Slow Living

Waiting for the moon to rise.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

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.

It is a return to center.

Coming back home, within.

Until next time,

With love,

Always love,

Gin

The intimate connection between person and place.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

(viewing this land from the top of Boot Mountain)

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.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

And what about commitment?

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

You see, first there is this: the footer. The solid footprint upon which to build level and square, solid, straight and true.

A slab is poured.

And a rather permanent footprint is created.

This is something solid, serious, the real deal.

It means something, though I’m not sure I can define what.

I know it means it’s happening. We’re doing this. Building a little cabin way out and way high.

But it feels like it means something more.

It’s also about building dreams, a life, hand in hand as we build the walls.

Slowly. Slowed by our aging energies. Slowed by the elements. Slowed by the schedules of others we’re working around.

Is slow such a bad thing?

Maybe it just means more time. More time to consider and refine our plans. More time to hike and explore and ride and write. More time to sit and stare at the view, in silence, together, as our hearts feel as radiant as the sky.

And along with solid grounding, those cement roots we sew into the ground, there lays a message of commitment. One of the scariest things to consider.

So today I’m thinking long and hard about commitment because… well, I’m trying to figure out how committed I am.

Is commitment the ties the bind us – the burden that has our hands held tight behind our back?

Or the devotion and responsibility that keeps us tied, which in kind creates a bond more powerful than that of freedom?

At times, you know, it is both.

Commitment can be our ocean. It is the vastness that holds us up, and that threatens to take us down if we don’t learn to swim. We must soften into the water. Allow it support us, and adjust to its ebbs and flows. That which is dense and rigid is more likely to sink. Like the concrete on the footer. How do we stay afloat in this ever changing world, these ever changing times, my ever changing mind?

Commitment takes time. It can’t be forced, but takes a subtle power and pressure like water sculpting stone. One more reason to slow down. Let it sink into your bones. Let it become you. If it will. And maybe it won’t. See if it will somehow soften you, change you, and move you to evolve.

It is a choice. Dedication, devotion and duty are the glue that adheres us, what holds us to person, to place, to profession. It holds us to center, though sometimes it is just… sticky.

It is not born but comes with time, like a fine wine rolling along your tongue. Committing to growing a garden, a dog, a horse or a kid, a relationship, a book, a building. These things don’t happen over night.

Commitment takes time and work, patience, forgiveness and acceptance. It takes a certain type of kindness that is intertwined with love. And commitment takes change. Yes, to remain committed, we not only grow into it, we flow with it. Thus along the way, something happens. We become more, we become less, we become something a little different. We change.

(Perfectionism is, if not the polar opposite, than the bucket that dosed the flame. Check out what Brene Brown has to say about that in her book, “The Gifts of Imperfection.”

Are you committed? To person, to people? To place? To your craft. To your chosen lifestyle. To your beliefs and creed and faith? To the place that you call “home?”

Am I?

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

A practical post on power…

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

… and a few photos from the past few days, leaning in and stepping back.

About the power.

Bob and I have lived off grid as long as we’ve been together. That’s twenty something years. And twenty something years of relying on solar power.

We’re no pros on solar power but we make do (with help on big stuff, without a doubt). It works. Well.

I thought I’d take a few to share with you what’s working for us here and now. I’m not saying this is “the” way. It’s just our way. And it works for us.

The tiny little camper we’re living in has a tiny little solar panel, battery and inverter that actually works well enough to keep us in a few tiny little lights. Good thing to note is that the batteries are sealed, which means safer in a small space, and if left for the season well charged, don’t freeze. We don’t use this much and I’m not big on lights anyway. I’m more a candle, oil lamp and solar twinkle lights kinda gal.

But we do have needs. And the tiny little system in this tiny little camper wasn’t going to cut it.

Back in California, I did some research into a portable solar system that would satisfy our simple needs. We’d need to charge devices, power tools and (yup) Starlink. The regular household Starlink, not the portable one designed for on-the-go. I decided on the Ecoflow Delta 3 Plus. This is the system we purchased on Amazon at about a thousand dollars: EF ECOFLOW Solar Generator Delta 3 Plus with 220W Bifacial Solar Panel.

So far, we’re glad we went with it. It felt like a pretty big drop in the bucket at the time, but we’ve had no regrets what so ever. Super simple, straightforward and reliable. It’s been more than enough power for us. Could have gone a little smaller, perhaps, to accommodate our minimal needs, but maybe we’ll get something else to plug in – like a portable cooler or something to keep groceries cold. Right now, we just make do. Refrigeration is great, but it’s over rated and not necessary. We go to town once a week and only get enough perishables to last that week. Cheese, butter, yogurt do fine. Likewise do most veggies. We don’t eat much meat but a pre-cooked roast chicken from our little local market, between meals made with the chicken and then soup made with the bones, lasts the better part of a week.

For emergency back up of charging devices, or for charging when we’re out in the field, I still love to use my Goal Zero Venture 35 mini battery/inverter and the Goal Zero Nomad 20 portable folding solar panel. I got this set up for my Long Quiet Ride, and rode with the little solar panel strapped on the back of the pack horse charging one unit, and a second small battery pack in my horn bag to get me through the day. I stressed about losing power a lot, but made it through. Now it just serves as a back up, and a seriously sweet stress reducer.

Of course, today is Summer Solstice. A beautiful blessings indeed. Solar power is having it’s heyday and the need for lights is just about nil, with the sun so early to rise and late to set, pretty much coinciding with our needs.

As for these photos…

Here’s an assortment from the past few days. Some are leaning in. Getting up close and intimate. (I finally unpacked my big camera, so that’s been a pleasure for me to work on in well needed breaks from the dirt pit – more on that next time!). Others are stepping back. Seeing the bigger picture. All of them, for me, are about finding beauty and awe with what is right there before you. It’s easy here. Looking closely. Feeling what you see. Quietly. Deeply. Intimately. Mine is not a view big and bright and shiny enough to attract a big fuss and crowds. But it is more than enough for me.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Date night.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Finally a warmer evening.  No rain and hail this afternoon to cool things down to cold. So he heats a bucket of water over the fire and offers me a soak, out under the wide open sky that throws her usual evening show of colors nearly gaudy – blues and violets and magentas and grays, blending boldly in untamed air.

As I slip my dirty feet into the pail, a part of me melts. Between the warm water, watching ground-in dirt abrade, and the generosity of my husband to share this simple gift, I soften.

Two weeks ago yesterday, we left our oasis in California, and today Colorado feels like home. Here, there, wherever I am. Wherever the soil rubs deep into my pores and comes to rest beneath my nails. Wherever the air fills and burns my nose and lungs and wherever the water in which I bathe becomes me. That is where I am, where I wish to remain, where I belong, forever.

Camp is set. A place to sleep and cook and clean. A road to come and go. Water to drink and a place for chickens and horses, dog and this meager thing I call a garden. A place to do laundry, store tools, wash after another dirty day.

We are ready to move forward.

And so, we break ground.

And as the sod is peeled back, revealing rich soil below, deposited a millennia ago by the industrious work of beavers, the story in my heart unfolds just as deep, just as wide, just as rich and wild.

And then we return inside. Into the comfort of what is now home to my man, my dog and me. A tiny trailer, 8 feet wide and 14 feet long, that I decorated as I do, with crystals and warm colors and an assortment of things that make me feel cozy. Things that make me feel at home, as does the sound of that rooster’s crow.

Prayer flags in the kitchen window that were custom made many years ago. The only missing message is faith. Something I am returning to. The path is unique to me. The direction is all the same.

Until the next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Loud motor; quiet voice.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Covered in sawdust and gear grease and dressed in baggy shorts not long enough to hide skinny white legs sticking out below, scraped up knees and all. Skin like rawhide and at times, admittedly, a personality to match.

This is no hot date.

These are two videos I took yesterday of us at the mill for anyone curious what our hot times look – and sound – like. In this case, loud. Yes, we wear ear protection. Bob is already hearing impaired. I can’t afford to be too.

My cinematography sucks, but that’s not what it’s about. It’s just an attempt to show you how it works.

There’s a sign I found a few years back that I just had to have and hung at the entrance to our ranch.

“Beware of the wife,” it reads, and if you know, you know it’s no joke. Depending on what mood I’m in, how tired I am, how late it is, and how late you are.

Still, I’ve been told more than once,”She cleans up well.” I think that was a compliment. I think?

In any case, this week found us dirtier than usual, arguing out of short tempters and frustration, not with one another but from working with rotten wood, in the heat and wondering why we’re doing this – and how the hell are we going to make it work. And of course, taking it out on each other. That’s the downside of partnership, of working with the one you love. They get the brunt of it, whatever “it” may be. We both are guilty of this. And working alongside one another as we’ve done for over twenty years, when the going gets rough, you can’t just walk away.

I wouldn’t want to if I could.

The comfort in commitment. The joy in being able to make each other smirk and smile, laugh and long, even during a downright dirty day. That’s good stuff.

Comfort in commitment… above and beyond love, and that’s the absolute essence. There’s commitment to habit and routine as well.

This is mine.

Early morning.

The alarm rouses me before the roosters. Right now that’s just past five. Slowly outside shapes emerge in shades of gray. Colors are slow to awaken. It’s a while still before sun graces the top of the farthest hill I can see from this little land tucked in as womb along the untamed river.

Now is the quiet time after frogs have settled and before robins wake. Even the dogs still sleep. The only sound is the river, humming as a steady wind. It is a time of tranquility, as if life on hold, the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is a time to get in yoga and meditation practice, sharing the mat with two dogs and two cats. It is a time to softly putter about the cabin, often lit only by the setting moon or a single flickering flame. Time to get the wood stove going and the kettle on, coffee ready before Bob wakes, then time to write (often by candle light) before heading out to care for chickens and horses and walk the dogs.

Comfort comes in the familiar, in sounds like rain on the metal roof when I’m still in bed and the ticking of the cast iron woodstove contracting, a signal for me to put another log on the fire.

I like routine. It’s a safe place. In a world filled with chaos and conflict and unknowns, this is my solid ground, my foundation, a cradle that gives me some sense of stillness and calm. A time to be and breathe before the dirt and grease, sawdust and sweat, grit and grind.

The quiet before the noise.

(If you saw that video of the mill, you know what I’m talking about.)

Late afternoon.

Taking a break, laying back on lush grass, together with a couple of dogs.

Long golden shadows. Big cumulus clouds like plumes of smoke growing and gathering. The air is perfumed with blossoms of wild madrone and apple. Oak leaves suddenly full and waving in the wind as abundant undergrowth comes to life. The first of the turtles and gopher snakes cross the dirt road. Wild geese have come to rest among chickens and horses on pasture of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. The puppy plays with the big old dog (funny because the big old one was the young one just a few years ago), and mama hen pecks in the grass with her five little chicks around her.

Sawdust and the sound of the mill feel far away. This feels like a dream. A dream I didn’t know was in me.

Get real. It’s unreal.

Who’s to say what’s real?

Living in a place which most days feel pretty dreamy, we’re often told this isn’t real.

Okay then, what is?

“It’s not the real world,” they may say of this kind of life, this place, how folks like us chose to live.

I get it. Growing up in the suburbs just outside “the” city, I didn’t know a life like this was possible, didn’t know this world existed.

“Grow up and get a real job,” you’re taught.

“Wake up and get real,” people tell you.

“C’mon… get over it… join the real world,” is what you hear.

Took growing up for me to figure out what “real” really was.

Am I living a dream? I dunno. Pinch me. I’m awake. Seems pretty real to me. And at the same time, sure enough, this is a dream come true.

Guess you gotta start by having dreams. Boy, did (and do) I.

I dream. Then get to work. Hard work. Willing to live with dirt and bugs, blood and bruises, and regular cold and wind; live in cars and tents, mud shacks and mobile homes in someone else’s back yard; live without indoor plumbing, central heating and heaven forbid, luxuries like hair dryers, coffee makers and cell phone service. “Live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later,” we once read. I am willing to try.

That’s what dreaming has meant for me. That was the price I paid. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Everyone’s got their own price, their own path, their own definition of what “living a dream” might be. I don’t know what that means for you. I just hope you’re living it too.

If not, there’s still time.

Who says you’re too old (or young or poor or whatever the excuse)?

I don’t ever want to stop growing up. And I don’t ever want to be stuck being grown up, either.

Growing up doesn’t mean to me now what it meant when I was young. Maybe because now I’m easily as old as what I thought grown ups were supposed to be, but I sure don’t feel like them. Then I thought grown up meant boring and stuffy and sensible shoes, clean jeans and finger nails and well groomed hair, sitting at a desk all day and raking leaves on weekends; cocktails promptly at five o’clock and nothing much gets done after that. No thanks. That’s not for me.

As a kid, too, I remember thinking that being grown up was some required state of feeling like you know it all, losing that sense of curiosity, wonder, and awe. I haven’t felt that, and hope I never do because the moment we feel we know it all, have all the answers and/or have the right to speak our truth as if it were “the” truth, we start closing. We stop seeing. Stop hearing. We lose our sense of wonder and we turn into old farts. Not the most eloquent choice of words, but you get the point.

What makes life living more than curiosity, wonder and awe?

And of course, love.

That’s the magic of life. The hot and spicy. The zip and zesty. The fascination and enchantment that makes life worth living.

That childlike sense of openness.

The beginners mind.

Finding magic every day.

Making magic, too.

The ability to laugh at dumb jokes. And laugh at yourself.

The reminder to smile warmly at strangers, and enjoy watching kids and puppies play.

The nudging to just let it go when you’re cut off at the end of a passing lane or that parking spot you were vying for is taken before you can back in.

It’s taking time to smell the roses, watching baby geese take their maiden voyage, laying back in the grass or against the front steps with your eyes closed and listening to crickets on a still summer eve.

It’s listening to the same old stories from an old man or same old jokes from your partner, and still chuckling every time.

It’s having your breath taken away as a pair of red tail hawk do their courtship dance overhead or watching thunderheads build for the first time this year gracing us with an unexpected blast of thunder so sudden the puppy barks.

It’s accepting that you’ll never know it all, control it all, or do it all, but having fun trying, maybe failing, and trying again.

If missing out on any of that is what growing up means, I’m glad it didn’t happen to me.

Growing up is a work of art, fluid and ever changing, like an endless emerging of butterfly wings.

It’s not a place we get to – you know, as in “being there.” Rather, it’s an evolution that lasts as long as we are blessed to live our one wild life.

Now it’s the end of the week. We’ve kissed and made up. And washed up. Even got a little rain to keep down the dust and water the garden without moving a hose.

Now we’re back out there, getting ready to stack the next load of boards and beams for Bob to take to Colorado. All the bells and whistle and gears and grease are doing what they’re supposed to do. The broken rototiller remains broken but we borrowed the neighbor’s working one. (Thank you, George.) The garden shines and grows, somehow joyously. And looks like we finally figured out a floor plan we can build in one season with the material we’ve been working to amass.

Keep on keeping on.

It’s what we do. Would I want it any other way?

I choose to keep living the life we live and love doing what we’re doing, with wonder and awe, feeling fulfilled and full of joy by doing what we do, together.

All of it. The ups and downs and ins and outs and round and rounds and all.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Sitting around eating bon-bons.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

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!”

Thank you, John. I am!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

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

On plans and places.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

(looking back at the healthy forest surrounding our little bit of paradise – that little clearing in the center – here in the far north of California)

~

Contemplating slow living and the complexities of the simple life.

So much of that is based on making the most of what you have, and doing it yourself.

As in, if you want lumber for building…

You fall trees, skid them, clean the slash, load logs on the mill, saw them to size, stack them.

And then in this case… haul them from here to there.

California to Colorado.

Simple living, sounding somewhat complicated.

I’ll explain.

This is my first attempt at sharing a video on this blog. I want to show you what milling is like. However, it’s hard to hold a device in one hand AND crank the mill with the other. So I may have some figuring out to do. In the meanwhile, go ahead and say it: Cinematography is not my strong point.

Bob did a lot better. This is the video he took after I whined about how bad mine was.

~

So about the mill.

It’s slow, old, free and ours.

It was left behind at another “high and wild” property we once owned, just for a little while. Another fixer upper. That place was a little TOO high. At an elevation of 11,400 feet, turned out to be too much even for Bob and me. We got headaches, bloody noses, had trouble sleeping, got battered by the elements… but we did fix the place up nicely and flipped it.

And, bonus: we got this mill out of the deal.

Yeah, I know, it’s old. Go ahead and say it (Bob does all the time): too old! It’s crazy slow. You gotta crank the wheel for several minutes just to raise or lower the carriage that holds the blade, then crank some more to move the carriage as the blade inches it way through the wood. Crank again to raise it, crank it back to the beginning, then lather, rinse, repeat. It’s a lot of cranking and a helluva a test of patience. Apparently I have a lot, because even as the one doing all that cranking, every time Bob shows me pictures or starts talking about a new mill, I’m quick to shut him down.

“This is what we have,” I remind him (and myself). And though it’s slow, check it out: it works. We’ve used more modern mills. You know, those fancy ones with bells and whistles, flashing lights, keyboards, electronics or at least hydraulics that cost about as much as a mortgage. This one is gear and chain and crank drive, do your own measuring and your own math, and it was free. Simple. Slow living, slow milling, see what I mean?

Slow as it is, I love it. Yes, I love milling. I love the smell of the wood, and working out in the elements (most times). I love watching dead trees turn into valuable lumber. And I love working with my husband, which after twenty something years building together has brought us to that place of operating in relative wordlessness and this flow that feels almost like a dance. We know what needs to be done, move in unison, use hand signals, nods and knowing glances (and probably a few grunts) to converse. Slow and steady, it works for us.

Despite clothes, hair, and all parts of exposed (and somehow even covered) skin getting enrobed in sawdust every afternoon, the pride in making our own lumber from our own trees is a thrill for me. Maybe I’m an odd sort, but I’m in the right place.

And slow as the mill and the process is, it does work. Beautifully. We milled all the dimensional lumber for that “high and wild” remodel with this mill. There, a buddy milled all the logs for an entire cabin from the beetle kill trees on that land. When we moved from Colorado to California, we brought the mill with us and processed all the lumber for this remodel we’re living in now (you can see some of it HERE.). And maybe when we’re done milling here this spring, chances are we’ll move it back.

Here and now, because of that mill and the beetle killed timber on this land, the majority of materials for our upcoming build are free. (Oh and a big shout out of thanks to my sis and her man for the incredible windows we scored as they replaced theirs!) Beat that. Makes slow somehow okay that way.

The process starts with Bob doing most of the work you forget needs to be done before you even get to mill: falling trees, delimbing and clearing slash, skidding logs, loading them onto the mill. Then I get to do my magic.

I’m the (not necessarily) smooth operator of this old roaring beast, which entails a lot of cranking as I said: cranking her up and down and back and forth, moving the blade through the log with each pass. Sloooooowly. Like everything about this process. Yet… beautifully! At least it’s beautiful to me.

We’ve used it so long, done it so much, by now it’s muscle memory for me. I’m so used to the sound and feel I can do it with my eyes closed. And often I have to. Because when the wind blows my way, which often times it does, so does the sawdust.

And after almost every pass, there’s the joint effort of rolling the log on the mill, which involves a bunch of prying with peaveys and few grunts and groans, then carrying each board off to be sorted and stacked.

Board by board, beam by beam, slowly we’re amassing what we need to build a new home.

It’s exciting. Rewarding in so many ways. Not the least of which is that in the process of taking down trees to mill, we’re cleaning up our land. See, a lot of the doug fir is dying. Beetle kill. Not even close to devastating and depressing as it was back fifteen years or so ago in southern Colorado when we witnessed the demise of 90% of the blue spruce trees there. Year after year, mile after mile, mountain after mountain, a giant wave, gradual and all consuming, turned the hills from green to gray. All those trees, killed by a tiny beetle no bigger than a grain of rice.

Pine beetles, bark beetles, call them what you will. They’re in California too. Only here in Trinity County, at least on our land and the hills surrounding us here, it doesn’t feel devastating. It isn’t. See, here, when one tree dies, another spreads it wings and seems to take flight in the newfound open space. So as some of our doug fir die, the black oak, white oak, live oak, oregon ash, alder, dogwood and madrone already in place, open with the added air space and water that the crowding conifers otherwise devour. It feels somehow natural, normal, beautiful to witness this change over the past nearly six years we’ve been here, as parts of the land unfurls like a giant exhale, revealing the sky and a sense of spaciousness, and we watch as part of our land shifts from a conifer forest to a healthy oak grove. The diversity of species here is remarkable. You barely notice the loss of evergreens were it not for the low stumps left behind.

Thanks to these beetles, we have plenty of trees to build with.

Damn. After the devastation our Colorado mountains endured due to those little buggers, I never, ever thought I say something nice about them.

And so it goes: if you want lumber, fall trees, clear slash, etc. and then… haul to Colorado.

So about that part about hauling to Colorado…

Really?

Yes, really.

See, even after milling off the rotted two to three inches that many of these big trees often have around their girth, what we’re left with is a lot of lumber. Good lumber. Really good, and better than what we’d mill in Colorado. These dead doug fir have heavier, heartier wood than beetle kill blue spruce. Wood strong enough for framing, thick enough to stack for walls, and dense enough to hold heat inside the cabin they’ll one day be.

That’s what this work is all about now. Like mining for gold. Getting down to the good stuff. And this wood is good.

And here’s the thing. Time is of the essence. Sure it would be great to take our time and log and skid and peel and notch and slowly stack logs from our Colorado land where this house will be. And for our next project, that’s what we plan to do. (Yes, knowing us…)

But for now, for starters, for just getting a cabin built, quick and simple and safe and sound, lets be real. We won’t have that time this year. The only chance we have of getting this project done and having a roof over our head and solid structure to winter in (which in the high wild mountains of Colorado is a serious thing) is to do it this way – mill the lumber now, while we can, before the crunch of summer building begins. Or spend a lot of money we don’t have and hire some crew to do it all, wham bam.

Tempting as that sounds some times, that is not what we’ll do.

Slow and steady, we’ll get it done, by making the most of what we have. A lot of beetle killed trees and one old mill. And we’ll work around what we don’t have: time! Building a house from the ground up in the short season between the ground thawing (May) and the ground freezing again (October) – and building something solid and secure enough to winter in – is already a daunting project for a couple that some say have a few too many years behind them to be taking such a project on. Oh yeah, and in addition to the cabin… there’s getting the solar, septic, greenhouse, horse shelter, chicken coop and wood shed (full) done during that time frame as well.

Geez, when I think of all that, I wonder how the hell we’re going to get it done. I probably shouldn’t be sharing our plans as it’s not going to help with our mounting stress.

Just get to work and get it done and stop whining.

And all the while, try to have fun, find the magic and joy and awe all around, be good to each other, each and every day, no matter how slow it goes.

And really, that’s what we do.

So that was the part about “plans.” Haven’t even started sharing the part about “place.”

Guess I’ll save those deep thoughts for another day.

~

Until then.

With love, always love,

Gin