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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The sky put on a display all day and seduced me back into love for life and this land after a day where she had knocked me out (quite literally) again. It was magic, reviving me, hour after hour, as my stomach settled and my feet found grounding once again. All the photos I share with you today are completely unaltered. God and/or this beautiful world graced me with this show.
As the painter cares not to color a canvas solely for the pleasure of her own eyes, so the writer is called to share words that you might enjoy; be it for entertainment, education, empowerment, and/or to find yourself somehow relating or releasing or escaping within the images the words spawn.
Yet what happens if the words I am called to share are not what I feel you will find pleasing? What if they are dark, as I confess, mine tend to tangle with? Do I harbor and hide them, or have the courage to boldly express and hope that you will not run away? Perhaps you might even shyly step closer, finding yourself still somehow in a similar state from time to time, knowing you are not the only one.
I’m not a sunshine, daisies and bunnies kinda gal. I’m more stormy skies and tempestuous wind and then a subtle glow in gray clouds to the east at dusk. Sometimes that makes for a pretty picture or enticing poem or captivating tale to share. But sometimes I’m afraid it might just scare you away.
And what about social media? Can it be a safe playground to play with words and hone my craft and reach out in the process? It is concerning as I find myself baring my soul as an outlet for both heart and art. This has always been something I have struggled with. I am an introverted introvert, and find my solace in silence and wild places. So what the hell am I doing trying to, if not master than at least muster, the craft of connecting online?
Is the intention to appease the ego or the muse? The ego is a trickster at times, fooling us to feel what we’re doing is “good” and “right” and maybe even for others, when I wonder if it is not more for her insatiable need for stroking. So does she fool me into feeling uncertain, unsettled, and a little absurd.
But the muse – oh my turbulent muse, she has a hold on me that I care not let loose of. I have always said I can’t not write. At times I wonder why. For the sake of the scratching pen, the alluring sound of words, or for the mood it imposes upon self and others when I manage to get those words write?
For when she dances within me, seduces me in her intoxicating embrace, she calls upon my courage to share. Boldly I open the curtains, as if ripping open a pearl snap shirt exposing a healthy breast, and let her fierce radiance flare outward without bounds. For she is stifled like a rained upon fire when I keep her under wraps, as a flower yearning to bloom bright from somewhere under confinement.
Oh, and as for progress… if you’re still with me…
After all those months of felling trees, clearing slash, dragging logs, milling lumber, stacking, loading and hauling across the West… to see the wood we loving harvested finally being put to use… It’s a thing of pride and joy, for sure.
And for those of you back in California. This is how deep you have to dig a water line in the mountains at 10,000 feet. Six to seven feet deep.
Meanwhile, the garden grows. And though I obsess each day in hours spent digging, watering, transplanting, tending, weeding and seeding, the magic that makes it grow humbles me. I think it is that sense of humility and wonder that drives some of us to toil endlessly over things growing in the dirt, when going to a grocery store would be so much easier.
End of the day I sit on the swing above the garden while dogs and wind chimes joyously play, noting that the grass needs mowing, the horses feet are in need of a trim as are my fingernails embedded with black from the soil where my hands are digging deep, and a good kind of tired eases into me, over me, down to my bones.
A break from sawdust and gear grease, in this season of chartreuse in the sun, and in the shade a shamrock green, I keep busy keeping the homestead going, getting irrigation up for the season, brushing the horses and dogs all of which are losing their winter coats, repairing broken pipes, and endless entertainment provided for free by the latest batch of chicks born just before Easter.
I sit here at the computer beginning and end of each day, a little sore and sunburned from earlier or the day before, searching my soul for a creative outpouring to share with you, inspire you, or maybe make you laugh. But tonight it feels more like just sitting there beside you in our tiredness, maybe in a comfortable silence, feet up and heads back and a smile upon our lips. That’s how it is in high spring. I think you feel that too.
As my fingers pause above the keyboard, hoovering, awaiting the moment to descend, I wonder what can I share beyond the view, the sounds, the scents, the seasons, and somedays that feels like enough.
And so I write, as I have done over ten thousand days before this one.
Just to write.
What’s the point, I question?
Just to write.
To hone my craft creatively. And share my words courageously.
It may not seem like much, but sometimes I feel it’s all I have to give.
What else can I do to contribute and connect?
Do we ever really know?
But what we can always do is try.
So I try and write, and hope that what I share may be well received.
I returned to blogging for the creative outlet. I told you I’d focus on alternative building, off grid being and slow living. Funny I find myself sharing more about what’s in my head or the view before me.
A quiet life.
A quiet voice.
A life with time and space to listen.
I never felt as lonely as in a big city surrounded by so many.
So much noise, I could not hear.
So many voices, I could not be heard.
Solace was found in wide and wild, open space and emptiness.
I wish to live with the sound of rushing waters and robins early morning, the redwing in the willows and wind chimes keeping me company on breezy afternoons, the evening shrill of frogs and crickets or endless silence and stillness as you star up into the stars.
These are the sounds I wish to hear, above the mindless chatter and seemingly senseless cacophony bombarding from big loud places.
And at the same time I know that this silence can be uncomfortable for many, maybe even most, like sitting across from someone at a table and finding yourself stuck in that awkward pause that silence so often can be.
When I first started building and living off grid over thirty years ago, I don’t think we used the term “off grid.” It was more like “un grid.” It wasn’t about living without dependency upon public utilities. It was simply living. “Without” was a part of it by necessity, not choice. Most of us were just trying to get away, be away, or trying to make do, and that was what we could do.
We were an odd sort back then. (Maybe we still are.)
There was old man Brinker, a WWII vet and eclectic artist who would take me to the coffee shops by the galleries of Taos or Canyon Road. He’d offer black coffee to my two year old son and chain smoke cigarettes in his old red Ford, smiling at and waving to young low riders that would raise their hands cussing us because he drove so slow.
There was Tim the goat man who’d pop up half clad in the wild sage bush when and where you’d least expect, with wide eyes and disheveled hair, looking around saying, “Seen my goats?”
There was the Mama Cass mama with long flowing floral skirts and a big booming voice that would hug you so tight you’d find yourself lost in her abundant bosom.
There were potential relationships that never would be with the bad ass biker, the grizzled cowboy and the spanish outlaw with scars on his legs inviting me to go into the firewood business with him. Alas, back then, my baby was the only man I had eyes for. My hands and heart were kept full.
There were the women’s women who taught me about women’s circles and full moon drummings and wild women collectives, permaculture, hand suede stuccoing, and killing rattlers that loomed in the lumber piles where my child played.
Then, we called our world “alternative.” Choosing to build, live and be outside the box. Not a part of the system. None of the above.
Building a straw bale shack myself with a baby on my back wasn’t a choice based on lack of trust in the system or wishing for more independence or feeling it was a “greener” way of living. It was a choice born from necessity. It was all I could afford.
Don’t get me wrong. That didn’t mean I felt lacking. Though there certainly were thing I was longing for, like stability, security and connection, and even a little cash to get a full tank of gas, I loved the simplicity, being closer to the earth, and doing it myself. Whatever it was. Or have the community kick in, and in kind, be there for them when it was their turn.
There was excitement, pride, and respect for the naturalness, plainness, and directness that simplicity allows. It was a time and space comprised of a group of folks out there doing the same thing. So there was camaraderie. It wasn’t about outdoing the Jones. It was about helping the Jones’ out. Knowing the Jones’ needed it, and so did you. We’d roll up our sleeves and lift bales and spread stucco and share whatever building materials, seeds or groceries we had salvaging that could help another out.
So you see, it wasn’t about intentionally living without. It was just about living. However we could.
Solid walls were an upgrade to a tent, and that’s where my baby and dogs and I had been living before my first strawbale was built.
In those days, at least in my circle, there was no solar power, no running water, no building codes. Way down some dusty dirt roads, and a little outlaw, we hauled water. Used outhouses or a shovel in the shade behind a pinon tree. Foraged and dumpster dived not to be hip but because we were hungry. Used pay phones. Siphoned gas. My meager garden was kept alive by the water that first was used to bathe the baby and wash my clothes.
Now “off grid” often means living with all the comforts of “on grid,” but with a sense of responsibility and independence. And that’s great too.
But some times, an added element of simplicity can take you beyond “off grid” and back to the bare bones. And really, one way isn’t right nor wrong. It’s all just personal choice. And sometimes, just all that one can do.
Last week, a friend asked where our solar array was. He hadn’t seen it at our homestead. It doesn’t stick out. We have three little panels sitting on the roof of our garden shed. That’s it. It was a small start up system we had set up back in Colorado and brought in the horse trailer as we traveled west. It was meant to be enough to charge power tools, devices, use limited satellite connectivity and maybe an occasional light. Enough to get us started. That was six years ago. It continues to be enough. I still prefer candles and gas lamps to the latest greatest LEDs.
I’m not saying this is “the” way. It’s just our way. It works for me.
In light of that…
We spent the last several months downsizing our plans for the cabin we will be building this summer.
Over and over, we worked the plans out to be smaller and smaller. Not a trendy tiny house. Just a Little Cabin.
Less foot print. Less concrete. Less plumbing and electric (if at all to begin with).
And built with our trees, and our hands. A labor of love.
The smaller our plans got, the more simple our ideas became, the less stress we felt, and the lighter we became.
Simplicity is a temptation that entices me.
I may forever be lured by the fantasy of getting back on my horse and heading out, with nothing more than my pack horse can carry.
Just get on your horse and go.
Though the likelihood of me ever doing that again is slim. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.
The stress of forever seeking grass and water for the horses, slipping of steel shoes on hard pavement, sharing roads and camps with swarms of mormon crickets, roads with traffic and without safe shoulders to ride on, too many bears and not enough cell service to talk with my husband at the end of most days, forever fences and eternally locked gates and map apps that I never could quite figure, and feeling far more lonely than I ever wanted to be… I found simple is not always easy.
Staying home is easier. Turn the horses out in morning; call them in for the night. All the mowing, hoeing, weedwacking and watering is still easier than life on the road in today’s not so wild Wild West with a culture primarily clueless to horses and blind to horse travel.
Sure, I think about it. Where and how I’d go. What I’d do differently next time. What else I’d take and what I could leave behind. Maybe I’d even try to convince my husband to go.
But that’s a whole other story, another adventure I don’t need to be thinking about now.
In fact, this week, I’m not even thinking about logs, sawdust, milling, cleaning slash and making one board and beam at a time, and the story we’ll share of putting them all together.
Right now, my story is simply about preparing, planting, weeding and watering.
Watching the garden grow, one row at time, one breath at a time, one gentle wind at time, moving the oak leaves, tall late spring grass, wind chimes, the table cloth on the picnic table, and the refuse-to-be-contained wisp of hair that flutters across my smiling face.
Last night just past midnight I woke expecting the full moon to guide my way through the otherwise dark cabin. It did not. The lunar eclipse! Amazing how magical these things are, and note to self to never stop finding magic well taken.
Stumbling over sleeping dogs, I stepped out onto the front porch. There was a cold, light rain, somewhat soft and it felt good against my bare feet and naked skin. I wanted to see if I could see the eclipse. Hard to see what’s dark, and even harder when it’s hidden behind clouds.
I returned to the warm bed in awe none the less, for the reminder of the magic this little event stirred in me.
Later I woke again and listened. The gentle patter of rain on metal roof turned silent. I know what this means. More magic. The rain had turned to snow.
Right now I’m sitting here writing to you by candle light inside while the snow continues out there. Yes, I could flick a switch. We have solar power (though it’s true, not an abundance, and certainly not in this weather). But the simple life comforts me. The peace of stillness and silence soothes me. It’s easy to find here. And sometimes easy is good: a lot less wires and bells and whistles and high tech stuff that’s inevitably going to break down. Yet at times, it’s harder, too. If we want food (and of course we do), we grow it, at least the majority of it. If we want heat, buck and split wood, stoke a fire. If we want shelter, build it. If we want light, we strike a match and light a candle or oil lamp.
Yes, this “simple life” is work, and a lot of it, but it’s a direct life. If we want something, we work for it. Want a home, build it. Food, plant it and tend to it for hours each to day to allow it grow with abundance. Want water, bury lines from the spring to the house. Rather than working for money to pay for these things, we work for them directly. See? Simple. And yet those of us that live this way so often hear, “What do you all day? Don’t you get bored?” Smile sweetly, say nothing. It’s one of those things. If you know, you know.
It’s getting light out now, though the snow is coming down harder than ever. Time for me to bundle up and head out to do chores. Feed the chickens that lay the eggs. Let out the horses that make manure that enable the garden to grow… that sort of thing. Simple, yes?
But before I go out, I just wanted to say this. Since I started writing here again, the words have been flooding. I’m drowning in incomplete ideas. This, today, will be no different.
See, what I wanted to share was about belonging. How maybe it’s more about care, connection and contribution – what we do for others – that defines the place where we belong. At least that’s my latest idea to mull over. And I wanted to share about courage – the courage it takes as a writer (as any artist) to open your soul and pour, then put it out there for the world to see (alas, mine is but a little world). And I wanted to write about passion for place, the intimate connection between person and place, comparing land to lover.
But I’m not going to write any of that today. I’m going to go out in the snow with my dogs and take care of what needs to be done to make this simple life worth living.
~
I wrote this yesterday. Maybe it’s still relevant. Maybe it’s old news. But to prove my point to myself, this thing about care, commitment and contribution… things that really matters, that I’m trying to work out, trying to write about, but I haven’t figured out “how” just yet, I’m going to muster up the courage to share this (and hope I don’t wince at my foolishness afterwards).
Rain. Snow. A little sun.
Today in the far north of California it’s a southern Colorado spring day. A little bit of everything. Wait five minutes, and it will change.
Hats on and off, zippers up and down.
Speeding up the season.
Slowing down progress.
When what we need to be doing is falling trees and milling timber, we’re inside keeping the wood cook stove going to keep the cabin warm. Go ahead and bake another loaf of bread and more cookies we don’t really need ’cause when what we need we can’t have, might as well make the most of where you are and what you got. Right now, that means time inside to chill, and a wood cook stove that’s hot.
Truth is, it’s been a good excuse to stay indoor and to work on plans. Floor plans. Spread across the kitchen table like breadcrumbs and a splash of black coffee. It’s all part of the process. Last time we built from scratch involved submitting fourteen pages of detailed plans, hand drawn on graph paper yet still technical and precise, for a log cabin inspected and built to code. That’s a big deal for us hillbilly cowboy sorts than didn’t go to school for this stuff, just figured it out as we went along. This time ’round, hopefully a clear idea of what we’re building should suffice.
With drawing close to complete, it’s time to get back out there and at it. Falling, hauling, milling, stacking…
We are ready. The weather? Not so much..
No matter the weather, spring comes. In spite of fresh snow on the hills behind us, the almond blossoms open and peach trees are close behind. A few brave asparagus have burst through moist ground, and last season’s kale is going to seed.
The first bed of spring crops is in, new kale, spinach, broccoli and chard, carefully tucked under row covers to protect the small plants from the still cold elements – and the dogs.
With a break in the rain, we go to the garden. Milling can wait. Growing our food cannot.
The dogs lay in freshly turned soil. My husband lays on the grass. Me, I lean into the shovel, and smile.
Meanwhile and always, water flows.
Here, now, as before and will be, a river calls us to sit beside and listen.
Listen.
A shrill whistle cuts through the air.
The call is simple. Familiar. Stirring me someplace deep within.
Emanating from branches of dark timber, the song of the Redwing, piercing through the dun of hard rain on metal roof and an ever swelling river.
Listen.
Hear.
Here.
Now.
You cannot outrun the past. The past is the path that led you to where you are today.
Yet in moving, you leave where you were behind. In a way, you leave a piece of who you were behind as well. A part of you left in the soil you fed with countless wheelbarrow loads of manure gathered each day from the horses. A part in the fruit trees that may feed only bear and deer when we are gone. A part in the people.
That can be the hardest thing to leave.
And in that void between what you have left behind and what you are crafting anew, you become the blank slate. The clay upon the potters’ wheel. You are both the clay and the hands that shape it.
We are not moving back nor backwards. We are moving forward towards a place that feels familiar with the clear crisp air and intense light and breathtaking endless horizons. A place where we’ll recognize the flash of mountain bluebirds and the bloom of showy cinquefoil. the fragrance of fallen aspen leaves and the soothing balm of winter snow. We’ll leave parts of that past behind. Time has healed trauma. Stories carry weight only if force fed as a mother still fattening a grown child. There are better things to nurture now.
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.
Gin Getz 