’s what made him so engrained in my heart.
He was the black sheep, in wolf’s clothing.
He wasn’t easy. As a puppy, he was kicked out of obedience school. When we managed to get him into agility class, the other participants would quickly kennel their dogs when Gunnar was out.
He travelled as far south as Esquel, Argentina; as far north as Deadhorse, Alaska
That crazy dog joined me on all my crazy adventures except the last, where for four months he sat on the porch and waited for my return. I returned.
He put on a lot of miles, but didn’t make a lot of friends.
Other dogs would bark at him, fight or run away. People were more likely to cringe, keep their distance, and shake their head.
He didn’t win popularity contest nor blue ribbons but put on more miles and had more adventures than any dog I know.
Big and loud in body and spirit, he was the fearless heart, and I loved him for that.
He had courage, grit, gusto, and more inner and outer strength than any dog I’ve ever known.
He wasn’t warm and fuzzy, did not like to be touched, but was always somewhere not (too) far.
He’d try anything, go anywhere, and you couldn’t lose him on the trail, though there were times I wished I could.
He was a pain the ass, head strong, stubborn, and never truly tamed no matter how I tried. I tried. He taught me more about dog training than I ever wanted to know.
They say dogs mirror their people, at least that stage of their lives, as we each usually have many. I dunno about that. All I know is I think I’m relieved this part of me is behind. He was my empty nest, menopause, and many moves dog.
Somehow he was my soul mate.
I never want one like him again, and may never love one like him either.
I am not sure how often/when I’ll be able to check in or post updates, but I truly look forward to touching base and sharing when and as I can.
And though I have not figured out how to connect these things, between Facebook, Instagram (ALongQuietRide) and my travel blog (ALongQuietRide.com), I’ll try to keep in touch along the way.
With much gratitude for all those who have connected with me and welcomed me into or back to the somewhat frightening and overwhelming world of social media, and have helped me prepare for this journey.
Sending blessings to loved ones and land while I am gone, especially my beloved husband who I will hold in my heart as I try to find my way for just this while without him.
I wrote this six months ago after an intense month working at a midwifery clinic in El Paso where I was graced with and in awe of the power of women of all colors, all races, from all over the world working for… life. Not “pro-life,” just life. It wasn’t about borders, or judgments or criticism or one being better than another. Just women, working together through one of the most primal, personal and passionate acts a human can experience. Women of color, midwives of color, in a sea of passion of bringing forth life, new life, and old issues, blood and sweat and tears and joy and pain and ecstasy and dreams being born and dying and crying…
Birth is intense, but on top of that energy was a melting pot boiling over. Within and around was steaming anger, racism, old wounds, generational wounds, finally bursting from the surface in a fiery rage as in our cities and on our streets we were turning to guns, shooting cops shooting young black men, and life was being taken as quickly as we were delivering.
As one of the few white women in a clinic primarily of and for women of color, I got a well needed update to my education. Not only in birthing, but in the current situation of race relations in our country and along the border. Of course, what was current six months ago is all old news now. Everything has changed.
No one wanted to read this then. We still wanted to keep the lid on the boiling pot and hope it would hold. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Wrong. That top is not holding. It’s bursting open. Our safe little place is getting a rough shake up of reality, and it’s not looking that pretty. And maybe, just maybe, that steam needs to let loose in all its wild fury.
What I wrote then may be outdated now. It’s a little too late. We’re well beyond listening. Now it’s time to stand up and… and what? Scream? Cuss? Sing? I don’t know. But I’m open to suggestions.
What’s the answer? I wish I knew. I wish someone could tell me. Is there an answer? As I’m known to often tell my family (“tattoo this on your forehead!”): Nothing is not the answer.
Start with something. Something simple. Listening. Opening. Sharing. Compassion. Remember that we all have a story. We all came from somewhere. We’re all going somewhere. Hopefully. Maybe together. Maybe side by side. Maybe parallel lives on the other side of a… wall.
Are we too late? The eternal optimist within tells me we are never too late.
Look what we have done. All of us. We are all responsible. Each and every one of us.
And each and every one of us CAN make a difference. Please, try. All of us. Please. It’s worth it. My sisters of every color are worth it. My children of every race, religion and creed are worth it. Our environment, the globe, our beautiful planet Earth is worth it. Our dreams and hopes and prayers are worth it.
Nothing is not the answer. Something is. I don’t know what. I’ll talk. I’ll listen. I’ll stand up. I’ll shake hands but not my fist. At least, I’ll try really hard not to do the latter.
Somewhere in all this anger and outrage is the answer. Somewhere in all this crazy talk is thoughtful and intelligent communication. The mindless, selfish, safe rants of social media do not seem to be helping. It seems more filled with disgruntled, spoiled lazy people trying to stir the waters without lifting a hand – people feeling the need to express but not actually DO anything.
If there are two things we each can all learn from this current situation:
How am I responsible for allowing/creating this to happen?
What can I do to try to resolve this/make things better?
This is what I hope to focus on. This is the message I hope to share.
My son shares with me:
There are no easy answers. Or even apparent answers… proper communication is key. Even if people have different opinions, somehow fostering productive discussion is valuable for everyone. At the very least, both will walk away thinking, “ok, i can see their side. They’re not unreasonable!”
Now, how you actually do that in this day and age…
Let’s start, my friends. Not tomorrow, but today.
I’ll start by sharing this.
White on White.
I’m a hip white chick.
At least, that’s what I’d like to think.
Yeah, I’ve had dreads, got tats and piercings, been around the world and have friends of all colors. I’m not in the corporate world, drink my fair trade coffee (when I can afford it) and recycle (most of the time).
But I’m still just that. A white chick. Nothing is going to change that. No matter how much time I spend in the sun, my skin is still white. And though I’d like to think this doesn’t matter, I know it does.
I grew up in and around New York City in the 70’s and 80’s in the aftermath of the Civil Rights Movement. I was raised to be color blind, as in, oblivious to color. That’s how we acted, that’s what we strived for, that’s what we thought was the thing to do. It was what we were taught to do and it was socially acceptable. At least by the standards of the circles that taught us.
But we know that’s not how it was. Just because we didn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Turning the blind eye, so to say, only means you’re bound to trip and fall. I think that’s what’s happening now. We’re falling flat on our face at times. And maybe it’s not such a bad thing. I mean, of course any injustice, any acts of inhumanity, any violence or death is not okay. I don’t mean to trivialize those things. They matter. They matter a lot. They matter enough to shake us up, wake us up, and open our eyes.
Black lives matter.
Well, for years, I could choose to see everything as okay. There’s no problem, right, if I don’t see it? Right for me. I felt good about it. It was comfortable. For me.
But now it’s in my face. There’s a movement reminding me that our old approach didn’t work. That people of color are still treated unfairly. That fear is still based on a sliding scale relative to the color of a person’s skin. That prejudice does exist. That inequality is way to freeking real
So maybe being color blind wasn’t the answer. Maybe it’s time to open our eyes. There’s a scary truth out there. Racism exists. And though you and I may not feed into it, pretending it’s not a problem doesn’t make it go away.
Seeing Color
If being “color blind” isn’t the answer, what is?
How about looking at reality? How about considering the deeper truths? How about sincerely understanding? How about actively working towards healing?
Uncomfortable as this conversation may be, let’s start by opening the dialogue. Let’s start by asking ourselves these questions. Do you really want things to heal? Or do you just want to get rid of the guilt and shame? Do you really want to make the world a better place for everyone, or do you just want to return to or remain in your place of comfort? Do you want to defend your position or do you want to try to understand another’s position? Do you need to tell me your stories, how it was for you, how it works for you, how it affects you, how you feel… or are you ready to listen?
Listen. Maybe what you’ll hear is this. The truth. That it’s past due time to open our eyes and take a look at what’s been hiding under that band-aid all these years.
Listen. Just listen. And try to understand. Open up the damned wound if you really want it to heal.
Listening.
So yeah, when the conversation opened up, in my face and uncomfortable, when the shit started to hit the fan, I don’t know about you, but my first reaction was this. Denial and defense. It’s not me. It’s not mine. I’m not the racist. I’m not prejudiced. And it’s not my problem. I could tell my stories. You know, the one of the black guys I dated and the rights I spoke up for and the brown friends I’ve had and the living among brothers and bonding with sisters of color. My colored experiences from my pale face world perspective. Yeah, I was trying to prove myself. Defend myself. Call it what you will, and if you’ve done the same, maybe you’ll come up with a nicer word for it. But here’s the truth. I was proving my racial tendencies in the fact that I could remember these token situations
In retrospect what I’m realizing was this. Being blind was closing our eyes to the truth. If I don’t see it, maybe it doesn’t exist, right? Well, the band-aid we put on the wound hid it from our sight for years. During that time, it’s been festering, but not healing. Now it’s bursting forth in all its ugly reality of the deep dark wound it is. Now it’s time (yeah, it’s over due) to finally open our eyes.
And our ears. And our hearts, minds and souls.
Now it’s time to let the repressed voice speak for a while. Shut up and listen. Let the other guy talk. Stop interrupting and telling your story. I’ve heard your story. Have we heard his?
Can we keep our mouths shut and stop defending ourselves long enough not just to hear but to feel? To truly understand? Maybe then this color crap will finally get fixed. Because playing the blind card obviously didn’t work. So, step one: shut your mouth and open your heart, okay?
Just listen.
The truth comes out.
I’m not going to tell you what it feels like. Because I don’t fully know. I’m trying to listen. I’m trying to understand. It’s going to take me a while. I’m going to stick with it because I care, because it matters, because this time, I’m not going to put on my blinders and turn my back. I’m going to stand there and take it. In my face. Tell me what it’s like. All the real, raw details. I need to know.
I am committing to make a real change, and strive for honest equality. It’s not going to be easy. And it’s not going to change fast. But this much I know. Our ignorance is not helping heal or solve the problem. It is a problem. Generations old. Now we have generational wounds. And these will take generations to heal.
Black lives matter. Say it. Stop telling me all lives matter. We know that. Sure, we are one. So as one we need to open our hearts and minds and clearly step off our soap box and let the colored person step up. It won’t be easy. Not for him to do or for you to allow. He’s been surpassed for a long time. How long? Find out for yourself. You won’t if you want to hold on to your safe white place. Listen. Maybe he’ll tell you himself. Probably a very different answer than what the history books told you.
Changing times.
Our policy of color blindness didn’t work. It didn’t heal, just covered up injustice, prejudice and deep wounds still bleeding. Racial injustice isn’t a thing of the past. It is a reality of the present. Thus the deep wounds aren’t old scars. They are fresh and they are bleeding.
Instead of defending our space, let’s be open to their space. Us and them? Until we create the reality of actual equality, yes, that’s what we got. Us and them – unequally divided.
Don’t think it’s a quick fix and do know that anger will need to be expressed. Allow that. Honor that. Don’t close your eyes, your ears, your mind, your heart. Don’t defend, judge, tell your side, because that’s not what we need to hear right now. What, then, do we need?
There is a time for expansion, and a time to retreat.
There is a time for the inhale, and a time for the exhale.
Wholeness comes with the balance of the breath.
The inhale. The exhale.
What time is this for you?
The power of just one breath to balance us, to bring us back to wholeness.
On the inhale, deep into our back, with power, strength, receiving.
On the exhale, from our heart, with love, with giving.
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As caregivers, we must remember this.
If we intend to care for the whole person, so must we be a whole person.
What does it take to be whole, to find wholeness, to re-center our being and find that place of balance so unique for each of us?
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And you, dear mother, dear mother-to-be, are you not a caregiver too?
Who better than you will care for your child?
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So it has been a time of withdrawal. Of hands digging deep within the earth. Blackened tips of the nails and calloused palms and skin worn to leather by the sun and wind.
And so it shall be a time of hands softly, gently upon the womb. Supporting. Witnessing. A miracle every time.
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This is about birth, death, life, rebirth. Where does one end and the other begin with one season flowing into the next, one closing to allow another to unfurl?
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And so the seasons move. Slowly at first, then gathering momentum, and we find ourselves running to keep up.
Can we see beyond the path on which our feet are moving?
What happens if we stop?
Now, look up. Look around.
Once our eyes have opened, what do we make of the view before us? Shall we revert to blinders, or shall we step forward into all the ugly beautiful mess before us, calling us like the Pied Piper though we often care not to hear and heed, choosing or safely remaining distracted behind the cloudy veil that enwraps us with a false sense of pride found in busy-ness…
What would happen if we let go and simply stood still?
Would you feel the wind, hear the laughter, sense the rising light?
Paring down to feel the elements.
Return to presence.
Unencumbered by the weight of social pressures, expectations of others, demands of self, and ego.
Who are you trying to please if you cannot please yourself in a sincere manner?
Oh, the worries, such a heavy burden and undue importance we place upon each until we see them all like grains of sand, and there on the beach we sit before the eternally churning waves. Are you still concerned with that one grain of sand, I ask you, and you smile, seeing the senselessness of the situation, and open your eyes and heart to that which is all around. It is beautiful indeed.
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A long dormant winter.
Though summer solstice nears, I remain in my retreat.
Not a place I pay to go, but rather work to remain at. Not a master that guides my learning, but rather the wind, the water, the elements to help me find the answers hiding within us all.
This has been a powerful time of awakening and awareness.
Of remaining present.
How can I reflect and write and share with you when what I need right now is simply to be?
Without reflection. Without judgment. Without expectations, demands, and even desires.
This too shall pass.
Nothing remains.
Everything changes.
You and I included.
Those who claim enlightenment as a state once achieved and forever remaining will set themselves apart and above contrary to the true meaning and state of bliss and understanding. I am grateful for the fleeting glimpses. And then I get back to work. Is this not what life is about?
And then there is this.
The part about life being about giving – beyond oneself – for the bigger picture – no longer about me – learning to shed the skin of ego and stand naked and know you still have all I need. You are. Unencumbered. What cloaks do we cover ourselves with and think we are because we wear? Are you really the robe than enwraps you?
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As a student and nearly fifty, there is a great lesson in humility. Of simply being open. How else can we receive? The very premise of which is admitting I do not know all the answers. And though I know no one does, it is the wise student that makes no claims and opens themselves to discover. Likewise it is the foolish teacher that takes the stand and defends and judges. No, my friend, the lessons are not about you. Only what you make of them, take from them, and pass on and share. We all have the ability to be both the open slate student as well as the wise teacher – like the Tao – teaching without saying a word. Guiding by living our lives.
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As a student midwife, it has become clear that part of midwifery is not just about birth, or body work, but soul work. It’s working with the whole woman. And as a caregiver for the pregnant woman, how can I care for and nurture you and walk with you while you heal your wounds if I have not done the same for myself?
Yes, midwives can operate without this element of care. The medical profession has encouraged us to look at the body as a separate entity. A machine. Detached from mind and soul.
Are you not the whole of all these parts?
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Being present.
How can we understand the truth and see the beauty and feel the connection if we can’t slow down? We rush around and miss the point and seek the answers but never stick around long enough to allow them to be revealed.
Stop the madness. Stop the filling the self with busy-ness and stuffing the soul with false meaning found in title and a price tag and the latest greatest shiny thing, and trying to fulfill our innate sense of longing to belong with the false premise of social media and shallow relations.
Can’t we get deep and still remain simple?
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After a year of putting myself out there to promote my books (oh, the unexpected discovery, I suppose, that I am a writer, not a salesman) and a year following of returning to wholeness, this season of deep withdrawal has been a powerful transformation and awakening.
The wild beast moves. The wind shifts solely from the flick of her tail. Is it time to rouse?
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And so it has been. At some point we find this within us: it’s not about me, but we. It’s no longer about what we can get out of life, but what we can give to life. It’s no longer about taking, but giving; no longer about me and mine, but at times my place in the bigger picture, and at times, nothing to do with my place at all – only a greater understanding of that bigger picture, and accepting my irrelevance, and realizing that too is okay.
It’s ongoing. I’ve yet to meet someone fully “there,” wherever and whatever “there” is. A state of enlightenment? It’s vague. It’s fleeting. Like seasons. Like days. Some days we’re it. Some days we’re not. I guess that’s why we get to live so long and have this crazy strong desire to keep learning, growing, evolving. Lots of chances to try it again.
One of my wisest friends reminded me. It’s here. Where ever you are. Look around. Be in awe. It’s beautiful. And the answers you seek are already there. No matter where you go, what you run after, what you claim to be seeking… it’s within. You are already there.
I open my eyes as I open my heart. The wisdom is all around.
Lessons from the Elements. Wisdom from the wilds. In this season of turbulent winds and waters, a gentle calm from within.
What have the wilds taught me?
What has this past year taught me?
That next year will be different.
That tomorrow I’ll be someone new.
I’ll say something else.
That nothing stays the same.
Which brings us back to…
It’s ongoing. You don’t get there and remain. You have to work at it, every day. That’s what living is all about. It’s not a state achieved and remained at status quo and stagnant.
And a half a century of questioning authority taught me this time and again. As soon as we claim a superiority, we separate, and thus we degrade. There is no superiority in this world. The moment we claim to be better or know more is the moment we step into the place of ego, and out of the place of enlightenment. Am I wrong then for sharing what I have found? Maybe…
I do not care to impose my beliefs (and certainly not those of another) but to simply support women in their choices, and am working to have the skills and abilities to do so. It’s about birth and life and maybe a little bit of death and rebirth. How can you have one without the other? Like the inhale and the exhale.
The greatest lesson absorbed from my studies to date is not the message of undisturbed birthing nor the know how of health care. That’s simply part of the package of supporting women in their own choices, rather than imposing mine. Really, it’s the message of humility. That’s what makes a midwife. The ability to serve, to support, to do what needs to be done which may be nothing at all… All of these “skills” come to life within us only through humility. Without humility, we return to it being our beliefs, our trip, our vision of what women should be, birth should be, life should be. Who then are we truly serving?
The agitation of the wind creates unrest among naked branches. Beneath an unsettled sky, the monotone of a thawing land broken only by the continual call of the river reverberating against still frozen cliffs, while mud caked boots poke through remaining snow drifts and blistered hands touch sunburned noses and the brown back of the neck – bits of exposed flesh found uncovered from a down jacket that remains adorned though now unzipped.
Another winter sheds her white skin. The peeling of the snake reveals that which is real, raw, delicate in its renewal. The season begins showing herself subtly in sepia tones. Like an old worn photo looked at time and again, we hold to the past in a futile gesture but the present is always new. Look around. See it. Feel it. Hear it. Celebrate it. Join in and dance with it.
Spring is late to unfurl here in the high country and her early song is soft, hard to hear, often hidden beneath late season snow storms and the howl of the changeable winds. In a land where winter claims half a year, the other three seasons come and go quickly in the shared space of the other half. Savored, appreciated; nothing is taken for granted.
Tenderly she reveals the simplicity of the wilds. We see her new breath in the everchanging motion of the unsettled sky, the unrest in the wind, the thawing of the earth, the swelling of the river, the return of wildlife, the luxury of longer days, shorter shadows, an open road, and the tenacity of simple nameless yellow flowers emerging through the snow.
And the silent assumption that within the swiftness of the season stirs the lure and excitement of change… Into what, she whispers? And the wind shares a response I do not yet understand.
Interwoven in the web of life awakens questions more than answers if we listen solely with reason. How else can we hear? With our hearts, not our minds. With our senses, like the wilds that surround us, knowing not because they read it, heard it, were told to believe. Or are we so different we forgot how to feel? Let go of that, she tells us. Her answers are in the soft shades of brown and grey of the newly opened hillsides.
Do we just let it go? What we had last season? The assurance of the assumed. Today, I tell myself here for half the year, it will be cold and white. What will tomorrow bring? Plans? Expectations? Hopes and dreams? What would we be without them? Shed them and be free, she tells me. But I too feel naked without. Such is the time of awakening, allowing the season to bloom means starting with a seemingly barren hillside.
The land calls. I speak to her. With her. She answers with a whisper veiled in translation I try hard to decipher. Words, ideas, passions still remain. From within this tangled tapestry can we see the bigger picture? Can we see the fine lines into which we are tightly woven or the space in between? Perhaps in the early morning when dew catches silken threads and pale pink air is still but for the rousing of the robins unintentionally sharing their sweet song from beneath the leafless trees, and stirring of distant geese down by the expanding open waters of the full to bursting reservoir.
It’s mostly space, I am reminded again. But we choose to see the little bits of matter within the big wide expanse.
Morning’s stillness shares silence of the mountain in a slow gentle outbreath before the awakening of the day, the season, the beginning of change. This is a time of both reflection found in glassy ponds of melting winter, and planning for something we don’t fully understand. Oh but the leaves will unfurl and the grass will green and the summer homes will be lit and the road will be abuzz. And so it goes, no matter what I do and you say.
A primordial heartbeat, deep and low, buried inside the great expanse of the thawing lake…
Felt within like a slow, steady drum, the Earth pulses back to life.
Ice moans, the river swells, snow is consumed, and red wind roars from the west. The redwing blackbird, blue bird and robin return.
Solstice nears again.
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After the dormant season of natural withdrawal, now I too stir to life, sharing words upon awakening.
Today I share a rather unusual post.
First, an article on birth. The wild side of birth. Or perhaps, a little bit about the wilds within us all. If you’re interested, you can take a look here: www.cordmama.com.
Second, a follow up to a previous post for which many of you have asked me for a follow up. So, following is just that. (Got all that?)
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An Update on the Elusive Lynx Relocation Efforts along the Upper Rio Grande
The lynx release program into the southern San Juans has been ongoing in our area for nearly twenty years by the CPW, formally the CDOW. Today this project is co-managed and funded by the USDA Forest Service. We love to look at this as a “wildlife success story,” but sadly, we see a very different side to this story, and the biggest loser is the lynx.
The lynx are not listed as an Endangered Species. Nor were the lynx ever considered native this far south. From the US Fish and Wildlife Service website: “Historically, the lynx ranged across the vast northern boreal forests from Alaska to eastern Canada, including the northernmost U.S., and extending in an increasingly patchy distribution along the coniferous forests of the Rocky Mountains as far south as Colorado. For reasons that are not completely understood, the lynx is believed to have disappeared from Colorado by 1973.”
“…There is little evidence that the original lynx population ever lived as far south as the San Juan Mountains (‘Lynx Reintroduction . . .’). According to Byrne, in Colorado’s history there have only been eighteen confirmed records of the species living in the state, and only four of those occurred after 1935, with the southern most being near Breckenridge and the last near Vail in 1973 (‘Lynx Release . . .’)… Nobody knows what caused the species to disappear from this area the first time. Before the animals completely disappeared, their numbers had dramatically dropped for no apparent reason.” From <http://www.123HelpMe.com/view.asp?id=10148>
No evidence has indicated that these mountains were natural lynx territory, nor do we understand what actually caused their initial decline, but the propaganda and press have incorrectly been using the term “re-introduction” and the public has blindly agreed. And in this day and age of changing climate, global warming, whatever you want to call “the new normal,” trapping an animal in the north east of Canada, and bringing them to the “high and dry” southern Rockies… one can question the reasoning behind this program, see why this program has been struggling against all odds, and sadly understand why so many lives (the lynx) were lost in this human-induced effort.
But still, this animal has tugged at our hearts, received our support, and captured our interest with the regular use of stock photos of the precious kittens. But do we really know what is happening, what has been done, and at what price?
It is our understanding that other species released in this state eventually bring income to justify the human led venture via hunting, or rather, being hunted. Almost twenty years after the initial introduction, and how many millions of dollars later, and at the loss of how many re-located animals from their native Canada, these animals are not hunted, bring no income, and the program continues to spend.
We have lived here full time for nearly 15 years. We have seen more than many wished we would. We live gently upon the land and with the wilds (I am known for running with the wilds, not after them). So as much as I was enamored with the initial idea of having another small game predator on my mountain, we quickly turned from supporting to speaking out against the nature of this program when it became clear this was not for the success of the wilds, wildlife, or those out here connecting with the wilds, but for the success of the humans running the program from some far away desk. If the lynx survive, it will not be because of the efforts of these humans, but in spite of them. Nature is beautifully resilient.
It is reported that our county agreed to this introduction years ago, when those counties further north and more close to the natural lands the lynx once roamed refused. But has our county, or the residents, been involved, concerned, or in any way benefitted from this ongoing effort which cost the taxpayers millions of dollars? Do they even know what is going on?
For many local residents in both Creede and Lake City this project was considered a closed case and a lost cause years ago and most are unaware of any continued efforts, actions and funding. This operation has not been a part of the local community or economy, not supporting nor involving local residents. Furthermore, it is our understanding that the USDA Forest Service on a local level may also be unaware of the continued efforts and the oversight of the contract workers operating within the Forest. Who then is responsible? Who is making these decisions for which there is a great amount of money being poured out, and where is this funding coming from? And who is concerned with the comprehensive well being of the land and the wilds of the forest, and the public interest, which is intrinsically linked into the responsibilities of the Forest Service plans and actions?
Without taking the time now to site the years of noted and notable concerns with this program, the point here is to simply open your eyes to the current situations. The efforts are continuing, and at a rather large scale. Even from our limited observation base, we are aware of a crew of six trackers, and the daily back and forth by both trucks and then snowmobiles in attempt to collar a few healthy lynx. This is important to note as not all animals trapped are of course lynx, and not all lynx are in fact healthy, and thus not appropriate to collar.
This also brings up the point that we were informed by the CPW that this was a one year only effort in order that the Forest Service could trap, collar and observe the potential long term impact of the dying forest on the lynx. We know already that this so-called one-year program was in operation last year as well, though the trapping efforts were apparently not successful. And with at least one trap left behind and in place from this year’s efforts – do they intend to continue when the road becomes more travelled and the camp ground more used by fishermen, or leave the trap in a public campground and resume again next winter?
Just last week, I was finally able to walk up the road with my dog and without fear of running into the lynx trapping crew. Between the fact that a coyote had been killed for disturbing their operations, and the concerns that my dogs have been known to get in their traps for free goodies, I felt it would be best to stay away from their operations and avoid potential conflict or worse.
I walked to the well known and used campground beside the river at the far end of Brewster. It is an easy afternoon walk along the road, there and back, from my house. This is where I had camped alone in peace for two weeks at the end of hunting season last year and likely the most popular camping spot in Brewster and this far up USFS Road 520. This is also the historical location where the outpost used to be that once rented horses to help travelers get their wagons up Timber Hill. All in all, perhaps the most well know and well used location for recreation on this part of the Upper Rio Grande.
What I found in many locations around that campsite were green aspen trees and green spruce boughs cut and scattered under and around trees. One can presume this is where traps had been set all winter long. One trap still remains in the campground. It is covered by cut live spruce boughs. Cutting green trees, whole or branches, is against the policy of the USDA Forest Service. We have been told the CPW may operate “above the law,” yet leaving evidence of such activity in and around a public campground may not be of the best interests of forest users. This also goes against common sense when up to 90% of our spruce trees and a still uncertain percentage of our aspen have been lost in recent years. Look around up here – how much green do you see remaining?
This is just the latest degradation to land and wildlife observed this winter. Within the lynx program, this winter we’ve put up with dead deer hanging from trees as bait (though lynx are not known to eat dead deer – coyotes are), traps set alongside road with dead wildlife within, and of course, the infamous killing the coyote that was feeding on said bait that became a so-called nuisance to the trapping operations.
Trapping continued well into kitting season. This is the time of year mother cats are so desperate for food they once tried to follow my housecats through the cat door, and chewed on a tarp where we accidently spilled eggs another year. Furthermore, on the chance that a mama cat did fall for their bait and become stuck in a trap for 24 hours, what would happen to her newborns that need to nurse every 2 – 4 hours? One can only hope this was not the case.
…And what for? For the latest efforts, we were told trapping was for collaring and in turn for observing over the next five to ten years to see what impact the dying trees have on the lynx. Our trees have died and continue to die. Snowshoe hare eat the fresh branches of live spruce in the winter. And snowshoe hare are the mainstay of the lynx diet. You do the math. Will these collars tell us otherwise?
The saving grace here is that nature is adaptable. The survival of the lynx in their new territory will not be because of what we did, but in spite of what we do. And still, man (or woman) will take the credit.
Gin Getz 
