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.
~
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:
Admittedly, it’s not an impressive size flag, yet this is the little flag was strapped to my pack horse as I rode across the west on my Long Quiet Ride. So it’s seen this country, been waved to, honked at and warmly welcomed around campfires and kitchen tables of complete strangers that had the compassion and curiosity to let me in.
Likewise, singing is not my thing and won’t be my future, but this song played over and over and over again in my head and on my lips, and I found myself singing aloud time and time and time again with the clip clop clip clop of eight hooves in unison while I was out there, often with tears in my ears, falling in love with life again, and falling in love with this country – I can’t say “all over again,” but more like for the very first time. It was then and there, out there, during those moments of seeing flags, receiving innumerable random acts of kindness and prayers, and witnessing the beautiful generosity and trust, welcoming and kindness from absolute strangers that changed me forever and made me love this country and be proud to belong to it.
Happy 4th of July!
Cheers to this beautiful land we are blessed to belong to.
No, it’s not perfect. Neither are you. Neither am I. Yet each of us – all of us – and this country we share – becomes better with commitment, connection and contribution. Remember:
United we stand.
Divided we fall.
Let’s stop the whining. Stop the bitching and moaning. And definitely, stop the fighting. Let’s get our shit together, peeps.
Come together. Mind the gap. Fill it in. We’re all in this together.
Rather than focusing on the faults, let’s strive to find the beauty. In the land. In the people. In yourself. In the person next to you, no matter where they’re coming from or where they’re going to. They’re here. Sharing this beautiful land. This beautiful day. This beautiful life.
And what a beautiful country we’ve got to share! Have we forgotten? If so, it’s time to crack open our shells and find out for ourselves. Get out there and check it out. Go on, be brave, step outside your shell and see. Look around. Lean in. Look deep. Find some beauty, some magic, some wonder and awe. It won’t be hard to do. Open your eyes then open your heart and watch the walls fall down.
My fellow Americans, it’s time to tear down the walls we’ve been building, fill in that seemingly black hole between us that keeps us from coming together, and stop allowing ourselves to be thrown in the pit against one another. It’s time to find the courage to open our hearts, find some good in people we meet, neighbors near and far, strangers we pass on the street. We’re all in this together. Let’s strengthen the threads that connect us, and remember we’re all wrapped up in those stars and stripes together.
Whatever our beliefs, seems like we all pretty much want the same things. A safe home, a beautiful land, and a bright future for our children.
So what are we arguing over? Don’t you see how that weakens us all?
Have the courage to step away from dividing. Have the courage to stand together.
My coach reminds me, “Hurt people hurt.” I don’t want to be that person. Do you? Come on, let’s get over it. Stop hiding behind fears. Be strong enough to be nice enough.
May we all find common ground, beautiful threads that connect us, and tear down the walls that divide.
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.
If only. Only that’s not how the simple life seems to work. Or at least, I haven’t figure it to work that way. Not yet at least.
Funny thing is, a lot of us striving to live simply find ourselves explaining that really, no, it’s not about sitting around eating bon-bons. We just make it look easy.
It’s one of those things. If you know, you know.
But a lot of folks don’t.
Simplicity is a lot of work.
“Don’t you get bored?” we’re too often asked.
Bored? Really? When?
When we’re kicking back tilling the garden, pulling weeds, pruning trees, moving sprinklers, mowing meadows, kneading bread, feeding chickens, fixing fences, flushing out lines of our water system and maintaining batteries of our solar system. And then, figuring out what to cook for dinner from all those eggs we gathered and fresh veggies we just harvested when we’re so dang tired at the end of the day, and hopefully sitting down to eat before 9pm (after being up, of course, at the crack of dawn). Oh yeah. And we’re building our own homes. All the while, kicking back with those bon-bons.
This was something the Old Man used to laugh about often. He had spent the greater part of his 95 years hard at work for the “easy” life. Up till 2am canning, starting seeds, grafting fruit trees, splitting wood, caring for critters, and somehow, caring for his community as well. He was still planning on planting potatoes and garlic until the very end.
There’s a lot of folks out this way living that way. Simple, but not easy. My closest neighbors are primo examples. They’ve got that off-grid-pioneer-self-sufficient spirit mastered! But I’m not gonna talk about them since they might be reading this ;) Just know that if I did, it would be impressive and inspiring.
It’s tempting to sit down and write a whining rant about what felt like a set back, or at least a week of slow progress. Between the sudden heat wave and learning how well sawdust sticks to sweat, the frustration of rot in the beetle killed trees coming on faster than we can cut out, a wave of bugs hatching out of bark we’re peeling, crawling in my shirt and pelting me in the face as I mill; that mill breaking down requiring us both to spend the day deep in grease and gears instead of whipping out (okay so, it actually never happens that fast with our old mill) boards and beams or getting the garden that feeds us in; and the looming dread of thinking there’s no way in hell we’re going to get this all done.
But no, I’m not going there. Why bother whine?
Because at the same time, there is grass growing greener and more lush than I ever remember seeing, a young hen hatching new chicks , apple blossoms blooming thick as cherries, the puppy reminding us how joyous every day should be, and my beloved garden providing so bountifully even though I *whine* that I don’t get enough done. As I’m serenaded daily by tree frogs and the first of the crickets and the Redwing and robins and always, always the soothing hum of the river, I am very well aware how sweet life is. Most days I can’t believe how lucky I am. It’s a beautiful world and a day does not go by without my appreciation and gratitude to be right here, right now.
Even when I’m covered with pine beetles, sawdust and grease.
Instead, what I’ll tell you about today is the Old Man.
That’s what some of my friends and family called him, but to me, he seemed almost childlike. After almost a century of life, John had retained a sense humor, wonder and awe, still open, willing to learn, with a deep heart rich with wounds, sensitivities and insecurities like the rest of us.
For years, I had the honor of visiting him on Tuesdays. Kind of funny to note that we started with Mondays, but he changed the date, inspired by the wonderful little book he loved, “Tuesday’s with Morrie.” So Tuesdays it was with John!
Tuesdays became the big day for me that the rest of my week sort of revolved around. Mondays were spent in preparation of actually leaving the homestead – harvesting, washing, sorting, boxing up produce, gathering eggs and picking bouquets, Then Tuesday morning I’d load up boxes and a dog or two and head to town.
All I had to do was show up. Sure, I’d bring him flowers just about every week, almost all year, produce in season, and sometimes, homemade biscuits to go with that packaged breakfast gravy he’d like to share with my husband and me. But mostly what he wanted, and what I’d do is listen. Just listen. Without judgment, and with humor. Yes, there was a lot of laughter.
Just showing up, consistently.
That was enough for him. And enough for me.
When I returned from my Long Quiet Ride, his eyes swelled with tears as he said, “I was afraid I’d never see you again.” He never asked about my trip, or anything about my life except my garden, fruit trees and chickens. That never mattered to me. I was there for him. It was an honor. Just listening. His stories would fill the hours. My favorites were tales of his childhood in the suburbs of Indiana with immigrant parents who worked their way through the Great Depression while raising three boys with a sense of goodness. Goodness. I don’t know if that’s something people care about much these days. But it’s good stuff.
Just showing up.
Being there for someone.
Listening.
This I learned was the greatest gift I could give. The greatest “community service” I could offer. I didn’t need a title or join a group or be a part of any clique or club. After all, I’m not much of a potluck, community center, PTA type of gal. But nor am I a lone wolf. I’m just a quiet sort who has more to give one on one, face to face, than in front of a crowd or enmeshed in a group.
Just be there. For him.
Some folks thanked me for taking the time for him.
But you and I know better. It was still for me. The honor of caring for another – not your kids or your parents, your partner, your dog or best friend – just a person. A human being with no strings attached. No ulterior motives. Someone who just wanted to be heard.
And me, I got the gift of almost endless stories, insightful wisdom, and a lot of ridiculous jokes thrown in there, just because.
Initially, he said he was going to tell me the story of the property my husband and I moved to. Well, after five and a half years, I never did get the whole story, but I got a lot of other great ones. About life. His childhood. Growing, canning, pruning, grafting, building, all these things he did so well. What ever he wanted to share, I gladly received.
The greatest stories and greatest lessons he shared were based upon these three things. I called them The Three C’s.
Care. Connection. Contribution.
He’d lecture me (and the other handful or two of dear friends he had that were a regular part of his life) with this wit and wisdom:
“Take care of your health. Your loved ones. The land.”
“Connect with your people – friends and family and community.”
“Contribute to the community or society in whatever way you can, in whatever work you do.”
That was his formula for a good, long life. When I look around, I’d say he got that right.
And when I stop to think about it further, I see that John’s Three C’s is the formula for finding that sense of belonging I’ve been seeking too.
Belonging is a balance of the Three C’s. The place or state where you care, connect, contribute.
When I moved here 28 years ago as a single mom to serve as caretaker at a kids camp I could never have otherwise afforded to attend, I didn’t feel I belonged (well, sometimes I still don’t). But John accepted me and my son, and embraced us unconditionally. I’ve seen him use that open heart quality with so many folks. Forget your story, your past, what others might say. John would give you a chance.
Back then I had moved here with a couple dogs and a three year old kid but no tangible skills to speak of. I figured I’d figure it out. How hard could it be?
Learning was hard. And slow. And most of what I learned came because of the kindness of a generous community full of folks who knew how to do all those things I was hungry to learn in order to, yes, you got it: live simply. Garden, grow, can, tend to calving, raise chicks, milk goats, make cheese, bake bread, fix pipes, clear ditches, plane boards, skin bears… There’s a lot to it, and a lot to learn. First thing I learned was that it was a lot more work than my romantic notion made it out to be.
The season we first arrived was right before winter, and that full shed of firewood I was promised was empty. I was gifted a chainsaw instead. I looked at the damn thing like it was a feral beast and battled with it just the same. Remember, I was from New York. Chainsaws don’t really exist there. Well, John got news of this and though still a stranger to me, put on his angel wings and got to work. He arranged for me to get a full on lesson in chainsaws. Like taming the wild beast, John set up a friend to take the time to teach me the basics, from sharpening, cleaning, caring for and using – and (most of the time) even starting the damn thing. Then to the woods we went, time to fell my first tree. It was just a little ways up off the road, easy to get to, and easy to see. I’m shy so that wasn’t ideal. Cars stopped along the country road to watch the newbie cut a tree, which really got me scared because this tree (at least in my memory) was HUGE and I’m kind of small. I got this, I thought, and tried to fluff up my feathers and look bigger. I went to work with my new found skills, made my face cut, and then the back cut, and then tapped in a wedge, and there the tree began to fall… slowly… falling… looking pretty impressive… I’m really puffing up now… until… that darned tree got snagged up in another even bigger tree. It stayed stuck there for years, reminding me that this firewood thing, and the simple life, ain’t always easy. And humility is indeed a prerequisite.
Later that winter when I ran out of firewood (so much for my chainsaw skills!), John got wind again. And again, angel John quietly came to the rescue. He asked me if I’d come meet him on this back road because there was a tree that fell in the way and he could use some help with it. Of course I’d be glad to help, but lo and behold, when I got there, that tree was cut, blocked, stacked and ready for me to load to take home.
These kinds of stories happened all the time with John as so many in this community know. It’s what he did. Cared about people. And did something about it.
When I had to move away, John convoyed with me, driving all the way to Colorado to help me get to my new home and start my new life. And when I returned, nearly twenty years later, he made me feel like I was never gone.
He’s not really gone. Parts of him are all over my house and garden, not to mention my heart. From the white daffodils blooming along my garden fence beneath the peach trees started from pits he had saved, to the bird house box in which the swallows are nesting, and the pie tins and bakeware and all these silly little kitchen gadgets that I said I didn’t need but funny, I find myself using them all the time.
The last thing he said to me was something he often said so often to anyone willing to listen:. “Follow your bliss!”
Finally, sunshine. Things should dry out just in time for Bob’s return so we can get back at it. Milling the next load of boards and beams. We guessed the last load to be at eight thousand pounds, but when he drove onto the scales, it was over ten. Probably twenty more to go. Houses are heavy.
So about that sunshine…
The land, the animals, the garden and me… all seem to be emanating this collective exhale. (I think I hear you too.) Yes, this generous rain is something to be grateful for. But feeling the sun on our faces and watching puddles dry out and finally taking blankets off the horses?
Yes. (said slowly with a soothing exhale)
With Bob on the road heading home (yes, this is still home), I’ve been grateful for the break in the rain to get caught up in the garden, knowing that side of work gets back burner on milling days.
Funny how easy it is to lose yourself in there. Not because it’s wild and lush and abundant with colors and fragrance on overdrive as it tends to get late summer. In fact, early spring is neat and tidy and orderly with seedlings and transplants all lined up like little soldiers. Yet when I’m working in there, time stands still – freezes – or disappears.
After this spell (or was it a season?) of drenched and heavy, today the air feels fresh and light. Maybe even a little sparkling, filled with the intoxicating honey fragrance of madrone beginning to bloom. Suddenly trillium grace the hill below the barn, and in the shadows of tall timber, fairy slippers shyly rouse.
Wild beast within
no longer
licks her wounds.
Now she runs her tongue
along unmarred wet wings,
drying them before
she flies.
You know how clear the air is after a good rain? It’s as if the sky is cleaned, as is every branch, stone and blade of grass.
“Like looking at life with the eyes of a babe, where everything is fresh and clear and bright.” That’s what a friend of Bob told him when he was going in to have a cataract removed last month. Can’t say I remember what things looked like when I was a baby, but I get what he was saying. I see it…
And that’s what I’m seeing today.
A lot.
And everything I look at seems especially crisp and clear and vibrant.
I didn’t get my eyes fixed, but I did get this.
A new lens. A new-to-me camera lens for my old faithful SLR camera. (Thanks, Dad!) I hadn’t used the big boy for a couple years. First of all because the old lens crapped out and lenses aren’t cheap but I am. Second, because two years ago this month, I got my first phone. Yes, my first one. On principle, I wanted to refrain forever, but I didn’t want to take the big beast around my neck on my Long Quiet Ride. Though it had made many miles around my neck in the saddle over the years, the elements and endurance of that trip was more than the camera – or my neck – would likely have weathered.
Above and beyond being a handy pocket size camera, the phone ended up providing me with countless other tools, from voice recorder to map apps and occasionally (in fact, rarely!) cell phone service. Though I learned to take pictures with the phone (still seems strange to call it that), it never felt the same for me as the real deal. A real camera.
It’s going to take me a while to get in the groove, but I’m going to have fun getting there.
Getting behind the big lens again was oddly awkward at first. It’s heavy. Cumbersome. A big deal compared to that little flat thing that slides into the pocket of my work pants.
Yet something about having the weight of the camera in my hands, taking the time to actually stop, peering through the lens, focusing, holding my breath and click… yes, this feels good.
For me, there’s something so mindless about taking photos with a “phone.” And when you’ve got a lot else going on, mindless is okay. But the big boy, the real camera, is kind of mindful. You are present. Focusing on what’s before you. It slows you down. Slows your movement, your attention, your breathing, maybe even your heart rate. I swear it even slows your monkey mind.
Behind the big lens, you become more keenly aware of your environment. You look around more. Searching for subjects. Moving closer. Bending low. Leaning in.
Depending on the subject, you alternate between honing your attention (say, the variegated greens of the trillium leaf) to widening your gaze (noticing our little bit of paradise along the river below the long ridge of South Fork Mountain).
Move in, shift your weight, look closer still, then hold your breath, pause, press… and exhale.
Seeing. Same thing everyday.
Look around.
Same place. Same view. Same meadow and garden and mountain.
Ah, but look closer.
Can’t you see those ever changing subtleties: sharp shadows that dull as summer forges forward, swelling tips of expansive oaks as leaves tease to open, a sensuous curve of a distant hill swathed in evening light. Electric green grass after a rain. Light. Seasons. Birds. Motion. Clouds. Colors. Always something different, new, unexpected. Or just what you were looking for. Dynamic. In flux.
The challenge of finding beauty right here, right now. In everything. Every day. And in everyone. Finding connection. The good stuff. Let the bad shit go. Really. Why do we focus on that stuff? That’s not what I’m taking pictures of.
What is the good stuff?
When I look closely, it’s all good. Or maybe it just is. No judgment. Just seeing. Challenging myself to find inherent beauty in whatever is before me. Last years rotted leaves. A morel poking through crushed needles. Shooting star blossoms leaning heavy in the rain. A fallen branch covered with old mans beard. A scattering of iridescent feathers from a dead blue jay. The tiny globe of a universe within every iris if you look someone deeply in their eyes.
I think of the phrase (and book title) coined by the remarkable writer, Terry Tempest Williams: “Finding Beauty in a Broken World”
I don’t think our world is broken. Just a little cracked.
Ever seen Raku pottery with its cracked glaze finish? Or what about Kintsugi, the Japanese art form of repairing broken pottery with gold? It’s more than making shattered dishes whole again. It’s making them exquisite.
It’s about finding beauty not in spite of but because of those flaws.
It’s all about the beauty in being at least a little broken. Imperfection.
Why do we still believe in the perfection myth? Perfection of person, place, relationships, self, what we’re seeing, feeling, the natural world. Most of it is beautiful. None of it is perfect. Unless we embrace the perfection of imperfections.
Looking through the lens reminds me to see. All of it. Flaws. Defects. Scars. Fractures and faults.
Looking for beauty helps heal the cracks. Holds the scattered pieces together. Heals the broken parts.
This camera encourages me to look closely. That’s where beauty resides. In all those crazy wild wonderful imperfections.
So I look.
And I see it’s been there all along.
The gradual unfurling of damp wings has only begun.
And wouldn’t you know. The biggest tree that fell in the latest storm crushed a shed we built two years back.
A friend once told me I had the best luck of anyone she knew.
And the worst.
So Bob’s on the road and I’m trying to get stuff done while not tied to the mill (and kitchen) which feels like how my days have been spent the past few weeks.
Good news is he’s hauling this beautiful big load of lumber, a pretty impressive nine thousand plus pounds of beams and boards we milled, to our high-mountain-Colorado-one-day-will-be-home.
Me, I have big plans of my own. Tilling the garden and getting the last of the cover crop seeded before the next rains. Putting in a couple more rows of spring crops. And mowing the waaaaaaaay overgrown grass. With a simple push mower and somewhat steep hill, this kicks butt even when the grass is manageable. The lawn seeks revenge for neglect.
Of course it doesn’t turn out as planned. What does?
See, I was planning on cheating from my “no till” stance by getting the old Troy Build rototiller fired up. It’s about as old and a helluva lot heavier than me, but man is this a beast of burden and it gets the job done. Guess I’m gonna have to get that spading fork out after all (or wait for Bob to return if my ego allows) because after pulling, pulling, pulling only to realize it’s out of fuel, I pour in gas only to watch it pour out some tiny little hole I’d never seen before. After putting a coffee can underneath to catch that spill, I call Bob on the road.
“Turn the tank off,” he wisely advises. Duh. Mechanics are not my thing.
So I do. But then I can’t turn the rusty dial back on when I’m done doing some other procedures Bob talks me through to try an fix the beast. And then that shut off, well, it’s gonna be shut off for a while because the damn thing breaks.
Well, I did manage to get the spring crops in and mow before the rain, but the cover crop will have to wait.
In the meanwhile, I invite you to take a tour of the garden, humbly as it was yesterday without a fresh tilling, is today in the rains, and then bragging on how it was in the bounty of last summer if you care to see one of the reasons why it’s so hard for me to leave this place.
So that thing about place.
I finally figured this out. You probably did long ago. I’m slow. Slow living. Slow learning. Whatever.
Our place is where we belong.
It may be a physical place, person, community, a state to live in, a state of mind.
But here’s the thing:
It all comes down to connection.
Connection, as in joining, being a part, somehow linked, united or bound together.
Connection determines our place.
Connection defines where we belong.
Whatever we feel connected to – close friends, your place in community, the old family farm, a mountain, the sea, the school where you have been teaching for thirty years – these things give us a sense of belonging. Different for us all, and always changing at least a little bit because that’s how life goes, that sense of belonging that connection creates helps us feel stable, secure, grounded. And we all need that.
There’s also that thing about connection being intertwined with commitment, contribution and care. but let’s talk about that another time, because this already threatens to be way too long. That happens. Especially when Bob’s not around, the rains force me indoors, and I find myself talking to the dogs and my self way too much.
Okay, so here’s the interesting twist I’m finally figuring out. Connection with others (the “where ” and “with whom” we belong) begins by connecting with self.
You know. It’s that “home is inside” wisdom my old friend used to say.
No, it’s not selfish. It’s still means giving more than you take, because end of the day, what we do for others is still what matters most and gives us in return some sense of meaning (and yes, belonging). But it’s about making sure you have something to give to begin with. Starting with the basics. The foundation. Figuring where (and with whom) we feel safe, and can be ourselves. Where our soul feels nourished and nurtured. For me, that means my husband, our son, and a strong sense of solitude, spirit, simplicity, and the natural and animal world. It’s time writing, growing food, working with horses, and luckily, yes, even building! Because these things make my inside shine. They may not define me, but they do define that sense of place I’m trying to find.
You know the feeling. It’s that place, space or state where you lose sense of time and feel safe and have trouble leaving. The place you long for, where you long to be. It’s more of a feeling than a physical person or place. It’s that knowing we are where we are meant to be, doing what we’re meant to be doing. That is belonging. We all long to belong. All of us. We are hardwired to want to belong. And when we lack that belonging or feel we don’t, connection is broken, and we somehow feel broken too.
It’s that happy place.
For me, the physical place has changed and may continue to change, as long as it contains an element of rugged and wild. But the essence remains the same. Like my core nature. It’s what feeds me, and in kind, allows me to feed others even more.
With that, I am starting to see it need not be so much “where” we are, but “who” we are that allows us to figure out where we belong. And somewhere in the equation, to notice the difference between “belonging” and “clinging”. Clinging holds us down. Belonging allows us to soar in place. Not to hold on because of fear. But because of freedom.
Maya Angelou famously stated, “You only are free when you realize you belong no place — you belong every place — no place at all. The price is high. The reward is great”.
It sounds paradoxical, but I believe it’s all true.
Sometimes I wish I had a crystal ball or could read tea leaves or somehow figure out answers to those big pressing questions, the easy way. But life isn’t easy. And easy isn’t always good.
When people ask me, “Where are you from?” it feels like a trick question. I hesitate, look up and off to the left, and try to come up with a clever response. It’s complicated. Might be easier if someone asked, “What do you do?” (That sounds so 80s and 90s. Do people even say that anymore?). Can’t say I know how to answer that one too.
You know that expression about the apple not falling far from the tree, right? But that’s assuming the tree has solid roots. And what if it does not? If I stayed to close to my rootless tree, I’d still be in Jersey. Nothing wrong with that, just not where I was meant to be.
Surely I’m not the only one out there trying to figure this out.
The answers will be different for us all, but maybe the process is the same.
We gotta listen to our heart and soul.
We gotta listen with our heart and soul.
My research is based on life, living and learning to listen to the wisdom of that quiet heart and soul.
I don’t have the privilege of a college degree. I left high school at 16 and learned to make do, make up and do without.
I learned what’s real based on what I saw, heard and felt, NOT what I read or was told.
I am still learning.
As for place, this much I know. Finding my place has been the trip of my life.
I’m still not there.
On one hand, I long to belong to one place, to remain long enough to watch trees I plant grow big and fat and fruitful, to have it all built and done and be able to kick back and watch, tend, and care for lovingly, to sit on the front porch with a cup of coffee and my honey and look around with contentment and know we are finally done building and need to build no more.
On the other hand, I’m not ready to settle down and do the same thing year after year just yet. I’m curious. Adventurous, in a quiet, simple way. I want to experience and try and do more. Not big fancy elaborate things like trips around the world and luxuries that aren’t my thing. I want to know what it feels like to break ground and get to work and feel the pride of creating a family ranch that holds us – my self, my husband, our son, our pets and livestock, with gardens and trees (yes, I’m going to grow at 10,000 feet!). I want to be bundled up and see the expansive sunrise on Winter Solstice from the front deck we will build, or the summer sun rise as the full moon sets from the top of an unnamed mountain behind our ranch.
I know. I want a lot. Simple stuff, but a lot of it.
But most important, I want to be at that place of belonging that is not a place out there, but a space in here. Within me.
It doesn’t matter where I am. It matters who I am.
I am not the land.
There’s more to me than the mud on my boots and under my nails.
Though that is how I chose to live.
Here or there?
California? Colorado?
I won’t be losing either way.
Why can’t I have both?
Maybe I can. For now, that’s what I intend to do.
Here and there.
But of course, there is this. The cold hard reality of affording your dreams. Money. Geez, I hate talking about that. I have always believed I had enough (though my son can tell you stories of the poverty we lived with) and things just work out. Kinda. Sorta. More or less.
It always seems to work out. Not always as we plan. Sometimes even better.
In the meanwhile, as I try to figure out how to make this all work, I’ll work on finding that place inside. The place where I belong.
Gin Getz 