The Writing Life

Good advice

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Alright, this one got long. Grab a cup of coffee and sit back when you have some time, if you’re willing to read it through.

At my age, you start to hear it more often:

You should teach that! With all your years and experience, you have so much to share! Is this a compliment, or another way to tell me I’m getting old?

In my case, it’s stuff like herbs, wild crafting, writing, cooking and baking, off grid living, and horses, which I spent a lot of years already doing.

There are plenty of experts out there. I have no interest in being one.

See, I’ve never believed I would be a good teacher because I still feel the best way to learn is by figuring it out yourself. Not being told by someone else how to do things their way. Find your own damn way.

 At least, that’s how it works for me. Always thought it would be easier if someone could give me the answers. But then is that really learning, or is it remembering what someone once told you? For wisdom to sink into your bones and your belly, you have to live it. Yourself. Your own unique path. All the damned mistakes, misunderstandings, misjudgments, mess-ups and all.

Funny thing is, all the same, I’ve always secretly longed for a teacher, a guide, a guru. Sometimes just for reassurance. Because more often than not, likely I won’t agree with what he or she is telling me. But it’s a good prompt. It’s comforting. And people love to give advice so they can feel they have all the answers. But is it always in your best interest? That’s for you to figure out.

Sometimes help is a great thing. The encouragement of courage. The direction for taking the next step when sometimes you can’t see where your feet are meant to go. And it reminds you, you are not alone. Which with writing, can be a thing.

Other times, you need to figure it out yourself. After all, it is your path, and your feet ultimately that will walk it.

I think it comes down to this: Do you believe in yourself? And do you believe in others?

Believing in yourself in so far as you can stop counting on others for wisdom you already have or will figure out. Everyone is not wiser, better or more than you. You got what you need, got what it takes. You got your own trip around the sun. You have the ability to make it brighter every year. No one ever can do that for you.

Believing in others in so far as trusting that they too have the wisdom they seek inside them. They can figure it out for themselves. You are neither better nor less than them. They don’t need you to teach them your trip. You are not the expert. Everyone’s got their own trip. Let them take it.

Okay but… truth is, I have worked with coaches, and I love that. They’re different. Coaches help you find your own answers. They don’t give you theirs. That’s fun. That helps. They are more like cheerleaders. Not teachers, guides or gurus. And who amongst us couldn’t use some cheering on?

Mentors are similar, with the added bonus of they might hold a little more weight. They might actually have something you are looking for. Maybe answers. Maybe a career or life path you’re trying to follow. Sometimes a specific skill or trade or way of thinking. Good stuff here too. And a good reminder that this is where age and accrued wisdom really pays off – when you are able to share it with others. Not just amass it for your self. What good is that?

Though do remember that wisdom does not necessarily come with age. It’s not a guarantee any more than expecting wisdom to come from books or school or teachers telling you. It comes from experiencing those truths, yourself, then contemplating what they mean. It comes from learning by living. Not just going through the motions, but understanding them. Wisdom is the beautiful balance between knowledge, experience and deep understanding. Age can be on your side there.

All this rambling is inspired by this.

This past week I’ve been spending a lot more time than usual at my desk staring at the screen. In part because of the rain. In part because it’s work. Not the fun, inspiring, creative writing of getting my latest book moving along. This week has been work to get the book proposal (for A Long Quiet Ride) ready to send out. This is big and scary stuff. Finally reaching out to the pros and saying, “Is this good enough? Am I good enough?”

Of course what I really want is someone to tell me, “Yes that is good” before I even send it out. But no one does. First of all because no one but Bob has seen it. Though of course he always says it’s good.

Where are the mentors when you need one? The elders who can lend an ear, or a hand? When we’re really feeling lost, that’s when we most want a guide or guru. This week I was feeling I needed one. Guidance. Answers. Direction. A pat on the back. Something.

And then I got the answer I needed.

It came in the form of an owl.

If you take things as signs (as I tend to do), you know Owl is a symbol for inner wisdom. She’s also a symbol of the Divine Feminine.

Last time Owl came to me was after my long quiet ride, on our ride back from Colorado to California. It’s dark early morning, Bob’s driving out of the place where we camped for a few hours for a quick rest, almost halfway home, somewhere in Nevada. Crow and Bayjura are rocking back in the trailer, calm and still despite the movement of the trailer after all they’d been through. We’re pushing it, rushing to get home because we heard Canela was missing. As we ease out of the parking lot onto Highway 50, an owl crashes into the windshield. Hard. I knew it had died. I cried and screamed because I knew what it meant. Canela was dead.

This time, this past week, this handsome little fellow crashed into the glass on my kitchen door. Chances are he was after the phoebe who lives in the eve over the door. I rushed out to check on him, so afraid of what I’d find. Lifted his limp body in my hands and held him close to my chest as I brought him inside.

A moment later, I felt his talons grip strong on the flesh of my palm and my heart alighted. Within minutes, he was able to fly free.

I shared that story this weekend with a couple of soul sister poets with whom I get to gather with online once a month.

“You already have the mentor you need,” one blurted out firmly.

You know sometimes when you hear the right answer (even sometimes when you don’t want to) it hits you in the gut strong like a punch? Bam. Yes. You know it’s true.

This was one such time.

“What more of a mentor do you need?” she continued.

“Draw on your connection with the Earth, with the Divine Feminine.

She knows where you need to be, what you need to do. Ask her. Within.”

Yup. Gotcha.

The choice is yours.

How do you choose to see?

With self empowering wisdom? Balancing understanding with a continual childlike open mind?

Or feeling you don’t know enough, don’t have enough, aren’t enough, and all the answers will come from someone else? Like where, what? The perfect parent, teacher or Prince Charming?

It’s not just for work, like getting this proposal together. It’s about life.

A friend wrote recently so sad that as a new mom not enough people where showing up, helping out. When I was a young single mom, likely I felt the same way. But that’s grumbling, whining, blaming, being the victim of our life rather than the creator.

I asked her who she reached out to in kind. She hadn’t. Ah ha!

If you need a friend, go be a friend.

Don’t wait.

Don’t be the victim of your own life.

Have the courage to reach out, create connection.

Have the courage to do something beautiful for someone else.

There’s healing in that.

There’s connection in that.

There’s love in that.

We all want the same stuff. We want to feel safe, to belong, to be loved.

If you want something, if you need something, nobody knows but you. Don’t wait for someone to carry it to you when chances are they have their own issues holding them down. Go get it. Chances are, they will receive you, beautifully.

Sounds like I’m giving advice. Really, I’m just talking to myself. Reminding myself. Or trying to drum the wisdom in.

So what’s the best advice I was probably given, didn’t listen to, and eventually had to just figure out?

(besides “give more than you take,” “listen without judgments or assumptions,” and maybe just “be good.”)

It’s this:

The answers you’re looking for, the advice you’re seeking… It’s already in you.

Listen.

Inside.

Not to something or someone out there. Not all the time at least. Not for the really big stuff, or the ultimate answers.

Be your own guru.

You have heard this too.

Others can point to the moon, but only you can find your way there.

Life will test us, allow us to learn, hopefully not always the hard way.

If you’re gonna leap, and I hope you do, get to weaving your own damn net.

Find your own answers. Your own truth. Your own goodness and beauty and truth.

Stop looking out there.

Start looking in here.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Simple late winter welcoming.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Today I’m simply sharing some pictures from yesterday (yes, even the blooming flowers), and a little lilting piece (from something bigger) I was working on and thought you might enjoy.

               Here.

               Now.

               Early morning.

               A morning like so many in the six years I have called this place home.

               Familiarity grows like the pear trees planted along the side of the creek, an amaryllis started on Solstice preparing to bloom on the window sill over the kitchen sink, blackberries and poison oak that promise to sprout and spread even in places you wish they would not.

               In the quiet hours before the sun hints at awakening, with full moon low in the west veiled behind a lavish shroud of fog, I wake with arms and legs around my sleeping man. I am comfortable with his earthy scent and even breath and a little reluctant to rise. I slip on sweats, pull the covers back up around him, then quietly find my way around in the dark.

               Stepping over snoozing dogs, lighting the wood stove, filling the coffee pot at that kitchen sink, all as I have done so many mornings before. I feel the ease in knowing where I am and what to expect. What time the sun clears the mountain to the east. When to hope for the last frost late spring and when the first frost of fall will arrive. What bird belongs to the flicker of wings that distracted me from my work or the song that rises each morning around the same time I wake. When to turn the soil, start the seeds, when to water, and when to drain or cover pipes. When to watch for leaves turning gold and brown blowing down, and when to look for new life at the tip of each naked branch, swollen and slowly unfurling in fertile subtleties.

               Familiar. Is it the place or the pattern? For I have done this here. And I have done this other places I have been, and still will be.

               This place, this pattern, has become familiar; intimate and expected as the view out that kitchen window which as the sun comes up and chores are done, awakens to an ever green pasture where horses graze, chickens free range, dogs play, and a brave cat or two may creep cautiously not too far from the house.

               Familiar too is the sound, the ever present prevailing sound of the river, which ebbs from summer’s gentle roil over smooth rocks ever shaped by the ever movement of the ever changing flow – to winters rage and roar. A sound so familiar I often forget it is there.

               In this semi-silence I am able to hold the world, embrace it like a big bear having found a honey hole, and my heart feels full.

               Comfort in the familiar.

               I do not take these things for granted. I have known what the unknown feels like. I think I’ll choose a balance of the two. The first keeps me grounded. The second, on my toes. Both can be magical or mundane.

               The same worn boots left by the back door. Same old truck parked out front. Same cast iron pans curing on the wood cook stove. Same table, same chairs, same sofa, same rug. Same silly jokes that still make me laugh every time.

               And comfort in accepting change, as the road map of my life unfurls on my face. Stories embedded within wrinkles that spread across my skin like dusty webs, and every graying hair that begins to outnumber the brown. I can laugh at my own fleeting vanity, because truth is, though I’m not thrilled with how I look now, I can’t say I ever was. Good looks are not what got me where I am. I’m more of a guts and grit sort of gal.

               The inner landscape has changed, too. There is a calmer storm blowing within me now. Muddy waters have stilled and settled. Menopause, depression and drinking have been left behind. Hot flashes and explosive emotions have subsided. I sure don’t miss them. Neither does Bob.

               Some days I look within and expect those frightening facets to surface again. But they do not. Can I claim to have slayed those evil beasts? Or rather, did they simply fade away, one more good thing that comes with age?

               So it is into this calmer, quieter space that I feel myself finding a new familiar. Settling in. Not that I’m settled down; it’s more like the gradual un-letting of the belt cinched around my well worn levi jeans. You can only fight it for so long. Then you stop holding in, exhale, let it out a notch, and realize it’s not such a bad place to be.

               I am getting there. Closer to that place deep inside that whispers, “Welcome home.”

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Simple musing.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

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.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Out there.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Open the door and dive in, out there.

Into morning fog so thick it leaves sheen of droplets covering your heavy coat and the dogs’ coarse fur.

Turn to close the door to the comfort of the woodstove and Christmas lights and a still half filled cup of coffee behind you.

Suddenly engulfed in wet whitewashed morning air, you feel as if you’re swimming, trying to stay afloat on solid ground, your head above water, somehow struggling to breathe.

Step out into it, shrouded as if in a daze, a dream, an altered state, as the season spirals around you like sufi whirling, almost a madness to dance the year to an end. Heading into new moon, as even the night sky darkens before solstice this year. A powerful dark presence stirring within, feeling somehow more so than most years, or is this how you selectively forget each year?

And all around you, defused energy washed over in morning fog and sparkling frost as if waking from a dream while the sun finally clears the hill to the east and you watch horses stand like sundials, flat side to the sun; a heron sitting stoic in the tree in need of the warmth it brings.

And the day begins, beautifully.

Back in where the wood stove hums and Christmas lights twinkle and that coffee is still warm in my favorite cup.

And my mind is haunted by places I have been and am reliving in words alone.

My stomach bunches up in a twisted knot as I write along with where we rode along.

It’s scary to tell you what I did, how it happened.

But scarier, of course, having done it.

A Long Quiet Ride.

Tangled in the isolation of writing, as it was in the isolation of riding.

Writing about it takes me there and my breathing becomes tight and shallow; nostrils flare, jaw tightens, teeth clench and my heart feels like it weighs as much as the saddle I hoisted up on the horse each day.

It was the loneliness I have ever been. I don’t want to be alone now. I want to take you with me, sharing the smell of damp leather, fresh sweat, horse hair when I brush them each morning or better yet at the end of day as I slip off the damp saddle blanket that will be the pad upon which I sleep that night, and the horses heads are down in some place lush with field grass, tangled barbed wire off to the side, and the primordial call between a pair of nesting sand hill cranes like a beacon, leading the way, for where they nest, we always find tall greenery and fresh water and a safe place for the horses, and me.

And just out of reach, just beyond the thread of searching for a sense of belonging, that ever and continuous theme for me as it is for some many of us, I thought that journey was going to be about inner strength and independence. Prove to myself (and everyone else) that I was strong and capable. Beyond badass.

Found out I wasn’t and don’t need to be.

See, I set out expecting some solo trial for me and my horses out on the open road.

No people, please.

People scared me more than all the bears, bulls and bugs I slept beside; barbed wire gates and snow banks that stopped me cold in my tracks, as well as maps and apps I never could figure out.  

I just wanted to be alone.

And then I was, and no longer wanted to be.

Funny thing is, people turned out to be what the trip was about.

I’ve had a lifetime trying to perfect the art of being the outcast, outlaw, outsider, off gridder, misfit, black sheep, stray cat and/or rebel without a cause. I daresay I’ve done rather well.

People were not my thing.

That journey turned me around.

Rather than it be an adventure based on independence, something I’d always known, I had to learn about interdependence. That was new to me. And it was force fed. Trial by fire, thrown under the bus, sink or swim – call it what you will.

This is what it taught me.

People are good.

Yes, you heard me right.

Never thought I’d say that.

If you know me at all, you never thought I’d say that too.

It’s hard to relive it. Though of course not as hard as it was to do it.

But now the challenge is in sharing it. Writing the real story.

And my fears are no longer about finding good grass, fresh water and a safe place to rest my horses.

It’s finding the right words. It’s wondering if I can write this story well.

Humbly I bow my head as my fingers get work.

No longer gripping well worn reins, lifting packs or pulling cinches tight. Now dancing freely across the keyboard, watching stories come to life.

Looking within for a different kind of strength.

The strength to share.

May it be a good story.

And may I share it well.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Something I created.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Here’s a thing. Not my usual, that’s for sure. It’s a little book. A weekly planner. Nothing fancy, but kinda sweet, and something I really need. See, I was looking for a new planner for the new year, something clear and simple, pleasing to look at on my desk all year, and even somewhat inspiring. Couldn’t find what I was looking for… so I made it myself. How about that? Just a little something I created for me… but then I thought some of you might like it too.

This is how it turned out:

https://www.blurb.com/b/12650115-be-her-now-2026-weekly-planner

You see, there was this. My coach challenged me. And you know how I am with challenges. This one was a helluva lot easier than building a cabin in one summer off grid at 10k feet, or finding my way from California to Colorado, with my horses.

“Get a coffee table book out with your poems and photos,” she said. Well, that’s a bigger project than I have time for right now. My hands are full getting “A Long Quiet Ride” complete. So this is what I created instead. The photos are with the theme of “awakening and unfurling,” thus flowers and branches and leaves, which you know I’m wild about. And the weekly quotes are from my “Be Her Now” journals and posters crafted years ago.

All in all, it was a fun project, and it came out well. I’ve never done anything like this before – but I think it’s lovely, and hoping some of you might think so too. Maybe that coffee table book can happen next year.

In the meanwhile… this project is done, this challenge complete, and I rather love how it came out. So much so that I thought, who knows? Maybe you would enjoy it too. So if you have any interest, you can follow this link, check it out for yourself, and purchase a copy with the company that printed mine.

https://www.blurb.com/b/12650115-be-her-now-2026-weekly-planner

If you do end up checking this out, please let me know. It was a fun project and a good challenge. Thanks for the prompt and push, Marijane!

~

Until next time,

With love,

Always love,

Gin

Stripped. Bare.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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.

But now is time for story-telling.

So back to work I go.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Awaiting Beaver Moon.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Tonight I watch the waxing moon rise as I lean back into the damp bark and moist moss of my favorite ancient oak. The air is soothing with the sound of crickets in thick woods, now low as if played on tired wings, and the ever present sound of the river, as steady and familiar as my lovers warm breath.

They say a big storm approaches. Be it rain or snow, I am ready. The wood shed and pantry are full. And like the bear still finding plenty on these moon filled nights, we are prepared  to settle into the season of dark days.

With stiff shoulders and hands swollen and sore, I am as tired as the leaves that fall, and long for the season of rest. Of turning within.  Life, death, pause and rebirth.

Acceptance of the seasons. Of change.

What else can we do?

But for now, right now, the moon and me and the dogs close by, the haunting call of an owl not too far away, all of it, a part of the season, of the land.

A  spider’s silk, twinkling from moist air that rises as soon as the sun goes down, is moved by the evening breeze pushing up from the river, and gracefully wraps its silver thread upon my lap.

I take it as a sign. I do that a lot.

Considering the eternal connection, separate as it feels at times.

Wondering how my life has become.

And imagining where it will lead me next.

For now, it feels to be a story more beautiful than I ever imagined life could be.

Here now, the air is gentle, laced with gold as amber leaves fall in the light of bright moon, and the earthy  scent of fallen leaves becoming a part of warm wet ground, a salve for the unsettled soul.  

Time to return home. I take leave of the substantial oak, signal to the dogs and head towards the glow of the kitchen window. Mushrooms break ground beneath dark timber, and I find myself watching my step as I wander the forest floor in waning light.

The land has yet to freeze and the garden, always a place of solace, lingers, sharing vibrant bounty and beauty surrounded by a golden halo of autumn trees.

This is our first year to harvest zucchini into November, and as we were away for the main season, no, we’re not sick of it yet.

Leaves of tobacco, the sacred bold noble of the garden, are still harvested, ready to be cured and dried.

And roses, the beloved wise women of the grounds, still bloom, fragrant, rich and a little wild.

Yet I feel the natural close of season and have begun to cut back flowers and herbs and am eager to prune the fruit trees, though the flowers still bloom, herbs still aromatic, and fruit is still producing.

The quiet season unfurls. All we can do is settle back into it as if slipping into a warm tub and letting yourself go.

 It begins by allowing time. Time to rest.  To recover. Time to reflect and plot and plan.

And time to write. Something I still don’t know why I do it except it’s one of those things I can’t not do. I am incomplete without it. Perhaps it is creative passion, an expression of the feral soul, and/or the one thing I have always somehow felt I had that was worthy to give to others.

Lost at my desk, I’m found diving in to words, stories, places, time… some deeply moving, some simply hard, just as was the story I am starting to put into words.

For now, it’s still called, A Long Quiet Ride, because that is what I called it then. Though I’m open to suggestions, and hope you may share some ideas. The title, they say, is one of the hardest parts to write. And yet, possibly the most important words a reader may ever see.

And so it is that mornings are at my desk going places perhaps I should never have gone.

Maybe writing will help make it something you (and I) might finally understand.

Likely not fully, for every good adventure, every good story, should hold an element of inexplicable magic and mystery than can never be fully shared.

“What are you looking for?” I was asked time and again.

“Myself,” was the first thing that came to mind.

“A reason to live,” was the second.

And the third, was something beautiful.

I leave you today with this thought, something that followed me on that journey like a mysterious fragrance from a flower I could never see:

Remember to find magic, everywhere, everyday, in everyone.

It is there, waiting for us to find it, if only we take the time to see, to listen, to feel.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

PS from this morning, garden in the mist.

and from the kitchen table.

Upon solid ground.

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Here. Now.

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.

Where ever I may be.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

On time.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

This is not for those who want a quick one liner to rapidly read, cringe at or smile, and go on about your day. I ramble.

For those with the patience and interest to read, I hope you’ll relate and enjoy. And for those to whom I have yet to respond to your always appreciated comments to the last rambling I wrote… I am sorry. It matters, you matter, and it all comes in time.

Time. Slips. Away.

This morning, the regular light frosts of summer turned to a heavy freeze.

I woke to frosty breath, arms and legs wrapped tight around my man to keep warm. Now with the little heater turned on and the sun up over a full ridge south from where it was two months ago, our little camper drips with condensation, streaking the windows, making a little puddle on the wool rug and wet spot on the table cloth beside me as I write. The thermometer read a mere 25 degrees. What will it feel like at 25 below?

Sure, the roof is done, and in another week or so, Bob and I will have the walls and windows closed in. The shell will be complete.

But we won’t move into that shell just yet. Building is more than making a shell, and it takes more than a shell to live up here, out here. You gotta be prepared. You gotta know. You gotta have some things lined out. A shed full of firewood is of the essence. Likewise a pantry put up for when you’re snowed in. Closed in shelter for us, the horses, the chickens who still call the horse trailer home. Indoor plumbing would be sweet and an outdoor spigot for horse water when the creek freezes over, which this morning reminded me, will be a thing.

These things take time.

It’s not that easy here. The cold and harsh and isolation are real. Not forgiving. You gotta take care of what needs to be taken care of because there is not much margin for error.

And you gotta be tough.

Some days I tire of tough. I want to soften.

I can’t – at least not just yet.

Toughen up and finish up.

In the meanwhile… this morning, reality hits. I’m thinking about how close we are to finishing this part of the project. And thinking about how much more still needs to be done.

I’m whining. I’m sorry. I want to be stronger. Tougher. Harder.

But at the same time, I want to soften. I’m tired of being badass sometimes and want to settle in and be held and cared for and pampered, but that’s not how it is for me. Not the marriage I have. And though on days like this it sounds tempting, it’s really not what I want.

If you want me to soften, allow me a place in which I feel safe to be soft.

Building a balance between a rock and a soft place.

Where did summer go?

When the thermometer rises to fifty, we’ve been getting our yoga mats and spreading out for field yoga to begin our day. That won’t happen today. It won’t reach 50 until mid day, and this morning the ground is covered with a hard heavy frost. The coffee pot and cups were frozen down to the counter outside where we wash.

I know where summer went. I see it in the finished roof and nearly closed in walls and windows. I feel it in my tired arms from wrestling timbers into place, sore legs from up and down the ladder as we set the roof and laid the metal, and skin weathered and worn with the only reprieve a ball cap for shade and the occasional bath in that outdoor horse trough heated beneath by fire.

Now as I look out there from the window of the little camper windows veiled with condensation (the only running water to be had in this camper) I am proud of what we have done of course. And at the same time, see how much more we still have to do. Opening (and tightly closing) doors. Floors and ceilings. Window trim and interior walls. Exterior finish and backfilled soil. Cabinets, counters and shelves. Tables and chairs and a bed. An indoor bathroom. With running hot water. And all the pretty things that make a house a home for me: curtains and rugs and pictures on the wall; candles and crystals and racks for my cast iron pans.

The horse barn and greenhouse will come before that. I have my priorities straight. Like most of the horsewomen I know, I don’t sleep well unless I know my critters are sleeping well. So the next project will be the barn. Before such luxuries as that running hot water.

Next year.

But for now, be here and now.

What do we need to do today? Oh yes, poke a hole through the brand new roof to install the pipe for a woodstove.

And as the season passes far too quickly, or so it seems, so does time.

Where does it go?

At some point in the process of losing time, you wake one day and realize not only your youth, but the first half or more of your life is… gone.

It’s not that I’m afraid of aging and honestly, I don’t really feel old, whatever that is supposed to feel like. It’s just that there’s so much more to do and it feels as if time is running out. It’s like one friend told me, as is the case with the end of the roll of toilet paper. Things go faster the closer you get to the end.

My energy is not what it once was, and maybe that’s okay. I’ve spent plenty of years buzzing like a bee and running like a feral dog. Slowing down ain’t all bad. I am not who and what I was in my thirties when I would wake before five to have enough time to write, light the fires and feed my family, could single handedly saddle a string and guide horseback rides, come home to straddle a log and peel the bark the old fashioned way for the cabin we were building then. And then wash up mighty quickly in a cold concrete slab showerhouse, put on the apron and cook up a lovely feast for a crew.

No, I’m not that person anymore. And I don’t wish to be. I don’t look back longingly. It was hard. I’m good leaving the past in the past. What I’ve got now is wonderful. And maybe even who I have matured into doesn’t feel too bad to be.

Matured. As in, grown up? Finally? I dunno. Maybe.

I don’t really know what that feels like. I just see what it’s starting to look like.

I want to let my hair go grey and my skin show the road map of my life in lines. I want to be at peace with what time and life and living does. Maybe even proud.

I don’t want to look shiny and new, young and untouched by years and experience nor as someone sheltered from the elements. I don’t want to be plastic and pulled tight and fight gravity and try to be something I am not and don’t care to be any more. I am deeper than that. Richer. Happier! Beauty is found in diversity, in black and white and all the shades of gray. I’m not interested in trying to be today what I was yesterday.

Honoring the changes of time. Accepting of how life happens.

At the same time, it’s strange to see myself not who and what I was even ten years ago. My image is not what I expect. I don’t want to be vain. But I think for most of us, it’s harder to find beauty in frosted wildflowers turning brown for the season, in withered leaves and shriveled fruit turned to seed.

There’s not much of a mirror here at camp, but I caught a good glimpse of my head in this little tin decoration hung on the outhouse door. The sun was shining and the light caught the juxtaposition of mirror and me just right. And guess what? I was shocked.

When did my hair get so gray?

When did I get so old?

This summer aged me.

It’s not an easy life here. It’s hard and harsh, though it is what I choose. But it takes its toll on me too. The image I saw shocked me. It looked as if I am withering and wrinkling, yet I still feel tough as nails and strong as I ever was. Strong as I need to be to live this life we’re living.

And yet…

Some days I want to be more. Or maybe it is less.

Pretty for my husband. Girly. Soft. Gentle.

I want him to look at me and still say, “Wow.” And yet I know it has never been those words I just used that he ever used on me… and yet he still said, “Wow.”

If you haven’t noticed, all the photos of construction are always of Bob, and the few that have come here to help. (Thank you, Chris and Lee and Forrest!) Never of me. Huh. Makes a person wonder, no doubt. I’m the one who takes the photos. Yet I’m also the one up there, out there, cutting, drilling, screwing, lifting, lowering, and staring in wonder and awe (often through the lens) at what we managed to build. Together. As Bob reminded yet another person giving him all the credit, as those of us women in so-called men’s worlds are used to hearing, we’re in this one together. I just don’t have the photos to prove my point.

Alas… I want a little leisure and comfort and ease. Just a little would be nice.

I want to wear nice clothes, at least clean ones. Without holes. We’re not talking dresses, dress boots, slick hair and make-up and that sort of thing. But more than what I see when I show up for work wearing the same work pants I have worn all summer long (testament to how impressive these Dovetail Workwear women’s work pants are, I dare say). Or I sit down for dinner and I’m still kinda feeling dirty and disheveled and wish I could look a little more like the lovely ladies I see on social media, primped and pimped and preened, with bright red botox lips and false furry lashes, hair dyed and quaffed just so, painted nails and skin pulled so tight it reminds of the old lady in the movie “Brazil.”

No, I really don’t wish to be her.

That woman is beautiful too. But she is not me.

I guess what you see is what you get.

Some of us are meant to be rough and rustic, rawhide and worn, warm leather, flannel shirts and dirt in our nails and our hair pushed back by the wind.

Am I right in feeling I’m not the only one?

I wish I believed that with age comes is wisdom.

We know that’s not always the case.

Without contemplation and reflection and the compassion of true understanding, age is but a number.

I want it to be more.

I want to have something to share, to give, to be a safe place where others can come to soften.

I want you to know what took me too long to learn.

And I am wise enough to know you will have to learn for yourself.

I want to share the lessons that took me way too long to figure out.

And I know you too will one day kick yourself for having had to wait so long.

I want to continue to learn. Something, every day. For as long as I am blessed to live, to age, to grow old.

For now, I sit back and stare out these wet windows onto the worksite that’s calling me loudly, “Get back to work, woman. There’s things to do.”

Time is a wasting.

Winter’s coming.

There will be time to write when we’re settled into the season. I’ll make damn sure of it.

In the meanwhile, no time to be soft. Time to build. To kick ass. To get it done.

I got it.

Oh, one more thing before I leave you today.

Remember Harry? The snowshoe hare the dog found on the drive to our camp? The little feller grew beautifully. He was ready to go. And so, we released him back to the wilds this week. You know there was a twinge of that bittersweet sadness as we set him free, even though we knew that is where he was meant to be.  

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin

Together.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Building got the better of me this past week; no time to write, with a huge push to get the roof built.

Seems like all work and no play… yet tomorrow we’re taking off… something special to celebrate…the roof is built (metal comes this next week) and our anniversary is today.

For now, I’m just sharing this, because this is what matters most: LOVE. For those who have stuck it out together through hard knocks and tough times, and found yourself belonging in the shared place and space of long term love – something I never thought I’d be lucky enough to experience – I hope you’ll relate to this:

funny that all it takes

is opening eyes

to see

that you are there

beside me

right where we belong

Twenty-two years ago today, we married. We committed to become the family we chose. And in those  years, we learned what unconditional love, duty and devotion, kindness and forgiveness feels like.  In those years, we learned and grew, we flourished and failed, we longed and lusted and feared and found footing to stand strong, and we moved and built more than I’d like to admit.

It’s been a wild ride. The only stability was our love. Of each other. Our son. And the high wild lands where we choose to live. No matter how hard things got, how lost we felt, how tired we became, at the end of each day (or sometimes it took until the morning after) we knew we were no longer alone. And we knew someone else was counting on us, relying on us, needing us. So you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get back to work beside one another right where you belong.

Now we are here. In person and place and time.

Slowly we have settled in, learning the lay of the land, the feel of dried grass beneath bare feet or mud caked on our boots. Listening to the wind, tasting the water, letting the first sun of morning fall across our rawhide faces, allowing our fingers to find their place in the others hand when we walk. Finding our place, here.  Finding the balance of lust and longing, energy and exhaustion, dirt and discomfort, strain and stress as we kept on keeping on building the dream – our family home and mountain homestead. Something we both wanted, together.

So it went, and so it still goes. Building together. A safe place to bring dreams to life.

Sitting at a different kitchen table, gazing out at a different view, things are different here. The mountain, the river, the elevation and air. Even the bears and birds and colors of the season as it begins to fade and summer browns and sky grays and we start to look up at distant peaks to see if snow has fallen yet.

Our relationship is different now. A little less spark but more warmth from the coals and that is what cooks the stew. And like the stew that has been simmering and been stirred and added to with care and taste and time, together we are each richer within than either of us imagined had we not chosen one another.

Maybe I am different, too. Not in spite of what we went through. But because of it. I am more. I am fuller. I am deeper and wiser. In part because of you. In part because of time. Aging is beautiful thing. At least, most days I think it is.

The wisdom of aging is perhaps best found in the skill of knowing what baggage to leave behind.

You cannot outrun the past. The past is the path that led you to where you are today.

In moving, you leave where you were behind. In a way, you leave who you were behind as well. You become the blank slate. The clay upon the potters’ wheel. You are both the clay and the hands that shape it.

In remaining, however, you face the challenge of your past lingering all around you like last years leaves that still need to be raked, and overgrown underbrush that catches and tangles as you try to walk through the woods. But you know your way through and sometimes there is comfort in knowing  what to expect, what it will feel like, how bad it can be.

And how good.

Together we have done both.

Now is the time for re-writing. Not based upon where you are, but who you are.

The answers are not found out there. They are found in here. Within.

Perhaps where I should have looked all along.

But even inside, the landscape has changed. I wasn’t then who I am now.

It takes making the journey to understand the path.

It takes travelling the path to become the traveler.

Marriage is like that. At least it can be.

A mysterious path beckoning you to come hither.

A safe place in which you both can soften.

A healthy place in which you both can continue to be nourished, nurtured and thrive.

As the simmering stew, or the garden bed, deeper and richer and fuller with time.

So is my love for you.

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin