Heart & Soul

Out there.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Open the door and dive in, out there.

Into morning fog so thick it leaves sheen of droplets covering your heavy coat and the dogs’ coarse fur.

Turn to close the door to the comfort of the woodstove and Christmas lights and a still half filled cup of coffee behind you.

Suddenly engulfed in wet whitewashed morning air, you feel as if you’re swimming, trying to stay afloat on solid ground, your head above water, somehow struggling to breathe.

Step out into it, shrouded as if in a daze, a dream, an altered state, as the season spirals around you like sufi whirling, almost a madness to dance the year to an end. Heading into new moon, as even the night sky darkens before solstice this year. A powerful dark presence stirring within, feeling somehow more so than most years, or is this how you selectively forget each year?

And all around you, defused energy washed over in morning fog and sparkling frost as if waking from a dream while the sun finally clears the hill to the east and you watch horses stand like sundials, flat side to the sun; a heron sitting stoic in the tree in need of the warmth it brings.

And the day begins, beautifully.

Back in where the wood stove hums and Christmas lights twinkle and that coffee is still warm in my favorite cup.

And my mind is haunted by places I have been and am reliving in words alone.

My stomach bunches up in a twisted knot as I write along with where we rode along.

It’s scary to tell you what I did, how it happened.

But scarier, of course, having done it.

A Long Quiet Ride.

Tangled in the isolation of writing, as it was in the isolation of riding.

Writing about it takes me there and my breathing becomes tight and shallow; nostrils flare, jaw tightens, teeth clench and my heart feels like it weighs as much as the saddle I hoisted up on the horse each day.

It was the loneliness I have ever been. I don’t want to be alone now. I want to take you with me, sharing the smell of damp leather, fresh sweat, horse hair when I brush them each morning or better yet at the end of day as I slip off the damp saddle blanket that will be the pad upon which I sleep that night, and the horses heads are down in some place lush with field grass, tangled barbed wire off to the side, and the primordial call between a pair of nesting sand hill cranes like a beacon, leading the way, for where they nest, we always find tall greenery and fresh water and a safe place for the horses, and me.

And just out of reach, just beyond the thread of searching for a sense of belonging, that ever and continuous theme for me as it is for some many of us, I thought that journey was going to be about inner strength and independence. Prove to myself (and everyone else) that I was strong and capable. Beyond badass.

Found out I wasn’t and don’t need to be.

See, I set out expecting some solo trial for me and my horses out on the open road.

No people, please.

People scared me more than all the bears, bulls and bugs I slept beside; barbed wire gates and snow banks that stopped me cold in my tracks, as well as maps and apps I never could figure out.  

I just wanted to be alone.

And then I was, and no longer wanted to be.

Funny thing is, people turned out to be what the trip was about.

I’ve had a lifetime trying to perfect the art of being the outcast, outlaw, outsider, off gridder, misfit, black sheep, stray cat and/or rebel without a cause. I daresay I’ve done rather well.

People were not my thing.

That journey turned me around.

Rather than it be an adventure based on independence, something I’d always known, I had to learn about interdependence. That was new to me. And it was force fed. Trial by fire, thrown under the bus, sink or swim – call it what you will.

This is what it taught me.

People are good.

Yes, you heard me right.

Never thought I’d say that.

If you know me at all, you never thought I’d say that too.

It’s hard to relive it. Though of course not as hard as it was to do it.

But now the challenge is in sharing it. Writing the real story.

And my fears are no longer about finding good grass, fresh water and a safe place to rest my horses.

It’s finding the right words. It’s wondering if I can write this story well.

Humbly I bow my head as my fingers get work.

No longer gripping well worn reins, lifting packs or pulling cinches tight. Now dancing freely across the keyboard, watching stories come to life.

Looking within for a different kind of strength.

The strength to share.

May it be a good story.

And may I share it well.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Waiting for the moon to rise.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Tonight I sit out on the deck wrapped in the well worn poncho as I have found myself held in this heavy wool so many times before this night. My feet are on the railing; my head tilts back. Behind the now leafless old oak that shades the deck in summer appears the waning moon. She glows silver across the night pasture where fog spreads thick as sea foam. I can hear the gentle shifting of the horses in the barn, and the ever present hum of the inky river just a stone’s throw below. The dogs are beside me. Silent and attentive, staring out into the black beyond, waiting. The bears have been keeping them busy with the warm weather and bright moon.

Overhead, through lace of slender branches of this sprawling tree, few stars glint like Christmas ornaments hanging in the sky.

The ever present sound of the river blends into the darkness and becomes a noise you forget you’re hearing.

There is only a simple silence.

Time and space to breathe.

We settle into the season of long shadows, long nights.

Like the bear. That’s what this season of slowing and settling calls for.

Here in the far north of California in the land of big trees, big rain, big swaths of blackberries and poison oak, the bear does not necessarily hibernate so much as simply slow down. From the recent barking of the dogs, I don’t know how much they’ve even done that. It’s been a mild season so far. Garden roses still bloom. Stores remain plentiful after a bountiful season of lush grass, mushrooms, madrone berries and acorns. It’s easy to see what they’ve been eating by the scat they plainly leave randomly along our quiet dirt road.

With two big dogs, I don’t get to see those bears much. Usually just a big blob of a bear butt running up a hill. Sometimes up a tree.

Still, I feel it, and I’m sure the bears do too. Now is not the season of plenty, but of holing up. Slowing down. And turning within.

The rooster does not crow until some time past six in the morning and the horses come in for the night around five. That makes for long evenings, time for baking, reading, writing, board games, enjoying long lingering dinners lit by candles and twinkle lights, snuggling on the sofa with a couple of cats, reading aloud together, soaking in hot baths… these are winter pleasures.

In spite of the mild weather we’ve been having, we heed the call of the natural exhale after spring/summer/harvest/fall running around full speed in what feels like endless daylight. For those of us who work outside as long as the sun shines, winter is the time to transform into an indoor cat, at least during those long nights. Winter is a reprieve. A blessing. I long for it by the end of summer every year. Time to breathe. To let out a long, full, deep exhale. Before the anxious inhale of spring begins anew.

Garden roses still abloom…
… in December.

Seasons, like emotions, these ever flowing, passing states, one folding into the next like whipped eggs whites or cream.

When what I want sometimes is to hold onto forever. Something solid. Never changing.

As futile as clinging to ocean waves.

Rather than accept and appreciate the inevitable.

Ebbs and flows, tides and moons, the occasional passing storm.

Tonight the tide is low. I feel melancholy.

I want a drink. Come on, you say. Go ahead. Just one.

Alas, for some of us, it doesn’t work that way. Maybe this time it would. This time I could. I’d be okay. Holding the firm stem in my fingers as I swirl the familiar luring fragrance emanating from the liquid red velvet lit from the glow of the kitchen lamp behind me. And then let it roll across my lips and linger on my tongue like nectar – silky, rich and smoky.  

No.

It’s nearly seven years since I went sober, yet some days (usually nights) I can imagine drinking so vividly as if it were just yesterday. Some days it feels like it’s not getting easier. Tonight is one of those nights.

I’ll get over it. There’s power in reminding myself I made it this far. I can keep on keeping on.

Use your grit, gal.

And grit, well, that much I got.

Things change.

Today, tomorrow, yesterday.

Every day is different. Even on those days when what I feel is so familiar. When what I feel is that “ground hog day” replaying over and over and over again.

Wake in the dark. Tuck the blankets back around Bob. Pet (and step over) the still sleeping pups. Get the fire going, the coffee on, roll out the yoga mat and get down on it, stretch, meditate, light a candle to write, then as gray daylight waxes across the meadow of chalky fog, head out to let the chickens out, feed the horses, walk the dogs.  Return…

Grounding in the familiar. This simple life. A life though maybe a little different than yours, so similar in so far as both of us probably turn in each night thinking we didn’t get half as much done as we planned to do.

There are books and poems to write, horses to teach and dogs to train, bread to bake, wood to split, roses to prune and a compost pile to turn, a barn wall to rebuild and basement walls to trim out, rocks to stack and dirt to move and the damn floor needs to be swept again.

I want more time. Or maybe more energy. But that to-do list never seems to go away, just flows from one set of priorities to the next. It’s that ebb and flow thing once again. And at the end of each day, we hope we made a little headway, though how often do we feel we’re drowning.

Today.

Grounded, not because of the place, the view before me, but because of the feeling within me.

And under me. Crow, my old faithful horse. Beside me, Bob and the dogs and the last of autumn’s sweet air that allows us to feel the sun on ungloved hands and my graying hair still free from the confinement of a winter cap.

Sometimes you find yourself…. Exactly where you belong. It’s not a place, but a feeling, something inside.

For me, it’s a wild place, sounded by wind through leafless trees and the cadence of hard hooves on soft dirt.

It’s finding myself on the back of my dear horse where I’ve found myself for thousands of miles before this one.

And time stops, or no longer matters.

And I’m just there, the bones of my pelvis padded by Crow’s warm winter coat.

The sound of my breath, his breath, the rhythm of his footfall.

It’s watching my horse’s mane shift and sway as he walks, like ripples in the river into which my open hand reaches, sinks in, and already knows the softness it will touch as my fingers intertwine with his black mane.  So familiar, the feel of bare hands in soft hair, deep into the comfort of the back of his neck. The familiar fragrance of freshly cut fir trees and wild mint as the horses cross the creek, mingling with their sweet musky sweat in the oddly mild air where my legs are wrapped around a familiar warm back, without a saddle between us to sever the connection.

It’s turning to see Bob in his own world beside me, comfortable and content on the back of the new horse, Jesse. He’s perched in a place where he’s been holding space since long before I was born, and I smile. He may not see it. I’m riding in front. But he knows it. He always knows it. If he wants me to just let go, to relax, to forget about all the should-woulda-couldas, to just be, and to smile, get the gal on her horse.

This feels like home. On the back of the horse. With my husband and dogs close by and the soft sun and leafless trees and the smell of those leaves, now grounded, brown and brittle, through which the horses walk. Today there’s no need to train or work or get somewhere or get something done, just be with the horses, the land, one another. Where we belong.

It is a return to center.

Coming back home, within.

Until next time,

With love,

Always love,

Gin

Winter nighs.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Gradually, she enters. Silently moves in. Puts down her bags and unpacks. She intends to stay here a while.

She has left the door ajar. You feel cold air on bare ankles and get up to close the entryway. Put on another layer of wool. Zip up a little higher. Keep the fire going all day.

Here in the far north of California, she does not scream her arrival. You must listen. Wind is quieter with leafless trees. Fog and frost alternate, making mornings an eerie scene to wander through, beneath tangled bare branches, oak moss and old man’s beard. Stripped of autumn’s gaudy golden display, you see more of her pale sky, muted and subdued by the season. You notice her wrinkled arms exposed, gnarled fingers of naked branches reaching upward, outward, as if she is holding up the heavy air. You walk with her as if somewhere in some old western sepia photo, crunching leaves with every slow, measured step. And you stand with her, simple, stark and unadorned. And breathe, because she invites you to pause, to slow down. To look inside. In your home. Around the old wood cook stove where the kettle ever rattles, the cats are curled nearby, and the smell of biscuits wafts as a welcoming chime. And in your soul. Those dark places. Warmed by the fire and intermingled feet together on the sofa shared with perchance a dog, a cat, and a cup of tea.

Some say winter is the Old Man. Yet I believe she’s the crone. Gray and weathered and wise. Almost silent. She has little to say. You ask her to share her secrets, and in reply, she raises a gnarled finger and points the way.

The way home.

Somewhere safe and warm, between your ribs.

There is a part of me that yearns for the wild winters of Colorado’s high country. Where the approach of winter transforms the mountain into something hollow and vast, and holds you tight in a frozen embrace. In thick socks and thicker soles, we walk with a deliberate pace for you cannot linger out here for long, crunching across frost swollen ground so solid we bury our pipes six feet down. It’s not that I love to be cold. It’s not about snow, and certainly not skiing and those kinds of things you hear about that could lure a person to remain. Rather, it’s the crystalline mornings when frost sugar coats each delicate bare branch of the bare willows, silent and still down beside the frozen creek. It’s the glacial flow, layered like a silver lava flow, down at the bottom of the creek creeping thicker and thicker each day as water gradually works its way around ice. And it’s the afternoon sun working its way through disrobed aspen and sparce blue spruce to the frozen riparian bottom, turning the ice flow alive with a ghostly glow. It’s the sound, ethereal as a whale call, of groaning ice spreading thick across the big white flat of the reservoirs under endless stars dancing in fathomless black in silence only heard through deep, deep freeze when the surface of our world is still.  

I could tell you my heart is torn, but that’s not quite right. It’s not ripped or ragged. It’s just a little confused.

How can I decide? Between soft, light and mild – and high, harsh and wild. I cannot. Not for now. For now I will dance between two lovers, the slow embrace of a gentle land; and the passionate tango holding me tight to fierce ground.

And time will be my crystal ball, or the wisdom of the winter crone, when I finally understand to where her knobby finger points.

Until next time,

With love,

Always love,

Gin

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

Awaiting Beaver Moon.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Tonight I watch the waxing moon rise as I lean back into the damp bark and moist moss of my favorite ancient oak. The air is soothing with the sound of crickets in thick woods, now low as if played on tired wings, and the ever present sound of the river, as steady and familiar as my lovers warm breath.

They say a big storm approaches. Be it rain or snow, I am ready. The wood shed and pantry are full. And like the bear still finding plenty on these moon filled nights, we are prepared  to settle into the season of dark days.

With stiff shoulders and hands swollen and sore, I am as tired as the leaves that fall, and long for the season of rest. Of turning within.  Life, death, pause and rebirth.

Acceptance of the seasons. Of change.

What else can we do?

But for now, right now, the moon and me and the dogs close by, the haunting call of an owl not too far away, all of it, a part of the season, of the land.

A  spider’s silk, twinkling from moist air that rises as soon as the sun goes down, is moved by the evening breeze pushing up from the river, and gracefully wraps its silver thread upon my lap.

I take it as a sign. I do that a lot.

Considering the eternal connection, separate as it feels at times.

Wondering how my life has become.

And imagining where it will lead me next.

For now, it feels to be a story more beautiful than I ever imagined life could be.

Here now, the air is gentle, laced with gold as amber leaves fall in the light of bright moon, and the earthy  scent of fallen leaves becoming a part of warm wet ground, a salve for the unsettled soul.  

Time to return home. I take leave of the substantial oak, signal to the dogs and head towards the glow of the kitchen window. Mushrooms break ground beneath dark timber, and I find myself watching my step as I wander the forest floor in waning light.

The land has yet to freeze and the garden, always a place of solace, lingers, sharing vibrant bounty and beauty surrounded by a golden halo of autumn trees.

This is our first year to harvest zucchini into November, and as we were away for the main season, no, we’re not sick of it yet.

Leaves of tobacco, the sacred bold noble of the garden, are still harvested, ready to be cured and dried.

And roses, the beloved wise women of the grounds, still bloom, fragrant, rich and a little wild.

Yet I feel the natural close of season and have begun to cut back flowers and herbs and am eager to prune the fruit trees, though the flowers still bloom, herbs still aromatic, and fruit is still producing.

The quiet season unfurls. All we can do is settle back into it as if slipping into a warm tub and letting yourself go.

 It begins by allowing time. Time to rest.  To recover. Time to reflect and plot and plan.

And time to write. Something I still don’t know why I do it except it’s one of those things I can’t not do. I am incomplete without it. Perhaps it is creative passion, an expression of the feral soul, and/or the one thing I have always somehow felt I had that was worthy to give to others.

Lost at my desk, I’m found diving in to words, stories, places, time… some deeply moving, some simply hard, just as was the story I am starting to put into words.

For now, it’s still called, A Long Quiet Ride, because that is what I called it then. Though I’m open to suggestions, and hope you may share some ideas. The title, they say, is one of the hardest parts to write. And yet, possibly the most important words a reader may ever see.

And so it is that mornings are at my desk going places perhaps I should never have gone.

Maybe writing will help make it something you (and I) might finally understand.

Likely not fully, for every good adventure, every good story, should hold an element of inexplicable magic and mystery than can never be fully shared.

“What are you looking for?” I was asked time and again.

“Myself,” was the first thing that came to mind.

“A reason to live,” was the second.

And the third, was something beautiful.

I leave you today with this thought, something that followed me on that journey like a mysterious fragrance from a flower I could never see:

Remember to find magic, everywhere, everyday, in everyone.

It is there, waiting for us to find it, if only we take the time to see, to listen, to feel.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

PS from this morning, garden in the mist.

and from the kitchen table.

Upon solid ground.

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Here. Now.

Where autumn gently unfurls, brown and gold, rich and lush, closing us into the season with winds stirring from a distant sea and majestic trees dripping with mushrooms and moss.

Where deciduous leaves turn from vernal green to glowing gold and burnt crimson while wild skies turn from unbroken blue to strata grey and the steady sound of rain dancing on metal roofs equals that of the swelling river.

Oh the river, the placental web of this wild and free land, where salmon appear like magic this year, making their maiden voyage and a splash in the news, glimmering and slithering their way through rapids as we watch in awe from the kitchen table while the coffee gets cold and homemade bread and farm fresh eggs are left lingering on the plate pushed to the side so we don’t miss a moment of this magnificent show.

Where I’m fed generously by the land, pampered by spring water and warm moist air, the abundance of the garden, and luxuries of indoor plumbing and a queen sized bed.

Yes…

And at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.

Except maybe there.

Where ice spreads like wildfire, snow settles in and brown grass stands strong, defiantly poking its way through wind drifted white, and the ominous sky stirs a primal hunger somewhere deep between our ribs, buried tight beneath layer after layer of wool and down.

Where expansiveness and spaciousness and intensity of thin air, and the bigness of high and wild that rip your breath away make you realize what it means to be fully alive.        

My heart is torn.

Torn between the good boy, and the bad boy… It’s always been a thing for me.

Between high and wild, and low and lush. Between strong and gentle, between hard and soft. Maybe there is a middle ground, but I am not a middle person.

How can I love two lands?

It’s as complicated as having two lovers.

Can a person dream more than one dream?

Can we love two places at once or must we be monogamous? I yearn to be wed to a place, tied to the land, faithfully remain, grounded…

As I am committed to my man, so do I long to be to the land.

Twenty something years ago, I finally found a man willing and able to live the wild way I want. And as luck would have it, we fell in love: hard, fast and solid. But finding “home” together, the place where we both belong, has been a trip, a joint quest, twisting and tangling our way as far south as Argentina and north to Alaska, and too many places to count in between.

At the end of the day, at least for today, we find ourselves back where we started. Only, I’m from a different place than he. Must we decide between the two, between his and hers, when what we have both found is that we love one place as we love the other, as long as we are with one another?

The apple does not fall far from the tree, some say.

But some of us have planted more than one tree.

I am no closer to being decided where I belong. I know it’s not the people. There are good folks here, and good folks there. It is the land and what it does to me somewhere deep inside, the stirring of dreams, both of which I never knew could be so tempting until I tasted them.

Here, at Riverwind, we are finally caught up.

After months of preparing this place for our being gone over summer, milling timbers to take, sowing seeds to plant, preparing this place for our absence; followed by four months in the high country where we were either working or tired or hungry and too often plenty of all three; then returning to get this place back in shape, ready to show, and in the process meticulously tending the land we have nurtured and groomed and polished like a hidden gem found within a river rock finally allowed to shine…

As we sat by the fire in last light of day, we gazed around in awe. Tired and sore, it felt good. We have cared well for the land. It’s what we do. We’re worker bees. Stewards of the land. What would we rather be doing?

And where would we rather be?

At this very moment, right here, right now, I am content. I am where I am meant to be.

For now there is settling in. Acceptance. Grounding. And I know I am where I need to be. What tomorrow brings will be revealed when tomorrow comes.

For now I need time. Time to write. Finally. Some days it feels long over due. Other days, it feels just right. There has been time to soak it in, to let it ripen, and now time to pull the cork and savor the story as it begins to pour forth, dark and rich and robust.

Finish what you start. This past summer I committed to get a cabin built with my husband with lumber we harvested and milled 1250 miles away. We did. Two summers before that I committed to heading out horseback across the west, out there on some inner journey, to see where the open road would lead me. I did. A long quiet ride.

But you know what? When I set off on that journey, my intention was to write, to share the story, have it be my next book.

Now it’s time to get that done. Write that story. How it really was. Much more than I could share from the road, the little bread crumbs on my blog posted to keep my family and friends assured I was still alive.

Writing the story of the journey will complete that chapter, sharing what I set out to find, and what I found, and sharing the reality of the trip along the way. It was a wild ride. I think you might enjoy. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s all make believe. You can decide for yourself.

And then perhaps I will finally be to the point where I no longer have to prove myself to me.

And then what? Maybe after that summer, and last, maybe just maybe I can slow down, settle in and savor just being.

Where ever I may be.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Lost. And found.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

I’m back after a couple weeks of silence. Staying silent somehow helps me find my self.

Back. Where? Here. For now.

Today I am at Riverwind. In the far north of California that most of you will never know exists. A peaceful private place along a wild river, tucked away with safety and secrecy, and a sense of the unknown, unknowable. Laden with moss draped from ancient oaks, the eagle, king fisher and dipper trace the river’s course, bear tracks in the sand, a pair of heron in the sky, and always, always the sound of the river – all of which is part of what makes this real place so unreal.

Today the rain falls and the leaves begin to turn and the season that came to a close back in Colorado where I was has just begun to unfurl here where I now am. And the river I watch from the kitchen table as I write to you begins its winter rise and swell, though I’m not ready, we just returned, and there is still so much that needs to be done. All of which adds to the uncertainty of wondering where the hell I am and what am I doing here.

Back. I don’t know for how long, but I am here now.

You know how it is, or can be.

There you are, just walking along. Let’s imagine you’re deep in dark woods but still holding a feeling of fresh and warm and light. You’re minding your own business, thinking you got this, you’re rocking it, when suddenly WHAM. You hit a land mine. Or trip and fall down a rabbit hole. Not the distracting internet kind, but the seemingly bottomless, looming dark pit that catches you unaware and there you are: falling, falling, falling – or at least somehow suspended, maybe even stuck, wedged in between time and space – just wishing something else would come along to break your fall and maybe even get you back onto solid ground.

Sure enough. That’s where I’ve been. In that time and place between here and there or maybe somewhere else, but no where firmly planted. No solid ground beneath my feet, at least none that I could feel. Funny when I thought all I really needed was dirt beneath my nails and earth to let my toes root in.

~

Life is a succession of transitions. Nothing stays the same nor lasts forever. It’s a series of endless waves in the ocean of time, though more often than not we feel we need to rush to get to some distant shore, though the shoreline is ever changing, and really it’s when we learn to simply float that we find we are exactly where we need to be.

Somewhere in the ever middle.

That is where mystery stirs.

Thus is the Bardo.

A fancy word for:

Lost.

Maybe it’s more simple than I make it seem.

Maybe it all comes down to home.

That space inside, indeed. But what’s around us, with whom and where we are, matter just as much.

The familiar scent of wild mint when the horses pass by the creek. Some sticky sweet fragrance of fall blooming flowers mingling with falling leaves. Fresh bread pulled from the old wood cook stove, like the seeming simple extraction of a chicken laying an egg.

I thought I had it figured out. I don’t. Somedays I think I’m just as confused as when I started. At my age, surely I should have this solved. But as one friend reminds me, when and if I find the answers, let him know. Because everyone is just kinda sorta hoping they know enough to make it through but we’re all just finding our way around the labyrinth that is life and hoping we do a good job, are good to each other, do something good, make this world (or at least one person) somehow a little better off for having lived.

My father died this week.

He was a good man. How many of us will have others say that about us? And really, think about it: what would you rather have someone say?

This reflection of my dad from dear friend Dick, who was like a brother to my dad, and who gratefully shares his wonderful writing from time to time on my blog:

“Humor is the best medicine. Jack with his upbeat attitude always made me feel better. I summon that up when I need uplifting. I also think often about his kindness and respect for others. We need more Jack’s in this world, a world gone crazy lately.”

Yes.

We need more Jack’s.

More good guys.

More people who are thoughtful, and brave enough to be nice in a world that seems leaning towards anything but.

We need more love in this world.

All of us.

More love.

More light.

More laughter.

We need to be good.

Really. We need it. We all do.

Nothing matters more.

Except for love.

And my dad did love.

Even as he approached death with grace and dignity, he continued to care so dearly for my mom. He’d worry and be concerned or proud, holding her and touching her gently as they spoke together with us.

What better lesson would I wish to share, if I could one day be as blessed?

Of course there is both grief and relief. Though after 67 or so years together, no one will experience the loss deeper than my mom.

Me, I was blessed to have him present right around the moment he died. It was early morning. Bob was still sleeping.  I was out on pasture doing chores, letting the horses out and going to retrieve the wheelbarrow and manure fork when lo and behold, there he was in the sky.

Good bye, Poppy. Peaceful passing to you. See you on the other side. And please keep me posted with each weather report and severe storm warning I hope you’ll still share with us all.

There is no one right way to grieve. There’s no protocol, no path, not set standard, no how-to manual. Best we can do is be real. What ever we feel is real. There is no wrong. There is only right. Sometimes found simply in connection, support, that which we share, give and receive. Sometimes it’s found in solitude, in silence. And always it’s found in that gentle place when we have the courage to be with mind and heart open wide.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Lost in transition

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Not all of us were born where we belong.

Maybe I am not there yet. Maybe we never arrive. Maybe it’s all just an endless journey passing through places and time.

The never-ending journey of growing up.

Why did I ever think it would be easy?

And why did I ever think it would be done?

And in that time and space between here and there or maybe somewhere yet to be, there is a pause. It may be an almost imperceptible lingering that lasts no longer that the gap between the inhale and the exhale. Or perhaps it lasts longer, much longer, so long it starts to feel uncomfortable, you can’t help but notice it like awkward silence that you wish to fill or be done with and move on.

It is a state of emptiness. Hollow. You can see right through it, if you know where to look.

I look at my hands and see I am holding nothing but air. Full of the space that is plentiful in between those things we grab onto. Clinging in hopes of finding who and what we are, and where we belong.

When all along, we are that space, that nothing and everything in between, as much as we are solid ground.

Sometimes I find myself… lost. In that space in between. In transition, with feet firmly planted in the wind, and head spinning in the clouds.

Yet my heart remains grounded, no matter where those feet find themselves, reminding me what I’ve been looking for all along.

I need not remain in one place. While I’m with you, I am where I belong. While I’m here, I am home. Where ever here and my heart may find me.

Things change.

I love when it all goes smoothly, effortless, assuring me I’m heading the right way. One door easily opens before you while the one behind gently closes.

That rarely happens for me.

More often than not, there are slamming doors and some strong suction that whips me off my feet and lands me through a door I never even saw before me. Or else this: I find myself stuck in that place in between. In that gray area without black and white lines. In limbo.

Maybe like training horses, I too need time to soak. To process. Where the hell am I and how did I get here? That sort of stuff. Life puts me on pause until I figure these things out.

Guess I’m no rubber ball. You can’t throw me around and expect me to bounce right back with a smile on my face ready for the next round.

Boing! Here I am!

Boing again! Now I’m somewhere else!

Aren’t you happy to be back?

No. I don’t know who or what or where I am.

Give me a moment to catch my breath.

I don’t know about you, but I sure wish transition between things – be it homes, jobs, relationships, stages of our lives, loss or gain, even seasons, time and age, was easy. Instant. Leave the past behind and the future should be fine and dandy. Put the summer shorts in the box in the basement and you’ll be wearing wool for the next six months.

It never works that way, does it? It’s never quite that simple. Edges are blurred and boundaries unclear, and who and what or where we were and where we’re going blend together like red wine spilled over a crisp white linen tablecloth. And there you are; left with an empty glass and big mess to clean up.

Transition is a mysterious state. It’s awkward. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. We notice the past is missing, and may find ourselves mourning, longing for what was. And then more often than we’d like to admit, we fear what is yet to be.

Not knowing is a scary place to be.

Right now I just need to slow down and process. Let it all soak in. At least part of it. There’s a lot.

We did it. We said we’d do it before snowfly, and we did. Got the house closed in, windows and doors and woodstove and all.

And yes, we celebrated. A slow, quiet dance, holding one another for just a moment. And though it was not much, for me it was enough.

And then we packed up and moved on.

Packed up the horses and chickens and dog and tools and hit the road. Three days, 1250 miles, and boom there you are, back where you started, to assess the damage, clean up the pieces and figure out what projects need to be done next after leaving your home and land for four months.

~

Slow down!

Look around and see where your feet are beneath you, what land you stand upon. Connect with that here and now. Take your time; give it time.

Let one thing simmer. Put it on the back burner. And pull the other pot to the forefront, lift the lid, give it a stir, and bask in the rich, savory aroma.

I’ll explain another day. Maybe when I figure it out. If I do.

Today I am savoring the silence. The stillness. The calm and comfort and warmth and gentleness of another place. A familiar place.

Riverwind.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

~

Somewhere out there in this big bright beautiful world.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Here’s a little side note to share with you.

This past week, I had to fit a quick trip to Denver in between finishing windows, walls and doors. And since I never did get a truck (remember, I got the horse instead), and the bus route I used to take is no longer, I flew.

No matter how it happens – by foot or horse, truck, boat or plane – I’m one of those that loves travel. There is something about stepping outside my box. Like throwing the curtains of your mind open wide. And in that place of being challenged beyond your comfort zone, in that state of vulnerability – expectations, demands and judgments disappear and you see the world for what it is. Like the opening of this season, travel encourages us to let go of our armor, have the courage to step out vulnerable and exposed, and see the world for how it really is. Mostly, I’d say, it’s beautiful.

And the best of that beauty is usually found in chance encounters, in meeting folks and hearing stories. Everyone has a story. Ask. And listen. That’s where the magic is.

Short as this overnight trip was, it was no different. And the magic started before I even got to the plane.

As Bob was driving me down the mountain, we stopped to let the pup out for a quick break. Where we chose to pull over, two guys were pulled off in the shade with touring bicycles. Now, I got a soft spot for people out there on long rides, be it horse or pedal bike or motor bike. So before we loaded the pup back up and headed on our merry way, I searched around the truck and found a couple healthy snack bars – the only snacks we had in the truck. I brought them over to the guys. Felt kind of like handing out goodies at Halloween. Told them I wish it was something more sticky and gooey. But the young men received the gifts with great appreciation none the less.

And of course, though I was already running late for my plane, I couldn’t help myself. I got to asking question. Talk about opening up a can of worms. Though this wasn’t wiggly and creepy crawly – this can was jam packed with goodness.

Turns out these two guys were from Finland.

Long way from home, I said. How did you end up in La Garita?

Long story short, they explained: they got here via Alaska. And they got a long ways yet to go. They’re riding all the way down to the tip of South America. And if you have any doubt these guys will do it, they told me about an adventure they already completed: riding their bikes from Finland to Singapore. Seriously? Seriously! Wow!!!!

Two beautiful friends, Valterri and Alvari, of “Curious Pedals,” out there living life full, rich and wild… Daring to dream and having the courage to create their dreams come true. OMG I was so impressed! These guys were so inspirational. So open and grateful and positive.

We briefly shared stories and compared notes after I mentioned about how I had my own little adventure – going horseback from California to Colorado, alone. Nothing quite like the adventure these guys had, but we shared some similar feelings of time on the road.

The biggest thing we were all amazed to have found out there was something I told you about many times before. It was the greatest lesson of my whole trip. It wasn’t “where” but “who.” And “who” was everyone – strangers you meet, people who stop to talk, folks who share their camp site, their home, the guest room or kids room or just their front yard. People who smile and wave and roll down the window and cheer you on. People who share their table, their meals, their snack bars. 

The kindness of strangers. Something very near and dear to my heart that I learned during that Long Quiet Ride two summers ago. Valterri and Alvari said it’s been the same for them. The unexpected beauty they have come to expect: people are good.

So here’s something really cool that I think is really important to share, now more than ever.

We briefly talked about the anger and hatred that you read about all the time in the press that’s supposedly all over this country. Interesting to note: they hadn’t felt it, seen it, experienced it. Neither did I. Instead, we both talked about the kindness we encountered. The openness. The generosity. The warmth. The goodness.

Sure some of us may have hard shells. Tough to crack.

But we’re not as different as some may (want us to) think.

Inside, we’re all the same.

People.

Good people.

Human beings.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t drink the kool-aid. Hatred does not rule. Hatred does not win. Hatred does not help.

And goodness does prevail.

Believe in goodness. Believe that most people are good. Be good in kind.

If you don’t believe me after a life changing adventure that spanned over a hundred days and 1500 miles, that crazy solo ride that would never have worked had it not been for good people I met along the way, then please believe these two young men, who have totaled well over a year on the saddle, and over 10,000 miles out there in places I don’t even know where to find on a map… That’s a helluva test of humanity. And guess what? People passed the test. They ran into bad dogs, wolves, and stuff like that. But no bad people.

Have faith in humanity. Please. We’re all in this together.

If you don’t believe us, get out there and take a wild ride yourself. It doesn’t have to be a long ride. It can just be around the block or around the world or wherever your can make it happen. Be open. Be curious. Drop judgments and pretentions and defenses and fears and just be open to who and what’s out there.

I don’t know how to explain it but it’s like, you gotta put yourself out there. Be vulnerable. Trust. Try. Have faith. Believe. In people.

Try it. Please. Try to believe in our common humanity and the goodness that resides within us all.  If you dare do that, and I hope and pray you will or maybe already have, please let me know how it goes. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in the beauty that really is out there, and inside most every one.

Anyway, please find Valterri and Alvari, of “Curious Pedals,” on their website, follow them on Instagram , and watch their documentary which Bob and I did last night, and it was incredible, just wishing it was longer than one hour as there was so much: CuriousPedals documentary on YouTube

Finally… I’d like to share something that they had posted, regarding six lessons they had learned from “life on the saddle” that I fully whole heartedly agree with, having tried “life IN the saddle:”

  1. Cherish the bad days, for they will teach you the most.
  2. Don’t hope for things to happen — make them happen.
  3. Focus on the process, not the outcome.
  4. Always challenge yourself.
  5. Stay physically active.
  6. Put 100 per cent into what you are doing now and it will open doors for you in future.

They concluded: we could all do with “less planning, more living”.

And I’d like to add one more that I think they would agree with:

Believe in goodness. Most people are good.

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin

The season of the setting sun.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

This morning heralds the change of season.

Autumnal Equinox.

The season of change. And somehow, of soul. Of letting go. Releasing. And oh yes, of softening. Into the mountain as she shares an ornate display before stripping bare and standing forth unadorned.

A time of exposure, openness, inviting us gently to reveal our true colors, no longer harsh beneath summer’s buoyant light, nor subtle, still and washed over in white as in winter’s frozen air.

The season is one of slowing down, at least it naturally is.  It’s the slow, deep exhale of the earth revealed in longer shadows, shorter days, golden light, and cooler nights.

There is some mysterious call for solitude in autumn air, asking us to wander off alone, if only for a moment. We’re called to turn within, to release summers big and bright, full and loud, left behind like a snake stepping out of her worn out skin, preparing perhaps for regrowth, the natural incline of hibernation that deep winter allows.

Alas, I wonder if I’ll have such a moment today. Feels like there is no time to be still and contemplate the deeper and greater meanings of this change this year. Yet these are the things that make life a little bit fuller, richer and more meaningful. Taking time to take in time. To see, taste, smell and fee the world around you, not only in ways that you touch it, but in how it touches you, or better yet, just is, regardless of you and your presence. It’s that thing bigger than you or me or today or tomorrow or our wants and worries and woes.

And so I will take the time, before the rains, or maybe while it comes down, to stop where the tall grass is brown, untouched and abundant with seeds ready to be kicked out as I walk by. I will stop for a moment and lay down upon the earth, with the pup sitting still beside me, listening to the sound of the creek, and distant wind through tired leaves, and let the rain fall on my weathered face, and I will breathe, and I will smile, and for just a moment in time, I will do nothing more than be.

As for building:

We’re close.

I know. I’ve said that before.

Pushing to complete a crazy challenge.

Almost there. Not to a place, but to a goal.

I’ll let you know when we make it.

And then what? On to the next?

Oh, I’ve got plans; you can be sure.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin