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.
This is not for those who want a quick one liner to rapidly read, cringe at or smile, and go on about your day. I ramble.
For those with the patience and interest to read, I hope you’ll relate and enjoy. And for those to whom I have yet to respond to your always appreciated comments to the last rambling I wrote… I am sorry. It matters, you matter, and it all comes in time.
Time. Slips. Away.
This morning, the regular light frosts of summer turned to a heavy freeze.
I woke to frosty breath, arms and legs wrapped tight around my man to keep warm. Now with the little heater turned on and the sun up over a full ridge south from where it was two months ago, our little camper drips with condensation, streaking the windows, making a little puddle on the wool rug and wet spot on the table cloth beside me as I write. The thermometer read a mere 25 degrees. What will it feel like at 25 below?
Sure, the roof is done, and in another week or so, Bob and I will have the walls and windows closed in. The shell will be complete.
But we won’t move into that shell just yet. Building is more than making a shell, and it takes more than a shell to live up here, out here. You gotta be prepared. You gotta know. You gotta have some things lined out. A shed full of firewood is of the essence. Likewise a pantry put up for when you’re snowed in. Closed in shelter for us, the horses, the chickens who still call the horse trailer home. Indoor plumbing would be sweet and an outdoor spigot for horse water when the creek freezes over, which this morning reminded me, will be a thing.
These things take time.
It’s not that easy here. The cold and harsh and isolation are real. Not forgiving. You gotta take care of what needs to be taken care of because there is not much margin for error.
And you gotta be tough.
Some days I tire of tough. I want to soften.
I can’t – at least not just yet.
Toughen up and finish up.
In the meanwhile… this morning, reality hits. I’m thinking about how close we are to finishing this part of the project. And thinking about how much more still needs to be done.
I’m whining. I’m sorry. I want to be stronger. Tougher. Harder.
But at the same time, I want to soften. I’m tired of being badass sometimes and want to settle in and be held and cared for and pampered, but that’s not how it is for me. Not the marriage I have. And though on days like this it sounds tempting, it’s really not what I want.
If you want me to soften, allow me a place in which I feel safe to be soft.
Building a balance between a rock and a soft place.
Where did summer go?
When the thermometer rises to fifty, we’ve been getting our yoga mats and spreading out for field yoga to begin our day. That won’t happen today. It won’t reach 50 until mid day, and this morning the ground is covered with a hard heavy frost. The coffee pot and cups were frozen down to the counter outside where we wash.
I know where summer went. I see it in the finished roof and nearly closed in walls and windows. I feel it in my tired arms from wrestling timbers into place, sore legs from up and down the ladder as we set the roof and laid the metal, and skin weathered and worn with the only reprieve a ball cap for shade and the occasional bath in that outdoor horse trough heated beneath by fire.
Now as I look out there from the window of the little camper windows veiled with condensation (the only running water to be had in this camper) I am proud of what we have done of course. And at the same time, see how much more we still have to do. Opening (and tightly closing) doors. Floors and ceilings. Window trim and interior walls. Exterior finish and backfilled soil. Cabinets, counters and shelves. Tables and chairs and a bed. An indoor bathroom. With running hot water. And all the pretty things that make a house a home for me: curtains and rugs and pictures on the wall; candles and crystals and racks for my cast iron pans.
The horse barn and greenhouse will come before that. I have my priorities straight. Like most of the horsewomen I know, I don’t sleep well unless I know my critters are sleeping well. So the next project will be the barn. Before such luxuries as that running hot water.
Next year.
But for now, be here and now.
What do we need to do today? Oh yes, poke a hole through the brand new roof to install the pipe for a woodstove.
And as the season passes far too quickly, or so it seems, so does time.
Where does it go?
At some point in the process of losing time, you wake one day and realize not only your youth, but the first half or more of your life is… gone.
It’s not that I’m afraid of aging and honestly, I don’t really feel old, whatever that is supposed to feel like. It’s just that there’s so much more to do and it feels as if time is running out. It’s like one friend told me, as is the case with the end of the roll of toilet paper. Things go faster the closer you get to the end.
My energy is not what it once was, and maybe that’s okay. I’ve spent plenty of years buzzing like a bee and running like a feral dog. Slowing down ain’t all bad. I am not who and what I was in my thirties when I would wake before five to have enough time to write, light the fires and feed my family, could single handedly saddle a string and guide horseback rides, come home to straddle a log and peel the bark the old fashioned way for the cabin we were building then. And then wash up mighty quickly in a cold concrete slab showerhouse, put on the apron and cook up a lovely feast for a crew.
No, I’m not that person anymore. And I don’t wish to be. I don’t look back longingly. It was hard. I’m good leaving the past in the past. What I’ve got now is wonderful. And maybe even who I have matured into doesn’t feel too bad to be.
Matured. As in, grown up? Finally? I dunno. Maybe.
I don’t really know what that feels like. I just see what it’s starting to look like.
I want to let my hair go grey and my skin show the road map of my life in lines. I want to be at peace with what time and life and living does. Maybe even proud.
I don’t want to look shiny and new, young and untouched by years and experience nor as someone sheltered from the elements. I don’t want to be plastic and pulled tight and fight gravity and try to be something I am not and don’t care to be any more. I am deeper than that. Richer. Happier! Beauty is found in diversity, in black and white and all the shades of gray. I’m not interested in trying to be today what I was yesterday.
Honoring the changes of time. Accepting of how life happens.
At the same time, it’s strange to see myself not who and what I was even ten years ago. My image is not what I expect. I don’t want to be vain. But I think for most of us, it’s harder to find beauty in frosted wildflowers turning brown for the season, in withered leaves and shriveled fruit turned to seed.
There’s not much of a mirror here at camp, but I caught a good glimpse of my head in this little tin decoration hung on the outhouse door. The sun was shining and the light caught the juxtaposition of mirror and me just right. And guess what? I was shocked.
When did my hair get so gray?
When did I get so old?
This summer aged me.
It’s not an easy life here. It’s hard and harsh, though it is what I choose. But it takes its toll on me too. The image I saw shocked me. It looked as if I am withering and wrinkling, yet I still feel tough as nails and strong as I ever was. Strong as I need to be to live this life we’re living.
And yet…
Some days I want to be more. Or maybe it is less.
Pretty for my husband. Girly. Soft. Gentle.
I want him to look at me and still say, “Wow.” And yet I know it has never been those words I just used that he ever used on me… and yet he still said, “Wow.”
If you haven’t noticed, all the photos of construction are always of Bob, and the few that have come here to help. (Thank you, Chris and Lee and Forrest!) Never of me. Huh. Makes a person wonder, no doubt. I’m the one who takes the photos. Yet I’m also the one up there, out there, cutting, drilling, screwing, lifting, lowering, and staring in wonder and awe (often through the lens) at what we managed to build. Together. As Bob reminded yet another person giving him all the credit, as those of us women in so-called men’s worlds are used to hearing, we’re in this one together. I just don’t have the photos to prove my point.
Alas… I want a little leisure and comfort and ease. Just a little would be nice.
I want to wear nice clothes, at least clean ones. Without holes. We’re not talking dresses, dress boots, slick hair and make-up and that sort of thing. But more than what I see when I show up for work wearing the same work pants I have worn all summer long (testament to how impressive these Dovetail Workwear women’s work pants are, I dare say). Or I sit down for dinner and I’m still kinda feeling dirty and disheveled and wish I could look a little more like the lovely ladies I see on social media, primped and pimped and preened, with bright red botox lips and false furry lashes, hair dyed and quaffed just so, painted nails and skin pulled so tight it reminds of the old lady in the movie “Brazil.”
No, I really don’t wish to be her.
That woman is beautiful too. But she is not me.
I guess what you see is what you get.
Some of us are meant to be rough and rustic, rawhide and worn, warm leather, flannel shirts and dirt in our nails and our hair pushed back by the wind.
Am I right in feeling I’m not the only one?
I wish I believed that with age comes is wisdom.
We know that’s not always the case.
Without contemplation and reflection and the compassion of true understanding, age is but a number.
I want it to be more.
I want to have something to share, to give, to be a safe place where others can come to soften.
I want you to know what took me too long to learn.
And I am wise enough to know you will have to learn for yourself.
I want to share the lessons that took me way too long to figure out.
And I know you too will one day kick yourself for having had to wait so long.
I want to continue to learn. Something, every day. For as long as I am blessed to live, to age, to grow old.
For now, I sit back and stare out these wet windows onto the worksite that’s calling me loudly, “Get back to work, woman. There’s things to do.”
Time is a wasting.
Winter’s coming.
There will be time to write when we’re settled into the season. I’ll make damn sure of it.
In the meanwhile, no time to be soft. Time to build. To kick ass. To get it done.
I got it.
Oh, one more thing before I leave you today.
Remember Harry? The snowshoe hare the dog found on the drive to our camp? The little feller grew beautifully. He was ready to go. And so, we released him back to the wilds this week. You know there was a twinge of that bittersweet sadness as we set him free, even though we knew that is where he was meant to be.
Building got the better of me this past week; no time to write, with a huge push to get the roof built.
Seems like all work and no play… yet tomorrow we’re taking off… something special to celebrate…the roof is built (metal comes this next week) and our anniversary is today.
For now, I’m just sharing this, because this is what matters most: LOVE. For those who have stuck it out together through hard knocks and tough times, and found yourself belonging in the shared place and space of long term love – something I never thought I’d be lucky enough to experience – I hope you’ll relate to this:
funny that all it takes
is opening eyes
to see
that you are there
beside me
right where we belong
Twenty-two years ago today, we married. We committed to become the family we chose. And in those years, we learned what unconditional love, duty and devotion, kindness and forgiveness feels like. In those years, we learned and grew, we flourished and failed, we longed and lusted and feared and found footing to stand strong, and we moved and built more than I’d like to admit.
It’s been a wild ride. The only stability was our love. Of each other. Our son. And the high wild lands where we choose to live. No matter how hard things got, how lost we felt, how tired we became, at the end of each day (or sometimes it took until the morning after) we knew we were no longer alone. And we knew someone else was counting on us, relying on us, needing us. So you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get back to work beside one another right where you belong.
Now we are here. In person and place and time.
Slowly we have settled in, learning the lay of the land, the feel of dried grass beneath bare feet or mud caked on our boots. Listening to the wind, tasting the water, letting the first sun of morning fall across our rawhide faces, allowing our fingers to find their place in the others hand when we walk. Finding our place, here. Finding the balance of lust and longing, energy and exhaustion, dirt and discomfort, strain and stress as we kept on keeping on building the dream – our family home and mountain homestead. Something we both wanted, together.
So it went, and so it still goes. Building together. A safe place to bring dreams to life.
Sitting at a different kitchen table, gazing out at a different view, things are different here. The mountain, the river, the elevation and air. Even the bears and birds and colors of the season as it begins to fade and summer browns and sky grays and we start to look up at distant peaks to see if snow has fallen yet.
Our relationship is different now. A little less spark but more warmth from the coals and that is what cooks the stew. And like the stew that has been simmering and been stirred and added to with care and taste and time, together we are each richer within than either of us imagined had we not chosen one another.
Maybe I am different, too. Not in spite of what we went through. But because of it. I am more. I am fuller. I am deeper and wiser. In part because of you. In part because of time. Aging is beautiful thing. At least, most days I think it is.
The wisdom of aging is perhaps best found in the skill of knowing what baggage to leave behind.
You cannot outrun the past. The past is the path that led you to where you are today.
In moving, you leave where you were behind. In a way, you leave who you were behind as well. You become the blank slate. The clay upon the potters’ wheel. You are both the clay and the hands that shape it.
In remaining, however, you face the challenge of your past lingering all around you like last years leaves that still need to be raked, and overgrown underbrush that catches and tangles as you try to walk through the woods. But you know your way through and sometimes there is comfort in knowing what to expect, what it will feel like, how bad it can be.
And how good.
Together we have done both.
Now is the time for re-writing. Not based upon where you are, but who you are.
The answers are not found out there. They are found in here. Within.
Perhaps where I should have looked all along.
But even inside, the landscape has changed. I wasn’t then who I am now.
It takes making the journey to understand the path.
It takes travelling the path to become the traveler.
Marriage is like that. At least it can be.
A mysterious path beckoning you to come hither.
A safe place in which you both can soften.
A healthy place in which you both can continue to be nourished, nurtured and thrive.
As the simmering stew, or the garden bed, deeper and richer and fuller with time.
Seems like it’s early this year. When the clouds cleared this morning, I looked for snow on the peaks around our valley. Not yet. It’s close though. I feel it.
There’s frost on my boots in the cold gray morning as I let the horses out for the day. Breaking ice upon the water bowl as the chickens remain in the coop until the sun brings promise of golden warmth.
Across the valley, grasses brown. Flowers are fading, turning to seed. The landscape changes to earth tones. Browns and tans, greens and grays. Late blooming gentians and asters and ever blessing yarrow remain. Tips of the willows along the creek and a few patches of aspen start to strut their stuff and we are stirred with the excitement of changing seasons, the promise of vibrant color, and then the ensuing calm that will cover the land when the snows begin to fall.
I long to be a part of the seasons in one place, continuous and connected in the ever changing cycle, a part of the quietness that winter brings with her heavy cloak of white holding us down tight. I want to witness the frozen air of dry brown autumn wind turning pale as grass clings fiercely to its seeds, defiantly refusing to bow under the first snows of fall. And then I will yearn for swollen buds on the tops of aspen to promise new life in spring and await the late greening grasses to fill the horses’ bellies after a long, cold winter sustained on dry hay.
I may not be here to see that, feel that, this year, but I know it will happen some day soon. I am eager, but will wait my turn, will wait for this cabin to be finished, the barn built, and a wood shed stocked plum full.
Now I sit in our little camper, waiting out another rain storm loud on the thin metal roof, staring out of rain streaked windows at the solid cabin calling to be built.
In here with seemingly incessant drumming overhead, having trouble sitting still when what I want to do, what I’m called to do, is get that roof going up… it is a test of patience, when after all the tests of patience I have endured, what is one more? I will not pace the minimal floor space of the tiny camper; instead take a deep breath, inhale, exhale, let it go, and get to work… writing.
Out on the deck, beneath stars and under branches of old oak trees, I lay in bed, sheets still warm and worn, enwrapped by gentle wind, the song of the river and my husband’s gentle breathing. He lays beside me, already asleep, our limbs still intertwined, back to belly, belly to back. A lullaby of crickets and tree frogs and the honey fragrance of flowering madrone enchant me. I listen to white noise wafting up through night air to where we made our bed, serenaded by sounds of water flowing over smooth rocks, ever moving, ever changing, reverberating with the promise of impermanence.
It is both time and love that heal all wounds.
As for that bomb we dropped? Yes….It’s true. We have chosen to part with our beloved Riverwind , and be with this high wild land.
Please may I share the song of Riverwind and boast of an ode to that haven of a homestead tucked away in the mountains along the wild and scenic river? It was a transformation of heart and hearth, healing the land as we healed our souls, creatively toiling to bring the land to life. I will share it all some day. For now, I will let the silence of that peaceful place sing for itself.
It will not change hands over night, as it was not built nor brought back to life that quickly too. Things take time out here. What’s the rush, you say? And part of me longs for the tranquility of the place that healed our souls as we healed the land.
Yet there is also the part that says, when you are ready to move on, move. Why cling to what you must release?
Sounds easy. It is not.
The hardest part is the people. Leaving people. Leaving community. Leaving the family and friends I have known and loved on and off for nearly thirty years. My closest family (G&S), my sisters (Jan, Cindy, Lori, Christina and more who have opened their heart and soul to include me over all these years as we wove our own stories and shared seeds and recipes, roots and cuttings, and a camaraderie and connection that I will never replace.
But really… I don’t want to write of that now. It’s hard. It hurts. And I’m not gone yet.
So yes, there’s lots more to say and share but for now, I’m changing the subject. It’s not really denial. More like just distraction.
So without further ado, here are some updates on cabin building.
We’ve been at it almost three months. In that time, we got a solid access road built, dirt work/site prepped and foundation dug out, wash water system in, well and pump, concrete footer and stem wall poured, floor joists and subfloor installed, wood beams defining walls, windows and doors roughed out, and most recently, ridge beam and rafters hoisted up and into place.
Next, we’re going to get those roof panels raised, metal on the roof, and close in the windows and walls. And of course, install a wood stove.
I’m thinking it might actually all get done.
Before the snow flies? Well on that, we’ll see.
Here are a few pictures and videos explaining how it works.
I know… Seems like it’s all Bob. Some days it feels that way. I’m just the back up guy. The one with the level and tape, pot and pan, handing him the drill, trying to manhandle the timbers, climbing the ladder, catching the beam, and trying to get it to land just so. Remarkably, it often does. But Bob, he’s the chainsaw guy. Which means, he’s been the one to actually fell all the trees, prep them for milling, and once hauled clear across the west as he’s done, then cut the timbers to length. That means a lot of handling and cutting for each log that goes into place. For Christmas last year, I got him this really cool tool. Not real romantic, I know… It’s called Big Foot, an attachment to a chainsaw that enables you to cut angles really true. Not just 90 degrees, but whatever angle we need. Figure, adjust, set and saw, and there you have it. We make it sound easier than we make it work, but it does work. I mean, look at all the angles he already cut. Most are 90 degrees, but those gable ends end up beautiful (beauty being in the eye of the builder, of course).
It’s going along good. Right on schedule, which is a pretty impressive thing for a couple of older folks who should be wise enough to know better than to start all over again.
I am getting there. Closer to that place deep inside that whispers, “Welcome home.”
Connection comes, with land as with people, in time and age and stories. It comes with living through droughts and floods, fires we fend off together and snow storms that keep us apart. It comes with seeing our children grow and our parents age and our dreams emerge and some things fall and fail while others take root and grow.
Some of us are seekers. You know, always looking. For something. Usually ourselves. That’s what I think I’m finally finding.
And in the meanwhile, I will settle in some days, and move around on other days. I will try and sometimes fail. I will give and sometimes falter. I will work and tire and wake again and get back out there again and again. I will tend and plant and nurture. I will dream. I will love. And I will live. Not like my parents wanted me to. Not like society expected me to. Not like I thought I would have, should have, could have. Probably not like anyone else. But finally at fifty-eight, I’m growing my own skin, comfortable with my bones, able to look in the mirror and though I may wince for a moment at what I see, for the woman looking back at me is much older than I thought I’d ever be, I’m learning to feel at home in that skin and bones that is me.
I am growing up.
That does not mean I will suddenly be serious and stern. I will not wash up and get a desk job. I will not be that boring, stuffy, straight, sensible-shoe sort I used to think all grown-ups had to be. I don’t plan on cutting my hair nor keeping my fingernails clean. Chances are I won’t ever become the one to say the right thing at the right time, and certainly won’t ever have all the answers. Nor will I stop making mistakes, dusting myself off, and trying yet again. Maybe I won’t ever settle down.
As you see, I’m not there yet.
Maybe we never arrive.
Maybe this has all been growing pains, the changing of the tides through the turbulent sea of midlife and menopause and the pursuit for finding the forever place, as I furiously worked my way out of one shell and built a new one around me.
We all have a story. This is mine. Chances are, you have felt this too. It’s a simple tale, old as time. A story of seeking, forever seeking, some sense of belonging. And getting to that place of realizing what we’ve been running after is within us all along.
This summer was meant to be about more than building. It was a chance to see if I’d fall for the land.
Guess what?
I did.
A part of me woke up here. A feral part, admittedly, but a part all the same.
The wilds. Drive me. Wild.
In wild places, with room to roam, my soul not only stirs, it soars.
I know I need to explain, and I promise to do so soon.
For now, I’m just dropping the bomb.
I’ll be back to clean up the pieces later this week….
Here it goes:
Have you ever dreamed of place peaceful, private, safe, simply sustainable and attainable, beautiful and blissful, an off grid sanctuary tucked into the mountains along a wild river that symbiotically nurtures and nourishes as you tend lovingly to the land?
In the far, far north of California, there is a land that few know even exists. A land of wild mountains, untamed rivers and free spirits. A land of outlaws and outcasts or folks often just a little off kilter that somehow balance one another beautifully, caring for the land as they care for the community. It’s not the California you know. Most don’t know. We’d like to keep it that way. Safe to say, it’s a hidden gem, a secret treasure, a forgotten bit of paradise that feels so far away from all the stresses and pressures and problems that too many have come to think is how the world has come to be.
There is another way.
Nearly thirty years ago, by some serendipitous situation, I found it. Six years ago, I returned. It was like returning home, though a home neglected and in need of the blood, sweat and tears, dreams and vision, that Bob and I were able to pour into this place. We healed the land as we healed our hearts… and in the process of this symbiotic nurturing, Riverwind came to be, and we have been blessed to be a part of her story…
The story continues. It’s time for a new chapter. We have chosen to move on. It’s complicated. I’ll explain later. But for now, I share this.
Morning wakes to a cloudless sky over me, crisp and clean as sheets dried on the line. There’s a light frost down at the creek, and a moose somewhat regal in appearance with his slick black hair and mighty paddles hanging close by on pasture. I watch him standing proud, in a standoff with the pup. I call from the outhouse door. The dog returns. The moose lumbers off.
Another day without rain. I don’t take these things for granted. We can accomplish twice as much on days we don’t have to break each time a storm wave crashes onto the scene. The downside to getting so much more done is sore muscles, tired hands, and sun burned shoulders. I’ll take it all.
This evening, after the sun is down and shadows have dissolved for the day, we sit by the camp fire watching the pup play with marshmallows as if they were toys, little balls, flinging them around joyously as he’ll do with a dead mouse. At the cross fence line, a herd of elk move in unison up the hill and vanishes into the dark timber.
I am in awe daily of the natural wonders found on this land, between the wildlife and our wild life and the simple, stark beauty of these rolling mountains under a wide open sky. That is why we are here. This is what makes us feel alive, come alive, stirring me somewhere deep inside as I pause for just a moment to soak it into the cavernous sea within my soul, something only high wild places will do.
Two full months have passed since we’ve been living and working here, setting camp, getting our temporary home in order, and starting to get the long term home going from the ground up. The months have gone slowly, been generous and allowed us to accomplish what feels like so much in such a short period of time. Alas there’s so much yet to do.
I’ve heard that summer is a time for vacations and time off and kicking back with a good book. It’s never been that for me. It took two months of averaging about a page a night and the book falling on my face startling me back awake to finally finish reading just one book (thank you, Cindy, it was a good one indeed). Maybe some day I’ll have that time and summers will be that leisurely for me. When I get old. Older? In the meanwhile, there’s been kids camp and guest ranch and cleaning cabins and guiding rides, getting gardens going, digging ditches, renovating land and structures – all this work doing my darndest to create havens from the ground up so others could enjoy their vacation time. Oh yes, and building. Always building…
And still I feel my life is a vacation in a way, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I get to do, be and live a dream. I know it’s not a dream a lot of folks might have, but it’s all I ever wanted, and getting to be more. It’s not a dream about comfort and ease and kicking back with books or bon bons or some frozen drink with an umbrella sticking out of it. And I get those things – they are all well and good and even wonderful, but they are not my path in life. Instead the path I followed is rather rough and rustic, high and wild, down and dirty, full of stuff that makes callouses and scrapes and bruises and wrinkled skin that looks like rawhide, balanced with silence and space and soul.
Meanwhile, out and about on the upper 80, during the monsoon rains we had been getting and likely will get more of, the horses seek shelter from the storms and find themselves protected under what we call the Barn Tree – one of the few older growth conifers remaining after the onslaught of beetles that left the greater part of tall old trees ravaged and brown. This tree, just behind our camper, with branches and needles broad and thick not a drop of rain gets through to the always dry ground below. The horses stand there through the storms, the three of them, kind of like me, waiting it out and wishing they were doing something else.
I haven’t taken time to train the new boy and/or ride the old one much this summer. I’ve done plenty of both in the past, and will again in the future, no doubt, but this summer is not about taking time off far beyond our daily evening walks. This summer is about getting solid walls built and roof up over our heads (hopefully) before the snow. That’s pretty much all consuming and not something one overlooks out here. It’s that in-your-face pressure and mission and challenge you can’t not see (even on days you wish you could). It’s even about building a solid shelter for the horses, because before too long, this rain and hail will turn to snow, and they too will need more than that big old tree can provide.
Slowly but surely, one grain of sand at a time, one big beautiful beaming beam after another, hoisted into place, I think we’re getting there… wherever there may be, somewhere not too far away along this dusty path we’re on, together.
An intense lightning storm last night, striking so close and strong it startled me awake before even the crash of thunder, which in the high country, doesn’t end with a clap but rather rolls around the mountains with sound and energy rumbling with reverberations that remind me of a giant singing bowl.
This morning I woke to lingering clouds and puddles and heavy air and even the baby robins out early following their parents’ prompts are soaked, as I watch them with their scruffy feathers scurry around a glistening cinquefoil.
Careful what you ask for. I had missed the intensity of high mountain summer storms with their booming voice, menacing clouds nearly black as coal, and sky-on-fire displays. So far this summer, we have had so much and many, my desire is as saturated as the soil.
Rain has been regular. As with all of nature, it’s got its good points and its bad. But either way is out of my control. Not much I can do but sit in this little camper and wait the latest hail storm out, grateful for these somewhat solid walls within which we can be warm and dry and try not to get too anxious about what I could be doing but am not.
Sometimes you got stay inside and wait it out.
Today rain comes down harder and lasts longer than I ‘d like. I’d like to get back out there at it. We have a deadline to reach. Self imposed no doubt, but you have to have such discipline when you’re working for yourself. And when what you’re working for is your home. We said we’d get the walls roughed out including rough openings for the windows framed out with timbers by the first of August.
We’re close. Though not there, we are so close I can see it. It’s starting to feel like a space and a home and I can almost picture the wood cook stove cranking out heat and bread and cookies while the dogs lay on the rug and the horses are tucked into their nearby stalls, and the chickens in a solid coop (they are, btw, still living in their portable pen we built with our lumber out of the back of the horse trailer… but still laying plenty enough to keep us in eggs!). And the cows, yes, there will be cows, sheltered under their shed beside the hay loft. All of this still in my head, of course, but that is where dreams begin. Is it within our heads or within our hearts? I think maybe a bit of both.
We’re a long ways away from all of that. But we are close to the rough out state, and that deadline was yesterday. Maybe we’ll get it tomorrow, for today is a mess of rain and hail and a few other distractions that are never so bad though of course I’ll grumble just a little bit. And then, we move on to higher ground: plotting, planning and placing roof rafters, trusses and ridge beams .
Bob’s more casual about this forced break that the weather has imposed than I am. He manages to zone out into a nap or getting errands done elsewhere, while I’d be pacing the floor if there was room to do so. Neither way will change the weather or get the work done out there when we can’t be.
Yet even from within the little camper looking out at the (wet) work site, it’s getting pretty exciting to see some dreams slowly come to life.
As for deadlines, oh, I could blame the weather or the lack of skill and knowledge or our age or a hundred other excuses. Or I could just accept that this is how it is, and be pleased and proud of what we’ve accomplished already, and excited by what else we’re about to do.
As for discipline, there is no boss telling us what to do and some days it would be easier if there were. Or maybe employees or fellow workers motivating us to show up on time. Instead I suppose we could stay in bed all day binge watching and eating bon-bons (yes, this is a freak fantasy of mine, something I just want to try once!). There is simply the dream of seeing it all come together. And most days that is enough.
And as for days off… This summer, there have been only a few.
One we planned. (We hiked to the top of the nearest peak. Not really restful, but the view from the top and all along the way nourished me deeply.)
Two I really didn’t want (‘cause I lay sick in bed).
And a few were spent taking time for family and friends. These are things I don’t intentionally plan and often stress about ahead of time (as in: OMG, that means we won’t be working?!?!?!). And yet I know, as you do too, that this is what matters most. People. Connecting. Contributing. Doing something for others even if that something is simply sharing time. The work can wait. It will always will be there. Will the people?
With these few exceptions, that’s not only how our summer has been so far, but that’s how our life has been. Things don’t get done if you don’t do them. Water, power, heat, and food… The so-called simple off grid life means taking care of all those things yourself (and perhaps when we’re even older, having friends and family help a little more).
There is work to do every day. It may be building a wall, or simply chopping wood, carrying water, and keeping the home fires alive.
In the meanwhile, there is no Monday stress here. Likewise, no Friday relief.
Every day is pretty much the same. Get up at dawn and care for the critters. Savor our coffee together. Then get to work. Grind away. Keep going until the sun starts to set and the pup insists it is quitting time. Time to take him for a walk.
Thanks to the pup, those walks have been part of what balances me. Gets me out and away from the work zone. Connects me with the land. Allows me a mindless release and a chance to unwind. And serves as either my walking meditation or time in my wild temple.
All of which is why we’re here. Not just to get that roof up. But to be present. Every day. Where we are. Who we are. With what we’re doing. Together.
We’re not talking the people sort here, as the nearest ones are about eight miles away (though they are pretty great folks indeed).
We’re talking wild stuff. Plants. Animals. That sort of thing. Those kinds of neighbors. Who and what we’re really living beside.
Slowly getting to know the wild world of which I’m becoming a part.
Having lived year round in the high country not too far away for what felt like too many years, there are so many I remember, that call to me and say, “Welcome home.” And a new few that say, “sit with me a while and see what I’m about.”
These are the voices of the land. The plants. The wilds. The wildlife.
Quiet voices.
Plants call for you to sit beside them, and listen.
I do. I stop, lean in, look and listen.
What magic or medicine to they allow?
Honestly, more often than not, I question myself, snap a photo to take back to camp and research more about them in my many books and, of course, online.
Welcome to the wild life…
Sometimes it gets you down. In spirit. In body. You get sick. Strong as I try to be, it happens. It sucks. Yet even illness carries a lesson if you’re open to learn. I’m not always. Sometimes I just want a quick fix. Get over this shit and move on.
Still, I start with the plants.
There’s a philosophy of healing I try at least to live by, coined the Wise Woman Way by the wonderful herbalist and healer Susun Weed who is one of a handful I have followed and learned from for well over thirty years of living with the land.
Start by doing nothing. Healing often just happens. Otherwise, start with the plants.
Plant medicine, herbal allies, wild wonders… just listening to and learning about the myriad of nourishment and medicine that exists in plain air of sprawling parks, or in the mysterious shade of the woods, or alongside the life vein of the land that is the creek.
So much of the healing (physically and energetically) you need is there, right there. I was going to say “for the taking.” But it’s not just “taking.” There has to be that balance of maybe asking politely, of honoring the wisdom and power within the plant, and somehow giving back in kind, to make this magic happen. I think that comes with time. Just giving time. Time to hear, to feel, to understand essence, rather than grab and go and demand. Nature’s not real big on that way.
Start simple.
Listen to the land, respect what she has to offer, and see if her healing is enough.
If so, listen to her wisdom, and bow to her in gratitude.
Plants are a starting point. Sometimes they work wonders. Sometimes, they are not enough. Absolutely at times we all know we need the big guns, and must turn towards the powerful stuff when the need arises. Gratefully and indeed there is a place for and importance of modern medicine. After a bout of cervical cancer at age 25, likely I wouldn’t be alive without it.
But as always, I try to start simple. The land offers so much of what we need.
Starting with what is right there before you. And here, there, everywhere, really, there is so much.
As for the wildlilfe… The animal side of things…
Hunters and fishermen often ask us what we live with that they can come and take.
This is what I live with. A herd of mother elk and their babies grazing on our lower meadow after the sun dips down and the evening show of rainbows and magenta and dark clouds has settled down. A little band of bull elk meandering along our driveway, as curious and fearless about our horses as they are of elk. Mama moose along the fence with a yearling calf by her side, and a young bull moose trailing behind. She watches us as much as we watch her. Only she remains while we alter our route so minimize our impact upon her. Our fences and roads, our barking dog, the roar of equipment and buzz of tools, and the sound of our somewhat soft voices –we have disturbed her enough.
I feel I have taken enough.
That’s why I rarely snap and share photos of wild four legged wonders with whom we share space. I don’t need to stalk. I don’t want to be the creepy guy. I want to be a good neighbor. I want to live and let live with the respect, safety and privacy that I love as well.
Living with the land.
We are not here to take.
This is home.
We co-exist.
At least, that’s what we strive for. We don’t always succeed. Sometimes we fuck up. I’m sorry for that. I try to better next time.
That’s what makes good neighbors. Do your best not to disturb. Give more than you take. You don’t need to assume you’re being hunted, chased, harassed and stalked. Who the hell wants to live that way?
It’s neat to me to note that, if they are not chased by swarms of tourists and a continuum of traffic, the elk and moose don’t high tail it for higher ground. They remain in this elevation all summer long. It was not this way where I used to live, where as the flood gates of people opened, the wildlife hit the trail, vanished into tall timber, and headed high. I thought that was normal and natural, but am learning it’s just what they’ve done to adapt.
I get it… I do that too.
Living on the land is living with the land.
Tending to your soul as you tend to the land.
Connecting with the land comes not only with time but with intention. A quiet, still, commitment when you begin to breathe in the land, filling your lungs, your heart, your blood; when every cell becomes filled and fulfilled with and of the place, and feel your exhale feed the land in kind.
Thus is the reminder to balance giving with taking, as the inhale and exhale harmonize.
At times it feels as if what we are building is a sacred space as I supposed every home should be. A place of connection and belonging. A safe haven and creative oasis, no matter how small or what it is built of. A place built in part of prayers and dreams, alongside grit and gusto to bring both to life.
One by one we lift beams with the crane, lower them on sawhorses where we carefully measure and cut then manhandle into place, steady, fine tune and fasten as the definition of place slowly begins to take shape, and the feeling of space begins to come to life.
With each one we work on, we can trace a story back to the once towering doug fir that shaded our morning walk while the early sun dappled through high branches and dogs scampered below chasing rabbits through the underbrush. With beetles and drought and changing times, we observed the tree faded and paled and needles fallen and altered into the dead standing trees we felled, cleaned then dragged to our mill yard, then together hoisted and cut and turned and cut again until rot was removed (stacked and piled and burned separately) and all that remained was this solid center that is becoming a part of a home. Each one already containing the energies of how much time and attention and intention to get this far, to get us this far.
And yes, I’m out there working too. It’s all been a two person operation. But one of us is better with a chainsaw and backhoe, and the other better with the mill… and camera.
And she cooks… But that’s something I’ll dive into another time… (Look out.)
Now, when I prepare meals (which is something I do every day) I truly consider the energy that I add to the food I (usually) serve with love. There was a movie I saw years ago called “Like Water For Chocolate” that coyly played with this belief.
What we put into it, comes out of it.
Is it not the same with walls we build as with a pot of stew we stir?
Hope and passion, dreams and desires, strength and resolve embedded in every piece of the wall that together we then cut and carry and fit into place and secure into a structure that is a part of this home.
The sky put on a display all day and seduced me back into love for life and this land after a day where she had knocked me out (quite literally) again. It was magic, reviving me, hour after hour, as my stomach settled and my feet found grounding once again. All the photos I share with you today are completely unaltered. God and/or this beautiful world graced me with this show.
As the painter cares not to color a canvas solely for the pleasure of her own eyes, so the writer is called to share words that you might enjoy; be it for entertainment, education, empowerment, and/or to find yourself somehow relating or releasing or escaping within the images the words spawn.
Yet what happens if the words I am called to share are not what I feel you will find pleasing? What if they are dark, as I confess, mine tend to tangle with? Do I harbor and hide them, or have the courage to boldly express and hope that you will not run away? Perhaps you might even shyly step closer, finding yourself still somehow in a similar state from time to time, knowing you are not the only one.
I’m not a sunshine, daisies and bunnies kinda gal. I’m more stormy skies and tempestuous wind and then a subtle glow in gray clouds to the east at dusk. Sometimes that makes for a pretty picture or enticing poem or captivating tale to share. But sometimes I’m afraid it might just scare you away.
And what about social media? Can it be a safe playground to play with words and hone my craft and reach out in the process? It is concerning as I find myself baring my soul as an outlet for both heart and art. This has always been something I have struggled with. I am an introverted introvert, and find my solace in silence and wild places. So what the hell am I doing trying to, if not master than at least muster, the craft of connecting online?
Is the intention to appease the ego or the muse? The ego is a trickster at times, fooling us to feel what we’re doing is “good” and “right” and maybe even for others, when I wonder if it is not more for her insatiable need for stroking. So does she fool me into feeling uncertain, unsettled, and a little absurd.
But the muse – oh my turbulent muse, she has a hold on me that I care not let loose of. I have always said I can’t not write. At times I wonder why. For the sake of the scratching pen, the alluring sound of words, or for the mood it imposes upon self and others when I manage to get those words write?
For when she dances within me, seduces me in her intoxicating embrace, she calls upon my courage to share. Boldly I open the curtains, as if ripping open a pearl snap shirt exposing a healthy breast, and let her fierce radiance flare outward without bounds. For she is stifled like a rained upon fire when I keep her under wraps, as a flower yearning to bloom bright from somewhere under confinement.
Oh, and as for progress… if you’re still with me…
After all those months of felling trees, clearing slash, dragging logs, milling lumber, stacking, loading and hauling across the West… to see the wood we loving harvested finally being put to use… It’s a thing of pride and joy, for sure.
And for those of you back in California. This is how deep you have to dig a water line in the mountains at 10,000 feet. Six to seven feet deep.
Gin Getz 