I guess this is called a teaser. From “A Long Quiet Ride”… words in the works.
I lay in bed, sheets warm and worn, pacified by gentle wind from open bedroom windows. I’m listening to the song of the river and my husband’s gentle breath. He lays beside me, still asleep, limbs still intertwined, back to belly, belly to back. My nose in his neck taking in his familiar scent of sawdust and hay. The lullaby of crickets and tree frogs slowly fades into the chatter of early awakening birds, wrens and robins, phoebes and flickers, as the sky begins to take on color with fomenting light, and the honey fragrance of flowering madrone find its way in moving air through yawning windows.
Here I am. Sleepless beside my sleeping man. Listening to white noise drifting up through morning’s breath. Serenaded by the ever background murmur of flowing water over anchored rocks, reverberating with the promise of perpetuity.
Somewhere already out there, my thoughts ramble though my body remains still, savoring the familiar. This bed. The wind. The warmth. The fragrance. The old dog, the young dog, both in their beds on each side of ours. Even the view of familiar curves like broad, ample hips as are the hills peering between waving oak leaves out the open window. I hold a little tighter to Bob and he lets out a dreamy sigh.
Ah, the carrot that lures the horse back to the barn. And the rider.
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.
Mornings hang cold and heavy, mysterious, shrouded in thick fog. Woods aglow in emerald moss. Branches draped in languid swaths of lichen. Water drops cling to swollen tips of the oaks gnarled branches. By mid day, the ground clouds dissolve into high blue sky, revealing distant hills dusted with snow. Sun is a welcomed visitor, warming sprouted starts in the greenhouse, while cats lay in its illumination sprawling across the old worn rug.
Rain has held for days now. Before bed I sit out under stars, oh the magic of the stars that have been hidden from sight for weeks, with my tobacco pipe and river babble and distant prattling of frogs in the marsh on the other end of the meadow. Frogs I rarely see, only hear. I used to stalk them, felt I had to see them, maybe to prove they were real. Invariably, as I got closer, they would fall silent. I never could find them in the reeds and mud. I have since learned to let them be. Live with them harmoniously. Enjoy the gift they share of song on moist nights; without annoyance of this two legged creeping up in chunky rubber boots as if they wouldn’t notice.
This is enough.
The river calms, slightly subsides, subdues to an even background drone. It is noticeably quieter, though you’re never without the river’s pulse here. Last week, I noted the return of robins, little leaves emerging on gooseberry branches, and delicate buds on tips of dogwood.
Who knows if the braced for snow and cold will come, or if she will be mild, gentle with us this winter.
Bob has been away. In his absence, I find myself speaking to the dogs and horses, cats and chickens as we putter about the ranch finding plenty to do in the sunlight. Probably, I do this even when he’s home. Apparently, I’ve got plenty to say. No one around here seems to mind. They are as used to my chatter as I am with their silent yet attentive response.
I will keep this short this week. There are other places I get to ramble, as the story of a journey, inner and outer, unfurls in ways I didn’t realize it was meant to go. Not too different, I suppose, from how journeys actually progress.
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.
Tonight I sit out on the deck wrapped in the well worn poncho as I have found myself held in this heavy wool so many times before this night. My feet are on the railing; my head tilts back. Behind the now leafless old oak that shades the deck in summer appears the waning moon. She glows silver across the night pasture where fog spreads thick as sea foam. I can hear the gentle shifting of the horses in the barn, and the ever present hum of the inky river just a stone’s throw below. The dogs are beside me. Silent and attentive, staring out into the black beyond, waiting. The bears have been keeping them busy with the warm weather and bright moon.
Overhead, through lace of slender branches of this sprawling tree, few stars glint like Christmas ornaments hanging in the sky.
The ever present sound of the river blends into the darkness and becomes a noise you forget you’re hearing.
There is only a simple silence.
Time and space to breathe.
We settle into the season of long shadows, long nights.
Like the bear. That’s what this season of slowing and settling calls for.
Here in the far north of California in the land of big trees, big rain, big swaths of blackberries and poison oak, the bear does not necessarily hibernate so much as simply slow down. From the recent barking of the dogs, I don’t know how much they’ve even done that. It’s been a mild season so far. Garden roses still bloom. Stores remain plentiful after a bountiful season of lush grass, mushrooms, madrone berries and acorns. It’s easy to see what they’ve been eating by the scat they plainly leave randomly along our quiet dirt road.
With two big dogs, I don’t get to see those bears much. Usually just a big blob of a bear butt running up a hill. Sometimes up a tree.
Still, I feel it, and I’m sure the bears do too. Now is not the season of plenty, but of holing up. Slowing down. And turning within.
The rooster does not crow until some time past six in the morning and the horses come in for the night around five. That makes for long evenings, time for baking, reading, writing, board games, enjoying long lingering dinners lit by candles and twinkle lights, snuggling on the sofa with a couple of cats, reading aloud together, soaking in hot baths… these are winter pleasures.
In spite of the mild weather we’ve been having, we heed the call of the natural exhale after spring/summer/harvest/fall running around full speed in what feels like endless daylight. For those of us who work outside as long as the sun shines, winter is the time to transform into an indoor cat, at least during those long nights. Winter is a reprieve. A blessing. I long for it by the end of summer every year. Time to breathe. To let out a long, full, deep exhale. Before the anxious inhale of spring begins anew.
Garden roses still abloom…… in December.
Seasons, like emotions, these ever flowing, passing states, one folding into the next like whipped eggs whites or cream.
When what I want sometimes is to hold onto forever. Something solid. Never changing.
As futile as clinging to ocean waves.
Rather than accept and appreciate the inevitable.
Ebbs and flows, tides and moons, the occasional passing storm.
Tonight the tide is low. I feel melancholy.
I want a drink. Come on, you say. Go ahead. Just one.
Alas, for some of us, it doesn’t work that way. Maybe this time it would. This time I could. I’d be okay. Holding the firm stem in my fingers as I swirl the familiar luring fragrance emanating from the liquid red velvet lit from the glow of the kitchen lamp behind me. And then let it roll across my lips and linger on my tongue like nectar – silky, rich and smoky.
No.
It’s nearly seven years since I went sober, yet some days (usually nights) I can imagine drinking so vividly as if it were just yesterday. Some days it feels like it’s not getting easier. Tonight is one of those nights.
I’ll get over it. There’s power in reminding myself I made it this far. I can keep on keeping on.
Use your grit, gal.
And grit, well, that much I got.
Things change.
Today, tomorrow, yesterday.
Every day is different. Even on those days when what I feel is so familiar. When what I feel is that “ground hog day” replaying over and over and over again.
Wake in the dark. Tuck the blankets back around Bob. Pet (and step over) the still sleeping pups. Get the fire going, the coffee on, roll out the yoga mat and get down on it, stretch, meditate, light a candle to write, then as gray daylight waxes across the meadow of chalky fog, head out to let the chickens out, feed the horses, walk the dogs. Return…
Grounding in the familiar. This simple life. A life though maybe a little different than yours, so similar in so far as both of us probably turn in each night thinking we didn’t get half as much done as we planned to do.
There are books and poems to write, horses to teach and dogs to train, bread to bake, wood to split, roses to prune and a compost pile to turn, a barn wall to rebuild and basement walls to trim out, rocks to stack and dirt to move and the damn floor needs to be swept again.
I want more time. Or maybe more energy. But that to-do list never seems to go away, just flows from one set of priorities to the next. It’s that ebb and flow thing once again. And at the end of each day, we hope we made a little headway, though how often do we feel we’re drowning.
Today.
Grounded, not because of the place, the view before me, but because of the feeling within me.
And under me. Crow, my old faithful horse. Beside me, Bob and the dogs and the last of autumn’s sweet air that allows us to feel the sun on ungloved hands and my graying hair still free from the confinement of a winter cap.
Sometimes you find yourself…. Exactly where you belong. It’s not a place, but a feeling, something inside.
For me, it’s a wild place, sounded by wind through leafless trees and the cadence of hard hooves on soft dirt.
It’s finding myself on the back of my dear horse where I’ve found myself for thousands of miles before this one.
And time stops, or no longer matters.
And I’m just there, the bones of my pelvis padded by Crow’s warm winter coat.
The sound of my breath, his breath, the rhythm of his footfall.
It’s watching my horse’s mane shift and sway as he walks, like ripples in the river into which my open hand reaches, sinks in, and already knows the softness it will touch as my fingers intertwine with his black mane. So familiar, the feel of bare hands in soft hair, deep into the comfort of the back of his neck. The familiar fragrance of freshly cut fir trees and wild mint as the horses cross the creek, mingling with their sweet musky sweat in the oddly mild air where my legs are wrapped around a familiar warm back, without a saddle between us to sever the connection.
It’s turning to see Bob in his own world beside me, comfortable and content on the back of the new horse, Jesse. He’s perched in a place where he’s been holding space since long before I was born, and I smile. He may not see it. I’m riding in front. But he knows it. He always knows it. If he wants me to just let go, to relax, to forget about all the should-woulda-couldas, to just be, and to smile, get the gal on her horse.
This feels like home. On the back of the horse. With my husband and dogs close by and the soft sun and leafless trees and the smell of those leaves, now grounded, brown and brittle, through which the horses walk. Today there’s no need to train or work or get somewhere or get something done, just be with the horses, the land, one another. Where we belong.
Gradually, she enters. Silently moves in. Puts down her bags and unpacks. She intends to stay here a while.
She has left the door ajar. You feel cold air on bare ankles and get up to close the entryway. Put on another layer of wool. Zip up a little higher. Keep the fire going all day.
Here in the far north of California, she does not scream her arrival. You must listen. Wind is quieter with leafless trees. Fog and frost alternate, making mornings an eerie scene to wander through, beneath tangled bare branches, oak moss and old man’s beard. Stripped of autumn’s gaudy golden display, you see more of her pale sky, muted and subdued by the season. You notice her wrinkled arms exposed, gnarled fingers of naked branches reaching upward, outward, as if she is holding up the heavy air. You walk with her as if somewhere in some old western sepia photo, crunching leaves with every slow, measured step. And you stand with her, simple, stark and unadorned. And breathe, because she invites you to pause, to slow down. To look inside. In your home. Around the old wood cook stove where the kettle ever rattles, the cats are curled nearby, and the smell of biscuits wafts as a welcoming chime. And in your soul. Those dark places. Warmed by the fire and intermingled feet together on the sofa shared with perchance a dog, a cat, and a cup of tea.
Some say winter is the Old Man. Yet I believe she’s the crone. Gray and weathered and wise. Almost silent. She has little to say. You ask her to share her secrets, and in reply, she raises a gnarled finger and points the way.
The way home.
Somewhere safe and warm, between your ribs.
There is a part of me that yearns for the wild winters of Colorado’s high country. Where the approach of winter transforms the mountain into something hollow and vast, and holds you tight in a frozen embrace. In thick socks and thicker soles, we walk with a deliberate pace for you cannot linger out here for long, crunching across frost swollen ground so solid we bury our pipes six feet down. It’s not that I love to be cold. It’s not about snow, and certainly not skiing and those kinds of things you hear about that could lure a person to remain. Rather, it’s the crystalline mornings when frost sugar coats each delicate bare branch of the bare willows, silent and still down beside the frozen creek. It’s the glacial flow, layered like a silver lava flow, down at the bottom of the creek creeping thicker and thicker each day as water gradually works its way around ice. And it’s the afternoon sun working its way through disrobed aspen and sparce blue spruce to the frozen riparian bottom, turning the ice flow alive with a ghostly glow. It’s the sound, ethereal as a whale call, of groaning ice spreading thick across the big white flat of the reservoirs under endless stars dancing in fathomless black in silence only heard through deep, deep freeze when the surface of our world is still.
I could tell you my heart is torn, but that’s not quite right. It’s not ripped or ragged. It’s just a little confused.
How can I decide? Between soft, light and mild – and high, harsh and wild. I cannot. Not for now. For now I will dance between two lovers, the slow embrace of a gentle land; and the passionate tango holding me tight to fierce ground.
And time will be my crystal ball, or the wisdom of the winter crone, when I finally understand to where her knobby finger points.
Lit from a window with dark and drama as if a Vermeer farm house woman painted on old canvas, weathered and worn with time. Where is my pitcher, my cup, a book held just so, or an open letter draped in my perfectly poised hand?
Instead, I loom mighty over a laptop, screen cold blue and buzzing, surreal, unimaginable back in baroque days. Both the computer and me.
The window is open. Damp air thick, smelling of wood smoke wafting from another clean up fire Bob is burning. And the sound of roosters competing in a crowing match, one on the river side, one by the garden. Diligent guards, knowing the hawks are close by. Allowing their ladies to peck and scratch through the fresh layer of damp decay.
And always, over and through it all, here has an ever present thrum of river. The sound a ubiquitous murmur, something that’s always there though so familiar you don’t always hear. Similar to that of traffic I was once used to in other days and feeling far away lands. This is what I hear, here and now.
A gray day. Ancient oaks with spindly outstretched arms like old woman’s fingers, gnarled and swollen from too many years gripping the shovel, the hoe, the broom, the wooden spoon; stand silent over ground matted with leaves still a robust brown covering ever green grass and rich black earth.
The writing desk, before which I’m perched, and upon which my lap top resides, this week brings me out beyond this familiar view to strange places on the open road where I once was. It’s that vibrant green and lush of late spring. The sound is of horses walking in unison, clip clop on some unnamed logging road or alongside a foreboding highway where cars and trucks zip by without meeting eyes or noticing the oddity of a woman riding along miles and miles of barbed wire fences, locked gates and “no trespassing” signs, still somewhere in the north of California.
A Long Quiet Ride, coming back to life in words. It’s not always easy to share. Of course it was harder to do. How does one share what happened out there? How do I bring you with me?
Conserving my words as I sit and stare out the window above my desk.
Wanting them to flow forth for the work at hand.
The book that’s stirring, simmering and working its way out of me now.
Yet poems are what mess around in my mind.
And what can a gal do but play with them, with a mischievous smile and twinkling, rolling gray eyes?
Evening now, leaning back with bent knees.
The familiar feel of warm worn leather holding the bones of my back.
I’m on one side of the sofa.
You are on the other.
Your feet are bare, broad, firm and warm.
While mine look half your size, wrapped in striped wool socks, holes in the toes worn through from wet leather boots left by the door beneath a dripping slicker.
Feet entangled, intertwined. An easy touch. Mindless and comforting as toes play with one another, finding familiar places to be.
While rain pounds down outside onto saturated deck shiny with water coating each old wood board, shimmering alive with pounding rain. And inside the old wood cook stove crackles and casts an amber glow into the half lit room smelling of the last of this seasons roses, rubbed down dogs drying by the fire, and chicken soup simmering on the stove.
We’re quiet.
You are softly spoken.
Teaching me to conserve my words.
A challenge for this rambling mind.
Lost in thought as silent phrases spill across pages of the notebook pressed against my thighs.
As I look up to meet your eyes, looking into, through you and back into me.
Entangled.
With words.
Sitting alone with my muse.
This weekend was rich with poems, poets and a coffee buzz. It’s hard not to succumb to the words that dance in my mind and twirl along my tongue as I read them aloud.
Real. Raw. A little rough around the edges. No frills and nothing fancy.
Some days unsettled in shifting clouds, stirred by wild winds within and around me.
Other days grounded in terra firma, pummeled by fall rains, nourishing dormant seeds, creative seeds, growing enough to give a part the self to others. Because what is life without something to share?
The other day, I had this revelation. A big one. It hit me:
I’m happy.
A year away from 60 and finally having grown into my skin. (Notice I still won’t say grown up.)
That skin’s a little loose and wrinkled, now weathered like driftwood and aged like well worn levi jeans. It is familiar; it fits me well. Finally at home in my skin, here or there, or someplace yet to be. But always a wild place. A quiet place. With plenty of room to roam.
And today at least, there is no place I would rather be. No time I would rather return to. No life I would rather have than mine. In all its imperfections, complications, confusions, and curiosities.
I am as happy as I’ve never been.
I have never felt more whole.
Not despite flaws, fuck-ups, wrinkles, wrong doings and imperfections. But perhaps because of them all.
The road map of my life so far, etched across my face.
The woman as seasons. Each of us a leaf on a big beautiful tree.
Here and now as I watch those leaves fall and trees left bare and my skin weathers and hair grays, this is where I am.
Our lives are each a work of art.
This is what I created. So far.
Already an ocean of wondrous waves that somehow I managed to ride. Some that lifted me high, others pulled me down, yet mostly there is floating, out there on the open sea with the big blue or black above, open and seemingly endless, holding me as I rest, nourishing for whatever wave comes next.
The highs are based on love. Birthing, mothering, parenting and evolving into adult friends with my son. Forming a strong, supporting and enduring equal partnership with my lover – something I never felt worthy of. Dogs and horses and learning to commit with courageous heart in this ever changing world, with ever evolving relations. Being true to my calling, creative expression, the art of of writing, and crafting a quiet, wild life. Somehow I managed to build my own box, yet not get stuck inside it. Remaining true to being the outdoor cat, somewhat feral, fleeting and self sufficient.
And the downs, to date, admittedly there have been a few. All the challenges, from poverty and placelessness, loneliness and single parenting, drinking and depression – these were part of the picture too. These have been my teachers, the wise ones gifting compassion, empathy, understanding, and true wisdom based on the balance of heart and mind, first hand. And grit. Definitely a lot of grit. Without much for formal education, I was not formed. Instead I learned to dig in the ground with bare hands, find raw clay and form my life myself. Inspired by the natural worlds where I found myself, I have tried to make it beautiful, wild and free, full of creativity and curiosity, passion and peace, respect and responsibility, and above all, love.
Of course there are things I regret. The hardest was wishing I was more present for my son rather than struggling to make ends meet and prove my worth to others who didn’t matter near as much as he did. And things I wish I had learned earlier. Going sober tops that list.
At times I wish I had a crystal ball to portend my future and lead me the right way. Instead time is the wise one and will share her wisdom with me as she unfurls in seasons yet to come. And all I can do is accept what she brings me, hopefully with grit and grace and gratitude. All the while, remaining a little wild and holding onto a childlike mind that finds beauty and magic and wonder and awe every day.
How long will this wave last?
I have lived enough to know that nothing lasts forever.
And with each passing wave, we learn about balance and flow.
For now, I am here.
This morning I sit out in diffused sun beneath a waving veil of high clouds. Eyes closed. Lulled by the song of the river, blending high notes from flickers and phoebes, chatter from dippers and jays, and a light wind softly trembling through the last holding leaves on these ancient sprawling oaks. And ever the refrain of the river harmonizing wild and free as the blood that flows through me, inspires me, fires me, and keeps me afloat.
I walk the trail paved with fallen leaves and emerging mushrooms and lingering thoughts I cannot shake free from my mind. Big leaves, oaks orange and brown, vibrant aspen gold of maples leaves the size of dinner plates, and dogwoods’ delicate reds, ranging from rich crimson to a dreamy peachy pink like water color spilled across the page.
The season inspires poetic words I long to master of emotions tamed like circus lions, emotions that pass by as quickly as these leaves are stripped from tree by rousing wind in which my soul surges, and my heart feels very very warm, somehow settled, an unusual feeling for me.
We run to catch the leaves. Yet our rapid movements make the leaves dance in a maddening unpredictability we cannot control nor capture.
Instead we sit on the deck beneath the old trees, where silent and still, a leaf gently falls into outstretched, opened hands.
It is a good place to be.
A pause between rains.
One day the river rages, thick and silty. The next, a calm clear flow.
But the pathway remains the same. Banks like skin, like soul, containing, confining, defining.
Somehow through it all, though every moment brings different waters, the river remains.
Changing, and yet, unchanged.
And I wonder, are we not the same? Though parts may soften, as water to stone, slowly over time, chiseling away coarse edges, washing away the ever altered surface into grains of sand, softening with time and age. A sandbar moves from here to there. Banks scoured. Rocks tumble and settle anew. Fish battle their way upwards as entire trees are swept away and brought out to sea.
That is my course.
That is where and I how I flow. At least for now.
Some days wild and raging, brown and turbulent, roaring like thunder in steel gray skies.
Other days gentle, buoyant, holding soft and quiet as a trickle as I sit here alone, sun burning golden through closed eyelids.
Mystery prevails the process.
Edges blur. Sides merge. Like oil on canvas as the brush takes another stroke.
Finding beauty both in the creating and the creation and all the wonders of this imperfect life.
Where autumn gently unfurls, brown and gold, rich and lush, closing us into the season with winds stirring from a distant sea and majestic trees dripping with mushrooms and moss.
Where deciduous leaves turn from vernal green to glowing gold and burnt crimson while wild skies turn from unbroken blue to strata grey and the steady sound of rain dancing on metal roofs equals that of the swelling river.
Oh the river, the placental web of this wild and free land, where salmon appear like magic this year, making their maiden voyage and a splash in the news, glimmering and slithering their way through rapids as we watch in awe from the kitchen table while the coffee gets cold and homemade bread and farm fresh eggs are left lingering on the plate pushed to the side so we don’t miss a moment of this magnificent show.
Where I’m fed generously by the land, pampered by spring water and warm moist air, the abundance of the garden, and luxuries of indoor plumbing and a queen sized bed.
Yes…
And at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.
Except maybe there.
Where ice spreads like wildfire, snow settles in and brown grass stands strong, defiantly poking its way through wind drifted white, and the ominous sky stirs a primal hunger somewhere deep between our ribs, buried tight beneath layer after layer of wool and down.
Where expansiveness and spaciousness and intensity of thin air, and the bigness of high and wild that rip your breath away make you realize what it means to be fully alive.
My heart is torn.
Torn between the good boy, and the bad boy… It’s always been a thing for me.
Between high and wild, and low and lush. Between strong and gentle, between hard and soft. Maybe there is a middle ground, but I am not a middle person.
How can I love two lands?
It’s as complicated as having two lovers.
Can a person dream more than one dream?
Can we love two places at once or must we be monogamous? I yearn to be wed to a place, tied to the land, faithfully remain, grounded…
As I am committed to my man, so do I long to be to the land.
Twenty something years ago, I finally found a man willing and able to live the wild way I want. And as luck would have it, we fell in love: hard, fast and solid. But finding “home” together, the place where we both belong, has been a trip, a joint quest, twisting and tangling our way as far south as Argentina and north to Alaska, and too many places to count in between.
At the end of the day, at least for today, we find ourselves back where we started. Only, I’m from a different place than he. Must we decide between the two, between his and hers, when what we have both found is that we love one place as we love the other, as long as we are with one another?
The apple does not fall far from the tree, some say.
But some of us have planted more than one tree.
I am no closer to being decided where I belong. I know it’s not the people. There are good folks here, and good folks there. It is the land and what it does to me somewhere deep inside, the stirring of dreams, both of which I never knew could be so tempting until I tasted them.
Here, at Riverwind, we are finally caught up.
After months of preparing this place for our being gone over summer, milling timbers to take, sowing seeds to plant, preparing this place for our absence; followed by four months in the high country where we were either working or tired or hungry and too often plenty of all three; then returning to get this place back in shape, ready to show, and in the process meticulously tending the land we have nurtured and groomed and polished like a hidden gem found within a river rock finally allowed to shine…
As we sat by the fire in last light of day, we gazed around in awe. Tired and sore, it felt good. We have cared well for the land. It’s what we do. We’re worker bees. Stewards of the land. What would we rather be doing?
And where would we rather be?
At this very moment, right here, right now, I am content. I am where I am meant to be.
For now there is settling in. Acceptance. Grounding. And I know I am where I need to be. What tomorrow brings will be revealed when tomorrow comes.
For now I need time. Time to write. Finally. Some days it feels long over due. Other days, it feels just right. There has been time to soak it in, to let it ripen, and now time to pull the cork and savor the story as it begins to pour forth, dark and rich and robust.
Finish what you start. This past summer I committed to get a cabin built with my husband with lumber we harvested and milled 1250 miles away. We did. Two summers before that I committed to heading out horseback across the west, out there on some inner journey, to see where the open road would lead me. I did. A long quiet ride.
But you know what? When I set off on that journey, my intention was to write, to share the story, have it be my next book.
Now it’s time to get that done. Write that story. How it really was. Much more than I could share from the road, the little bread crumbs on my blog posted to keep my family and friends assured I was still alive.
Writing the story of the journey will complete that chapter, sharing what I set out to find, and what I found, and sharing the reality of the trip along the way. It was a wild ride. I think you might enjoy. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s all make believe. You can decide for yourself.
And then perhaps I will finally be to the point where I no longer have to prove myself to me.
And then what? Maybe after that summer, and last, maybe just maybe I can slow down, settle in and savor just being.
The season of change. And somehow, of soul. Of letting go. Releasing. And oh yes, of softening. Into the mountain as she shares an ornate display before stripping bare and standing forth unadorned.
A time of exposure, openness, inviting us gently to reveal our true colors, no longer harsh beneath summer’s buoyant light, nor subtle, still and washed over in white as in winter’s frozen air.
The season is one of slowing down, at least it naturally is. It’s the slow, deep exhale of the earth revealed in longer shadows, shorter days, golden light, and cooler nights.
There is some mysterious call for solitude in autumn air, asking us to wander off alone, if only for a moment. We’re called to turn within, to release summers big and bright, full and loud, left behind like a snake stepping out of her worn out skin, preparing perhaps for regrowth, the natural incline of hibernation that deep winter allows.
Alas, I wonder if I’ll have such a moment today. Feels like there is no time to be still and contemplate the deeper and greater meanings of this change this year. Yet these are the things that make life a little bit fuller, richer and more meaningful. Taking time to take in time. To see, taste, smell and fee the world around you, not only in ways that you touch it, but in how it touches you, or better yet, just is, regardless of you and your presence. It’s that thing bigger than you or me or today or tomorrow or our wants and worries and woes.
And so I will take the time, before the rains, or maybe while it comes down, to stop where the tall grass is brown, untouched and abundant with seeds ready to be kicked out as I walk by. I will stop for a moment and lay down upon the earth, with the pup sitting still beside me, listening to the sound of the creek, and distant wind through tired leaves, and let the rain fall on my weathered face, and I will breathe, and I will smile, and for just a moment in time, I will do nothing more than be.
Gin Getz 