Courage

Up close and personal.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

This is me.

Real. Raw. A little rough around the edges. No frills and nothing fancy.

Some days unsettled in shifting clouds, stirred by wild winds within and around me.

Other days grounded in terra firma, pummeled by fall rains, nourishing dormant seeds, creative seeds, growing enough to give a part the self to others. Because what is life without something to share?

The other day, I had this revelation. A big one. It hit me:

I’m happy.

A year away from 60 and finally having grown into my skin. (Notice I still won’t say grown up.)

That skin’s a little loose and wrinkled, now weathered like driftwood and aged like well worn levi jeans. It is familiar; it fits me well. Finally at home in my skin, here or there, or someplace yet to be. But always a wild place. A quiet place. With plenty of room to roam.

And today at least, there is no place I would rather be. No time I would rather return to. No life I would rather have than mine. In all its imperfections, complications, confusions, and curiosities.

I am as happy as I’ve never been.

I have never felt more whole.

Not despite flaws, fuck-ups, wrinkles, wrong doings and imperfections. But perhaps because of them all.

The road map of my life so far, etched across my face.

The woman as seasons. Each of us a leaf on a big beautiful tree.

Here and now as I watch those leaves fall and trees left bare and my skin weathers and hair grays, this is where I am.

Our lives are each a work of art.

This is what I created. So far.

Already an ocean of wondrous waves that somehow I managed to ride. Some that lifted me high, others pulled me down, yet mostly there is floating, out there on the open sea with the big blue or black above, open and seemingly endless, holding me as I rest, nourishing for whatever wave comes next.

The highs are based on love. Birthing, mothering, parenting and evolving into adult friends with my son. Forming a strong, supporting and enduring equal partnership with my lover – something I never felt worthy of. Dogs and horses and learning to commit with courageous heart in this ever changing world, with ever evolving relations. Being true to my calling, creative expression, the art of of writing, and crafting a quiet, wild life. Somehow I managed to build my own box, yet not get stuck inside it. Remaining true to being the outdoor cat, somewhat feral, fleeting and self sufficient.

And the downs, to date, admittedly there have been a few. All the challenges, from poverty and placelessness, loneliness and single parenting, drinking and depression – these were part of the picture too. These have been my teachers, the wise ones gifting compassion, empathy, understanding, and true wisdom based on the balance of heart and mind, first hand. And grit. Definitely a lot of grit. Without much for formal education, I was not formed. Instead I learned to dig in the ground with bare hands, find raw clay and form my life myself. Inspired by the natural worlds where I found myself, I have tried to make it beautiful, wild and free, full of creativity and curiosity, passion and peace, respect and responsibility, and above all, love.

Of course there are things I regret. The hardest was wishing I was more present for my son rather than struggling to make ends meet and prove my worth to others who didn’t matter near as much as he did. And things I wish I had learned earlier. Going sober tops that list.

At times I wish I had a crystal ball to portend my future and lead me the right way. Instead time is the wise one and will share her wisdom with me as she unfurls in seasons yet to come. And all I can do is accept what she brings me, hopefully with grit and grace and gratitude. All the while, remaining a little wild and holding onto a childlike mind that finds beauty and magic and wonder and awe every day.

How long will this wave last?

I have lived enough to know that nothing lasts forever.

And with each passing wave, we learn about balance and flow.

For now, I am here.

This morning I sit out in diffused sun beneath a waving veil of high clouds. Eyes closed. Lulled by the song of the river, blending high notes from flickers and phoebes, chatter from dippers and jays, and a light wind softly trembling through the last holding leaves on these ancient sprawling oaks. And ever the refrain of the river harmonizing wild and free as the blood that flows through me, inspires me, fires me, and keeps me afloat.

I walk the trail paved with fallen leaves and emerging mushrooms and lingering thoughts I cannot shake free from my mind. Big leaves, oaks orange and brown, vibrant aspen gold of maples leaves the size of dinner plates, and dogwoods’ delicate reds, ranging from rich crimson to a dreamy peachy pink like water color spilled across the page.

The season inspires poetic words I long to master of emotions tamed like circus lions, emotions that pass by as quickly as these leaves are stripped from tree by rousing wind in which my soul surges, and my heart feels very very warm, somehow settled, an unusual feeling for me.

We run to catch the leaves. Yet our rapid movements make the leaves dance in a maddening unpredictability we cannot control nor capture.

Instead we sit on the deck beneath the old trees, where silent and still, a leaf gently falls into outstretched, opened hands.

It is a good place to be.

A pause between rains.

One day the river rages, thick and silty. The next, a calm clear flow.

But the pathway remains the same. Banks like skin, like soul, containing, confining, defining.

Somehow through it all, though every moment brings different waters, the river remains.

Changing, and yet, unchanged.

And I wonder, are we not the same? Though parts may soften, as water to stone, slowly over time, chiseling away coarse edges, washing away the ever altered surface into grains of sand, softening with time and age. A sandbar moves from here to there. Banks scoured. Rocks tumble and settle anew. Fish battle their way upwards as entire trees are swept away and brought out to sea.

That is my course.

That is where and I how I flow. At least for now.

Some days wild and raging, brown and turbulent, roaring like thunder in steel gray skies.

Other days gentle, buoyant, holding soft and quiet as a trickle as I sit here alone, sun burning golden through closed eyelids.

Mystery prevails the process.

Edges blur. Sides merge. Like oil on canvas as the brush takes another stroke.

Finding beauty both in the creating and the creation and all the wonders of this imperfect life.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

And what about commitment?

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

You see, first there is this: the footer. The solid footprint upon which to build level and square, solid, straight and true.

A slab is poured.

And a rather permanent footprint is created.

This is something solid, serious, the real deal.

It means something, though I’m not sure I can define what.

I know it means it’s happening. We’re doing this. Building a little cabin way out and way high.

But it feels like it means something more.

It’s also about building dreams, a life, hand in hand as we build the walls.

Slowly. Slowed by our aging energies. Slowed by the elements. Slowed by the schedules of others we’re working around.

Is slow such a bad thing?

Maybe it just means more time. More time to consider and refine our plans. More time to hike and explore and ride and write. More time to sit and stare at the view, in silence, together, as our hearts feel as radiant as the sky.

And along with solid grounding, those cement roots we sew into the ground, there lays a message of commitment. One of the scariest things to consider.

So today I’m thinking long and hard about commitment because… well, I’m trying to figure out how committed I am.

Is commitment the ties the bind us – the burden that has our hands held tight behind our back?

Or the devotion and responsibility that keeps us tied, which in kind creates a bond more powerful than that of freedom?

At times, you know, it is both.

Commitment can be our ocean. It is the vastness that holds us up, and that threatens to take us down if we don’t learn to swim. We must soften into the water. Allow it support us, and adjust to its ebbs and flows. That which is dense and rigid is more likely to sink. Like the concrete on the footer. How do we stay afloat in this ever changing world, these ever changing times, my ever changing mind?

Commitment takes time. It can’t be forced, but takes a subtle power and pressure like water sculpting stone. One more reason to slow down. Let it sink into your bones. Let it become you. If it will. And maybe it won’t. See if it will somehow soften you, change you, and move you to evolve.

It is a choice. Dedication, devotion and duty are the glue that adheres us, what holds us to person, to place, to profession. It holds us to center, though sometimes it is just… sticky.

It is not born but comes with time, like a fine wine rolling along your tongue. Committing to growing a garden, a dog, a horse or a kid, a relationship, a book, a building. These things don’t happen over night.

Commitment takes time and work, patience, forgiveness and acceptance. It takes a certain type of kindness that is intertwined with love. And commitment takes change. Yes, to remain committed, we not only grow into it, we flow with it. Thus along the way, something happens. We become more, we become less, we become something a little different. We change.

(Perfectionism is, if not the polar opposite, than the bucket that dosed the flame. Check out what Brene Brown has to say about that in her book, “The Gifts of Imperfection.”

Are you committed? To person, to people? To place? To your craft. To your chosen lifestyle. To your beliefs and creed and faith? To the place that you call “home?”

Am I?

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

The thing about people.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Saving the best (lessons) for last.

Okay not really last (I hope) but late.

Really late.

In fact, this lesson took me fifty-something years to figure out.

It’s about people.

The photos today may not be, but the writing’s about people.

The thing about people.

See, intertwined with this journey of place is one of people.

Because true belonging is a balance, unique for each of us, of connecting with people as well as with place.

Ones sense of belonging is found with and created by connection.

Connection. Connecting with land has been easy for me. Connecting with people, well, this is the part I’m finally getting.

If you’ve known me a while, likely you know that people were not my thing. I was awkward. Shy. Reserved and withdrawn. At least I usually felt all those things.

And yes, scared.

People scared me. Being around them, talking with them, trying to connect with them. Never belonged. Connection felt like an impossible mission; I felt more disconnect than connection. And then would rehash and ruminate for hours, days and years all the things I surely did wrong in those (rare) encounters.

So in my defense or some sense of self preservation, I became a bit of a recluse, a hermit, a wild woman who lived “way out there.” And I did my best not to deal with people.

I’ve lived like a lone wolf. I’m not saying that’s a good thing. However… I once proudly boasted of not leaving the mountain for five months at a time, and going from fall to spring seeing only nine people, two of which were my husband and son.

It’s not that I didn’t like people.

It’s just that I chose to be alone.

It’s just that…

I thought I’d be better off.

I thought I’d be safer.

I thought I had all I needed, was self-sufficient, could do it all by myself.

And guess what I learned?

I was wrong.

Isolation created separation.

And separation created depression.

And in that self created state of disconnection, I found myself in a rabbit hole that got deeper and deeper and deeper still.

And into that hole I fell, deeper and deeper and deeper still.

Until I finally hit the bottom, dusted myself off, and climbed back out.

It took taking my Long Quiet Ride to wake me up to the greatest truth.

It was a trial by fire.

Throwing myself out there, in front of the bus, being at the mercy of people. OMG.

And out there, I learned two things.

First, people are good. For the most part, I mean like seriously, obviously, good is so far above and beyond bad. The fact that our population has grown to over eight billion of us is proof enough for me. Good wins.

Second, I need people. We all do. No matter how independent we fool ourselves to be. We are interdependent, and that’s a good thing. On that trip, boy did I need people. For direction, for suggestions of safe passage, for companionship, for connection, for some sense of wholeness that was left as a gaping hole while I was out there trying to do it alone.

Here’s the deal. The fear that prompted me to build my armor and protected walls didn’t keep me safe, only kept me separate.

Believe me, I had spent a lifetime of plenty of time alone and proving myself capable. That’s not what I went out there to do. I didn’t know what I was looking for but I figured it out fast. Got the message, loud and clear. And right away.

 And from the very first day, I realized, I didn’t want to be alone.
I wanted to connect.

 I longed to share a meal, a story, a hug, a laugh. I wanted to be a part, no longer apart.

Now, some things remain the same. I still choose to live “way out there.”

But some things are very different.

I have learned the thing about people.

And I have learned to love people.

In small doses, admittedly. I’m still not keen on parties, potlucks and group gatherings. One-on-one is more my style. Even if it’s one-on-one with the woman at the checkout or the guy in line before me, tea with a neighbor or a long walk with an old friend, getting the story of the person sitting beside me in a waiting room, or (this will always be my personal favorite) a lingering dinner shared with my husband and son with candles, fresh bread and simple homemade food, and lots and lots of laughter and love.

I believe it is a universal truth that everyone wants to belong, to be accepted, and to be loved.

Hatred is a defense. I know all about that. It’s armor. It takes more courage to drop it than to hide behind it.

But in doing so, in freeing ourselves of our so-called protective shield, we lighten our load.

Only then can our wings unfurl big and bright and wide. Only then can we rise and soar.

I’m living proof that we can learn, we can grow. We can forgive. And (I humbly bow to those who have) we can be forgiven as well.

I’m sharing this because I wish others wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made. But I know life doesn’t work that way. We have to make mistakes in order to learn. We have to live to learn. What we’re told or taught may be intelligent, but it is not wisdom. It becomes wisdom when it soaks into our heart and soul. Then we really get it.

It took me a helluva long time to learn what a lot of you knew all along. That’s a lot of unnecessary pain, for myself, and for others. That’s a lot of loss, because really, I did miss out.

But I got it.

Finally.

A late bloomer.

Better late than never.

What does this have to do with the adventure we’re currently on, building an off grid cabin “way out there” in Colorado, while still wondering where the hell we’re meant to remain?

A lot.

Because people matter as much as place. Because people are a part of the place. Because people fill my heart in a way that the wild world cannot, and hopefully I can fill others’ hearts along the way. Because connection matters, belonging matters, and no place will ever be “the” place without that bond and love and connection with the people around you.

How can I love a place without loving (at least most of) the people who live there? Am I so shallow as to love a pretty view but not the people, the stories, the interrelation of the people who are there?

The thing about creating or finding community  and the place where I belong is ever present if not on my mind than in my heart.

I don’t want to ever be isolated, separated or lonely again.

I may not be totally rocking the social scene. I’m still a quiet, wild woman, silent sort that needs more time in the trees than in town – but finally I learned I do need that time in town. With people. Connecting. Belonging. And much to my surprise, it feels so good.

Yes, it’s scary. Yes I am often still afraid.

But I have to. That’s the courage I’m building.

Though I may choose to live “way out there,” reaching out regularly allows me to live as I do, and be a part, not apart.

I am a part of humanity.

And it’s a good place to be.

Wherever that physical place may be.

And yeah, that’s the biggie I’m working on.

People are basically good. Everywhere. And I can find my people where ever I go. If I have the courage enough to open.

So the question in my heart now is, how do I figure out that balance of loving the land and the people who live there, and choosing where we are meant to remain?

How can I choose one place when I find a connection with people I meet all over the place?

Oh, that’s a biggie. I’ll save all that for another time.

I’ll conclude with a few updates from the past few days. Nothing ground breaking quite yet. Soon. Believe me, you’re not near as anxious as we are to get moving forward on this big job. But before working there is living, and right now, we’re still working on those details, and there are a lot, because it’s not just about building, it’s about living, and living takes a lot, and living does come first. A lot of little details, and some big ones too, like working on the road to access our camp and worksite with some seriously Old Iron and gravel from our land.

And the shed. Oh the shed! The shed is an amazingly awesomely wonderful gift from Bob’s sister that is turning into something we didn’t know how bad we needed, and now wonder how we’d manage without. It’s got enough room to house all our tools on shelves in plain sight, have a work table out of the elements (and elements are a thing up here, with rain and hail a daily thing). And though the shed also serves as safe storage for all those things we managed to stuff in the horse trailer on the way out here, we’re finding it even provides us with a mud room – a place to leave our muddy boots and hang out weather gear, and up here, that’s a mighty appreciated thing. It’s huge – big enough to live in, far bigger than our humble camper. Though rest assured, it’s not going to stop us from building. Just help us along the way.

The things that were easy and reliable for me to share back in California – the constant and reliable beauty and abundance of the garden we created – well, not so much here. Between the mice and mornings still freezing regularly,  my so-called garden, though covered with agribon and a heavy tarp at night, is not a happy place.

Though the rest of the wilds here are. And wild it is. With endless room to roam and mountains to wander and treasures to observe. All in all, it’s big and wide and wild and my heart and soul are soaring with the ever-changing but all the same expansive view before me.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Held by here and now.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

~

And in that time and space between here and there and somewhere yet to be, there is a place, safe and warm and gentle as a quiet voice or hidden stream. Almost imperceptible, but there if we stand still long enough to hear. Like the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is there. Just waiting for us to sit down and take a breath.

Early morning low sun through massive fir trees on the edge of the forest behind me casts shadows like daggers across the meadow where the dogs romp together in tall grasses still wet with dew.

Today I sit on a simple little bench built of scraps of lumber from this land. Surrounded by soothing sounds, sounds of the familiar – the river, the birds, wind through broad oak leaves. Sounds that hold us in place. 

Held by branches of a sprawling ancient oak.

I lean back into thick bark of the old oak tree. She holds me. Her branches reach around me and I feel like maybe I belong. Right here, right now.

At least for now.

I feel her embrace, like a mother, not a lover, allowing me a safe place to simply sit and be. She asks for nothing in return. The Giving Tree. As if she were only here for me.

Maybe it’s the stillness, the solitude, the simplicity, the natural beauty of this precious moment that every moment could be. Or is it the knowing that I have chosen to leave her let again to fulfill some persistent longing. Whatever it is, it washes over and I find myself for some reason wanting to cry, something that rarely happens (and I’m glad for this) since leaving menopause a safe distance behind.

It’s not that I’m sad or mad. It’s more like some sort of melting, a letting go, a complete release now that the armor is gone. Allowing myself to feel the connection with the tree, the air, the light, the dogs and the world around. All of it. Big stuff. I’m just one grain of sand along an endless shore.

Connected. Belonging. No matter where I am, though for now I find myself here against this solid tree.

I bow my head humbly into my hands and offer a place for tears to land, but really, there is no need to cry. It just feels good to know I can. Knowing I am somewhere safe enough to do so, to express myself with nature, with a natural release, a shared sense of humanity, of all living things.

And that feeling of belonging, to the trees, the grass, my dogs, to all of it, the bigger picture…

Yeah, this is big stuff I’m feeling.

And when you feel like that, what else can a gal do but cry?

And as I prepare to leave, if only for a little while, I wonder:

What holds us in place?

What brings us together?

That is what I want to know.

That is what I’m curious about. This is what I want courage for.

There’s too much separation.

A rift, a void between us all, like a looming black hole and we’re all afraid to step in and see if there’s common ground in there. But I believe there is.

A common thread that holds us together if we dare to feel it. It’s that which connects us, reminds us we’re all in this together. Maybe it’s something shared, like emotion or beauty or awe. These are things we all know. Not only that “beauty in the eye of the beholder.” But beauty in the universal sense. Like looking at the moon from fifteen hundred miles apart. Far apart as we may be, we both stare in wonder.

Please, tell me there is. Solid ground between us. Somehow I need to know this as I find myself leaving something solid, and stepping into the air of unknown.

No more time for baby steps. Now it’s time to leap.

Still, somehow there’s plenty of time to run after baby chicks with my camera and cut a barrage of bouquets just because. But packing? Ha! It’s oddly easy to put that off, waiting until the last minute, then stressing and sweating and running around like a wild hare… But no matter how it gets done, it will get done, and we’ll be on the road. Again.

This time will be different. Every time is.

This time, we’ll be together, and that is a comfort I don’t take for granted. Always harder alone, but sometimes we gotta do that too.

This time too I know where we are heading and the route we’ll take to get there. At least I know this more or less. It’s high and wild, rough and raw and rugged, and I am drawn to all of that as well.

It’s that pioneer spirit.

Or is it gypsy blood?

Maybe I’m just curious.

Curiosity is a curious thing.

How will I know unless I try, taste, touch and see for myself?

For is not curiosity the driving force behind pioneers, travelers, explorers, and even us simple folks with itchy feet?

In any case, curiosity calls. Loud and clear. And as if lured by the Pied Piper, I’m dancing that way.

For now, we are here, and at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.

A morning cacophony of summer bird songs makes me smile before I even get out of bed. From the kitchen table over morning coffee, we watch chicks on pasture and goslings in the river and rose blooms so heavy the bushes bend in abundance. Finally the garden has hit that point of saturation where we’re harvesting more than we can eat each day. There are few things, like a barn full of hay and the firewood shed stacked full, that make me feel like a wealthy woman. Today, my coffee cup runs over.

Now begins the challenge of seeing all over again. The promise of polish in a very rough stone.

Fair thee well for now, my beloved Riverwind, my haven in the hills holding me as if between  generous breasts with your untamed river wrapped around this mild, wild land and entangling my spirited heart along the way.

Colorado, here we come…

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Getting closer…

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Things shifted overnight from, “We got this,” to “Holy crap, are we gonna get this?”

We leave in one week.

So far, the stress hasn’t come from thinking about building a cabin from the ground up in one season (we’ll see how far we get), at an elevation of 10,000 feet, while tending to horses, chickens, dog, and garden (yes, I am bringing a “portable garden”) all the while spending the summer together in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 without running water or electricity but with an outhouse nearby, a bucket to bathe in, and as usual, no where near neighbors, pavement or cell phone service. That said, we are setting up a simple solar system just large enough to charge cordless tools and operate starlink from time to time. Our compromise at modern living.

What has been harder is preparing to leave this place behind.

That’s where our attentions and efforts have been. Mowing, weedwacking, weeding, watering, organizing, tidying, trying to get this place in a space that will safely hold its center in our absence. And still finding time to be with beloved friends and neighbors, the river, the wind, the air and essence and little bit of tended wild that is this wonderful place.

And of course… there is this. The garden. My baby.

For anyone who has ever tended to the land with nearly as much love as we gave to our children, you know what it’s like.

Seems like this baby is always the biggest user of my time. Sucks time away and I don’t even notice it’s disappeared until I wonder where the day has gone and why I am so hungry. But you know, they say it’s those kinds of things, those things that you totally lose yourself in, and lose track of time, that show you where your true passion lies. Gardening is one. Most anything outdoors, I guess. Working the horses, riding, hiking, and writing inspired by the wild…

It wasn’t always that way, and maybe that’s part of what makes it so endearing to me.

Here are a few “before” pictures Bob pulled up of this land, to share the perspective of space where the garden now grows.

This was a baby born in a painful birth of being scraped with a skid steer to clear the open slate.

That was nearly six years ago. Almost six years of watching her grow, spread her wings, and fly, deeply grounded. Six years of hauling a shit load of top soil from the other side of our land, mail ordered earthworms, innumerable bags of steer manure and organic amendments to get her growing, and shoveling manure every single day I was here. Keeping the poop in the loop, and the loop ever growing.

And now, see what a few years can do?

To her, I have given blood, sweat and tears. Lots of tears. I cried a lot when we first broke ground. “It will never work, it will never grow, it will never be beautiful,” I would cry to Bob quite regularly. As usual, he’d just patiently listen and watch as I got back to work. I am glad to say I was wrong.

She has provided for us in kind year round. For a couple with a primarily vegetable based diet, that’s something to be proud of. Yes, it means we eat simply and yes, it gets boring at times. Believe me, by March we’re usually pretty sick of old winter squash and bitter kale while we’re waiting for the new crops to outgrow the slugs after winter’s heavy rains.

I’m sitting there now, flip flops kicked off and toes thick in grass, listening to swallows chatter about their nesting box while swallowtail butterflies and hummingbirds dance around the profusion of brilliant colors just beginning to emerge for the season. And all the while this intoxicating fragrance of rose, oh! all these roses! gracefully bowing as they bend in abundance, most of which were started by sticks I stuck in the ground and trusted they would grow. They did. While meanwhile and always, this space is serenaded by the ever present hum of the river that wraps around this land.

Of all the work we did here, clearing, cleaning, caring, opening dry and dead and overgrown, trash strewn and fire damaged that was this land when we first arrived, the garden has grown to the crown jewel of the land.

Beside the roses, what I’m most enamored by is all the fruit trees we’ve gifted to the land: apples and pears, plum and persimmons, walnut and almond and fig. And most endearing to me are the peach trees started from seed. You see, four years ago, the Old Man gave me five pits. He had saved them ten years and handed them over with reverence. Told me they were the best peaches he ever had, so he planned on planting them some day. I gave it a try. Put those pits in a pot with some soil and set them out in the garden all winter and lo and behold, by spring, shoots shot up and last year, I picked the first peaches. A humble start, but worth it indeed. This year, those trees, though still somewhat small, are laden with fruit and bending to the weight of their juicy promise… which (don’t remind me, please!) I will not be here to enjoy. Funny things is, one of those peach trees looked a little different. Turns out it’s a nectarine. I love these little surprises in life.

One final breath out here in this little bit of paradise, then time to get back to work, loading the last of the lumber into the horse trailer that will carry a lot more than horses on this trip across the West.

A deep breath. With our departure just a week away, yes, it gets scary at times.

Scared? Yes. Change is always scary, isn’t it? Change of pace, change of place.

Change of heart?

Hopefully only a heart growing, expanding, unfurling like the roses surrounding me.

Mine is not a fearless heart.

I would rather it be a courageous heart.

For I would rather a heart that loves and cares and longs deeply enough that it knows what fear feels like, and chooses to love and care and long above that fear. I would rather a heart courageous enough to step forth into fear, like stepping into the stirrup and settling onto the back of a bronc.

So here we go. Again.

Stepping.

Hold onto your hat and enjoy the ride!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Beyond Badass.

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

It’s not what you might be thinking. It’s not about trying to be bigger, badder, better than badass.

Hell no.

Instead, it’s about what you do, where you go, who you are when you (try to) leave being badass behind. When you begin to push that part of your identity, or at least, that thing you’ve always strived to be, to the wayside. When the time comes to strip yourself of your armor, and find true courage to just be you… whatever, whoever that may be.

Maybe it will mean being badass after all.

Or maybe not.

We’ll see.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve worn a big knife on my belt. My first one was gifted to me well before my son was born. It’s been over three decades of different knives, but almost always some sort of blade hanging at my hip.

People think it’s to be badass or something (and yes, maybe it is a little of that) but if you walk around with me, you’ll see it’s used to cut thistles, dig up dandelions, open bales of hay, and a dozen other things daily. It gets used a lot. In fact, the few times I leave it home (it doesn’t go over so well in big cities, kids camps nor airplane travel), I end up feeling a little lost and find myself reaching for it like the handy tool it really is. Nothing badass about it, you see?

Is there life beyond badass?

Now, with just two weeks before we load up horses, chickens, tools and camp and head towards Colorado, that’s what I’m trying to keep in mind (and heart and soul) as we prepare to leave leave this safe, secure, serene oasis behind, at least for a little while, and head to rough and rugged, high and wild, and the adventurous spirit that ain’t about comfort and ease.

Do I have to be badass again?

Just when I thought I was softening…

“The hell I won’t.”

“Different” is the word they used to describe me when I was growing up. Gee, thanks.

WTF is different?

My brothers had brains, my sister had beauty, so me, I decided, I’d have… I’d be badass.

That was my personal choice for defining different. And when you’re different, I guess you have a choice.

And so it was. Badass it would be. It became that protective shield I could hide behind, felt safe behind.

I did my darnedest to keep up that identity, though I’ll save those stories for another time.

All I knew as a kid was that I was different, and well, that kinda sucks.

Different.

As in…?

I decided it meant find your own way. Take care of yourself. Get tough. Be badass.

Badass it would be. I’d carry that like a badge. Or a shield. Of course, a lot of us carry a shield we think will keep us safe, but all it really does is keep us apart.

What the hell did I know then?

Different they said I was; different I would be.

Now I’m old enough to be me. And very much a part.

Time to crack that badass armor open.

What’s underneath? We’ll see. Maybe a lot of mush. If so, would that really be so bad?

I’m thinking it’s a little more solid than that. Maybe more like clay. Soft and smooth and pliable, resilient and creative. Good stuff. The stuff we’ve all been waiting to share. The really rich inner river where you can lay back and float and find yourself flowing just fine, thank you very much.

Underneath that armor a lot of us hide behind (I think I’m not the only one) we all have a part of that river flowing through us, the surge of common humanity, streaming with shared experiences and emotions which serve as both fragile and tenacious veins like silken threads that hold us together, and keep us afloat.

But that’s deeper than I care to go this week. You’re off the hook for now.

Seems like badass is a popular thing to be these days. Right on, I get it. It’s been a guiding principle in my life, that’s for sure.

But it has a downside. Everything does. And maybe that downside makes it, at least for me in my ripening years, something I’m seriously thinking of leaving behind.

You know “badass” is a shell we hide behind that’s supposed to keep us safe. Maybe it does. Worked well enough for me. But badass as an identity can also be a wall that separates us from others. A wall that can be pretty hard to scale, you know?

It separates. Sets you apart. At least that’s how it worked for me. When what I really wanted (don’t we all?) is to be a part.

Time to connect.

Here’s an update:

I broke down and got a phone two years ago. I’m still not proud to admit that.

And if I didn’t then, now it’s really happening. I’m entering the modern era. At least I’m giving it a try. I’m learning social media. Just last week, I set up an Instagram account, mostly so I can check out the tiny homes and puppy pictures my sister likes to share. But it’s kind of fun. Maybe it’s not all that evil. (Just a little bit.) Maybe it really can help us all connect and find that common thread. Though so much of what I see out there is still about separation.

For now, I’m going to use it as a way of connecting. And of softening, a medium to share something beautiful everyday, something beautiful from this beautiful, gentle land and river that hold me, that let me soften and see, deeply, clearly, leaning in, safely.

And then, well, we’ll see. Then we’ll be in the high country where it’s all about open spaces, harsh and wild, and safety is a little more uncertain. But that doesn’t mean I have to be like the land.

One can be a soft spot in a hard place.

I think.

We’ll see.

So about being on social media, please, that does not mean I’m suddenly going to be posting selfies!

However…

I did it. Did a selfie with a bestie.

See? Modern woman.

“Sometimes a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.”

Oh, and… as for that new nose piercing? You might say I should know better at my age. I say I’m old enough to know what I want. That’s one of my favorite things about aging. I don’t need to give a damn any more (though oft times I choose to). Thirty five years ago when I got my first tattoo, it was something I had to hide. Now even my parents say ink is cool. In the shop where Cindy and I went in for our bling, the kids working there said about fifty percent of their clients were old as us. Times change, and so do we.

In my ripening age, I’m thinking it’s time to stop striving for badass. Really, my muscles and skin are already softening, or at least starting to sag. Go with the flow sort of thing.

Maybe softening is one of the privileges of age. It’s not so much becoming a fine wine. At least not for me. Feels more like oak barrel whiskey, and that’s okay by me.

That said, I don’t think I’m gonna turn to mush anytime soon.

It’s more like I’ve cracked the badass shell and now am learning to let molten lava flow.

And yet that thing about leaving this comfortable place for a while and heading out and up to high, harsh and wild… for sure it’s a little scary. And nuts. The challenge is in being in the harsh environment and still allowing my self to soften. Can I? Or does that work and world require badass, like Jeremiah Johnson and the Man from Stony River?

Not any more. Besides, they both had a soft side too.

I can write my own adventure. Be my own hero. Need not try to be the Terminator any more. And certainly never wanted to be a Disney princess. Just me.

And maybe being me need not require being badass. Just a little crazy.

I can do that.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

La vie en rose.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

In that time and space between here and there and somewhere else, there is this.

A slow gentle unfurling. Of the breath, of your heart, of all the crazy busy things we all have to do and should have done yesterday but really, you know, can wait.

A time to smell the roses, quite literally in this case, in the garden, as blooms begin their annual renaissance and the grande display for nose and eyes begins one petal at a time.

In the days before we leave here and head there, there is time to lay back in the lush grass of the garden and revel in the roses just coming on, heavy and bending and fragrant and bright.

Just enough time.

There has to be.

What matters more?

One more milled board, mowed lawn, window washed, garden bed weeded, or top of cupboard cleaned?

Well, maybe.

But no. Take time. Make time. There is time.

Would my life go on if I missed a weed? What about if I missed this moment?

I’m trying to remain present. Here and now. Be her now, you know how it goes.

Love where I am which is not hard to do as there is so much to love.

Vibrant green meadows, glossy new full leaves on these ancient sprawling oaks, baby chicks hidden in the jungle that the grass is growing into, swelling fruit on peach trees. Geese and ravens, redwing and quail, and the phoebe that has nested in the eve above the picnic table every year since we’ve been here. Horses fat and sassy needing to be escorted into the barn at night because really, leaving that lush meadow is not what they choose to do. The new dog running circles around the old dog (funny since the old dog was the young one just a few years ago).

And yes, those roses.

I sit out on the steps at night under the light of the waxing moon, tired sore and sunburned from a full day which for so many of us is an integral part of spring, and a calm sense of anticipation washes over me, soft and silver as the light in the cloudless night sky.

A heavy letting go.

I have left and returned before.

The calm before the chaos. Twenty days before we load the horses and chickens and last of the lumber we milled and make our way across Highway 50, heading to the high country of Colorado to break ground.

Leaving our little bit of paradise behind is not new for me. Remember, two years ago how I up and left this time of year with a few horses and a four month challenge to make it Colorado?

This time we’re driving.

A different adventure awaits.

After a journey of seeking, which the Long Quiet Ride was, I thought I found the answers. My excitement to be “home” was overwhelming, coming over me soft and bright like a gentle swell ready to embrace me. So close I could taste it. Only rather than receiving the loving arms of this land, I was punched in the gut. I returned to the greatest trauma of the whole trip, which kind of broke the whole thing up. And left me wondering (among other things): Where?

That was then.

Now, it’s a different adventure, different journey.

I’m not saying my inability to sit still is a good thing. But it is a thing.

It’s not just itchy feet. It’s a longing. That longing to belong. Harmonizing with curiosity.

Stepping outside the box is easier when you don’t have a box to begin with.

So we’re setting out to build another box.

And holding onto this one, just in case.

Alas, it’s just a box. Something to define and confine.

And at the same time, hold you tight.

Here’s little ditty for Mother’s Day.

As the garden grows and the seasons change, so do we.

I don’t have a bucket list. If I really want to do something, chances are I’ll do it.

I have few regrets, few things I didn’t do that I wish I had.

I hope you feel the same.

Not that I did them all well. That’s not the point.

The point is, I tried. And failure is part of the path. The yin to the yang. You know.

Still…

There are times I wish I knew more before I dove in to certain things.

Mothering tops that list.

As in: if I knew then what I know now…

But it takes living and learning to know.

I am somewhat in awe of the few mothers I know who feel they did it all right. I was not one of them. Few mothers are.

For it takes failing, falling and fucking up. Really. I’m afraid it does. If you don’t do all those things, you haven’t tried. And if you’re not trying, you’re not learning and growing and really living. You’re stuck like a stick in the mud, right? Like all living things, we cannot remain stagnant for long.

Okay, so I failed, fell and fucked up maybe more than most, I dunno. But no one ever accused me of not trying.

That’s how mothering was for me.

The things I wish I knew… Why don’t they teach that stuff in school? I don’t mean changing diapers and dealing with leaking boobs; I mean the important stuff like understanding emotions, communicating clearly, listening. Tools to remain calm and patient and kind when you’re sleep deprived, financially strapped, frustrated, confused, and feeling alone. Seriously, that stuff is way more important than Roman History and Algebra, right?

Seems like there is a trend and current expectation that mothers are now meant to be perfect, and parent perfectly. That’s not only wrong, it’s not possible. Besides, if perfect was possible, by whose standards of perfection would we judge?

Sheltering children, coddling their wisdom, padding their world and giving them all the answers rather than allowing them the time and space to figure it out themselves? How will they learn to learn? Sometimes you gotta skin your knees.

A balance between the two, between being handed life to you in a silver spoon or on a silver platter – and the school of hard core hard knocks, would of course be ideal. But I’ve yet to see a truly ideal life. Reality is unique, not ideal. There’s always ups and down, good and bad, so accepting and learning to live with that reality is one of those things we don’t want but we do need.

I’ve been a mama for 32 years. I don’t write about him much because (1) he probably doesn’t appreciate it, and (2) he’s is Colorado, not California. (Suddenly that choice to build in Colorado makes some sense, yes?)

Nothing has ever mattered more to me, or defined my choices more, than being a mom.

So many say the same. As we stare off softly, upward, maybe inward, a gentle smile upon our lips, and you know what we are thinking about.

Our children.

Our pride and joy. Not the pride for having, say, built a cabin or put in a gorgeous garden. It’s different. It’s not ours. It’s for them. I can’t explain that kind of pride well. Can you?

Have I told you how proud I am of mine? Not for making the most of what I gave him, but for making so much on his own. From his adaptability to his authenticity, from his self-earned college education to his successful career. From his empathy in dealing with dear old mom and dad, to his badass ways behind the wheel or at the shooting range.

I’d like to take credit for teaching him. I used to say I homeschooled him. Truth is, he self-schooled. I’m a pretty crappy teacher, and the two of us, well, we butt heads. He figured it out himself. Pretty damn well, I dare say.

I am guilty all too often of giving unsolicited advice. But the best advice I think I gave him, showing, not telling, thus teaching by example, was this: you gotta figure it out yourself. That is how we learn. And you can. If you want to. You can make mistakes, and change direction, and drop out and divorce, fall apart and get back up, and with all of that, we learn, we grow, we live, our own beautiful, unique, magical, mysterious, authentic life.

It’s like the old Zen teacher telling her student:

I can point to the moon. But you have to find your own way there.

And if you’re stubborn, like my son is (can’t imagine where he learned that) then chances are, you also gotta find your own moon.

So what do I know now that I wish I knew then?

Oh, so much! Let’s start with:

Cultivating curiosity and compassion.

Took me along time to learn this was okay. More than okay. That’s where the beauty of life is born.

Then propagate creativity and courage, which can come naturally with a solid foundation and safe place to “try.”

Get comfortable making mistakes, and learn how to learn from each one.

For sure, the Old Man’s Three C’s: care, connect and contribute.

Belong. To the land. To the people. To your dreams.

And finally, love. Deeply, passionately, beautifully. Whatever, whoever you want to love. Love. Have the courage to love. Even when (not if) your heart gets broken, you lose someone or something, or you change your mind. Find the courage to open your heart wide, more fully, more wholly, less discriminating. That’s the key to living fully, deeply, richly.

Connection, connecting from the heart, is the greatest reason to live.

Love.

Don’t be stingy with love. I promise: it will never run out.

Okay, finally, that thing about an invitation.

Ready?

Here it goes.

Yes, I ramble. But have you noticed? I’m rambling to you.

My writing is meant to be a conversation between us. At times it feels one sided. I do the sharing. You do the reading. But there’s no connection between us.

Why not?

I’ve said this before: This blog was started as a way of sharing our “out there” lifestyle. But instead of being a how-to or pretending to be an expert, more often than not it’s about “in there.” Usually it’s a combination of the two, and always, always, a good excuse for me to work on my craft, for the love of writing. However in addition to all that, it’s also a way for me to reach out, share, and connect.

That said, it matters to me to know people are out there, reading this regular random outpouring. When I check the numbers on this blog, folks are reading it. But only a small percentage, it appears, leave comments, “like” on Facebook, write me directly, sign up to subscribe or otherwise share the connection.

Speaking of sharing, this is a video shared by Cathy this week. It’s wonderful. If you’ve “listened to” some of the videos I shared in the past, you’ll see why she shared it, and why I love it:

So here’s the invitation.

Inviting you to share in kind.

I’m putting myself out there for you.

Will you please let me know you’re reading, that you’re with me, that somehow we are in this together?

To those who have been responding via the blog, leaving a note or like on Facebook, or writing me directly – I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

For those who are just passing by, seeing if you want to stay a while, I welcome you to return and see if what I say and how I say it is worthy of your time.

For those who DO return to read somewhat regularly, if you enjoy my work, please let me know.

BTW, WordPress, who hosts this blog, makes it real easy to subscribe (see the bottom of this page), and equally easy to unsubscribe. I do hope to share more often (maybe twice a week?) once the building project gets underway. Right now we’re just warming up, in the early, what would you call this milling madness: pre-fun stage? In kind, I will do my best to honor your time, not flood your inbox, sell my meager mailing list, or otherwise curse you with spam and bad karma.

Thank you. Said with a sincere bow.

Until next week,

With love, always love,

Gin