Standing Still Beneath Blowing Branches (Lessons Learned from Trees)

May 5, 2015 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Standing still beneath blowing branches.

Lessons learned from trees.

These are changing times.

Turmoil around, within. I stand beneath budding branches, the promise of the continual struggle of life, and suddenly it all makes sense, or maybe nothing matters, and everything finds its place. Can I let myself cry, selfishly, foolishly, like an innocent child so wanting comfort in hard times yet not knowing how to ask?

Late spring in the high mountains. I write from home on the edge of the Weminuche Wilderness, high and away in the heart of the Headwaters of the Rio Grande in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. I am flanked by a hundred thousand acres of charred woods and a few hundred thousand acres more of dead standing beetle kill and Aspen fading and falling randomly. A forest full of kindling waiting to ignite. Finding new growth, green needles, sweet sap, life existing, tenaciously holding or ferociously fighting to survive. Life is precious.

In all their simplicity. Trees.

Go through it. Let it out. Tears fall like raindrops. Nourishment to parched lands and thirsty roots. No one to hear them fall but the trees. Allow it. Breathe in, breathe out, standing beside a tree.

These are the wise ones. They carry not a passing fancy but wisdom of the ages. Powerful, deep and rich. They make no loud claims, but hold their ground, tangled in their roots. Powerless to the pretenses of our demands, greed and ignorance. Eternal, I used to think.

Here they have lost ground. We have been hit hard by the changes. A sign of things to come, a premonition, or is this just a warning to heed? Are we too late, and does it matter anyway?

Here our children’s children will never know the old growth through which I used to wander.

Even in their ethereal presence, this graveyard of barren branches, I feel them breathe. I hear them sigh. Down deep if no where else than in their roots, the soil, the earth. That’s where life remains. And life will come again.

Standing on fallen needles and listening to the Wisdom of the trees.

Breathing in, breathing out, seeking the scent of fresh sap and plump needles. I have almost forgotten.

These are the lessons they teach.

Stand with me now, still and silent beneath bare branches of a seemingly lifeless tree. Close your eyes. In the wild spring wind, feel the remaining presence of these great beings. Listen to their wisdom.

This is what we hear:

The earth matters. Give more than you take.

You can’t control the seasons. Learn to let go.

You can’t rush the seasons. Practice patience.

You can’t change the weather. Stand tall in the rain and dance in the wind.

Storms come, storms go, the sun will shine again.

Be still and listen.

Be wordless. (So hard for a writer to do.) That’s where our truths are found. (Write about them later.)

Everything changes.

Seasons come and seasons go.

Leaves fall and blossoms return time and time again.

Life stems where you least expect it.

Last year’s leaves are next year’s fertile soil.

Be willing to shed and grow again.

Be grounded. Grow your roots deep and strong.

We share the same soil. Our roots are connected. We are one.

Stand tall and strong, not hard and rigid.

Be flexible in adverse conditions.

Learn to bend in the wind.

Adapt.

Seeds blow in the wind – new life starts where you least expect.

Be willing to break new ground.

Don’t expect ideal conditions.

Grow where they least expect it.

Know you are never alone. Others will grow beside you, and together, you can create a forest.

Look around at others growing above and below you. Respect differences. We need each other.

Provide shelter to those who need it.

Nurture indiscriminately. Practice non-judgment.

Give what you can, and then give more.

Don’t take it personally, and you can’t change others. All you can do is grow.

Allow the world to come and go around you.

Learn to let go.

Nothing lasts forever.

From the Heart.

April 27, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

This is the view from safe little world.

One view from my safe little world.

With our big, open, considerate, compassionate minds.

From our evolved, elite, advanced, educated, privileged and fortunate state of being.

Humbly, we consider the disaster in Nepal.

We consider lives. Real lives. Those that were harder to begin with than our hardest day.

These lives. Lost.

Sorrow for the survivors. Chaos and comfort for the remainders, the rescuers, the wounded, the grieving.

We consider what we can do. How can we make a difference?

Can we make a difference?

How will we know unless we try?

Try.

Try is our mantra. To learn by, to grow by, to make an effort, to possibly make a difference.

Do something.

Nothing is not the answer.

This much we know. If nothing more.

We send prayers.

That is a start.

That is something.

It matters.

Taking the time to pray, to meditate, to think.

No, we’re not too busy. Though the busier we claim to be, the easier it is to forget.

We want to forget. What else can we do? We can’t really do more, can we?

We want to do more but our hands are tied. We’re too busy. Got too much going on, too many things we need to do, bills to pay, pressures and responsibilities and meetings to attend, work and people and important things, deadlines and appointments and a shopping list this long, and a text just came in and we need to keep up with the latest greatest social media because somehow we know that mattes dearly, and …we’re already running late, better go now…

Wait.

Just for a minute.

Put down the cup of Fair Trade coffee and turn away from the Very Important Message flashing on the screen and ignore the incoming text for just one second…

The world will go on without us.

Really.

Instead, for that second, think about this.

There’s a whole other world out there.

It’s not just “the other half.” It’s more than half. It’s most.

We say we want to help.

Do something important.

Something that matters.

For the bigger picture, not just for us.

Do we?

Really?

So where do we begin?

There are so many choices, too many, overwhelming.

We spend our time discussing, researching, contemplating which to take, what to do, and then realize we’ve used up all our allotted time and move on instead.

Things to do.

Being busy used to impress. It doesn’t any more.

We see how busy we are but what are we really accomplishing?

We see how important we claim to be, to act, to fill our day but what is our true meaning?

What is the meaning of our life, we ask ourselves in between the busy moments if we let ourselves go there?

Or are we too busy to consider that most basic of questions?

Is our day instead filled still just trying to survive?

And that’s okay too if that were real.

But don’t we see how far beyond…

Survival…

We have become.

We have so much, too much.

This is not survival.

We don’t know what it means to be hungry.

We have not sold ourselves, our daughters, our bodies, their bodies.

We have not lost our sons, our husbands, our homes, our fortunes if nothing more than a single family heirloom that is all that remained and now no longer does.

Our city is not flattened and we’ve not been dodging bullets and disease and poverty and famine.

We have water, for God’s sake, and forget how lucky even that is.

Some days we’re too busy thinking from the mind.

We forget to think from the heart.

We forget the big picture.

In which we are just a very small pin prick.

Look.

We are all shaken today, here in our comfortable world in the land of plenty,

and if we are not, we need to be.

Held by the shoulder and given a good shake.

How does it feel?

May we never know how bad it feels.

The least we can do is try.

Understanding.

Compassion.

What does it feel like?

People have died.

Innocent poor people in a developing nation because that’s how it is 90% of the time with natural disasters. Why is that?

We want to know why and we don’t know. We don’t understand. We pull our hair, clean and colored and styled, in frustration. This does not help, does it?

We want answers.

Somehow we think that will help.

We look in the press, on the internet.

Yesterday the press was more interested in the few privileged killed on Mount Everest than the over three thousand human beings who lived and struggled even before this disaster that took their lives.

One life is no more or less valuable than another.

We must never forget this.

We mourn for our losses, their losses, life and death and our tied hands and full bellies and wallets.

Our eyes swell and our hearts ache and we feel a sadness so far from our safe little elite existence.

We make a hundred buck donation and hit send and never see it again and hope it does some good. We’re sure it does. But we want to do more. We know we have so much, more to give, more is needed.

Look at the bigger picture.

We say this often. We have so much. Too much.

Compassion?

Maybe not enough.

But we keep thinking there has to be more.

We don’t know what.

Nothing is not the answer.

Something.

Do something.

So, get back to work.

Where were we?

Yes, we’ve got things to do today.

We know how busy we are. We’ve heard. We’ve all told each other plenty. It must be true, with our cell phone in one hand and laptop in the other and five second attention span because there’s so much we need to do.

We’re a mover and a shaker. Each one of us.

Good.

So let’s move and shake and do something that matters.

Now is the time.

What are we waiting for?

How to Begin – An Intimate Look Inside a Beginner’s Mind

April 22, 2015 / Gin Getz / 15 Comments

From the Beginning.

This essay launches a new series I’m honored to be sharing with Conscious Life News entitled From the Beginner’s Mind. Though my writing is usually centered around land and life intimately intertwined, this series shares the story of a mid-life awakening. Mind you, this is no mid-life crisis. Things are going great. I’m not turning toward a spiritual enlightenment to escape or out of desperation, but because something is still missing. This is about the exploration of that ‘something.’

This is not a how-to manual for I don’t have the answers. I am learning just like you. And though I might like to be, I’m the first to admit I’m no expert. I cannot tell you how-to for I too am figuring it out. All I can do is share with you my journey, and hope you might be interested, inspired, encouraged, or even amused along the way.

With an open heart and mind, we can learn from every person we meet, every encounter we have, every article or book we read. With an open heart and mind we can find the answers we are looking for. That is the beginner’s mind. Where I find myself. Where perhaps you are too.

This is a journey. Let’s enjoy it together.

From the Beginner’s Mind.

Some say they have found enlightenment, and guard their discovery as an exclusive, elusive secret.

Others make no claims, but somehow you feel they are the wiser ones. These are the few who exude the pure essence of the beginner’s mind; that of clarity, equanimity, detachment, and compassion. There is something in the softness of their gaze when speaking with (not to) you; and a grace and ease in their movements. They observe their world with curiosity, remain humble to share what they have learned, and generously offer encouragement. They give you hope for what you can learn, what you can be, and the point and purpose of enlightenment as well as living – if you need those things (I do).

And then there are those who are happy where they’re at, found what they need, or aren’t interested in seeing beyond.

I’m none of those. You too?

Then this too might be you: One of those still looking, seeking, questioning. We don’t accept a truth unless we can prove it, and yes, sometimes that just means “feeling” the right answer. But, we haven’t always had the time. Basic survival (raising a family, holding down a job and getting food on the table) came first. We wanted more (energy and time included), knew there was more, and felt an emptiness for that something more. But finding time for teachers, lessons, practice and quiet meditation … well, those things seem out of reach, for the elite without the struggles and responsibilities we claimed, and thus not easily available for us everyday folks with basic needs.

That sure is me. We all have our thing, our distractions, temptations, obstacles to overcome. Or not. It’s all a matter of choice. I am choosing to take the time now.

Sound familiar?

So now I’m finding myself here. At the beginning. A true beginner’s mind.

It’s not out of wisdom, comprehension and compassion that I call mine a beginner’s mind. It’s simply the cold, hard, fact. No pretentions. No claims of clarity and openness, self knowledge, deep understanding, expertise and valuable insights. Just a beginner’s mind. The real deal.

This is a simple story of a midlife awakening. Maybe you’ll relate, maybe you’ll learn from or along with me, maybe you’ll laugh at my discoveries, maybe you’ll roll your eyes and chuckle, “What took you so long?”

Well, things like raising a family, making a marriage, paying the bills, establishing a business, keeping a house and hopefully my sanity in the process, though there was little time for more and some days not enough for all. I called it “basic survival.” Now my child is raised, my marriage is strong, my calling is fulfilling, my health is awesome, my home is beautiful, and I’m out of debt. I’m not turning towards spirituality as an escape, but rather for an enhancement. I still want more. Something is missing. I’m looking for a life of soul, as well as health, happiness and love. What does that entail? Well, this is what I’m trying to figure out!

In retrospect I see I’ve always been somewhere on this winding, twisted route – from practicing yoga on the beaches of Greece, to searching for the elusive magic mushroom on the hills over Santa Fe, to driving cross country time and again in my ’66 split windshield VW microbus with paisley walls and burning incense. All of it matters, or doesn’t, but is somehow a part of the whole. Then, twenty years of being a mom centered me, kept me in line, turned my focus from me to we. I can look at that time as a good excuse for not being somewhere else, or accept it as the opportunity to open me to just the right lessons I needed to learn and bring me to where I am today, ideally with experience, understanding, insight and compassion. At least in theory. Because we all know wisdom doesn’t automatically come with age or experience. It takes reflection, compassion, detachment and true understanding. It also takes time, commitment and energy. Some of you may get these things worked out early on. It took me a while. I think I’ve got it together now. (Is the act of knocking on wood considered too “beginner?”)

In any case, now I allow myself to dive deep. At times I feel selfish and spoiled – guilty in a way – am I wrong to take time for this stuff? Aren’t there “better” things I could be working on? More important? More productive? Couldn’t I keep busier? Make more money? Take on more responsibility? Be more impressive, aggressive, and accomplished?

I don’t know.

I know I’m supposed to practice non judgment. Starting with myself. After a half a lifetime seemly tainted by assumptions, stereotypes, prejudices, jumping to conclusions, taking it too personally, caring what others think, trying to please, trying to impress, do the right thing, belong, be accepted, be responsible, be loved… learning how to just be is a lot more work than I thought it would be.

So that’s where I’m at now. At the beginning.

You probably know this one. Suzuki wrote: “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, in the expert’s mind there are few.” Of course he’s referring to the beginner’s mind, not just the beginner, but he encourages us to consider this: the two are not so dissimilar. At least, it gives me hope to think so.

As you too may have found, for those really beginning, there are a zillion choices. Too many. It’s overwhelming. How do you know which is right for you? There are so many paths and practices, each acclaimed to be the best. So many choices; all leading to the same place, more or less. It’s like going into a cereal isle and trying to pick one. Or two. Or three. So you take one box, taste, and maybe next time you’ll try something else. Keep trying until you find your favorite. What works best for you? What feels right? What’s your path? What’s right for you may not be right for me.

Sometimes, too, you just have to trust. The right opportunities present themselves at the right time. Or not, and then you get the lessons of patience and perseverance. Are you going to stick with it or not? So you learn to balance commitment with choice. Without commitment, I think I’d just keep trying it all, be one more spiritual junkie on the path to the next latest greatest promise to quick and easy enlightenment, never getting good at anything, and probably never getting to where I want to go, which may be the case no matter how focused I try to remain, for maybe where I want to go isn’t where I need to be.

I am grateful it’s never too late to learn.

And I am grateful for those willing to teach. Don’t you know what your wisdom and experience mean to those seeking? The sharing of gems. Wealth and shining beauty in the form of a few words or lessons. This is amazing stuff. Stuff we have to remember to pass on some day, some how. The time will come. Sure, some will tell you “I’m enlightened; you are not,” and won’t have time (or the mind/heart set) to share how they got to where you are not. There’s plenty of that around. There’s also plenty of humility and compassion. Big, wide, generous hearts. Learn from them in whatever way you can. It never hurts to ask, reach out, try. Perhaps with simple observation, perhaps with direct lessons. Learn from those that practice what they preach, and exude the essence you are working toward. No, you’ll never be someone else. We’re all beautiful and unique in our own way, with our own style and gifts, calling and path. But choose your teachers wisely, I tell myself. On the other hand, with an open mind and heart, I can learn from anyone.

I am humbled by knowing how little I know, how much I can learn.

What have I learned so far? Well, I confess often I haven’t learned by proficiency, but out of frustration.

These are the hard ones for me, the ones I have to work on every day, and still don’t have mastered. And because they are so hard, and require so much attention and effort, I’m pretty sure these are the biggies:

Patience. I still want it all now. The answers, enlightenment, that feeling of bliss or “getting it” I get for fleeting moments during meditation. I also know it’s not supposed to work that way. If it were easy… we’d all be there already and miss the journey. It requires practice. Meditation. Sitting. Focus. No focus. Learning to be still. Wait. Receive. All in due time. “Don’t work too hard, just let it come,” one teacher tells me. Easier said than done. How to erase 40-something years of thinking I need to work my butt off to get what I want. Funny because even when I did work my butt off, I didn’t always get what I wanted. Or maybe it was that what I thought I wanted wasn’t that which I needed, so obtaining it was unfulfilling… grab it and go, onto the next.

Gratitude. For those who have shared, are willing to share, with such humility and grace. Gratitude… for those who treat me gently (or harsh when I need that, and I do sometimes) and try to teach me what they have learned without making me feel like a fool (or at least, not trying to… because sometimes I do anyway). Have you noticed that those who know the most say they know the least? Give them time (back to that patience thing…) and they’ll reveal what you need to know, when you need to know it… if you stick with it, and ask. I treasure the time, care, insight, wisdom, and the gems they have shared with me. Gratitude… for all those opening the doors, calling me over, laughing at my enthusiasm as I come eagerly running like a happy puppy.

Forgiveness. This may sound selfish, but I’m trying to start with myself on this one. I’m not talking therapy here, just understanding, acceptance, and love. At least that’s what I’ve read. The theory being it’s hard to move forward without a good grasp of the past. And once you start taking a quick look, you start seeing how much you hold against yourself. Geez. Let it go! Right. Easier said than done, but I’m trying. And at the same time, working on forgiving others, because really, what’s the point? Anger and resentment eat away at me only; the other person has no idea I’ve got a vex on them. So the point is…? Get over it. Move onto better things. At least, that’s what this beginner is trying to do.

Understanding. Clarity or seeing clearly. When I was little with my big strong mind (or so I swore it to be back then) my mother would say to me, “We agree to disagree.” I didn’t agree at all. I knew that was a way of saying, “I won’t even bother trying to understand.” I wanted to be understood. Now I want to understand. “Everything on the planet,” another teacher tells me. No, you don’t have to agree. But try to truly understand. It feels amazing, expansive, inclusive just to give it a try…

Non judgment. Why did it take me so long to figure this out? (Though is “Why?” a question laced with judgment or simply curiosity?) So yeah, I got a long ways to go on this one. And once again, who do we judge most but ourselves? How do we learn to let go of self expectations and demands and fears ? I wish I knew. I’m starting by (trying…) switching my focus to calm, clear, centered… and sometimes nothing at all, just breathing in and breathing out. It’s a start. Tell you what: seems like it’s easier to find fault than accept praise. Who said it was meant to be easy?

Service. I keep finding myself going back to the old Jackie Robinson quote: “A life is not important except for the impact it has on other lives.” I don’t think we’re ever fully fulfilled unless we see that what we’re doing is not just for ourselves. The bigger picture matters. Sure, we all want to be included and accepted, but it’s more than that. We need a point and purpose, and I think that point and purpose has to involve the well being of others to be sincerely satisfying. So, is service a selfish act? I don’t know – maybe we can twist it around to be – but I think the big thing is this: we need to do stuff for others. If it doesn’t feel like enough, maybe it’s not. Do more. If I’m lucky, I’m only half way through life. I spent what felt like the first half taking care of me and my family. Now it is my time to start reaching beyond.

Love. Surely this is the most important. It is so simple, really, and yet so crazy complex. In all its wild ways. Sexual, spiritual, motherly, earthy, passionate, compassionate love. Love… for the understanding I am slowing seeing, feeling, breathing in, becoming. Very slowly. Love… for my husband, who not only lets me, but actually joins me. Love… for the earth I tread softly on and spring winds and bird songs and the howling coyote at first light. Love… for the words I weave into poetry, if no where else then in my mind, for it makes me smile and love the world around me I write about that much more. And here’s something cool I’m finding. Why not love? Everyone. Everything. I’m sick of anger. I’m trying to catch myself. When I feel like smacking someone in the face (no, I’ve actually never did this, but between you and me, I confess I have fantasized…), turn my feelings to love. Plain and simple. It’s easier than I thought. Try it if you don’t believe me. Just change your thoughts. Stop one. Replace with another. No excuses. Just do it. Really. Sincerely. Tell you what – it feels amazing. Love. Because the more you send out, the more is out there, and the more you feel, and that’s just good stuff, no matter how you look at it.

Compassion. My take on this, coming from my true beginner’s mind, is that compassion sums up all these lessons. Patience, understanding, non judgment, service, love. And then you have to practice what you preach. This is the hard part. Put your lessons to the test, and into action. Not just words, readings, teaching, but actual doings. How I treat myself. How I treat others. How I treat the Earth. And that’s where the hard part comes in. Being the person you want to be. Now. But that’s where you really start feeling like you’re getting somewhere. Start by trying. That’s all it takes to begin.

So, here I am. On the path to awakening. At least, that’s where I hope this road is going.

Where ever I am, it’s beautiful. It feels good. It feels right. Some days I’m elated and high and it feels so awesome and for fleeting moments I shiver with bliss and feel enwrapped with light and I’m sure I’m doing it right, and even get a glimpse of what “right” might be. And then the next day I slip back into my selfish, short sighted, wounded child whining. It doesn’t last long any more. At least, I try not to let it. I’m slowly learning to see right through that game. Finally. And see into something so much better.

“Try” is my mantra. Try to get over it. Try to forgive myself when I don’t. Try to change the bad thoughts to good. Try to feel love when I’m burning with rage. Try to feel at ease when I’m convinced I was just slighted, dissed, or rejected (this one happens plenty as a writer).Try to find calm when my mind is moving like a racehorse, busted free from the track , and is heading off, fast, in a direction to god knows where… Come back to center, breath, smile, and try again…

I’ve got a long ways to go. I’m starting to understand if done correctly, I’ll be doing this forever. Learning, growing, expanding, adjusting, refining. I’m also starting to understand this: once you get on the path, sure you’ll get lost and lose the way from time to time, but I don’t think the journey ends. Something inside keeps us going, brings us back to center, and leads us onward. A deep yearning for the truth, peace, presence and understanding. Have you found this to be so?

Have you noticed this one too? Once you begin to open your eyes, suddenly you start seeing so much. It’s beautiful. It’s almost blinding, almost overwhelming, but you can’t turn your head away…

Word of warning – when you begin to open, with gratitude, humility and clarity, the Universe rejoices. It celebrates joyously by throwing doors open for you. You might have to run to keep up and get through them all. You can do it!

I’m opening them all for now, jumping in and finding my way around. I’m trusting, and believing and following, rather than controlling, and this is new for me. I’m rejoicing too – I know I’ll get exhausted, and settle in soon enough and find my new expanding space. But for now, I’m having fun learning. Everything is new today.

No doubt, many of you are further along on the path than me. Please be patient with us late bloomers or slow movers. No need to wait on us, but be gentle when you see us swerving along the rocky road. Be gracious, knowing one more human being is beginning the unfurling.

I’m just happy I’m here now.

And though I don’t get all the right answers or clearly see the way yet, I’m sure enjoying the journey.

Stirring.

April 13, 2015 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

There is an intense clarity found in springtime in the high mountains. It is not beautiful, but real and raw. It hides nothing. Like a truth you cannot escape. An inner stirring as the outer winds churn cold and biting from over the Divide.

It is not a stunning time, but one of stark realities. You are left to face yourself, your world, in all its plainness. Earthen tones and unadorned branches that may snap in the strong gusts if not full and plump with awakening life and the memory of remaining flexible. A time to weed out the weak, prepare for the upcoming unfurling. Last year’s brown grass strewn with grey branches like abandoned dreams. I pick them up as I walk by and stack them in burn piles to clean up when the wind dies down and we’re ready for a quiet evening.

There is no draw here for tourists now. Instead this is the time to drag the pasture and fix fences, repair gates and clean up back roads. It is a time for work, not for fun and pretty and light and laughter and languid appreciation of abundant natural beauty though there is always that too no matter. It is quiet at first tired breath, then exhilarating in its wild rapture with roaring river and winds that blend into their own inseparable harmony.

It is not a time to blatantly behold, but rather discretely observe, for what you are witness to now is her nakedness. Soon she shall dress, slowly, in preparation for what will be.

Some days you’re fooled into believing it’s all over or just begun and then you wake to temperatures in the teens and dig into frozen ground and remember where you are in spite of longing for longer days, warmer rays and shorter shadows. Shade cast from the remaining white high hills obscures hopes of lush and green and leaves and blossoms for some time to come.

It’s quieter around here without the goose. I confess I snuck down to Ute Creek to check on him. Only once. There was a big flock newly arrived of geese, ducks and smaller birds enjoying a warm brown open pool in the otherwise still ice covered expanse. And about a hundred yards away on a stretch of frozen mud, was one solitary goose looking back towards the others. What do you think? Yeah, that’s what I thought too.

In the meanwhile, there’s this independent hen… Ever hear of such a thing? In all my years of raising chickens, I never had. But sure enough. We got one here now. One of our free range hens decided she is not in need of flock nor rooster (though he’s quite in need of her and tries often to herd her home). Instead she prefers our porch, picnic table, the wood pile outside our front door. Go figure what’s worth scratching for in there. She’s outside our cabin at any given time of day. Though I’ve never been liberal in giving credit to a chicken’s sensitivities and insight, it’s as if she knows she’s in a bird friendly zone (it is indeed with my very active bird feeder) and a family in need of a feathered friend.

And then.

Yesterday we pass by the lake of open water miles down river below our ranch. Bob drives slowly as I have my head out the window and that wind is cold. I’m looking. Carefully.

No, that’s not him, I say and he drives on.

How do you know, he asks me. I just know.

Stop. Here. No, not that one… but that one there could be… slow down… pull over!

Rikki, I call.

The one with the big head and the low honk flies off to an island a short ways away and fights with another one before landing. Rikki never behaved like that, I note to self, and then I realize this: He is a she!

And there she is, with another female. Swimming this way from the far bank.

Listen, I tell Bob. I can hear her before I see her. I know her voice. My Rikki!

She is calling to me. We holler, back and forth across the cold grey water…

She remains in the water, closer but never too close, talking together all the time, back and forth, as the dog runs along the bank and I wonder which of us Rikki misses more, but I sense that she won’t come clear to us, and she shouldn’t, and she doesn’t. And although I’d love to sit next to her and stare into her warm brown eyes and just chatter as the two of us have done so many times before, her distance feels right. I am happy for her. She has found her place. And it is beautiful.

I am humbled to realize how wild the wilds shall always be, and how domesticated I remain.

I stand to leave in the brown grass along the bank and kick someone’s spent shotgun shells littered along the spring soil.

Thaw.

March 26, 2015March 26, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Crack open like a fragile white shell

Exposing

churning waters

pumped and swollen in the warm early

spring day

chewed the solid river free

ravage the lingering white surface

like an eager lover

Grey waters, grey sky and a land of ashen hillsides

fading

to patches of brown

a random quilt torn and worn with age

drown out the calls of the newly arrived

bluebird

And the beloved trees stand a silent cold still vigil

Of brown branches and pale needles

fallen

And eternal roots entangled roots

rising

Powerful in their ethereal presence

That can not be erased by tiny beetles

nor chased by a changing climate

entangled with those roots within me

Expanding

the breath of a new season

So… about the goose.

A wildlife success story.

Consider this.

The pursuit of happiness is hardly limited to the human mind. I have looked deep into his warm brown eyes enough to know. He has been lonely, longing, wondering. I hope he is happy now though we may question both the importance we place on the state of happiness and the impermanence of an emotional state. In any case…

Rikki flew the coop. Or rather, the ranch. He’s down at Ute Creek with… geese!

I want to ride down there now to call him, have him fly to me, look deep into my cold grey eyes and remind me that yes, he loves me, he is grateful for my having raised him with love, kindness, care. But these things I already know.

When we returned from Argentina, we watched the poor guy endure big snowstorms and fend off the fox (after nights of trying to wake in time to “eliminate” the fox problem, I actually saw the bushy red fellow run right by that goose, both uninterested in the other, so I suppose they worked their thing out). We watched him do his best to follow his two and four legged family everywhere (you should see how well he now climbs cliffs and hikes through the trees). And still looking out the window from the warmth of my cabin out to the little feathered football in the snow, I felt a sadness and loneliness in him. Yes, in a Canada goose. Go ahead and laugh, but it’s true.

A few evenings ago, we’re out cooking dinner in the fire pit and I hear geese flying by. The first of the season. There’s just this tiny sliver of a moon and they’re following the river. Rikki remained by the fire with us, seemingly unaffected. Then the next day, I hear them mid day. Bob hears them while working down by the new cabin. Rikki was out on pasture grazing with the horses. Decoy, Bob has called him there. That’s the last we’ve seen of him. No feathers. No chance of a predator with my big beast of a barking dog out there with him. In my heart, I understand.

I’m happy but sad at the same time. I’m tempted to go check on him but know I should not. I should let him be. He is where he belongs.

And so am I.

Some things to consider.

My Ted Talk to Self for the Season.

Growing up I wanted to change the world. Didn’t you?

The two of us did. Said we would. Different ways.

Both wanted to change the shape of the box. Or perhaps it was the contents.

You said from within. I said from without.

Inside, outside.

You told me you’d work with the system.

Me, I wanted to free those trapped inside.

Neither of us were wrong or right.

It takes both kinds. All kinds.

But have we changed it yet?

I’m still trying.

Are you?

I told you working within was Old School. The box is bigger now. Different. Everything changes. There should be no boundaries. Autonomy and liberation and expansive ideas. Silly me, you said. Maybe you are right. Maybe not.

Remember when I studied art? I’m remembering how it wasn’t until the 15^th Century that we figured out perspective. We played with it, mastered it, and moved on. Beyond perspective; beyond Realism; beyond painting only that which we can see though the art form is something we look at. From Classic to Impressionism, Abstraction to Minimalism, Modern and post Modern. Where are we now? Evolving, always evolving…

As human beings we are constantly evolving – as a society, as individuals.

Those that don’t get stuck in the mud.

Boring…

Try something new.

Look at those who have changed the world.

Those you admire most.

Are they within the box or without?

Chances are you’ll most admire those standing on the side you do.

How do we change the world?

Change ourselves.

You can.

I can.

Take charge, take responsibility.

Here’s a quick three step program to get you going.

I’ll let you know how it works – I’m on it.

Let me know how it works for you too.

Step one.

Question the box and its contents.

Take a good hard look at what’s in there.

Clarity is powerful stuff.

Don’t accept mediocrity. Is good enough good enough?

Don’t accept the truths you were given unless they feel right, down to your very core.

Don’t accept the way that was if you think there can be better. Is the way it was the way you want it to be?

Don’t demand it in others until you can do it yourself.

Step two.

Figure out where you want it to go.

And since you’re just working on yourself here, where do you want to go?

Who do you want to be? Now.

Not certain? Join the crowd.

Then be willing to step out of it.

Look around. Who do you admire most?

Be that person. Now.

Admiration – yes, even envy – is a call to action.
It’s not a green monster, but a great motivator.

What is it about that person that you want more of?

Rather than hate them for having it, figure out how to have it too.

Don’t take it from them either; that’s bad Karma.

Better yet, create it anew for you.

You can do it, be it, have it.

But you have to work for it.

Step three.

I just read an article that said no matter what you read from Freud, you really can change your personality.

So, see? You can change something within you.

And if you can do that… then…

Well, let’s just start with that.

The article said all it takes is 12 weeks.

First, figure out what you want to change.

Then, figure out how you want it to be.

Then, for twelve weeks:

Actively be it.

Fake it till you make it.

In 12 weeks, it will be yours.

Right, we have to be realistic here. In 12 weeks, I’m not going to be 20 again. (Don’t worry – I really don’t want to be 20 again!) But I could be more, say, social. (Or maybe not.) Yes, I could, but I don’t know it that’s on my list of things to change. Being socially inept isn’t that bad. There are other things I need to work on first.

Choose something that matters most. Something that will make you feel better about yourself.

And if you feel better about yourself, well, don’t you feel better about your world?

So you see… in 12 weeks, you can change the world.

Just a little bit.

It’s a start.

What are we waiting for?

How do you define Success?

March 6, 2015March 6, 2015 / Gin Getz / 15 Comments

For some really strange reason I have this inner calling to open my mouth and speak up for the wilds and wildlife and the mountains around me. Maybe it’s that David and Goliath thing. At times, it gets me in trouble and doesn’t always get me friends, but I can’t help myself, and feel morally obliged. I have to speak up – maybe the only contrary voice out there – one little woman taking on a bunch of big boys.

Few of you will read this. Fewer still will care. And a few might even get a little riled up (safe to say, based on personal biases and connections held onto tightly). Good. Go ahead. The truth can be disturbing…. Time to open your eyes, and your hearts, and look a little deeper, my friends.

Most of us believe what we want to believe. I guess it’s part of human survival. From assumptions to core beliefs. And changing our minds is as rare as changing religion. I am not asking you to change your mind. Only open it.

This is about the Canadian Lynx relocated to southern Colorado, and those that have worked to create a successful program… at what cost and for whom? Now they have launched a review and I think we can safely guess what they will call their outcome. Before you too are convinced of their self proclaimed success, please read on.

Success!

For whom, and at what expense?

I have nothing to lose in speaking up. Nothing riding on this but care and concern for those with whom I share this mountain and the wilds. I also have nothing to gain. No money, no reputation, no ego, nothing to prove to the public.

It’s been about ten years since I first voiced my concerns. I imagine unrelated to my little voice from up on this big mountain, not too long after that, they left the remaining lynx alone. Rumor had it the program ran out of funding, and public opinion was getting wise and getting mad. They simply called their program “a success,” and left the mountain with their tail between their legs. Along the way, they quietly removed their sign depicting the cute little lynx at the beginning of the road where it changes from pavement to dirt which was intended, I suppose, as a warning to people driving by. After all the trapping, touching and handling in the relocation and continued monitoring even after release, the lynx were known to walk towards humans up here, not run away. That’s how most folks around these parts learned to identify the lynx, not to be confused with the wise and native bobcat. Well, that and the darned collars.

I live 18 miles up that road, just beyond where they release the lynx that had been trapped, sedated, relocated, and “rehabbed” to adjust to our altitude, they say. Not a lot of other people live here, especially in winter. I think there’s one family about six miles away as the crow flies; otherwise, the nearest home is 18 miles away… back down by that sign. The lynx do live around me. A few that made it. I see their tracks, and keep my mouth shut and wish they would just hide so “they” wouldn’t come bother them again. But here “they” are, back at it.

And so, I am too. Voicing my concerns about a program that may have been born with the best of intentions. That was many moons (millions of dollars, and hundreds of lives) ago. Now, if we dare to look deeply, we are forced to question: who is this program really for, and who truly stands to gain from this process?

The program I am referring to is the relocation of Canadian Lynx to southern Colorado, an area that at best may have been the southernmost range recorded for this beautiful animal currently designated as a “threatened species” but often referred to incorrectly as “endangered.” I’ve even hear the species referred to as the Colorado Lynx, which I suppose would make this a new species all together, or simply a term of endearment for those wonderful creatures that were taken from their native Canada and actually survived here.

Now they’re doing a review. Proving their success. Yeah! After how much time and money and losses, there are Canada lynx alive and well in Colorado!

Yet, we must not be fooled by the “facts” we are provided with, nor ruled solely on our emotions for cheering on what we want to be: the success of this wild animal. Whose success are we really looking at?

What we have here is an ethical dilemma. We’re playing a game, using a beautiful innocent creature as the pawn and one of the most unpopulated parts of the country as the playing ground. Who really are the players involved? Though we all become involved as our heart strings are toyed with too…

Oddly enough, the “critical habit” for the Canadian Lynx in the Lower 48, as reported by US Fish and Wildlife, does not even go as far south as Colorado, not to mention southern Colorado, but includes Maine, Minnesota, Washington, Wyoming and Montana.

No matter. Here we are in the day of climate change and we’re thinking this is the thing to do: let’s take an animal native to the eastern and western sides of Canada, and drop them off a thousand or two miles south in the middle of the mountains, and see what happens.

This week we have snow. What about the rest of the winter? What about, as even “they“ have called it, the new normal? We jokingly call this part of the southern San Juans The Banana Belt. Compare us to northern BC, Alaska and Quebec where the animals originated, I’d say that’s not too far off. No, we have no bananas. But here at the head of the Rio Grande and the end of the Four Corners region, we have strong sun and wonderful warm days in winter and high altitude unlike anything seen up north…

I may not be any wildlife “specialist” but it does not take such degrees to grant common sense. It takes eyes, mind, and heart. I’m here, and I see. I’m not reporting from behind a desk from some big city far away. I’m talking about my back yard. No, I’m not the slick professional putting out the press releases to stir public interest and to support my cause. I’m just a small woman with a big heart who is crying out to try to get some answers, open some eyes, and protect the wilds I’m lucky (or crazy) enough to live in.

And so, they came here. First because there was no public interference. Hinsdale and Mineral Counties are each about 96% public lands. That means, of course, only 4% private, and so, not a lot of people, period. Those folks up north were not only more plentiful, but wise to potential restrictions like road closures such a program could bring, and would not cooperate.

Recently, I read a new twist to this theory. Their story changed. Now they say they researched and chose this location because they found so many snowshoe hare around here it seemed like a great place to give it a try. I’ve also heard they relocated snowshoe hare here too, so I don’t know what or who to believe any more.

I do know this. My aunt scoffed when years ago I first told her enthusiastically they were bringing the Canadian Lynx to Colorado. She’s from upstate New York. “They tried that here too,” she scowled, “but the lynx all left.”

Ours tried to leave too. But this time, the powers that be chose a location so far away, making it back home would be close to impossible. They found “our” lynx in Kansas, and I don’t remember where else. Many died trying, on the side of the road. Though more of them simply starved.

Proof that if you put enough money into a program, have enough ego to keep at it at all costs, and are willing to risk enough lives, you can make anything work.

Now, I’m just a middle aged lady who has called this mountain home for over a dozen years. Nothing fancy; nothing powerful. In fact, kind of small and usually pretty darned quiet. I’m a homebody and would rather walk or ride a horse than get in or on anything motorized. I don’t fish or hunt and I can’t even get myself to kill a rabbit. I’ve lived up here far beyond where a lady “should” with my husband, my dog, horses, cats, chickens and a wild goose that came to us last spring and hasn’t left. We raised our son here and at 21, he now is wintering at the South Pole station – testament, I suppose, to how remote, removed and cold one assumes it can be here. But we’re comfortable. We live simply and eek out a living between running a seasonal guest ranch, writing and taking on odd jobs. I’m not here to get rich. I’m here just to be here. The wilds, wildlife and Wilderness (note the capital W) mean the world to me after my family and my own animals.

This is my home, and after all these years, and all the battles I have taken on to remain here, I have an incredibly intimate connection with and fierce attachment to the land. And for that land, I have a moral obligation. For that land, I have to speak up and do what I can to protect the land, wilds and wildlife.

Playing God

As humans, we have a tendency to (1) want to care for those we feel need care; (2) want to prove we can do it – whatever it is – at whatever cost; (3) never want to admit we are wrong; and (4) want to control our environment rather than simply be in it.

Combine these all together, and you have the perfect formula for this program.

In spite of waning public opinion and growing concerns with sightings of these normally elusive animals on roads and/or seemingly starving, at some point, the powers that be called their own program “a success.” I recall reading that “the success” was based on this: there were more cats born that year than cats that died. Oh my god. Do you know how many kittens are in a litter? Now do the math. And see if you can figure this out: how many deaths then were they thus responsible for each year?

And how many millions of dollars were poured into this program to support these efforts… and by whom?

How many millions were spent trapping live animals in Canada, and (we must hope) caring for them in transit, rehab and relocating in to Colorado. On top of that, how many millions more were spent on salaries and snowmobiles and flights, and fossil fuels used to track from the air and trap in the snow?

The only “facts” and “figures” I can find are those provided by the very same people operating this program.

How do we find the truth about these beautiful animals with which we’ve played god, uprooting them from their native lands and turning them out to see what would happen here?

With all the monies poured into this program on behalf of one species, did anyone consider the affect upon other species who now have to co-exist in these changing times, in this changing climate, such as the bobcat, the coyote, and the fox? What impact would the “success” of the lynx have them?

I do care. About them all.

Keep trying… keep spending… money and life… sooner or later, it’s going to work!

Sure, some will make it. Look at the moose. They were never here before and were dropped off and for whatever crazy unknown reason, they are currently thriving. The lynx is not as lucky, but he’s still around.

Before you support or negate this program, I would suggest you try to find the facts. What are the numbers? The real numbers – not those readily provided by the program. How many were released? How many died? How much money was spent? Where did the money come from, and where did it go?

And while you’re at it, ask them this: why?

Success, they have called it. I suppose after all the monies and lives expended, they have to. And who has thought to question? We are all guilty of wanting this to work so badly we were willing to forgo the facts. Now we have to ask: success for whom, and at what expense?

Updates from the Upper Rio Grande

February 28, 2015February 28, 2015 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Though I rarely mention our guest ranch business with my personal business, the two are of course intertwined and both a part of me. So… here’s the latest from the guest ranch side of me:

Updates from the Upper Rio Grande

Woven into winter… dreaming of favorite places… taking you back to where you want to be…

Dear Friends of Lost Trail Ranch,

As the shrill call of the Redwing Blackbird this week heralds their return to the mountain and brings the promise of spring to our otherwise wintry landscape, we turn our attention towards the seasons upcoming. We welcome you to this beautiful new year, trusting it is a great one so far for you, and hope to have the chance to see many of you in the year ahead.

Some exciting news to share with you:

First, we’re getting a brand new web site! Same location (www.lost-trail.com) but a whole new look. After over a dozen years of toying with our home-made web site – based on the assumption that the beauty of the place is enough to capture your attention and your heart – we’re are super excited to be launching a completely new site, designed and implemented by the extraordinarily talented Kara Brittain of B4Studio (www.b4studio.com). The site is in the works, bringing a beautiful redesign and wonderful working interface, featuring personal photos, stories and a clean, clear, easy to read and navigate format. As we progress with the new site, please take a look, tell us what you think! It’s a work of art, and still in the works, so your feedback would be most appreciated.

And… your involvement!

We would love your help in this process. Please read on…

Stories! Would you be willing to share a story? Instead of the usual rave reviews and recommendations or interesting historic tid-bits from the area, what would be more fun and endearing than to read, share and exchange your personal stories of a special time or event or memory created here at Lost Trail Ranch on the website? Perhaps a tale of awakening to the blessing of an early snow or brilliant rainbow, a wild ride on ATV up to the Divide, a wonderful wildlife viewing, a bunch of song and laugher around a campfire, or the one that got away. Please write (e-mail us) and share! We’d love to read your stories… Okay, I’ll be the first… (story to follow)

Pictures! Have any special pictures you might be willing and able to share with us on the site, too? Perhaps of your favorite place, cabin or part of the cabin that means something dear to you, a quiet moment captured lounging in the sun with a good book in a quiet corner of your cozy cabin, laughing around a camp fire or chillin’ on the front deck. Perhaps of your favorite activity, be it an awesome hike, mountain bike ride or ATV adventure, your favorite fishing hole (if you don’t mind sharing your secrets), a fun day spent in Lake City or Creede, an exhilarating exploration up the mountain? We’d love to see and share your images, from family time or a romantic couple get-away or just the beauty of the cabins and surrounding mountains. When you find a few minutes, please look through some of your favorites, and send ‘em this way if you’re willing and able to share the beauty!

More exciting news: This summer will be the first season we are proudly offering Hill Top Cabin as a part of our rental fleet! Hill Top Cabin is the big, beautiful, private and pristine cabin about a quarter mile up the road from the main ranch, on top of the hill (thus the name) overlooking the ranch, the valley and the reservoir (talk about views!). This opportunity is a dream come true for many who have inquired over the years… now it’s a reality! We are pleased to announce weekly rentals offered from Sunday to Sunday (our main cabins are Saturday to Saturday), June through mid October. Please write us for more details, inquiries and/or to make reservations for the upcoming summer season.

Other news and updates of interest:

On a personal note… Bob & Gin have just returned from another season in Argentina, and are back to working on their home by the river, writing a new book, and starting an exciting new chapter of their life together. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world… or rather, the end of the world! Forrest will be wintering (our summer is his winter) at the South Pole. That’s a lot of cold, dark days while we’ll be here enjoying the comfort and beauty of the Colorado high mountain sun! Some say he was raised for such a situation, but no matter the stories we’ve told you, it really never get’s that rough here. All we know is, we’ll miss him – and hope he manages to stay as warm as one can in the eternal darkness where winter temps average -76 degrees F.

Finally, what are YOU doing this summer? Hoping you’ll be able to be here for at least a week to get your mountain fix! Interested in spending a month or more here at Lost Trail Ranch? We’re looking for a couple of good caretakers – your own private cabin in exchange for minimal daily chores, meeting and greeting, and helping out on the weekend with turnover. This is a non paid position; perfect for someone(s) looking to just getaway and enjoy the peace and privacy of the mountain and our guests for an extended period of time. Please drop us an e-mail if this sound interesting…

Hope to see y’all soon!

With warmest regards,

Lost Trail Ranch

e-mail: losttrailranch@gmail.com

address: 18100 USFS Rd 520, Creede, CO 81130

website: www.lost-trail.com

Where we were.

February 23, 2015February 23, 2015 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Where we were.

Patagonia, Argentina.

Somewhere out there in the wind.

What were we there for?

Only in retrospect do we clearly see.

When at the time we may be lost in dark depths or blinded by brilliant light

Overwhelmed, overcome

Though sometimes there is foresight to cling to like a torch.

I knew before I went.

To escort.

Along the way, maybe I lost sight. For a little while, at least. It is hard to see when you are in deep. Retrospect and a wild ride and the grounding love of my family and my tribe brought me back to center.

It’s personal.

I’ll put this out there. Read it if you want. I’ll share what I can. I won’t expect you to read it all, though hope you’ll enjoy if you do.

What happened to the personal?

We’re too busy to take the time, make the time, a new set of priorities, an epidemic of cluttered time, personal value and social status placed on how busy we can appear.

We’ve got to the point where by if we put it out there, post it, we assume all will know. Maybe I don’t know. And no, I won’t assume. If you want me to know, write me. Personally. Crazy concept, I know. Old fashioned. You’ll find I usually write back. Likewise, if it matters that much to me, if I need you to know, I’ll write you too. Personally.

For I am learning maybe you’ll read this, maybe you won’t; maybe this is for you, and maybe this is just out there, for the general public, an entertainment service. You decide.

What was I there for?

Escorting.

New life.

Old life.

The eternal powerful process.

Assisting, perhaps only observing

A woman through the greatest transformation of her own life.

Simply escorting.

Mother and child do the work while I hold tight to the burden and honor of bearing witness, and little more.

And then we let go, and leave the new life with that which is seemingly old and wise as ever a woman can be, all knowing and eternal and the most beautiful connection and spirit and energy and light, bonding of the truest love, and time no longer matters or can be told except the here and now of mother and baby in enduring bliss.

As midwife, the passage is not ours. Though we are there beside her, go there, deep, stand vigil, hold tight, strong, nurturing, bearing witness to the transformation of life, of girl to woman, primal and passionate movement, motion;, the tribal ritual; going down deep into the most intense space a woman can go. And then the instant creation of motherhood, vital love, this is what it’s all about. Everything. To be there, with her, if no more than watching over, and giving the gift of trust that she knows I will do all I can to ensure safe passage, see that she returns from that wild space no man may ever know, with a babe at her breast suckling. All so she can let go, and fully experience this enigmatic process.

As midwife, we serve as escort. The greatest of honors. The careful observer, at best empowering and encouraging and ensuring safe passage. If we can, for how much is beyond man and medicine, things they will never fully know, and the more I know the more I realize I don’t, but what can I do because this is not mine, it is her hers, what she wants, and it is natural, and it will happen, or it won’t, and what can we really do but trust.

This was not only intense (and at times, I reflect back and admit: a bit insane), it was intimate. Being there for another woman turned out to be even more intense that doing it myself. Back twenty something years ago when I birthed, my midwife had not been there before, and didn’t know how deep a woman can go. She was afraid. I scared her. It can be a frightening place, the depths that a woman can dive into. I am not afraid.

Diving deep… And not alone. And then, being certain of the unwavering strength and core belief in women; our collective body, mind and soul; and life and the primal, passionate act of birth. Belief in her, and in myself – strong enough to bring them back.

I can’t explain it better yet. If you’ve been there, you know. If you haven’t, go there. Somehow. Try.

How deep can you go?

Birth brings life so close to

death and we are hanging

on by tendons tied to some

eternal mother

as strong and sweet as a first breath.

Life changing. Life creating. The elemental woman’s Right of Passage. Primal, powerful, passionate, ecstatic. Yes, it can be. It is.

Intense.

Now.

The intensity of a bath. The horse trough in the living room, beside the wood stove. Drinking spring water a degree above freezing. Sweating. Here so far from pavement, anything seeming like solid ground. In quiet laughter, we recall sweating in Buenos Aires. The purity of sweat; cleaning from the inside out. Raising the body temperature; cleansing the pores down deep from the soul. If I sweat, I don’t get sick. If I’m getting sick, I need to sweat. This is good medicine. Simple stuff. Old Man Brinker taught me that.

Sit back and sweat in the water by the wood stove…

It all comes back, rolls over me in a steamy embrace of hot water in a horse trough by the wood stove with my husband. I want a glass of wine, taste the sweet tart cool richness on my lips and in my throat, but know this is the last thing I really need. I’m already dizzy. It is the heat. The relaxation. The utter letting go.

Before.

Several moons ago. (Tonight I saw a sliver of a new moon tipped up like an empty bowl, waiting to be filled, or just having been emptied.)

Tomorrow will be a better day. Today I’m ready to cry. I don’t want to. I want to be strong and make it through this whole huge undertaking without breaking down and being all girlie like, you know? I can take it, tough it out like the guys and make it without a full day off, and I want to dress warm and play hearty and pretend the snow and wet and cold don’t bother me… but today they do. And I’m tired and I’m scared that we won’t get it done and I sort of just wish it was done and we could take a day off and talk about something besides logs.

Overwhelming.

As commitments unfold and plans become and the reality of all this work and time and money and fear of how hard it is on Gunnar and fear of my own unknowns and my dear friend’s birthing and how little I still know yet how much I innately trust… these things solidify, and yet I do not become stronger, but more confused. I don’t not want the adventure – and I don’t want to remain here for fear of trying something else. But I worry that I’m just spitting in the wind and will find the same discontentment there, everywhere… when really what I must be working on is the contentment in myself.

I fear I’m going down into a personal darkness and Now is not the time.

A time in between without boundaries. The fear of the un known. Nightmares of Gunnar, losing him, city streets, hearing him bark, knowing he is trying to find us; and waking fear of Rikki, worry for his coldness, loneliness, missing out on that which could have should have might have been but was missed of natural life for a wild being. Fear of my inability to write, or find a proper publisher, or… what is the purpose of writing if not to share my words?

And then. A new beginning.

Grounded.

It starts in the air. Most of the greatest adventures do. Often at night, flying though the endless black,

And then I was there.

And most days I wondered why.

Because I love and want

to give but sometimes give too much and am left with

Wind.

Cold and harsh and biting,

Stripped naked and whipped, exposed

to the elements, beaten and broken down by

the earth and air and water that feeds me.

Too hot or too cold, and Gunnar’s broken foot

becomes my own shackles so I cannot

run away.

Is that the land I am meant to be attached to?

Or the people.

People. That is what matters most.

You see?

Don’t you?

It was

Intense.

Intense. Yes. This is where we were.

I’m not ready to share the stories, not here, not now.

They are personal and private, though part of it should be shared. I want you to know. I want you to be there with me. You too may never be the same.

In the meanwhile, I am here, home, my wild white mountain and state of solitude and serenity. My husband and dog and goose on the deck and horses and crowing rooster in the morning and blinding white afternoons.

Don’t be afraid to go deep.

You must go where you have not been, and that place must be farther than you thought you could go. It may not be a pretty place. It may be harsh and raw and real. There is where you’ll find what you are seeking – that inner part of your self. The elusive secrets to the self, the soul, life. Only when you are truly lost, giving up and opening to guidance to get you out alive, only then will you understand direction.

If we don’t go deep we remain but on the still surface. Dive into the mud. You will find your way out. And in the meanwhile, you will learn to swim. Open your eyes and drink it in. You will not be alone – that is the biggest surprise. And sometimes, what you will find in those depths are the richest of waters. The waters of life.

Drink in the intensity.

And then, my friend, where will you go?

Not where you were yesterday.

But I may still be there. Or you will be. And no matter how deep we go, me or you, let’s promise each other this. We won’t leave each other too far behind. I’ll look for you, find you, and bring you back. Carry you, drag you, or walk by your side. Don’t forget that.

And if you truly believe that, you can go deep.

Because you know I’ll be there with you.

Or at the least, waiting for you with a big fat grin when you make it back.

Home.

(for Forrest)

Here I am.

February 2, 2015February 2, 2015 / Gin Getz / 15 Comments

You ask me… How was Argentina?

I answer… Intense.

One word. That’s all you want to hear. You don’t want to hear my stories. At least, I never think you do.

My stories are not comfortable. I’m out there. I try to touch down from time to time, but landing isn’t always easy. It’s neither pretty nor graceful. More often than not, I crash. But then I’m grounded. Flat out. I’m here. I’m home.

Anyway, I’m quiet. Not much of a story teller. I’m a writer. Maybe you’ll read my words; maybe you won’t. I will still write.

“TELL ME WHAT YOU PLAN TO DO WITH YOUR ONE WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE” Mary Oliver

Intense. Yes.

I don’t know what else to say. I think it takes distancing – reflection from a safe place – introspection – to fully grasp what you just went through. Get back in your comfort zone and see how far out of it you really were.

Good, you say. Glad you’re home. Seems the thing to say.

Enough of that. Let’s move on. You pull out your phone and show me a picture of another dead elk. Looks like the one you killed last year, but you tell me this one is different. You tell me the story. I try to listen. I try to care. I think about the dead elk. I think about how proud you are of one more death. I’m just back from delivering life.

Maybe these aren’t my people.

But this is my land. My frozen river. My white mountain. And my roots have tangled me tightly to life. Life here, there, where the wind blows wild.

I am not today what I was yesterday. I don’t want to be.

Don’t we all evolve? Some days it feels as the mountain erodes: slow and steady with every drop of rain, cutting, shaping, smoothing.

I am sculpted with every falling tear.

Wet and warm and crystalline. The clear blood of woman’s passionate life and the silent river from which stories are born.

Back.

And somehow it feels a little backwards. Maybe upside down.

Back to a community where I do not belong. I’ve learned to accept I’ll never be accepted. I can accept that.

Some days it feels lonely, but I’m not really alone. I have my own people, my own place. My tribe. Some closer. Some farther. My heart and soul spread wide. At least, I take comfort in trying to believe that.

And yet the trees embrace me. Cold silent silhouettes, standing like bones but still oozing energy of the untamed, pure and raw and unrefined.

In and among their ancient souls and wild ways and fallen needles, I find my place. I remember why I am here. I am home.

Stay tuned, subscribe or check back in soon. I will tell you about where I was.

Done.

November 14, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Done!

That’s all she wrote. At least, that’s it for this year.

Enough for now. Time for a change.

This morning we wake to a thick cover of snow. Winter has come to the high country. Right on time.

Ten and a half months ago…

We felled our first tree from across the frozen river. Dead standing. Beetle kill. Dragged it across the Rio Grande in the dark depths of winter.

Each one dragged, stockpiled, lifted, stacked, lifted again, milled, peeled, grinded, measured, cut, fit and fine tuned. Each a work of art. A living museum. A tribute to the trees. Our trees. Our home.

Now there’s a house. Built of love. Not much blood, sweat and tears. How about that. Rather, this one’s made from good stuff. Dang, it feels good.

There’s a lot of love built into them there walls.

We did it. Reached the goal of getting the new house closed in by winter.

The metal roof is on. Bring on the snow. It’s coming in plentitude. Fine by me. Now, we’re outa here for a while. Forrest is back at the South Pole. And Bob and I are flying south as well. We’re migrating again.

My goose, however, will be remaining here.

So much good stuff. So many good things. So many good people. All I need is some time to reflect. Time to appreciate it all.

Time. Something we’ve not had enough of. Maybe free time is over rated. Love, gratitude, progress… these things remain plentiful. Well then – how lucky indeed I am.

Passing the reins on here to a couple of good friends willing and able to take on the adventure that winter is here alone on the snowy mountain at 10,000 feet.

Us, well, we’re heading back into summer. We’re done up here, at least for now, ready to take a break, take on a new challenge, head off for a new adventure. We’re ready to welcome a new life… with open arms and a heart so full and still growing bigger… this is indeed a wonderful life!

I held my breath

As around me wind

Roared though

my silence could not hide

me and I found myself

captured enwrapped and

seduced once again by

the elements

lifting heaving and embracing

dancing in the wind

You can take the dog away from one wild mountain, but you better find another to put him in. Some of us belong where the pavement ends. Far beyond.

And for those of you worried about the goose.. Rikki did not fly south, and we can’t take him (though Gunnar gets to go). After months of wondering what best to do for him, I received this from a fellow goose lover:

“…Rikki is imprinted on you as his mom …He seems happy where’s he’s at. Geese are incredibly hardy. … I definitely feel that he should remain…”

It felt I finally heard the right words. I listen to those feelings.

So, he’ll remain here with the cats, horses, hens and a caretaker who is going to have to see what works best for taking care of a semi-wild Canada goose in the high snowed in mountains through winter.

If you have any advice, please let me know. I want to do the right thing. It’s been an interesting trip just having this bird a part of our lives.

On one hand, I’m exhausted, sore, splintered and sawdust covered. On the other I’m bursting with joy and love and gratitude for all the good stuff and all the good people and new friends and new connections with old ones and love, dang it, so much love. (Yes, I’m feeling sappy. Surely from all those trees…) Especially for my boys, my team. We built this house, this life, together.

And now my trees sit safely stacked into what is now our forever home. Maybe we’ll stay here lots; maybe not so much; but it will always be ours. Always be home. Always be the nest we can return to. Comfort. House. Home.

That’s all she wrote. For this chapter. Onto the next. Less than a year ago, these trees were still standing dead. Now they take the stories they shared of the silence, wild and wind and pass them onto me, my family, a new lifetime, generations lasting less than it took these trees to grow.

Starting new stories of our own.

Together with the trees.

In the last eleven months, we built a house, starting with harvesting the raw materials on up, the three of us (and a few remarkable helpers from time to time, and I must say, at just the right time every time!). I published two books and edited and started pitching a third, and writing a fourth. I moved my family twice. I dove in head first to learn the art and science of midwifery, the miracle of birthing, and the power of the woman. I ran a little business (our guest ranch) and still had time to make sure we ate fresh bread and watched the sunset and listened to each others silly stories and same old jokes. And we smiled. And every morning I woke up excited to see what the day would bring, though a few mornings I was happy to have that day begin a little later.

My hands are sore and swollen; my eyes bloodshot from the sun, wind, sawdust; my muscles longing for a tub I don’t yet have. The only day off I’ve had in months was the horse ride with Ellen in autumn color, and I’ve regretted none of it. Once again I say: if it wasn’t me living like this, I would wish it was.

May not see you for a while. But I’ll be thinking of you. Hoping for the best. Talk to you when we’re back, sometime before the snow melts.

And now, the page is turning. I’m putting this book down for a while and picking up the next. Where will this one bring me? Where am I off to next?

The wind is calling…

I’m going dancing in the wind!

Gin Getz

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

Author: Gin Getz

Standing Still Beneath Blowing Branches (Lessons Learned from Trees)

From the Heart.

How to Begin – An Intimate Look Inside a Beginner’s Mind

Stirring.

Thaw.

How do you define Success?

Updates from the Upper Rio Grande

Where we were.

Here I am.

Done.

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