Inspiration

On Seeing.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Seeing clearly.

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.

I’m seeing again. Really seeing. Deeply. Closely. Intimately.

And what I see is beautiful.

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.

Wet and shiny in diffused morning light

no different than that of the nearly

twenty thousand mornings before this one

and yet so different than even yesterday.

Until next time.

With love, always love,

Gin

Here or there?

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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.

Sometimes that is hardest place to be.

At home in my own skin, being okay being me.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Back At It.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments


I once read an essay by the remarkable Wendell Berry that began with,

“I have never not known where I belong.”

Me, I have never known. I am still searching. It’s what I’ve always written about. The searching. That journey. It continues. Maybe someday I’ll get it right. Maybe I’ll get there someday…. Or maybe the non-attachment, the learning to flow, the openness, courage, challenge and adventure that searching has allowed me are enough. Who knows? We’ll see.

In the meanwhile, I have learned to love my wild life. Finally. Or should I say, for now. Because you never know what the future brings. Though I do believe the past has brought me to a beautiful present. It took a lot of work. Was it worth it? Yes indeed.

Moving has never been my intention. I always wanted to remain. Permanence, grounding, the forever place, that sort of thing. But life happens. And then next thing you know, I’m moving again.

Though I still sometimes think of myself as a lone wolf, I am not. I have my forever place in heart and soul, a foundation always with me, no matter where I am. My husband. Our adult son. Rock solid. My rock stars. And really, because of them, because of the “who,” the “where” doesn’t matter near as much.

That said, “where” sure can be interesting!

So, yeah. Guess what?

“Where” is changing again.

You got it. A new adventure awaits.

No, it’s not a wild horse ride across the West this time. Though it too will involve making my way from California to Colorado, with my horses. And once again, the adventure will not just be about being there, but about getting there. It will be about the journey. And then, it can be about what happens when we get settle in and get to work.

We’ll see where it goes. All I can do is start. So here it goes, friends. I’m starting to blog again!

Change. Big change. Scary.

I’ve put a lot of thought into this, probably too much, and still I’m kinda confused by it. Here’s why. On one hand, I love our peace and privacy. On the other hand, I think it’s an exciting idea to share our life and world. Living as we do, it’s hard to reach out, connect and contribute. Putting stuff “out there” is one way we can reach out and maybe even do something good.

If you haven’t noticed (and likely you did not), I’ve been avoiding social media for my mental health. Has it helped? Well, something has. Maybe it’s age. Having menopause behind me. Having my husband still with me. Maybe even the joy I find from my dogs, cats and horses. In any case, I’m happier than ever I was.

So why risk that by putting my writing, an intimate expression of me, out there again? Believe me, I’ve been going back and forth, finding courage then chickening out again. I’ve probably brewed this over way too much.

When I have trouble figuring out something big, my deciding factor is usually asking myself this: Would I regret it more if I did it, or did not do it? Believe it or not, I’d regret not writing, not sharing, not connecting, not having the courage to put my words out there. I need to try. That’s always been my mantra. Try.

Looking back nearly twenty years, I started blogging with the long since deleted “High Mountain Muse” site. It was initially created to be a “how-to” platform, sharing off-grid building and homesteading skills. It turned into a literary expression that resulted in my first two books.

See, I’m not interested in telling anyone “how to.” All I can share is “how I do.” There are plenty of experts out there. I’m not one of them. I am comfortable with simplicity and humility. And yet, I also believe there is much to be said for having the courage to put yourself out there and share. Not as an expert, just as a unique individual (or couple in this case) doing things a different way. Not necessary the best or right way, but our way. Doing what we can, what works for us. I don’t even want to tell other people “how to.” I think part of the journey is figuring it out ourselves. So if I can do any good that way, it would be in inspiring people to drum up the courage to try, whatever beautiful dream they imagine, their way.

What I can do, however, is share my world, my view from the front porch, or from some secret place deep inside. A simple, slow, quiet world. Expressed with courage and creativity, beauty and love. And in doing so, I hope you find some part of yourself, some inspiration, some enjoyment from reading what I share.

All that said, this blog was, and likely will be again, part “how we build an off-grid high mountain homestead from scratch,” and part how we live (or at least try to live) with care, creativity, contemplation, connection, commitment and contribution. The balance and harmony of inner and outer life. Sharing the untamed view – out there and within. That includes the soulful element. Diving deep. Things like the solace of nature, the peace in simplicity, the joy of open space and time, the awe and magic of the wilds, the pleasure in hard physical labor and rewards of a hot bath, and the comfort in love. This is part of the picture, that inner and outer landscape, just as is building the homestead, growing the vegetables, tending to the land and animals, and caring for one another. Thus part of what I share is transparent and hopefully inspirational with the reality of the difficulties, challenges and rewards of finding balance of body, mind and soul when your world is splattered with mud and sawdust, sore shoulders and frozen toes.

On the revamped “About” page, I shared this as an introduction, or reintroduction if you’re familiar with me and/or my work:

We move. We grow. We evolve. 

I do. I have. I will.

So has, does and will this website.

For now, it’s about honoring my craft: writing. Writing of the wild view, out there, and within. And sharing the wild ride of building all over again: off-grid, out there, a bit off-kilter, and admittedly, a little out-law.

It is in part about building an off-grid, self-sufficient home and homestead life in the high (10,000 ft elevation/zone 3) mountains of southern Colorado. That includes life with my husband, family, animals, gardens, farming, ranching and slow living.

It is also about expressing heart and soul of nature and solitude, isolation and connection. It’s about love – love of life, partner, family, community and yes, even self. Therefore, it’s also about point and purpose, and the meaning of life – which is ever evolving, with changing bodies, minds and souls that aging allows. 

Mostly, it is about writing. For me.

And for you, I sincerely hope, it is about enjoying reading, connecting, finding yourself in these stories and words, and delighting in the wild ride it takes you on.

So, there you go. My big confession. I’m back to blogging.

The plan is to write here regularly again, likely one time per week. That means I’m putting my other books on hold for a while. Yes, I always need creative expression. But I also need the focus, and right now, my focus is not about menopause, midlife passages nor my Long Quiet Ride. It’s about moving – and building again. All over again. At our ripening age. Like fine wine. Fragrant, rich, deep and earthy. At least, I hope that’s how it is. Of course we’ll be as we always are: off grid, out there, and again, high and wild. This time, at an elevation of over 10,000 feet. For those who know my passion for farming and gardening and creating the self sufficient homestead, that’s an interesting challenge I am – we are – willing to take on. I won’t be the first, nor the best, and of course, not an expert. But if I say I’ll do it, I likely will.

So begins the journey, the wild ride, the adventure of starting over again, out there, off grid, high and wild, together.

Before I take leave today, I’d like to share a note to subscribers (did you ever think I’d blog again?), and/or whoever may find this site anew.

If this is not or no longer of interest to you now, please follow the unsubscribe directions from WordPress that I think are linked at the bottom of each page. (If not, please let me know and we’ll figure it out). And if you think this might be of interest for someone you know, please, pass it on. Remember, writers write to be read.

For those that want to stick around to see where this goes, great, thank you, I am honored.

We’ll see where the writing, and this journey, takes us.

For now, we’re here and now. And right here, right now, there’s no place I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing, and no one I’d rather be with.

Thanks for “listening.”

With love,

Gin