One day snow. The next a river of rain in the sky. And then we’re out working in shirt sleeves while it’s 75 in the sun.
The river slowly settles after the dumping of warm rain stripped snow from the hills and even the mountains appear bare.
Early morning, robins speckle the pasture along with horses, chickens and the backyard covey of thirty or so plump round quail that scamper for shelter in still leafless blackberry groves when the dogs and I walk by.
Five geese, newly returned for their breeding season down by the shore, bickering over who will claim this prime nesting ground with green grass and guard dogs.
The chirping of the phoebe that spent winter nights tucked in under the eve over the porch door is finally met with her partners whistle, having recently returned from who knows where.
This morning all remain enveloped in a veil of heavy air, a layer of thick fog separating us from the sky.
The inevitability of change.
And the reluctance, at times to the point of refusal and denial, to change.
In an hour or two, the sun will shine. The air will feel lighter. The geese will settle. The chickens and quail will stay in the shade as the red tail rests on the tip of the tallest snag and the almond blossoms will lure honey bees with their heavenly fragrance that enwraps me as I turn fresh soil and scatter seeds nearby.
Shine, sister, shine.
Sometimes it feels like the last spark is petering out.
Alright, this one got long. Grab a cup of coffee and sit back when you have some time, if you’re willing to read it through.
At my age, you start to hear it more often:
You should teach that! With all your years and experience, you have so much to share! Is this a compliment, or another way to tell me I’m getting old?
In my case, it’s stuff like herbs, wild crafting, writing, cooking and baking, off grid living, and horses, which I spent a lot of years already doing.
There are plenty of experts out there. I have no interest in being one.
See, I’ve never believed I would be a good teacher because I still feel the best way to learn is by figuring it out yourself. Not being told by someone else how to do things their way. Find your own damn way.
At least, that’s how it works for me. Always thought it would be easier if someone could give me the answers. But then is that really learning, or is it remembering what someone once told you? For wisdom to sink into your bones and your belly, you have to live it. Yourself. Your own unique path. All the damned mistakes, misunderstandings, misjudgments, mess-ups and all.
Funny thing is, all the same, I’ve always secretly longed for a teacher, a guide, a guru. Sometimes just for reassurance. Because more often than not, likely I won’t agree with what he or she is telling me. But it’s a good prompt. It’s comforting. And people love to give advice so they can feel they have all the answers. But is it always in your best interest? That’s for you to figure out.
Sometimes help is a great thing. The encouragement of courage. The direction for taking the next step when sometimes you can’t see where your feet are meant to go. And it reminds you, you are not alone. Which with writing, can be a thing.
Other times, you need to figure it out yourself. After all, it is your path, and your feet ultimately that will walk it.
I think it comes down to this: Do you believe in yourself? And do you believe in others?
Believing in yourself in so far as you can stop counting on others for wisdom you already have or will figure out. Everyone is not wiser, better or more than you. You got what you need, got what it takes. You got your own trip around the sun. You have the ability to make it brighter every year. No one ever can do that for you.
Believing in others in so far as trusting that they too have the wisdom they seek inside them. They can figure it out for themselves. You are neither better nor less than them. They don’t need you to teach them your trip. You are not the expert. Everyone’s got their own trip. Let them take it.
Okay but… truth is, I have worked with coaches, and I love that. They’re different. Coaches help you find your own answers. They don’t give you theirs. That’s fun. That helps. They are more like cheerleaders. Not teachers, guides or gurus. And who amongst us couldn’t use some cheering on?
Mentors are similar, with the added bonus of they might hold a little more weight. They might actually have something you are looking for. Maybe answers. Maybe a career or life path you’re trying to follow. Sometimes a specific skill or trade or way of thinking. Good stuff here too. And a good reminder that this is where age and accrued wisdom really pays off – when you are able to share it with others. Not just amass it for your self. What good is that?
Though do remember that wisdom does not necessarily come with age. It’s not a guarantee any more than expecting wisdom to come from books or school or teachers telling you. It comes from experiencing those truths, yourself, then contemplating what they mean. It comes from learning by living. Not just going through the motions, but understanding them. Wisdom is the beautiful balance between knowledge, experience and deep understanding. Age can be on your side there.
All this rambling is inspired by this.
This past week I’ve been spending a lot more time than usual at my desk staring at the screen. In part because of the rain. In part because it’s work. Not the fun, inspiring, creative writing of getting my latest book moving along. This week has been work to get the book proposal (for A Long Quiet Ride) ready to send out. This is big and scary stuff. Finally reaching out to the pros and saying, “Is this good enough? Am I good enough?”
Of course what I really want is someone to tell me, “Yes that is good” before I even send it out. But no one does. First of all because no one but Bob has seen it. Though of course he always says it’s good.
Where are the mentors when you need one? The elders who can lend an ear, or a hand? When we’re really feeling lost, that’s when we most want a guide or guru. This week I was feeling I needed one. Guidance. Answers. Direction. A pat on the back. Something.
And then I got the answer I needed.
It came in the form of an owl.
If you take things as signs (as I tend to do), you know Owl is a symbol for inner wisdom. She’s also a symbol of the Divine Feminine.
Last time Owl came to me was after my long quiet ride, on our ride back from Colorado to California. It’s dark early morning, Bob’s driving out of the place where we camped for a few hours for a quick rest, almost halfway home, somewhere in Nevada. Crow and Bayjura are rocking back in the trailer, calm and still despite the movement of the trailer after all they’d been through. We’re pushing it, rushing to get home because we heard Canela was missing. As we ease out of the parking lot onto Highway 50, an owl crashes into the windshield. Hard. I knew it had died. I cried and screamed because I knew what it meant. Canela was dead.
This time, this past week, this handsome little fellow crashed into the glass on my kitchen door. Chances are he was after the phoebe who lives in the eve over the door. I rushed out to check on him, so afraid of what I’d find. Lifted his limp body in my hands and held him close to my chest as I brought him inside.
A moment later, I felt his talons grip strong on the flesh of my palm and my heart alighted. Within minutes, he was able to fly free.
I shared that story this weekend with a couple of soul sister poets with whom I get to gather with online once a month.
“You already have the mentor you need,” one blurted out firmly.
You know sometimes when you hear the right answer (even sometimes when you don’t want to) it hits you in the gut strong like a punch? Bam. Yes. You know it’s true.
This was one such time.
“What more of a mentor do you need?” she continued.
“Draw on your connection with the Earth, with the Divine Feminine.
She knows where you need to be, what you need to do. Ask her. Within.”
Yup. Gotcha.
The choice is yours.
How do you choose to see?
With self empowering wisdom? Balancing understanding with a continual childlike open mind?
Or feeling you don’t know enough, don’t have enough, aren’t enough, and all the answers will come from someone else? Like where, what? The perfect parent, teacher or Prince Charming?
It’s not just for work, like getting this proposal together. It’s about life.
A friend wrote recently so sad that as a new mom not enough people where showing up, helping out. When I was a young single mom, likely I felt the same way. But that’s grumbling, whining, blaming, being the victim of our life rather than the creator.
I asked her who she reached out to in kind. She hadn’t. Ah ha!
If you need a friend, go be a friend.
Don’t wait.
Don’t be the victim of your own life.
Have the courage to reach out, create connection.
Have the courage to do something beautiful for someone else.
There’s healing in that.
There’s connection in that.
There’s love in that.
We all want the same stuff. We want to feel safe, to belong, to be loved.
If you want something, if you need something, nobody knows but you. Don’t wait for someone to carry it to you when chances are they have their own issues holding them down. Go get it. Chances are, they will receive you, beautifully.
Sounds like I’m giving advice. Really, I’m just talking to myself. Reminding myself. Or trying to drum the wisdom in.
So what’s the best advice I was probably given, didn’t listen to, and eventually had to just figure out?
(besides “give more than you take,” “listen without judgments or assumptions,” and maybe just “be good.”)
It’s this:
The answers you’re looking for, the advice you’re seeking… It’s already in you.
Listen.
Inside.
Not to something or someone out there. Not all the time at least. Not for the really big stuff, or the ultimate answers.
Be your own guru.
You have heard this too.
Others can point to the moon, but only you can find your way there.
Life will test us, allow us to learn, hopefully not always the hard way.
If you’re gonna leap, and I hope you do, get to weaving your own damn net.
Find your own answers. Your own truth. Your own goodness and beauty and truth.
This has nothing to do with writing or rain or riding through the wilds.
It’s political.
Because I choose not to be.
I don’t get what’s up with our world. But I can’t not see it. So what’s a gal to do? You see; you feel; you care. And then what? At some point, you’re gonna stand up and do something. Hopefully, something good. We all need that.
More and more of us can’t watch the news. Bad for mental health. It’s like watching a brutal boxing match, or ancient gladiators in a pit, or a really bad WWE show. Two sides in a barbaric fight, a fight to the death, while the spectators, show leaders and ringmasters egg the battle on, laughing at the foolish, bloody pawns they’re playing against each other.
No thanks.
If I was standing on the fence, which at times I feel I am, how could I choose sides when at their core, both sides are good? Good folks with good values wanting a good life for their children, but somehow pushed to this dark place of devaluing and dehumanizing the other side.
“We’re not the same,” some friends say about other friends.
Bullshit.
Y’all look the same to me.
Y’all want to be safe.
Y’all want to belong.
Y’all want to be loved.
So why are we ripping one another apart?
I don’t care what side of the fence you stand on.
Because it is not a fence between two sides or walls between us that will keep us safe when the danger is already within. Building bridges, not walls, is what will make us stronger.
Remember these bold words of Ronald Reagan, “Tear down this wall!”
Let’s do it. All of us. No matter what side you stand on.
There’s no room within this country for walls.
Me, I’m gonna kick the bricks when I see them stacking.
Not kick the builder, the contractor or even the client wanting them stacked.
I’m standing together. With all of you. With this country. With my home.
United we stand.
Divided we fall.
Remember?
I’m standing.
Please, stand strong, people. Together. Without a stinking wall between us.
One Nation. Under God. Indivisible. With Liberty. And Justice. For all.
I might be a sappy idealist and optimist, but I’d rather go down feeling like I’m doing the right thing, a good thing, and helping my neighbor rather throwing bricks at him.
I’d rather see the beauty that is all around and in everyone, because no matter what I’m told, shown or news I’m fed, it’s there. Beautiful stuff. Good stuff. And love.
Yes, there’s a lotta junk and bad stuff too. But you know the story: What wolf do you choose to feed?
Fear fuels hatred. Don’t be a weenie. Have courage. Choose love.
The garden roses finally called it quits for the season, right in time for wild Manzanita to begin their bloom while daffodils break through saturated ground.
It’s a beautiful world. Magical, if you will. I will! I will find magic.
This is a photo dump of magic from last month: roses blooming through to the New Year.
It’s also a sharing of some deep thoughts, because well you know, that’s where my mind goes.
I thought you might enjoy.
We all could use more beauty. And more sharing. Good stuff. Connection. Common ground.
These are things I have to tell myself.
What takes more courage?
Fighting?
Or getting along.
Because I will not be divided.
And I will stand strong for a country capable of holding its center together.
Don’t fall, I tell myself. Don’t allow yourself to be ripped apart at the seams. Like the baby before Solomon, two halves are not the same as one whole.
If the two were together, black ink would be smeared across the page, some Rorschach picture divulging my secret psyche. Not, of course, to determine what the image reveals, but rather what I choose to see.
Alas, they remain apart.
And this is what I see.
Out there, outside fragile weather worn glass separating me from the elements and allowing continual comfort from the wood stove as long as I remember to stoke it, rain continues.
Everything is drenched – beyond saturation – running off in drips, smears, pools and rivulets. Streams pour around fence posts and tree stumps; puddles amass in deep imprints left behind by horse hooves; the meadow is a marsh.
Pounding rain on metal roof deadens the roar of the river. Puddles gather on the deck, the driveway, the pasture.
The chickens seek refuge in the dog house while dogs do the same by the wood stove, soggy obstacles to overcome on the living room rug.
Inside rain gear hangs dripping by the back door; boots still damp when you slip your sock feet into them. Towels used on soggy dogs never seem to dry, while splatters from their shaking fur leaves white cupboards speckled brown.
The horses are pissy, flinging their heads, telling me to turn it off and I wish I could. Days like this I wish they could come lay by the woodstove, too. Instead, mid day they stand under the roof where they spent the night, wishing they were somewhere else. We never stop wishing. Because, you know, we never forget what it feels like to lay in soft lush grass while the sun enwraps us in its ethereal embrace
In the garden, roses finally quit trying to bloom. What a run they had this year, clear through to the last of the year. And yet as I walked through the rows earlier today, trying to be gentle in my bulky muck boots in search of some collards or kale for tonight’s stew, the humble, hearty calendula stood brightly defiant, refusing to succumb to battering rains, continuing to share her sunny smile. The yellow and orange seem out of place, adding to her gentle resistance.
For now, I sit at the table in front of the window that looks over the ghostly glow of the computer screen and scribbled open notebook, down toward the swollen river, through saturated moss and lichen growing like eerie bedclothes on every leaf-bare branch of gnarly oaks sprawling the distance between the river and me.
The stillness of the keyboard counters the constant motion of the river.
Some days my fingers do not dance. As if they wonder why, what’s the point, when what I want to do is give. But I look at the blue screen between the window and me, and wonder if it’s worthy.
Sharing the story of something in the past takes me there. Sometimes I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to be there. It was hard, scary, lonely. It was also big, bright, and beautiful; expansive in view and of soul. It brought me back to life. Maybe to the point of living more than I ever had before.
There was so much I didn’t share. There was so much I couldn’t share.
I am struggling to share that story now. The intensity, the wildness, the hugeness I experienced out there. The wild side I could not, would not share as I was riding (or walking or being shuttled) through it. Some things need time to ripen, to age, to roll around in the mouth to find their full, rich flavor. Or to sit on the shelf and collect dust for a while, which doesn’t hurt a thing.
My attention easily drifts out the window. I get dizzy watching the river rage.
Stop it. Get up. Away from the table where I sit for too long. Get on the ever damp rain gear and muck boots and get out. Out. Out there, in it.
Let the moist air plump and swell me and get the dogs dense coats soaked clear through to their skin again as we laugh at our folly and splash through puddles the size of ponds and marvel at the beauty of watching bountiful drops of water fall from overhanging branches and do their circle dance on the surface.
A moment later, the dogs stir up a heron from the salt pond, rising silent, arching upward as a graceful, majestic bow. Somehow primitive, ancient, blue-gray against tan-brown winter woods. I hold my breath and feel goose bumps rising beneath all these impermeable layers separating me from the elements.
In the blatant and natural simplicity surrounding me, I choose to watch herons rise and rain fall and puddles shimmer as a waving mirror. I choose to listen to ravens calling and the river roaring and rain beating down on the roof overhead. I choose these simple things over and above more complex things like news feeds and programs, with AI masking the mystery and magic that is really there, right in front of us, if only we take the time to look, to listen, to feel.
I would rather stand defiant like unpretentious calendula.
I would rather rise up, lighten up, and shine.
Even through this leaden sky that might otherwise try to hold me down.
Yesterday the river rose to the occasion, busting beyond the confinement of her bank, roaring loud and heaving with brown waves, spreading to a rumble in the saturated ground beneath my feet as I stand there amazed at humbling might while even the dogs and horses watch in wonder.
Sacred water.
Sacred time.
Solstice is a natural celebration of the pause between the darkening and lightening, between states of wonder and beauty and awe, simple as watching the river rage and a candle flicker and rain fall into swollen puddles alive with shimmering reflections.
This morning I woke to stars spilled across the sky, sparkling behind black branches of the sprawling oak. And then from out of the earth, or is it more magic from the sky, fog formed, shrouding the stars with a silent embrace.
Yet I know the magic about the fog, the mystery beneath the earth, the wonder of planting a seed and knowing maybe, just maybe it could emerge into fruition.
Somewhere I’m certain the sun rose a moment earlier and the cycle of new light, new life, is celebrated anew.
As I await the sky to lighten, in this deep still silent space of new light I have yet to see or feel but somehow know, I stir with the wonder of a candle. Of planting seeds, which here happens on my kitchen counter on Solstice every year, and now sit over my propane fridge awaiting the moment of emergence. Of darkness out there, which shall be shorter each day. Of light within – not to protect and preserve, but to shine and share.
What are you waiting for?
What are you here for?
~
Our community has a beautiful gathering to celebrate Solstice. I had never had the guts to attend. Groups don’t tend to be my thing. Basically, social gatherings scare me shitless.
It’s easy to use the excuse of Solstice being a sacred time to turn within. Because, yes, it is. It is also the pause before the waxing of light and new life. It is that space in between. If one has the courage to open to it, there’s a time and place to be alone, to reflect on what you want to release from the last dance around the sun, and contemplate your intentions for the next cycle. And… a time and place to unfurl like seeds, be vulnerable, be brave, get out of your shell and connect.
Thanks to the honesty of and love for some dear friends who reminded me I’m not the only one… I went.
Thank you for encouraging the courage in me to step beyond my comfort zone, and get off my side of the mountain for just a little while. It was beautiful.
Now more than ever…
Come together.
Partake. Participate. Life is too short and sweet to miss out on this stuff.
Have the courage to care more.
The gusto to give more
The grit to do more.
The guts to be more.
It’s not that you are not enough.
It might just be that the world needs more of who you are and what you do.
Thinking of those who give and do and care so much, like hidden stars in that dazzling day sky.
Tonight I watch the waxing moon rise as I lean back into the damp bark and moist moss of my favorite ancient oak. The air is soothing with the sound of crickets in thick woods, now low as if played on tired wings, and the ever present sound of the river, as steady and familiar as my lovers warm breath.
They say a big storm approaches. Be it rain or snow, I am ready. The wood shed and pantry are full. And like the bear still finding plenty on these moon filled nights, we are prepared to settle into the season of dark days.
With stiff shoulders and hands swollen and sore, I am as tired as the leaves that fall, and long for the season of rest. Of turning within. Life, death, pause and rebirth.
Acceptance of the seasons. Of change.
What else can we do?
But for now, right now, the moon and me and the dogs close by, the haunting call of an owl not too far away, all of it, a part of the season, of the land.
A spider’s silk, twinkling from moist air that rises as soon as the sun goes down, is moved by the evening breeze pushing up from the river, and gracefully wraps its silver thread upon my lap.
I take it as a sign. I do that a lot.
Considering the eternal connection, separate as it feels at times.
Wondering how my life has become.
And imagining where it will lead me next.
For now, it feels to be a story more beautiful than I ever imagined life could be.
Here now, the air is gentle, laced with gold as amber leaves fall in the light of bright moon, and the earthy scent of fallen leaves becoming a part of warm wet ground, a salve for the unsettled soul.
Time to return home. I take leave of the substantial oak, signal to the dogs and head towards the glow of the kitchen window. Mushrooms break ground beneath dark timber, and I find myself watching my step as I wander the forest floor in waning light.
The land has yet to freeze and the garden, always a place of solace, lingers, sharing vibrant bounty and beauty surrounded by a golden halo of autumn trees.
This is our first year to harvest zucchini into November, and as we were away for the main season, no, we’re not sick of it yet.
Leaves of tobacco, the sacred bold noble of the garden, are still harvested, ready to be cured and dried.
And roses, the beloved wise women of the grounds, still bloom, fragrant, rich and a little wild.
Yet I feel the natural close of season and have begun to cut back flowers and herbs and am eager to prune the fruit trees, though the flowers still bloom, herbs still aromatic, and fruit is still producing.
The quiet season unfurls. All we can do is settle back into it as if slipping into a warm tub and letting yourself go.
It begins by allowing time. Time to rest. To recover. Time to reflect and plot and plan.
And time to write. Something I still don’t know why I do it except it’s one of those things I can’t not do. I am incomplete without it. Perhaps it is creative passion, an expression of the feral soul, and/or the one thing I have always somehow felt I had that was worthy to give to others.
Lost at my desk, I’m found diving in to words, stories, places, time… some deeply moving, some simply hard, just as was the story I am starting to put into words.
For now, it’s still called, A Long Quiet Ride, because that is what I called it then. Though I’m open to suggestions, and hope you may share some ideas. The title, they say, is one of the hardest parts to write. And yet, possibly the most important words a reader may ever see.
And so it is that mornings are at my desk going places perhaps I should never have gone.
Maybe writing will help make it something you (and I) might finally understand.
Likely not fully, for every good adventure, every good story, should hold an element of inexplicable magic and mystery than can never be fully shared.
“What are you looking for?” I was asked time and again.
“Myself,” was the first thing that came to mind.
“A reason to live,” was the second.
And the third, was something beautiful.
I leave you today with this thought, something that followed me on that journey like a mysterious fragrance from a flower I could never see:
Remember to find magic, everywhere, everyday, in everyone.
It is there, waiting for us to find it, if only we take the time to see, to listen, to feel.
I’m back after a couple weeks of silence. Staying silent somehow helps me find my self.
Back. Where? Here. For now.
Today I am at Riverwind. In the far north of California that most of you will never know exists. A peaceful private place along a wild river, tucked away with safety and secrecy, and a sense of the unknown, unknowable. Laden with moss draped from ancient oaks, the eagle, king fisher and dipper trace the river’s course, bear tracks in the sand, a pair of heron in the sky, and always, always the sound of the river – all of which is part of what makes this real place so unreal.
Today the rain falls and the leaves begin to turn and the season that came to a close back in Colorado where I was has just begun to unfurl here where I now am. And the river I watch from the kitchen table as I write to you begins its winter rise and swell, though I’m not ready, we just returned, and there is still so much that needs to be done. All of which adds to the uncertainty of wondering where the hell I am and what am I doing here.
Back. I don’t know for how long, but I am here now.
You know how it is, or can be.
There you are, just walking along. Let’s imagine you’re deep in dark woods but still holding a feeling of fresh and warm and light. You’re minding your own business, thinking you got this, you’re rocking it, when suddenly WHAM. You hit a land mine. Or trip and fall down a rabbit hole. Not the distracting internet kind, but the seemingly bottomless, looming dark pit that catches you unaware and there you are: falling, falling, falling – or at least somehow suspended, maybe even stuck, wedged in between time and space – just wishing something else would come along to break your fall and maybe even get you back onto solid ground.
Sure enough. That’s where I’ve been. In that time and place between here and there or maybe somewhere else, but no where firmly planted. No solid ground beneath my feet, at least none that I could feel. Funny when I thought all I really needed was dirt beneath my nails and earth to let my toes root in.
~
Life is a succession of transitions. Nothing stays the same nor lasts forever. It’s a series of endless waves in the ocean of time, though more often than not we feel we need to rush to get to some distant shore, though the shoreline is ever changing, and really it’s when we learn to simply float that we find we are exactly where we need to be.
Somewhere in the ever middle.
That is where mystery stirs.
Thus is the Bardo.
A fancy word for:
Lost.
Maybe it’s more simple than I make it seem.
Maybe it all comes down to home.
That space inside, indeed. But what’s around us, with whom and where we are, matter just as much.
The familiar scent of wild mint when the horses pass by the creek. Some sticky sweet fragrance of fall blooming flowers mingling with falling leaves. Fresh bread pulled from the old wood cook stove, like the seeming simple extraction of a chicken laying an egg.
I thought I had it figured out. I don’t. Somedays I think I’m just as confused as when I started. At my age, surely I should have this solved. But as one friend reminds me, when and if I find the answers, let him know. Because everyone is just kinda sorta hoping they know enough to make it through but we’re all just finding our way around the labyrinth that is life and hoping we do a good job, are good to each other, do something good, make this world (or at least one person) somehow a little better off for having lived.
My father died this week.
He was a good man. How many of us will have others say that about us? And really, think about it: what would you rather have someone say?
This reflection of my dad from dear friend Dick, who was like a brother to my dad, and who gratefully shares his wonderful writing from time to time on my blog:
“Humor is the best medicine. Jack with his upbeat attitude always made me feel better. I summon that up when I need uplifting. I also think often about his kindness and respect for others. We need more Jack’s in this world, a world gone crazy lately.”
Yes.
We need more Jack’s.
More good guys.
More people who are thoughtful, and brave enough to be nice in a world that seems leaning towards anything but.
We need more love in this world.
All of us.
More love.
More light.
More laughter.
We need to be good.
Really. We need it. We all do.
Nothing matters more.
Except for love.
And my dad did love.
Even as he approached death with grace and dignity, he continued to care so dearly for my mom. He’d worry and be concerned or proud, holding her and touching her gently as they spoke together with us.
What better lesson would I wish to share, if I could one day be as blessed?
Of course there is both grief and relief. Though after 67 or so years together, no one will experience the loss deeper than my mom.
Me, I was blessed to have him present right around the moment he died. It was early morning. Bob was still sleeping. I was out on pasture doing chores, letting the horses out and going to retrieve the wheelbarrow and manure fork when lo and behold, there he was in the sky.
Good bye, Poppy. Peaceful passing to you. See you on the other side. And please keep me posted with each weather report and severe storm warning I hope you’ll still share with us all.
There is no one right way to grieve. There’s no protocol, no path, not set standard, no how-to manual. Best we can do is be real. What ever we feel is real. There is no wrong. There is only right. Sometimes found simply in connection, support, that which we share, give and receive. Sometimes it’s found in solitude, in silence. And always it’s found in that gentle place when we have the courage to be with mind and heart open wide.
Maybe I am not there yet. Maybe we never arrive. Maybe it’s all just an endless journey passing through places and time.
The never-ending journey of growing up.
Why did I ever think it would be easy?
And why did I ever think it would be done?
And in that time and space between here and there or maybe somewhere yet to be, there is a pause. It may be an almost imperceptible lingering that lasts no longer that the gap between the inhale and the exhale. Or perhaps it lasts longer, much longer, so long it starts to feel uncomfortable, you can’t help but notice it like awkward silence that you wish to fill or be done with and move on.
It is a state of emptiness. Hollow. You can see right through it, if you know where to look.
I look at my hands and see I am holding nothing but air. Full of the space that is plentiful in between those things we grab onto. Clinging in hopes of finding who and what we are, and where we belong.
When all along, we are that space, that nothing and everything in between, as much as we are solid ground.
Sometimes I find myself… lost. In that space in between. In transition, with feet firmly planted in the wind, and head spinning in the clouds.
Yet my heart remains grounded, no matter where those feet find themselves, reminding me what I’ve been looking for all along.
I need not remain in one place. While I’m with you, I am where I belong. While I’m here, I am home. Where ever here and my heart may find me.
Things change.
I love when it all goes smoothly, effortless, assuring me I’m heading the right way. One door easily opens before you while the one behind gently closes.
That rarely happens for me.
More often than not, there are slamming doors and some strong suction that whips me off my feet and lands me through a door I never even saw before me. Or else this: I find myself stuck in that place in between. In that gray area without black and white lines. In limbo.
Maybe like training horses, I too need time to soak. To process. Where the hell am I and how did I get here? That sort of stuff. Life puts me on pause until I figure these things out.
Guess I’m no rubber ball. You can’t throw me around and expect me to bounce right back with a smile on my face ready for the next round.
Boing! Here I am!
Boing again! Now I’m somewhere else!
Aren’t you happy to be back?
No. I don’t know who or what or where I am.
Give me a moment to catch my breath.
I don’t know about you, but I sure wish transition between things – be it homes, jobs, relationships, stages of our lives, loss or gain, even seasons, time and age, was easy. Instant. Leave the past behind and the future should be fine and dandy. Put the summer shorts in the box in the basement and you’ll be wearing wool for the next six months.
It never works that way, does it? It’s never quite that simple. Edges are blurred and boundaries unclear, and who and what or where we were and where we’re going blend together like red wine spilled over a crisp white linen tablecloth. And there you are; left with an empty glass and big mess to clean up.
Transition is a mysterious state. It’s awkward. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. We notice the past is missing, and may find ourselves mourning, longing for what was. And then more often than we’d like to admit, we fear what is yet to be.
Not knowing is a scary place to be.
Right now I just need to slow down and process. Let it all soak in. At least part of it. There’s a lot.
We did it. We said we’d do it before snowfly, and we did. Got the house closed in, windows and doors and woodstove and all.
And yes, we celebrated. A slow, quiet dance, holding one another for just a moment. And though it was not much, for me it was enough.
And then we packed up and moved on.
Packed up the horses and chickens and dog and tools and hit the road. Three days, 1250 miles, and boom there you are, back where you started, to assess the damage, clean up the pieces and figure out what projects need to be done next after leaving your home and land for four months.
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Slow down!
Look around and see where your feet are beneath you, what land you stand upon. Connect with that here and now. Take your time; give it time.
Let one thing simmer. Put it on the back burner. And pull the other pot to the forefront, lift the lid, give it a stir, and bask in the rich, savory aroma.
I’ll explain another day. Maybe when I figure it out. If I do.
Today I am savoring the silence. The stillness. The calm and comfort and warmth and gentleness of another place. A familiar place.
This past week, I had to fit a quick trip to Denver in between finishing windows, walls and doors. And since I never did get a truck (remember, I got the horse instead), and the bus route I used to take is no longer, I flew.
No matter how it happens – by foot or horse, truck, boat or plane – I’m one of those that loves travel. There is something about stepping outside my box. Like throwing the curtains of your mind open wide. And in that place of being challenged beyond your comfort zone, in that state of vulnerability – expectations, demands and judgments disappear and you see the world for what it is. Like the opening of this season, travel encourages us to let go of our armor, have the courage to step out vulnerable and exposed, and see the world for how it really is. Mostly, I’d say, it’s beautiful.
And the best of that beauty is usually found in chance encounters, in meeting folks and hearing stories. Everyone has a story. Ask. And listen. That’s where the magic is.
Short as this overnight trip was, it was no different. And the magic started before I even got to the plane.
As Bob was driving me down the mountain, we stopped to let the pup out for a quick break. Where we chose to pull over, two guys were pulled off in the shade with touring bicycles. Now, I got a soft spot for people out there on long rides, be it horse or pedal bike or motor bike. So before we loaded the pup back up and headed on our merry way, I searched around the truck and found a couple healthy snack bars – the only snacks we had in the truck. I brought them over to the guys. Felt kind of like handing out goodies at Halloween. Told them I wish it was something more sticky and gooey. But the young men received the gifts with great appreciation none the less.
And of course, though I was already running late for my plane, I couldn’t help myself. I got to asking question. Talk about opening up a can of worms. Though this wasn’t wiggly and creepy crawly – this can was jam packed with goodness.
Turns out these two guys were from Finland.
Long way from home, I said. How did you end up in La Garita?
Long story short, they explained: they got here via Alaska. And they got a long ways yet to go. They’re riding all the way down to the tip of South America. And if you have any doubt these guys will do it, they told me about an adventure they already completed: riding their bikes from Finland to Singapore. Seriously? Seriously! Wow!!!!
Two beautiful friends, Valterri and Alvari, of “Curious Pedals,” out there living life full, rich and wild… Daring to dream and having the courage to create their dreams come true. OMG I was so impressed! These guys were so inspirational. So open and grateful and positive.
We briefly shared stories and compared notes after I mentioned about how I had my own little adventure – going horseback from California to Colorado, alone. Nothing quite like the adventure these guys had, but we shared some similar feelings of time on the road.
The biggest thing we were all amazed to have found out there was something I told you about many times before. It was the greatest lesson of my whole trip. It wasn’t “where” but “who.” And “who” was everyone – strangers you meet, people who stop to talk, folks who share their camp site, their home, the guest room or kids room or just their front yard. People who smile and wave and roll down the window and cheer you on. People who share their table, their meals, their snack bars.
The kindness of strangers. Something very near and dear to my heart that I learned during that Long Quiet Ride two summers ago. Valterri and Alvari said it’s been the same for them. The unexpected beauty they have come to expect: people are good.
So here’s something really cool that I think is really important to share, now more than ever.
We briefly talked about the anger and hatred that you read about all the time in the press that’s supposedly all over this country. Interesting to note: they hadn’t felt it, seen it, experienced it. Neither did I. Instead, we both talked about the kindness we encountered. The openness. The generosity. The warmth. The goodness.
Sure some of us may have hard shells. Tough to crack.
But we’re not as different as some may (want us to) think.
Inside, we’re all the same.
People.
Good people.
Human beings.
Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t drink the kool-aid. Hatred does not rule. Hatred does not win. Hatred does not help.
And goodness does prevail.
Believe in goodness. Believe that most people are good. Be good in kind.
If you don’t believe me after a life changing adventure that spanned over a hundred days and 1500 miles, that crazy solo ride that would never have worked had it not been for good people I met along the way, then please believe these two young men, who have totaled well over a year on the saddle, and over 10,000 miles out there in places I don’t even know where to find on a map… That’s a helluva test of humanity. And guess what? People passed the test. They ran into bad dogs, wolves, and stuff like that. But no bad people.
Have faith in humanity. Please. We’re all in this together.
If you don’t believe us, get out there and take a wild ride yourself. It doesn’t have to be a long ride. It can just be around the block or around the world or wherever your can make it happen. Be open. Be curious. Drop judgments and pretentions and defenses and fears and just be open to who and what’s out there.
I don’t know how to explain it but it’s like, you gotta put yourself out there. Be vulnerable. Trust. Try. Have faith. Believe. In people.
Try it. Please. Try to believe in our common humanity and the goodness that resides within us all. If you dare do that, and I hope and pray you will or maybe already have, please let me know how it goes. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in the beauty that really is out there, and inside most every one.
Anyway, please find Valterri and Alvari, of “Curious Pedals,” on their website, follow them on Instagram , and watch their documentary which Bob and I did last night, and it was incredible, just wishing it was longer than one hour as there was so much: CuriousPedals documentary on YouTube
Finally… I’d like to share something that they had posted, regarding six lessons they had learned from “life on the saddle” that I fully whole heartedly agree with, having tried “life IN the saddle:”
Cherish the bad days, for they will teach you the most.
Don’t hope for things to happen — make them happen.
Focus on the process, not the outcome.
Always challenge yourself.
Stay physically active.
Put 100 per cent into what you are doing now and it will open doors for you in future.
They concluded: we could all do with “less planning, more living”.
And I’d like to add one more that I think they would agree with:
Gin Getz 