Another morning sitting at the table in this tiny trailer to write while my husband leans back in bed less than ten feet away holding his coffee cup in his hands as if in silent prayer, and the dog lays with gentle deep breathing at my feet beneath the little table that serves as kitchen and office, work space and desk, and the first of today’s sun pours in from over the hills to the east, spreading across the table like spilled milk.
So much I want to share with you this morning. My hands are unable to move as fast as my mind, and my mind cannot keep up with the hugeness that is my heart right now. I want to share with you about the dozen mama elk descending from dark timber on our lower pasture whilst we sit by the campfire witnessing the nursery band of their babies held safe to the side by the sentinels while the mothers graze. I want to share with you the haunting sound of a family of coyotes at last light, singing to one another, but stirring us in the process, simply by bearing witness to their wailing, while our pup even sat still in reverie close by, amazed at the mystery of his distant cousins. I want to share with you the intoxication of being high, really high, top of the mountain high, above treeline and dizzy with elevation high in thin air with rubbery legs and a tired euphoric pride from having hiked from our camp to the high peak of these mountain, standing their together, my man and me, in absolute awe of the land we are becoming.
I guess what I want to share is simply the intimate connection between person and place; exposing the sensitive openness of the soul into nature and wilds. This is what I can give you today. This is what I offer to share with you with humble outstretched arms and a very vulnerable heart.
Already we start to see forever. That’s what we do and who we are.
We try to keep ourselves reined in. We’re just committing to today. We’ll see how things go from there.
Only we can’t help ourselves. It’s what we do. Connection with land grows, tight and strong and intense as we toil. So from the get go, we’re planning and plotting where the garden will go, the big hay barn, the calving shed… the three bay garage for our son…
Slow down.
We felt the reality of age in the last couple months – the back and forth of unwanted time on the road, the physical limitations of our bodies, the unpredictable yet governing weather, the desire to enjoy the magic of whatever mountains we live in and the insatiable need to grow roots.
Can we grow old here? Can we grow old there?
We are not snowbirds. We don’t want two places, two lands, two lives. We are grounded. We work the land. Give more than we take. We become a part of the land, as the land works its way into our veins from open wounds, beneath our fingernails, into our pores, into our bones. The land finds its way into our callouses and sweat, and our blood seeps into the waterways and into the roots of the hungry trees.
I am monogamous with the land as I am with my lover, like my beloved ravens. I have mated for life, but I am not certain where we are meant to build our final nest.
The search for the sense of belonging is not found in the view but in the intimate connection between person and place that comes and grows with time, care, tending the land, committing to the community, good times and bad, hard times and easy, stories and dreams and dramas.
I don’t want advice. If I wanted a life like you, I’d have it. I want a life like me. That’s the wisest thing I can encourage you to do too – find your own way, listen to the song of your heart and have the courage to dance to that tune.
We’ll listen for the wisdom of the land and of our hearts. We’ll see what this summer brings.
Already I know I am not going to want to leave this land come fall. I want to commit. Wherever I am. But here, there is something that stirs me, tempts me, digs into my bones. I will want to see her wither and brown, then grey and white, brittle and frail and frozen. I will want to witness the silence of winter when morning birds head to lower ground and the creeks freeze over and the branches are stripped bare of quaking leaves. I will want to stand out upon her frozen grounds and listen to the distant call of the coyote and the raven, the few hearty enough to remain, and say yes, I am with you, I too not only endure, but find the beauty and awe and wonder and grace in the wide, wild, white open slate that winter will bring.
But for now I want to just be here. Experiencing the wilds. The wilds that hold us, open us with frozen mornings and biting winds, and define us with the challenge of our heart to not only endure, but to burst free.
Red flag warnings flare again today. Strong winds rattle the little camper. Dust devils twirl and dance along the dirt road where the horses run. Logging trucks stir lingering amber clouds in the far distance. Dry and dusty and this feels like the Wild West. And today, it feels like home.
The work site stays somewhat protected against the east facing hill, tucked between the little camper and the new bathhouse. The dirt work is done. Right on schedule for a cement pour happening later this week.
With light frost and ice kicked out of the dog water bowl outside, and inside the little camper the thermometer read 42, I’m excited for solid wood walls and a wood stove.
But we’re a long ways away from that.
In the meantime, plenty to do to keep me busy, and (in theory) out of trouble.
But then there was this.
Trouble.
It’s a thing for me.
Horses.
The livestock auction was this weekend with sixty horses being run through, mostly by horse trainers and traders, and not too many buyers. I could have bought a few.
I refrained.
And limited myself to just this one.
The new boy.
I don’t know what they called him at the race track, but the folks who sold him to me called him Jessie. A good, historic Western name. We’ll see if it sticks. He kinda looks like Cinco to me. See, before him, there was Tres, and there was Quatro, and two other sorrels with stars before that. This guy has a blaze, not a star, but sorrel he is, so we’ll see which name takes hold as he settles into life on this mountain with us.
So far, so good.
Getting a new horse (and this is something long overdue for us) is kinda like having a baby. You’re never really ready, and the timing is never right.
Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do to get through.
And I need horses to get through…
In an ideal world (if there is such a thing), we’d bring the new guy home and put him in a little pen and spend some quality time with him, bonding and getting used to one another for a week or a month or whatever it took before I was certain turning him out didn’t mean he’d run away. But it’s not slick and perfect here. It’s a little wild and western, rough and rustic (and did I mention, very dirty?).
So we bring the new guy home and put him in the corral where I keep my two old horses nearby at night. Leave him there a couple hours while he meets the old guys over the safe panels.
And then we turn him out.
Okay, so it’s 160 acres of fenced off open ground here, crossed fenced to maybe 80 acres. Turning a new horse out onto 80 acres seems a little nuts. And an ex race horse, at that. I expected all hell to break loose. It didn’t.
The old guys met the new guy, nose to nose, ran back and forth once in front of the camp for maybe 100 feet. Then put their heads down to eat. That’s kind of how it’s been ever since.
He’s a sweetie, a little unsure of wild open spaces, but bonding well with the old guys, and learning good lessons from them, from me, and from the mountain. How to cross washes and drink from creeks. How to lay down to rest in the morning sun and graze close to camp in the evenings where you’ll be treated and brushed and put in the safe pen for the night. And most important, of course: How to come to mama when called 😊
This guys is a keeper for sure.
Alright, enough about horses. I gotta get back to work…
Finally a warmer evening. No rain and hail this afternoon to cool things down to cold. So he heats a bucket of water over the fire and offers me a soak, out under the wide open sky that throws her usual evening show of colors nearly gaudy – blues and violets and magentas and grays, blending boldly in untamed air.
As I slip my dirty feet into the pail, a part of me melts. Between the warm water, watching ground-in dirt abrade, and the generosity of my husband to share this simple gift, I soften.
Two weeks ago yesterday, we left our oasis in California, and today Colorado feels like home. Here, there, wherever I am. Wherever the soil rubs deep into my pores and comes to rest beneath my nails. Wherever the air fills and burns my nose and lungs and wherever the water in which I bathe becomes me. That is where I am, where I wish to remain, where I belong, forever.
Camp is set. A place to sleep and cook and clean. A road to come and go. Water to drink and a place for chickens and horses, dog and this meager thing I call a garden. A place to do laundry, store tools, wash after another dirty day.
We are ready to move forward.
And so, we break ground.
And as the sod is peeled back, revealing rich soil below, deposited a millennia ago by the industrious work of beavers, the story in my heart unfolds just as deep, just as wide, just as rich and wild.
And then we return inside. Into the comfort of what is now home to my man, my dog and me. A tiny trailer, 8 feet wide and 14 feet long, that I decorated as I do, with crystals and warm colors and an assortment of things that make me feel cozy. Things that make me feel at home, as does the sound of that rooster’s crow.
Prayer flags in the kitchen window that were custom made many years ago. The only missing message is faith. Something I am returning to. The path is unique to me. The direction is all the same.
In fact, this lesson took me fifty-something years to figure out.
It’s about people.
The photos today may not be, but the writing’s about people.
The thing about people.
See, intertwined with this journey of place is one of people.
Because true belonging is a balance, unique for each of us, of connecting with people as well as with place.
Ones sense of belonging is found with and created by connection.
Connection. Connecting with land has been easy for me. Connecting with people, well, this is the part I’m finally getting.
If you’ve known me a while, likely you know that people were not my thing. I was awkward. Shy. Reserved and withdrawn. At least I usually felt all those things.
And yes, scared.
People scared me. Being around them, talking with them, trying to connect with them. Never belonged. Connection felt like an impossible mission; I felt more disconnect than connection. And then would rehash and ruminate for hours, days and years all the things I surely did wrong in those (rare) encounters.
So in my defense or some sense of self preservation, I became a bit of a recluse, a hermit, a wild woman who lived “way out there.” And I did my best not to deal with people.
I’ve lived like a lone wolf. I’m not saying that’s a good thing. However… I once proudly boasted of not leaving the mountain for five months at a time, and going from fall to spring seeing only nine people, two of which were my husband and son.
It’s not that I didn’t like people.
It’s just that I chose to be alone.
It’s just that…
I thought I’d be better off.
I thought I’d be safer.
I thought I had all I needed, was self-sufficient, could do it all by myself.
And guess what I learned?
I was wrong.
Isolation created separation.
And separation created depression.
And in that self created state of disconnection, I found myself in a rabbit hole that got deeper and deeper and deeper still.
And into that hole I fell, deeper and deeper and deeper still.
Until I finally hit the bottom, dusted myself off, and climbed back out.
It took taking my Long Quiet Ride to wake me up to the greatest truth.
It was a trial by fire.
Throwing myself out there, in front of the bus, being at the mercy of people. OMG.
And out there, I learned two things.
First, people are good. For the most part, I mean like seriously, obviously, good is so far above and beyond bad. The fact that our population has grown to over eight billion of us is proof enough for me. Good wins.
Second, I need people. We all do. No matter how independent we fool ourselves to be. We are interdependent, and that’s a good thing. On that trip, boy did I need people. For direction, for suggestions of safe passage, for companionship, for connection, for some sense of wholeness that was left as a gaping hole while I was out there trying to do it alone.
Here’s the deal. The fear that prompted me to build my armor and protected walls didn’t keep me safe, only kept me separate.
Believe me, I had spent a lifetime of plenty of time alone and proving myself capable. That’s not what I went out there to do. I didn’t know what I was looking for but I figured it out fast. Got the message, loud and clear. And right away.
And from the very first day, I realized, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to connect.
I longed to share a meal, a story, a hug, a laugh. I wanted to be a part, no longer apart.
Now, some things remain the same. I still choose to live “way out there.”
But some things are very different.
I have learned the thing about people.
And I have learned to love people.
In small doses, admittedly. I’m still not keen on parties, potlucks and group gatherings. One-on-one is more my style. Even if it’s one-on-one with the woman at the checkout or the guy in line before me, tea with a neighbor or a long walk with an old friend, getting the story of the person sitting beside me in a waiting room, or (this will always be my personal favorite) a lingering dinner shared with my husband and son with candles, fresh bread and simple homemade food, and lots and lots of laughter and love.
I believe it is a universal truth that everyone wants to belong, to be accepted, and to be loved.
Hatred is a defense. I know all about that. It’s armor. It takes more courage to drop it than to hide behind it.
But in doing so, in freeing ourselves of our so-called protective shield, we lighten our load.
Only then can our wings unfurl big and bright and wide. Only then can we rise and soar.
I’m living proof that we can learn, we can grow. We can forgive. And (I humbly bow to those who have) we can be forgiven as well.
I’m sharing this because I wish others wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made. But I know life doesn’t work that way. We have to make mistakes in order to learn. We have to live to learn. What we’re told or taught may be intelligent, but it is not wisdom. It becomes wisdom when it soaks into our heart and soul. Then we really get it.
It took me a helluva long time to learn what a lot of you knew all along. That’s a lot of unnecessary pain, for myself, and for others. That’s a lot of loss, because really, I did miss out.
But I got it.
Finally.
A late bloomer.
Better late than never.
What does this have to do with the adventure we’re currently on, building an off grid cabin “way out there” in Colorado, while still wondering where the hell we’re meant to remain?
A lot.
Because people matter as much as place. Because people are a part of the place. Because people fill my heart in a way that the wild world cannot, and hopefully I can fill others’ hearts along the way. Because connection matters, belonging matters, and no place will ever be “the” place without that bond and love and connection with the people around you.
How can I love a place without loving (at least most of) the people who live there? Am I so shallow as to love a pretty view but not the people, the stories, the interrelation of the people who are there?
The thing about creating or finding community and the place where I belong is ever present if not on my mind than in my heart.
I don’t want to ever be isolated, separated or lonely again.
I may not be totally rocking the social scene. I’m still a quiet, wild woman, silent sort that needs more time in the trees than in town – but finally I learned I do need that time in town. With people. Connecting. Belonging. And much to my surprise, it feels so good.
Yes, it’s scary. Yes I am often still afraid.
But I have to. That’s the courage I’m building.
Though I may choose to live “way out there,” reaching out regularly allows me to live as I do, and be a part, not apart.
I am a part of humanity.
And it’s a good place to be.
Wherever that physical place may be.
And yeah, that’s the biggie I’m working on.
People are basically good. Everywhere. And I can find my people where ever I go. If I have the courage enough to open.
So the question in my heart now is, how do I figure out that balance of loving the land and the people who live there, and choosing where we are meant to remain?
How can I choose one place when I find a connection with people I meet all over the place?
Oh, that’s a biggie. I’ll save all that for another time.
I’ll conclude with a few updates from the past few days. Nothing ground breaking quite yet. Soon. Believe me, you’re not near as anxious as we are to get moving forward on this big job. But before working there is living, and right now, we’re still working on those details, and there are a lot, because it’s not just about building, it’s about living, and living takes a lot, and living does come first. A lot of little details, and some big ones too, like working on the road to access our camp and worksite with some seriously Old Iron and gravel from our land.
And the shed. Oh the shed! The shed is an amazingly awesomely wonderful gift from Bob’s sister that is turning into something we didn’t know how bad we needed, and now wonder how we’d manage without. It’s got enough room to house all our tools on shelves in plain sight, have a work table out of the elements (and elements are a thing up here, with rain and hail a daily thing). And though the shed also serves as safe storage for all those things we managed to stuff in the horse trailer on the way out here, we’re finding it even provides us with a mud room – a place to leave our muddy boots and hang out weather gear, and up here, that’s a mighty appreciated thing. It’s huge – big enough to live in, far bigger than our humble camper. Though rest assured, it’s not going to stop us from building. Just help us along the way.
The things that were easy and reliable for me to share back in California – the constant and reliable beauty and abundance of the garden we created – well, not so much here. Between the mice and mornings still freezing regularly, my so-called garden, though covered with agribon and a heavy tarp at night, is not a happy place.
Though the rest of the wilds here are. And wild it is. With endless room to roam and mountains to wander and treasures to observe. All in all, it’s big and wide and wild and my heart and soul are soaring with the ever-changing but all the same expansive view before me.
On the road with the rooster crowing at every truck stop and sleeping beside the horses at night.
The sound of the familiar, the feel of home. It’s not our first time on the road.
With a load containing chickens, horses, hay and hoses, tools, bicycles, the quad, a dozen pots filled with tomatoes, peppers, lettuce and kale, and the last of the lumber we milled – this is our most eclectic load yet. Our rig could be a site riding across Highway 50. Only there, we fit right in.
Two years ago, when I set out across this West with my horses on a Long Quiet Ride, what I wanted most was to fall in love with life again. I did. And in the process, I fell in love with this country, more than ever before. Being on the road again brings that feeling back again. Love for my country. Love for the ever changing beauty of the land, and of the people I get to meet. Love for the man beside me.
Funny it takes driving a little bit back east from California to breathe in the essence of what I expect the West to be. Maybe because the first place out West that called me was Santa Fe. Thus the smell of sage brush, salt flats and juniper berries, pinon smoke and a film of fine dust open my heart with a wakening surge of spaciousness that few times and places before allowed me to feel.
Wide open spaces, wild horses, a seemingly endless horizon that our rig chases through dusty air with not a tree in sight. Big trucks, fine thin dirt coating every single thing you touch, and dust devils out in the open brush, turkey vultures effortless soaring, and some indescribable feeling of freedom found under these uncontained wild skies.
Out there in the middle of this big open sky and seemingly endless air of spaciousness, it feels like your heart and mind, your spirit and soul, are all ripped open boundless as well.
I wish to live with a heart wide open where wild horses can roam free.
And then we are there.
Another hail storm passes through and I’m holed up in here writing to you inside what will be home for this season – a 14 foot camper circa 1964 with a pan on the little bit of floor between me and the pup, catching water that drips from the skylight, and a little counter cluttered with stuff that hasn’t yet found a place to reside for the season in the already stuffed shelves. There’s a small bed we can spoon sleep in (sometimes with the puppy as well), and a little table that will serve as kitchen, drafting table and writing desk for the season. As for plumbing, there’s a nearby outhouse, and when we finishing unpacking the trailer, a little wooden shed in which we can bath out of the cold which this place just is. As for electricity, we invested in a small portable solar system just big enough to (hopefully) keep our power tools in power, our devices operational, and provide the occational, luxurious StarLink connection. The nearest cell phone service is down the dirt road a good fifteen miles or so, but that’s nothing new for us.
Yesterday ended with store bought cheesecake (nothing like the kind Lisa makes back in CA) shared in that little bed while over Bob’s shoulder I watched a band of cow elk meandering along our path. This morning started with two big bull moose crossing pasture so close I thought it was my horses. It also began with ice in the dog water bowl and a heavy frost across our land. If you don’t think I’m regretting leaving that heavy chore coat back in California… I should have known better, but it’s hard to think of frost and freezing and chill when you’re sweating in shorts and flip flops.
Warm coats and blankets and a sense of patience and humor and we’ll get us through this season well.
Before we begin building, there’s the all essential setting up camp, our living situation, ensuring a safe and warm place for the dog, horses and chickens and us. No bragging rights here; it’s boring but necessary and stuff we forget how long it takes. But you can’t get to work without having your make shift home life function. So you gotta get camp set up and situated with things like unpacking the trailer, building shelves, clearing a work space, gathering fire wood, putting up corral panels, setting up water systems, a place to bathe (we still haven’t done that, so if you’re thinking of visiting, you may want to wait). Stuff like that. Not the exciting stuff to share, and certainly doesn’t feel like “progress” but it’s all part of the process.
Part of the process of arriving, too, is connecting slowly with the land around you. Where to look for the elk and moose. What wild flowers here are beginning their bloom. Who are the nearest neighbors and what blessings of connection do they share. What’s the best way to dip water from the creek for our camp. And of course, setting up camp.
These things take time. Now I’m kicking myself for taking more time getting the garden in and our caretaker set up back in California than anticipating what we would need here. But that’s part of the process too, part of the journey, figuring it out as we go along. And knowing we’ll be just fine.
The chickens settled right in to their new digs, They’re out there scratching in some newly leveled dirt, and didn’t miss a day laying eggs even on the road. It takes us longer, but we’ll get there too. Not laying eggs, of course, but we too will be scratching around in the dirt for sure.
Adjusting. Like a snake shedding her skin. Leaving a land already sizzling in heat waves and where fire danger is the hot topic around town. Returning to the high, wild, rough and rugged… and yes, just about always cold. Trading in those flip flops and shorty-shorts for wool socks, down vest and mittens. Yes, even in June.
Even in the trailer, my hands are cold and it’s a little hard to type. Oh, those poor tomato and pepper plants. They survived the trip. We’ll see how well they fare now living in Colorado’s high, wild country. For now, until we build a make shift greenhouse (one more project on the list), we’re putting them back in the trailer at night and covering them with cozy row cover, which comes in handy outside during the hail storms too.
Of course it’s rough to begin with. We’re used to that. Sort of. Funny we kinda forget just how hard some days can be.
You know how it is – we look back and remember the good stuff, allowing memories to be colored rose. It east to just reminisce on the laughter, the adventures, the stories, the love. And good, because there is always a lot of that too.
This time twenty something years ago, our first season together, in the one room cabin, the two of us and a nine year old boy, three cats, three dogs, and as usual, an outhouse near by.
That summer and for years afterward, living and working together, in tiny cabins, tents and construction zones, has been the norm for our home life. And often on the trail, guiding trips in the high country where we’d sleep under a tarp because tents were luxuries reserved for our guests.
When one house was done, before we even got a chance to settle in and unpack, we’d be back at it again.
This is the guy I married and the life I chose. The rough and rugged, high and wild, simple living is all good with me. The moving around, well, not so much. We’re both thinking that choosing to settle down might not be a bad idea after all. Mind you, the gypsy life is not what we wanted. It’s just that finding the place to remain forever never came to be. Life happened. Shit happened. And we moved on.
Will we have to again?
For now, all I know is, here we go again, said with both a bit of a heavy sigh and a little laugh upon my smiling lips.
And in that time and space between here and there and somewhere yet to be, there is a place, safe and warm and gentle as a quiet voice or hidden stream. Almost imperceptible, but there if we stand still long enough to hear. Like the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is there. Just waiting for us to sit down and take a breath.
Early morning low sun through massive fir trees on the edge of the forest behind me casts shadows like daggers across the meadow where the dogs romp together in tall grasses still wet with dew.
Today I sit on a simple little bench built of scraps of lumber from this land. Surrounded by soothing sounds, sounds of the familiar – the river, the birds, wind through broad oak leaves. Sounds that hold us in place.
Held by branches of a sprawling ancient oak.
I lean back into thick bark of the old oak tree. She holds me. Her branches reach around me and I feel like maybe I belong. Right here, right now.
At least for now.
I feel her embrace, like a mother, not a lover, allowing me a safe place to simply sit and be. She asks for nothing in return. The Giving Tree. As if she were only here for me.
Maybe it’s the stillness, the solitude, the simplicity, the natural beauty of this precious moment that every moment could be. Or is it the knowing that I have chosen to leave her let again to fulfill some persistent longing. Whatever it is, it washes over and I find myself for some reason wanting to cry, something that rarely happens (and I’m glad for this) since leaving menopause a safe distance behind.
It’s not that I’m sad or mad. It’s more like some sort of melting, a letting go, a complete release now that the armor is gone. Allowing myself to feel the connection with the tree, the air, the light, the dogs and the world around. All of it. Big stuff. I’m just one grain of sand along an endless shore.
Connected. Belonging. No matter where I am, though for now I find myself here against this solid tree.
I bow my head humbly into my hands and offer a place for tears to land, but really, there is no need to cry. It just feels good to know I can. Knowing I am somewhere safe enough to do so, to express myself with nature, with a natural release, a shared sense of humanity, of all living things.
And that feeling of belonging, to the trees, the grass, my dogs, to all of it, the bigger picture…
Yeah, this is big stuff I’m feeling.
And when you feel like that, what else can a gal do but cry?
And as I prepare to leave, if only for a little while, I wonder:
What holds us in place?
What brings us together?
That is what I want to know.
That is what I’m curious about. This is what I want courage for.
There’s too much separation.
A rift, a void between us all, like a looming black hole and we’re all afraid to step in and see if there’s common ground in there. But I believe there is.
A common thread that holds us together if we dare to feel it. It’s that which connects us, reminds us we’re all in this together. Maybe it’s something shared, like emotion or beauty or awe. These are things we all know. Not only that “beauty in the eye of the beholder.” But beauty in the universal sense. Like looking at the moon from fifteen hundred miles apart. Far apart as we may be, we both stare in wonder.
Please, tell me there is. Solid ground between us. Somehow I need to know this as I find myself leaving something solid, and stepping into the air of unknown.
No more time for baby steps. Now it’s time to leap.
Still, somehow there’s plenty of time to run after baby chicks with my camera and cut a barrage of bouquets just because. But packing? Ha! It’s oddly easy to put that off, waiting until the last minute, then stressing and sweating and running around like a wild hare… But no matter how it gets done, it will get done, and we’ll be on the road. Again.
This time will be different. Every time is.
This time, we’ll be together, and that is a comfort I don’t take for granted. Always harder alone, but sometimes we gotta do that too.
This time too I know where we are heading and the route we’ll take to get there. At least I know this more or less. It’s high and wild, rough and raw and rugged, and I am drawn to all of that as well.
It’s that pioneer spirit.
Or is it gypsy blood?
Maybe I’m just curious.
Curiosity is a curious thing.
How will I know unless I try, taste, touch and see for myself?
For is not curiosity the driving force behind pioneers, travelers, explorers, and even us simple folks with itchy feet?
In any case, curiosity calls. Loud and clear. And as if lured by the Pied Piper, I’m dancing that way.
For now, we are here, and at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.
A morning cacophony of summer bird songs makes me smile before I even get out of bed. From the kitchen table over morning coffee, we watch chicks on pasture and goslings in the river and rose blooms so heavy the bushes bend in abundance. Finally the garden has hit that point of saturation where we’re harvesting more than we can eat each day. There are few things, like a barn full of hay and the firewood shed stacked full, that make me feel like a wealthy woman. Today, my coffee cup runs over.
Now begins the challenge of seeing all over again. The promise of polish in a very rough stone.
Fair thee well for now, my beloved Riverwind, my haven in the hills holding me as if between generous breasts with your untamed river wrapped around this mild, wild land and entangling my spirited heart along the way.
Things shifted overnight from, “We got this,” to “Holy crap, are we gonna get this?”
We leave in one week.
So far, the stress hasn’t come from thinking about building a cabin from the ground up in one season (we’ll see how far we get), at an elevation of 10,000 feet, while tending to horses, chickens, dog, and garden (yes, I am bringing a “portable garden”) all the while spending the summer together in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 without running water or electricity but with an outhouse nearby, a bucket to bathe in, and as usual, no where near neighbors, pavement or cell phone service. That said, we are setting up a simple solar system just large enough to charge cordless tools and operate starlink from time to time. Our compromise at modern living.
What has been harder is preparing to leave this place behind.
That’s where our attentions and efforts have been. Mowing, weedwacking, weeding, watering, organizing, tidying, trying to get this place in a space that will safely hold its center in our absence. And still finding time to be with beloved friends and neighbors, the river, the wind, the air and essence and little bit of tended wild that is this wonderful place.
And of course… there is this. The garden. My baby.
For anyone who has ever tended to the land with nearly as much love as we gave to our children, you know what it’s like.
Seems like this baby is always the biggest user of my time. Sucks time away and I don’t even notice it’s disappeared until I wonder where the day has gone and why I am so hungry. But you know, they say it’s those kinds of things, those things that you totally lose yourself in, and lose track of time, that show you where your true passion lies. Gardening is one. Most anything outdoors, I guess. Working the horses, riding, hiking, and writing inspired by the wild…
It wasn’t always that way, and maybe that’s part of what makes it so endearing to me.
Here are a few “before” pictures Bob pulled up of this land, to share the perspective of space where the garden now grows.
This was a baby born in a painful birth of being scraped with a skid steer to clear the open slate.
That was nearly six years ago. Almost six years of watching her grow, spread her wings, and fly, deeply grounded. Six years of hauling a shit load of top soil from the other side of our land, mail ordered earthworms, innumerable bags of steer manure and organic amendments to get her growing, and shoveling manure every single day I was here. Keeping the poop in the loop, and the loop ever growing.
And now, see what a few years can do?
To her, I have given blood, sweat and tears. Lots of tears. I cried a lot when we first broke ground. “It will never work, it will never grow, it will never be beautiful,” I would cry to Bob quite regularly. As usual, he’d just patiently listen and watch as I got back to work. I am glad to say I was wrong.
She has provided for us in kind year round. For a couple with a primarily vegetable based diet, that’s something to be proud of. Yes, it means we eat simply and yes, it gets boring at times. Believe me, by March we’re usually pretty sick of old winter squash and bitter kale while we’re waiting for the new crops to outgrow the slugs after winter’s heavy rains.
I’m sitting there now, flip flops kicked off and toes thick in grass, listening to swallows chatter about their nesting box while swallowtail butterflies and hummingbirds dance around the profusion of brilliant colors just beginning to emerge for the season. And all the while this intoxicating fragrance of rose, oh! all these roses! gracefully bowing as they bend in abundance, most of which were started by sticks I stuck in the ground and trusted they would grow. They did. While meanwhile and always, this space is serenaded by the ever present hum of the river that wraps around this land.
Of all the work we did here, clearing, cleaning, caring, opening dry and dead and overgrown, trash strewn and fire damaged that was this land when we first arrived, the garden has grown to the crown jewel of the land.
Beside the roses, what I’m most enamored by is all the fruit trees we’ve gifted to the land: apples and pears, plum and persimmons, walnut and almond and fig. And most endearing to me are the peach trees started from seed. You see, four years ago, the Old Man gave me five pits. He had saved them ten years and handed them over with reverence. Told me they were the best peaches he ever had, so he planned on planting them some day. I gave it a try. Put those pits in a pot with some soil and set them out in the garden all winter and lo and behold, by spring, shoots shot up and last year, I picked the first peaches. A humble start, but worth it indeed. This year, those trees, though still somewhat small, are laden with fruit and bending to the weight of their juicy promise… which (don’t remind me, please!) I will not be here to enjoy. Funny things is, one of those peach trees looked a little different. Turns out it’s a nectarine. I love these little surprises in life.
One final breath out here in this little bit of paradise, then time to get back to work, loading the last of the lumber into the horse trailer that will carry a lot more than horses on this trip across the West.
A deep breath. With our departure just a week away, yes, it gets scary at times.
Scared? Yes. Change is always scary, isn’t it? Change of pace, change of place.
Change of heart?
Hopefully only a heart growing, expanding, unfurling like the roses surrounding me.
Mine is not a fearless heart.
I would rather it be a courageous heart.
For I would rather a heart that loves and cares and longs deeply enough that it knows what fear feels like, and chooses to love and care and long above that fear. I would rather a heart courageous enough to step forth into fear, like stepping into the stirrup and settling onto the back of a bronc.
It’s not what you might be thinking. It’s not about trying to be bigger, badder, better than badass.
Hell no.
Instead, it’s about what you do, where you go, who you are when you (try to) leave being badass behind. When you begin to push that part of your identity, or at least, that thing you’ve always strived to be, to the wayside. When the time comes to strip yourself of your armor, and find true courage to just be you… whatever, whoever that may be.
Maybe it will mean being badass after all.
Or maybe not.
We’ll see.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve worn a big knife on my belt. My first one was gifted to me well before my son was born. It’s been over three decades of different knives, but almost always some sort of blade hanging at my hip.
People think it’s to be badass or something (and yes, maybe it is a little of that) but if you walk around with me, you’ll see it’s used to cut thistles, dig up dandelions, open bales of hay, and a dozen other things daily. It gets used a lot. In fact, the few times I leave it home (it doesn’t go over so well in big cities, kids camps nor airplane travel), I end up feeling a little lost and find myself reaching for it like the handy tool it really is. Nothing badass about it, you see?
Is there life beyond badass?
Now, with just two weeks before we load up horses, chickens, tools and camp and head towards Colorado, that’s what I’m trying to keep in mind (and heart and soul) as we prepare to leave leave this safe, secure, serene oasis behind, at least for a little while, and head to rough and rugged, high and wild, and the adventurous spirit that ain’t about comfort and ease.
Do I have to be badass again?
Just when I thought I was softening…
“The hell I won’t.”
“Different” is the word they used to describe me when I was growing up. Gee, thanks.
WTF is different?
My brothers had brains, my sister had beauty, so me, I decided, I’d have… I’d be badass.
That was my personal choice for defining different. And when you’re different, I guess you have a choice.
And so it was. Badass it would be. It became that protective shield I could hide behind, felt safe behind.
I did my darnedest to keep up that identity, though I’ll save those stories for another time.
All I knew as a kid was that I was different, and well, that kinda sucks.
Different.
As in…?
I decided it meant find your own way. Take care of yourself. Get tough. Be badass.
Badass it would be. I’d carry that like a badge. Or a shield. Of course, a lot of us carry a shield we think will keep us safe, but all it really does is keep us apart.
What the hell did I know then?
Different they said I was; different I would be.
Now I’m old enough to be me. And very much a part.
Time to crack that badass armor open.
What’s underneath? We’ll see. Maybe a lot of mush. If so, would that really be so bad?
I’m thinking it’s a little more solid than that. Maybe more like clay. Soft and smooth and pliable, resilient and creative. Good stuff. The stuff we’ve all been waiting to share. The really rich inner river where you can lay back and float and find yourself flowing just fine, thank you very much.
Underneath that armor a lot of us hide behind (I think I’m not the only one) we all have a part of that river flowing through us, the surge of common humanity, streaming with shared experiences and emotions which serve as both fragile and tenacious veins like silken threads that hold us together, and keep us afloat.
But that’s deeper than I care to go this week. You’re off the hook for now.
Seems like badass is a popular thing to be these days. Right on, I get it. It’s been a guiding principle in my life, that’s for sure.
But it has a downside. Everything does. And maybe that downside makes it, at least for me in my ripening years, something I’m seriously thinking of leaving behind.
You know “badass” is a shell we hide behind that’s supposed to keep us safe. Maybe it does. Worked well enough for me. But badass as an identity can also be a wall that separates us from others. A wall that can be pretty hard to scale, you know?
It separates. Sets you apart. At least that’s how it worked for me. When what I really wanted (don’t we all?) is to be a part.
Time to connect.
Here’s an update:
I broke down and got a phone two years ago. I’m still not proud to admit that.
And if I didn’t then, now it’s really happening. I’m entering the modern era. At least I’m giving it a try. I’m learning social media. Just last week, I set up an Instagram account, mostly so I can check out the tiny homes and puppy pictures my sister likes to share. But it’s kind of fun. Maybe it’s not all that evil. (Just a little bit.) Maybe it really can help us all connect and find that common thread. Though so much of what I see out there is still about separation.
For now, I’m going to use it as a way of connecting. And of softening, a medium to share something beautiful everyday, something beautiful from this beautiful, gentle land and river that hold me, that let me soften and see, deeply, clearly, leaning in, safely.
And then, well, we’ll see. Then we’ll be in the high country where it’s all about open spaces, harsh and wild, and safety is a little more uncertain. But that doesn’t mean I have to be like the land.
One can be a soft spot in a hard place.
I think.
We’ll see.
So about being on social media, please, that does not mean I’m suddenly going to be posting selfies!
However…
I did it. Did a selfie with a bestie.
See? Modern woman.
“Sometimes a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.”
Oh, and… as for that new nose piercing? You might say I should know better at my age. I say I’m old enough to know what I want. That’s one of my favorite things about aging. I don’t need to give a damn any more (though oft times I choose to). Thirty five years ago when I got my first tattoo, it was something I had to hide. Now even my parents say ink is cool. In the shop where Cindy and I went in for our bling, the kids working there said about fifty percent of their clients were old as us. Times change, and so do we.
In my ripening age, I’m thinking it’s time to stop striving for badass. Really, my muscles and skin are already softening, or at least starting to sag. Go with the flow sort of thing.
Maybe softening is one of the privileges of age. It’s not so much becoming a fine wine. At least not for me. Feels more like oak barrel whiskey, and that’s okay by me.
That said, I don’t think I’m gonna turn to mush anytime soon.
It’s more like I’ve cracked the badass shell and now am learning to let molten lava flow.
And yet that thing about leaving this comfortable place for a while and heading out and up to high, harsh and wild… for sure it’s a little scary. And nuts. The challenge is in being in the harsh environment and still allowing my self to soften. Can I? Or does that work and world require badass, like Jeremiah Johnson and the Man from Stony River?
Not any more. Besides, they both had a soft side too.
I can write my own adventure. Be my own hero. Need not try to be the Terminator any more. And certainly never wanted to be a Disney princess. Just me.
And maybe being me need not require being badass. Just a little crazy.
In that time and space between here and there and somewhere else, there is this.
A slow gentle unfurling. Of the breath, of your heart, of all the crazy busy things we all have to do and should have done yesterday but really, you know, can wait.
A time to smell the roses, quite literally in this case, in the garden, as blooms begin their annual renaissance and the grande display for nose and eyes begins one petal at a time.
In the days before we leave here and head there, there is time to lay back in the lush grass of the garden and revel in the roses just coming on, heavy and bending and fragrant and bright.
Just enough time.
There has to be.
What matters more?
One more milled board, mowed lawn, window washed, garden bed weeded, or top of cupboard cleaned?
Well, maybe.
But no. Take time. Make time. There is time.
Would my life go on if I missed a weed? What about if I missed this moment?
I’m trying to remain present. Here and now. Be her now, you know how it goes.
Love where I am which is not hard to do as there is so much to love.
Vibrant green meadows, glossy new full leaves on these ancient sprawling oaks, baby chicks hidden in the jungle that the grass is growing into, swelling fruit on peach trees. Geese and ravens, redwing and quail, and the phoebe that has nested in the eve above the picnic table every year since we’ve been here. Horses fat and sassy needing to be escorted into the barn at night because really, leaving that lush meadow is not what they choose to do. The new dog running circles around the old dog (funny since the old dog was the young one just a few years ago).
And yes, those roses.
I sit out on the steps at night under the light of the waxing moon, tired sore and sunburned from a full day which for so many of us is an integral part of spring, and a calm sense of anticipation washes over me, soft and silver as the light in the cloudless night sky.
A heavy letting go.
I have left and returned before.
The calm before the chaos. Twenty days before we load the horses and chickens and last of the lumber we milled and make our way across Highway 50, heading to the high country of Colorado to break ground.
Leaving our little bit of paradise behind is not new for me. Remember, two years ago how I up and left this time of year with a few horses and a four month challenge to make it Colorado?
This time we’re driving.
A different adventure awaits.
After a journey of seeking, which the Long Quiet Ride was, I thought I found the answers. My excitement to be “home” was overwhelming, coming over me soft and bright like a gentle swell ready to embrace me. So close I could taste it. Only rather than receiving the loving arms of this land, I was punched in the gut. I returned to the greatest trauma of the whole trip, which kind of broke the whole thing up. And left me wondering (among other things): Where?
That was then.
Now, it’s a different adventure, different journey.
I’m not saying my inability to sit still is a good thing. But it is a thing.
It’s not just itchy feet. It’s a longing. That longing to belong. Harmonizing with curiosity.
Stepping outside the box is easier when you don’t have a box to begin with.
So we’re setting out to build another box.
And holding onto this one, just in case.
Alas, it’s just a box. Something to define and confine.
And at the same time, hold you tight.
Here’s little ditty for Mother’s Day.
As the garden grows and the seasons change, so do we.
I don’t have a bucket list. If I really want to do something, chances are I’ll do it.
I have few regrets, few things I didn’t do that I wish I had.
I hope you feel the same.
Not that I did them all well. That’s not the point.
The point is, I tried. And failure is part of the path. The yin to the yang. You know.
Still…
There are times I wish I knew more before I dove in to certain things.
Mothering tops that list.
As in: if I knew then what I know now…
But it takes living and learning to know.
I am somewhat in awe of the few mothers I know who feel they did it all right. I was not one of them. Few mothers are.
For it takes failing, falling and fucking up. Really. I’m afraid it does. If you don’t do all those things, you haven’t tried. And if you’re not trying, you’re not learning and growing and really living. You’re stuck like a stick in the mud, right? Like all living things, we cannot remain stagnant for long.
Okay, so I failed, fell and fucked up maybe more than most, I dunno. But no one ever accused me of not trying.
That’s how mothering was for me.
The things I wish I knew… Why don’t they teach that stuff in school? I don’t mean changing diapers and dealing with leaking boobs; I mean the important stuff like understanding emotions, communicating clearly, listening. Tools to remain calm and patient and kind when you’re sleep deprived, financially strapped, frustrated, confused, and feeling alone. Seriously, that stuff is way more important than Roman History and Algebra, right?
Seems like there is a trend and current expectation that mothers are now meant to be perfect, and parent perfectly. That’s not only wrong, it’s not possible. Besides, if perfect was possible, by whose standards of perfection would we judge?
Sheltering children, coddling their wisdom, padding their world and giving them all the answers rather than allowing them the time and space to figure it out themselves? How will they learn to learn? Sometimes you gotta skin your knees.
A balance between the two, between being handed life to you in a silver spoon or on a silver platter – and the school of hard core hard knocks, would of course be ideal. But I’ve yet to see a truly ideal life. Reality is unique, not ideal. There’s always ups and down, good and bad, so accepting and learning to live with that reality is one of those things we don’t want but we do need.
I’ve been a mama for 32 years. I don’t write about him much because (1) he probably doesn’t appreciate it, and (2) he’s is Colorado, not California. (Suddenly that choice to build in Colorado makes some sense, yes?)
Nothing has ever mattered more to me, or defined my choices more, than being a mom.
So many say the same. As we stare off softly, upward, maybe inward, a gentle smile upon our lips, and you know what we are thinking about.
Our children.
Our pride and joy. Not the pride for having, say, built a cabin or put in a gorgeous garden. It’s different. It’s not ours. It’s for them. I can’t explain that kind of pride well. Can you?
Have I told you how proud I am of mine? Not for making the most of what I gave him, but for making so much on his own. From his adaptability to his authenticity, from his self-earned college education to his successful career. From his empathy in dealing with dear old mom and dad, to his badass ways behind the wheel or at the shooting range.
I’d like to take credit for teaching him. I used to say I homeschooled him. Truth is, he self-schooled. I’m a pretty crappy teacher, and the two of us, well, we butt heads. He figured it out himself. Pretty damn well, I dare say.
I am guilty all too often of giving unsolicited advice. But the best advice I think I gave him, showing, not telling, thus teaching by example, was this: you gotta figure it out yourself. That is how we learn. And you can. If you want to. You can make mistakes, and change direction, and drop out and divorce, fall apart and get back up, and with all of that, we learn, we grow, we live, our own beautiful, unique, magical, mysterious, authentic life.
It’s like the old Zen teacher telling her student:
I can point to the moon. But you have to find your own way there.
And if you’re stubborn, like my son is (can’t imagine where he learned that) then chances are, you also gotta find your own moon.
So what do I know now that I wish I knew then?
Oh, so much! Let’s start with:
Cultivating curiosity and compassion.
Took me along time to learn this was okay. More than okay. That’s where the beauty of life is born.
Then propagate creativity and courage, which can come naturally with a solid foundation and safe place to “try.”
Get comfortable making mistakes, and learn how to learn from each one.
For sure, the Old Man’s Three C’s: care, connect and contribute.
Belong. To the land. To the people. To your dreams.
And finally, love. Deeply, passionately, beautifully. Whatever, whoever you want to love. Love. Have the courage to love. Even when (not if) your heart gets broken, you lose someone or something, or you change your mind. Find the courage to open your heart wide, more fully, more wholly, less discriminating. That’s the key to living fully, deeply, richly.
Connection, connecting from the heart, is the greatest reason to live.
Love.
Don’t be stingy with love. I promise: it will never run out.
Okay, finally, that thing about an invitation.
Ready?
Here it goes.
Yes, I ramble. But have you noticed? I’m rambling to you.
My writing is meant to be a conversation between us. At times it feels one sided. I do the sharing. You do the reading. But there’s no connection between us.
Why not?
I’ve said this before: This blog was started as a way of sharing our “out there” lifestyle. But instead of being a how-to or pretending to be an expert, more often than not it’s about “in there.” Usually it’s a combination of the two, and always, always, a good excuse for me to work on my craft, for the love of writing. However in addition to all that, it’s also a way for me to reach out, share, and connect.
That said, it matters to me to know people are out there, reading this regular random outpouring. When I check the numbers on this blog, folks are reading it. But only a small percentage, it appears, leave comments, “like” on Facebook, write me directly, sign up to subscribe or otherwise share the connection.
Speaking of sharing, this is a video shared by Cathy this week. It’s wonderful. If you’ve “listened to” some of the videos I shared in the past, you’ll see why she shared it, and why I love it:
So here’s the invitation.
Inviting you to share in kind.
I’m putting myself out there for you.
Will you please let me know you’re reading, that you’re with me, that somehow we are in this together?
To those who have been responding via the blog, leaving a note or like on Facebook, or writing me directly – I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
For those who are just passing by, seeing if you want to stay a while, I welcome you to return and see if what I say and how I say it is worthy of your time.
For those who DO return to read somewhat regularly, if you enjoy my work, please let me know.
BTW, WordPress, who hosts this blog, makes it real easy to subscribe (see the bottom of this page), and equally easy to unsubscribe. I do hope to share more often (maybe twice a week?) once the building project gets underway. Right now we’re just warming up, in the early, what would you call this milling madness: pre-fun stage? In kind, I will do my best to honor your time, not flood your inbox, sell my meager mailing list, or otherwise curse you with spam and bad karma.
Covered in sawdust and gear grease and dressed in baggy shorts not long enough to hide skinny white legs sticking out below, scraped up knees and all. Skin like rawhide and at times, admittedly, a personality to match.
This is no hot date.
These are two videos I took yesterday of us at the mill for anyone curious what our hot times look – and sound – like. In this case, loud. Yes, we wear ear protection. Bob is already hearing impaired. I can’t afford to be too.
My cinematography sucks, but that’s not what it’s about. It’s just an attempt to show you how it works.
There’s a sign I found a few years back that I just had to have and hung at the entrance to our ranch.
“Beware of the wife,” it reads, and if you know, you know it’s no joke. Depending on what mood I’m in, how tired I am, how late it is, and how late you are.
Still, I’ve been told more than once,”She cleans up well.” I think that was a compliment. I think?
In any case, this week found us dirtier than usual, arguing out of short tempters and frustration, not with one another but from working with rotten wood, in the heat and wondering why we’re doing this – and how the hell are we going to make it work. And of course, taking it out on each other. That’s the downside of partnership, of working with the one you love. They get the brunt of it, whatever “it” may be. We both are guilty of this. And working alongside one another as we’ve done for over twenty years, when the going gets rough, you can’t just walk away.
I wouldn’t want to if I could.
The comfort in commitment. The joy in being able to make each other smirk and smile, laugh and long, even during a downright dirty day. That’s good stuff.
Comfort in commitment… above and beyond love, and that’s the absolute essence. There’s commitment to habit and routine as well.
This is mine.
Early morning.
The alarm rouses me before the roosters. Right now that’s just past five. Slowly outside shapes emerge in shades of gray. Colors are slow to awaken. It’s a while still before sun graces the top of the farthest hill I can see from this little land tucked in as womb along the untamed river.
Now is the quiet time after frogs have settled and before robins wake. Even the dogs still sleep. The only sound is the river, humming as a steady wind. It is a time of tranquility, as if life on hold, the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is a time to get in yoga and meditation practice, sharing the mat with two dogs and two cats. It is a time to softly putter about the cabin, often lit only by the setting moon or a single flickering flame. Time to get the wood stove going and the kettle on, coffee ready before Bob wakes, then time to write (often by candle light) before heading out to care for chickens and horses and walk the dogs.
Comfort comes in the familiar, in sounds like rain on the metal roof when I’m still in bed and the ticking of the cast iron woodstove contracting, a signal for me to put another log on the fire.
I like routine. It’s a safe place. In a world filled with chaos and conflict and unknowns, this is my solid ground, my foundation, a cradle that gives me some sense of stillness and calm. A time to be and breathe before the dirt and grease, sawdust and sweat, grit and grind.
The quiet before the noise.
(If you saw that video of the mill, you know what I’m talking about.)
Late afternoon.
Taking a break, laying back on lush grass, together with a couple of dogs.
Long golden shadows. Big cumulus clouds like plumes of smoke growing and gathering. The air is perfumed with blossoms of wild madrone and apple. Oak leaves suddenly full and waving in the wind as abundant undergrowth comes to life. The first of the turtles and gopher snakes cross the dirt road. Wild geese have come to rest among chickens and horses on pasture of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. The puppy plays with the big old dog (funny because the big old one was the young one just a few years ago), and mama hen pecks in the grass with her five little chicks around her.
Sawdust and the sound of the mill feel far away. This feels like a dream. A dream I didn’t know was in me.
Get real. It’s unreal.
Who’s to say what’s real?
Living in a place which most days feel pretty dreamy, we’re often told this isn’t real.
Okay then, what is?
“It’s not the real world,” they may say of this kind of life, this place, how folks like us chose to live.
I get it. Growing up in the suburbs just outside “the” city, I didn’t know a life like this was possible, didn’t know this world existed.
“Grow up and get a real job,” you’re taught.
“Wake up and get real,” people tell you.
“C’mon… get over it… join the real world,” is what you hear.
Took growing up for me to figure out what “real” really was.
Am I living a dream? I dunno. Pinch me. I’m awake. Seems pretty real to me. And at the same time, sure enough, this is a dream come true.
Guess you gotta start by having dreams. Boy, did (and do) I.
I dream. Then get to work. Hard work. Willing to live with dirt and bugs, blood and bruises, and regular cold and wind; live in cars and tents, mud shacks and mobile homes in someone else’s back yard; live without indoor plumbing, central heating and heaven forbid, luxuries like hair dryers, coffee makers and cell phone service. “Live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later,” we once read. I am willing to try.
That’s what dreaming has meant for me. That was the price I paid. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
Everyone’s got their own price, their own path, their own definition of what “living a dream” might be. I don’t know what that means for you. I just hope you’re living it too.
If not, there’s still time.
Who says you’re too old (or young or poor or whatever the excuse)?
I don’t ever want to stop growing up. And I don’t ever want to be stuck being grown up, either.
Growing up doesn’t mean to me now what it meant when I was young. Maybe because now I’m easily as old as what I thought grown ups were supposed to be, but I sure don’t feel like them. Then I thought grown up meant boring and stuffy and sensible shoes, clean jeans and finger nails and well groomed hair, sitting at a desk all day and raking leaves on weekends; cocktails promptly at five o’clock and nothing much gets done after that. No thanks. That’s not for me.
As a kid, too, I remember thinking that being grown up was some required state of feeling like you know it all, losing that sense of curiosity, wonder, and awe. I haven’t felt that, and hope I never do because the moment we feel we know it all, have all the answers and/or have the right to speak our truth as if it were “the” truth, we start closing. We stop seeing. Stop hearing. We lose our sense of wonder and we turn into old farts. Not the most eloquent choice of words, but you get the point.
What makes life living more than curiosity, wonder and awe?
And of course, love.
That’s the magic of life. The hot and spicy. The zip and zesty. The fascination and enchantment that makes life worth living.
That childlike sense of openness.
The beginners mind.
Finding magic every day.
Making magic, too.
The ability to laugh at dumb jokes. And laugh at yourself.
The reminder to smile warmly at strangers, and enjoy watching kids and puppies play.
The nudging to just let it go when you’re cut off at the end of a passing lane or that parking spot you were vying for is taken before you can back in.
It’s taking time to smell the roses, watching baby geese take their maiden voyage, laying back in the grass or against the front steps with your eyes closed and listening to crickets on a still summer eve.
It’s listening to the same old stories from an old man or same old jokes from your partner, and still chuckling every time.
It’s having your breath taken away as a pair of red tail hawk do their courtship dance overhead or watching thunderheads build for the first time this year gracing us with an unexpected blast of thunder so sudden the puppy barks.
It’s accepting that you’ll never know it all, control it all, or do it all, but having fun trying, maybe failing, and trying again.
If missing out on any of that is what growing up means, I’m glad it didn’t happen to me.
Growing up is a work of art, fluid and ever changing, like an endless emerging of butterfly wings.
It’s not a place we get to – you know, as in “being there.” Rather, it’s an evolution that lasts as long as we are blessed to live our one wild life.
Now it’s the end of the week. We’ve kissed and made up. And washed up. Even got a little rain to keep down the dust and water the garden without moving a hose.
Now we’re back out there, getting ready to stack the next load of boards and beams for Bob to take to Colorado. All the bells and whistle and gears and grease are doing what they’re supposed to do. The broken rototiller remains broken but we borrowed the neighbor’s working one. (Thank you, George.) The garden shines and grows, somehow joyously. And looks like we finally figured out a floor plan we can build in one season with the material we’ve been working to amass.
Keep on keeping on.
It’s what we do. Would I want it any other way?
I choose to keep living the life we live and love doing what we’re doing, with wonder and awe, feeling fulfilled and full of joy by doing what we do, together.
All of it. The ups and downs and ins and outs and round and rounds and all.
Gin Getz 