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Up close and personal…

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

… with wild flowers and tame horses.

Two months into it here, this is what my garden looks like:

It’s alive. That’s about it.

But then again… two months into California, this was what my garden looked like:

It wasn’t much alive at all.

After a few years there, however, this is what it looked like:

The moral of the story: Don’t give up. Keep on keeping on. Try, even when others think you’re a little nuts. Because maybe you are. And maybe you have to be if you’re gonna be the one to see what’s not there, and then have the commitment, discipline and determination to bring a dream to life.

A couple of stories I want to share with you today about wild flowers and tame horses.

In starting to learn the wildflowers that bloom on our new land, I’ve had the opportunity to reconnect with many of my favorites like monkshood, yarrow and gentians.

After watching a rare sighting of high country bee relish nectar in what I otherwise would have thought was something to avoid, I even have new found appreciation and maybe even love for the once dreaded  meadow thistle.

There’s one I’m still working on figuring out who it is, what it’s about, what lessons it has to share (besides the mystery and patience required in researching ).  Could be osha, porter’s lovage. Could be poison hemlock. Could be something else. Latest I heard from the best expert I know was: “I wouldn’t eat it if I were you.”  Don’t worry. I won’t.

And then of course there remains my obsession with wild grasses of which there seem to be a dozen varieties or more flourishing together in harmony on this rugged land.

One of my favorite plants both for medicinal and culinary uses is urtica dioica or stinging nettles. She’s in my daily tea year round, and in springtime, she’s the shining star of soups; a cleansing, healing, nourishing tradition. Since we’ve been here, I’ve been looking for her.  Just couldn’t imagine life without her. Figured she might not be present because of the altitude yet there are unexpected surprises, good and bad, that pop up on this land possibly due to invasive range cattle and negligent range fencing. I never once stumbled upon her in the two decades I wildharvested up river, which is just a little lower in elevation and not too far away.

Still I scoured along the road as Bob would  drive along slightly lower grounds, sticking my head out the truck window, sometimes saying  “stop!” then jumping out only to be disappointed as I find some other unwanted weed.

The other day, in a small patch of disturbed dirt between my so-called garden (the tomatoes and greens I grow for mice and squirrels), and our little camper, I was squatted down beside a low growing plant I’d noticed starting there. It was getting ready to flower and I thought I’d pull it out before such a weed spread. (I’m always aware of invasive species, trying to improve the pasture and land).

So I reached out and grabbed, full force fist, pulled and uprooted.

Now, I’m not one of those who can harvest nettles unscathed. And this time, as I grabbed with full fist, was no different.

Ouch.

I’ve never been so pleased to be in pain.

It was my beloved nettles. Careful what you ask for? Or at least… pay attention.

Needless to say, I replanted her right away, with soft soil, a splash of water, and a grateful blessing.

How could I have been so wrong? Well, in my defense, here she grows as a ground cover not much more than a few inches tall. Cultivated in my garden in California, she grows well over my head. As I rode across the west, we met regularly in the woods and along the trail, often in the wild places of Idaho, where, growing to heart or eye level, she blessed me with well needed nourishing greens as I carefully picked a few of her leaves and added them to my soup at night.

I’ll take making mistakes to learn something as pleasing as this.

The other plant I wanted to tell you about today is elephant heads, or pedicularis groenlandica.

It’s easy to see how I could be so enamored by such a flower, yes? But it’s not just because of her cuteness. It’s because of this story.

The second year I worked for Bob outfitting along the upper Rio Grande, we were guiding  a several day trip, leading guests and full packs across a marshy meadow just below treeline in the high country. Suddenly Bob dropped both reigns and lead to his pack string and gracefully jumped off his horse in one swift and smooth motion (as back then, only Bob could do), bent over, picked one flower, then approached me on my horse who  like me was wondering what he might be up to.

“Shhhhh…” Bob whispered as he handed me the flower. “It’s a nursery. Baby elephants are sleeping,” he said as I look in amazement at something I’d never seen before.

See why I wanted to marry this guy?

Though if I’m not mistaken, just a couple days before when we were getting ready to head off on this trip and I was bucked off my horse, landing a little battered and bruised on my back, and he didn’t even help me up or wipe the blood, I was saying something very, very different.

Don’t worry. Twenty something years later, though I can honestly tell you there’s been many more of both kinds of stories than I care to recount, I have never once wished he wasn’t mine.

Finally a few thoughts to share with you on joy, just because, and maybe to think about as you enjoy your weekend, wherever you are, whatever you are doing.

I’ve been thinking a lot about joy. The puppy has been my guru on that one. He’s joyous. Just plain joyous. Life is full of joy for him, and honestly, it’s contagious.

Bayjura is back, and the horses are settling in together, with each other, with us, living side by side, horse and human, in our daily rhythms and rituals and adjustments, like managing the shocks of the morning moose (which has become so regular even the horses are reacting less).

I was expecting more joy from Crow bringing Bayjura home from breeding. It was a mild homecoming, mellow, gradual, almost standoffish or so it appeared to me. It’s as if he noticed something different, and she’s been different, and joy has been more of an “oh, okay, that’s fine” feeling of acceptance rather than the big exciting dramatic display I was expecting.

And maybe that’s okay.

Remember how joy came easily as children, when we’d find joy in the simplest things and in natural states of wonder.

But then we “grew up” and joy became more complicated. Complex, convoluted, tangled in a web of expectations, demands, criticisms and judgments.

I want joy to be abundant again, found in all the simple wonders, all around, every day. It’s all there, just waiting for us to slow down long enough to see, hear and feel that which is already there, just waiting for us to find it.

Look around.

And listen.

There’s joy. Right there, where it’s been all along.

Maybe it’s quiet. Subtle. Even a little shy about it. But check it out. It’s there.

Joy. Just waiting for you to notice.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

And a little joy,

Gin

~

Sitting around eating bon-bons.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

If only. Only that’s not how the simple life seems to work. Or at least, I haven’t figure it to work that way. Not yet at least.

Funny thing is, a lot of us striving to live simply find ourselves explaining that really, no, it’s not about sitting around eating bon-bons. We just make it look easy.

It’s one of those things. If you know, you know.

But a lot of folks don’t.

Simplicity is a lot of work.

“Don’t you get bored?” we’re too often asked.

Bored? Really? When?

When we’re kicking back tilling the garden, pulling weeds, pruning trees, moving sprinklers, mowing meadows, kneading bread, feeding chickens, fixing fences, flushing out lines of our water system and maintaining batteries of our solar system. And then, figuring out what to cook for dinner from all those eggs we gathered and fresh veggies we just harvested when we’re so dang tired at the end of the day, and hopefully sitting down to eat before 9pm (after being up, of course, at the crack of dawn). Oh yeah. And we’re building our own homes. All the while, kicking back with those bon-bons.

This was something the Old Man used to laugh about often. He had spent the greater part of his 95 years hard at work for the “easy” life. Up till 2am canning, starting seeds, grafting fruit trees, splitting wood, caring for critters, and somehow, caring for his community as well. He was still planning on planting potatoes and garlic until the very end.

There’s a lot of folks out this way living that way. Simple, but not easy. My closest neighbors are primo examples. They’ve got that off-grid-pioneer-self-sufficient spirit mastered! But I’m not gonna talk about them since they might be reading this ;) Just know that if I did, it would be impressive and inspiring.

It’s tempting to sit down and write a whining rant about what felt like a set back, or at least a week of slow progress. Between the sudden heat wave and learning how well sawdust sticks to sweat, the frustration of rot in the beetle killed trees coming on faster than we can cut out, a wave of bugs hatching out of bark we’re peeling, crawling in my shirt and pelting me in the face as I mill; that mill breaking down requiring us both to spend the day deep in grease and gears instead of whipping out (okay so, it actually never happens that fast with our old mill) boards and beams or getting the garden that feeds us in; and the looming dread of thinking there’s no way in hell we’re going to get this all done.

But no, I’m not going there. Why bother whine?

Because at the same time, there is grass growing greener and more lush than I ever remember seeing, a young hen hatching new chicks , apple blossoms blooming thick as cherries, the puppy reminding us how joyous every day should be, and my beloved garden providing so bountifully even though I *whine* that I don’t get enough done. As I’m serenaded daily by tree frogs and the first of the crickets and the Redwing and robins and always, always the soothing hum of the river, I am very well aware how sweet life is. Most days I can’t believe how lucky I am. It’s a beautiful world and a day does not go by without my appreciation and gratitude to be right here, right now.

Even when I’m covered with pine beetles, sawdust and grease.

Instead, what I’ll tell you about today is the Old Man.

That’s what some of my friends and family called him, but to me, he seemed almost childlike. After almost a century of life, John had retained a sense humor, wonder and awe, still open, willing to learn, with a deep heart rich with wounds, sensitivities and insecurities like the rest of us.

For years, I had the honor of visiting him on Tuesdays. Kind of funny to note that we started with Mondays, but he changed the date, inspired by the wonderful little book he loved, “Tuesday’s with Morrie.” So Tuesdays it was with John!

Tuesdays became the big day for me that the rest of my week sort of revolved around. Mondays were spent in preparation of actually leaving the homestead – harvesting, washing, sorting, boxing up produce, gathering eggs and picking bouquets, Then Tuesday morning I’d load up boxes and a dog or two and head to town.

All I had to do was show up. Sure, I’d bring him flowers just about every week, almost all year, produce in season, and sometimes, homemade biscuits to go with that packaged breakfast gravy he’d like to share with my husband and me. But mostly what he wanted, and what I’d do is listen. Just listen. Without judgment, and with humor. Yes, there was a lot of laughter.

Just showing up, consistently.

That was enough for him. And enough for me.

When I returned from my Long Quiet Ride, his eyes swelled with tears as he said, “I was afraid I’d never see you again.” He never asked about my trip, or anything about my life except my garden, fruit trees and chickens. That never mattered to me. I was there for him. It was an honor. Just listening. His stories would fill the hours. My favorites were tales of his childhood in the suburbs of Indiana with immigrant parents who worked their way through the Great Depression while raising three boys with a sense of goodness. Goodness. I don’t know if that’s something people care about much these days. But it’s good stuff.

Just showing up.

Being there for someone.

Listening.

This I learned was the greatest gift I could give. The greatest “community service” I could offer. I didn’t need a title or join a group or be a part of any clique or club. After all, I’m not much of a potluck, community center, PTA type of gal. But nor am I a lone wolf. I’m just a quiet sort who has more to give one on one, face to face, than in front of a crowd or enmeshed in a group.

Just be there. For him.

Some folks thanked me for taking the time for him.

But you and I know better. It was still for me. The honor of caring for another – not your kids or your parents, your partner, your dog or best friend – just a person. A human being with no strings attached. No ulterior motives. Someone who just wanted to be heard.

And me, I got the gift of almost endless stories, insightful wisdom, and a lot of ridiculous jokes thrown in there, just because.

Initially, he said he was going to tell me the story of the property my husband and I moved to. Well, after five and a half years, I never did get the whole story, but I got a lot of other great ones. About life. His childhood. Growing, canning, pruning, grafting, building, all these things he did so well. What ever he wanted to share, I gladly received.

The greatest stories and greatest lessons he shared were based upon these three things. I called them The Three C’s.

Care. Connection. Contribution.

He’d lecture me (and the other handful or two of dear friends he had that were a regular part of his life) with this wit and wisdom:

“Take care of your health. Your loved ones. The land.”

“Connect with your people – friends and family and community.”

“Contribute to the community or society in whatever way you can, in whatever work you do.”

That was his formula for a good, long life. When I look around, I’d say he got that right.

And when I stop to think about it further, I see that John’s Three C’s is the formula for finding that sense of belonging I’ve been seeking too.

Belonging is a balance of the Three C’s. The place or state where you care, connect, contribute.

When I moved here 28 years ago as a single mom to serve as caretaker at a kids camp I could never have otherwise afforded to attend, I didn’t feel I belonged (well, sometimes I still don’t). But John accepted me and my son, and embraced us unconditionally. I’ve seen him use that open heart quality with so many folks. Forget your story, your past, what others might say. John would give you a chance.

Back then I had moved here with a couple dogs and a three year old kid but no tangible skills to speak of. I figured I’d figure it out. How hard could it be?

Learning was hard. And slow. And most of what I learned came because of the kindness of a generous community full of folks who knew how to do all those things I was hungry to learn in order to, yes, you got it: live simply. Garden, grow, can, tend to calving, raise chicks, milk goats, make cheese, bake bread, fix pipes, clear ditches, plane boards, skin bears… There’s a lot to it, and a lot to learn. First thing I learned was that it was a lot more work than my romantic notion made it out to be.

The season we first arrived was right before winter, and that full shed of firewood I was promised was empty. I was gifted a chainsaw instead. I looked at the damn thing like it was a feral beast and battled with it just the same. Remember, I was from New York. Chainsaws don’t really exist there. Well, John got news of this and though still a stranger to me, put on his angel wings and got to work. He arranged for me to get a full on lesson in chainsaws. Like taming the wild beast, John set up a friend to take the time to teach me the basics, from sharpening, cleaning, caring for and using – and (most of the time) even starting the damn thing. Then to the woods we went, time to fell my first tree. It was just a little ways up off the road, easy to get to, and easy to see. I’m shy so that wasn’t ideal. Cars stopped along the country road to watch the newbie cut a tree, which really got me scared because this tree (at least in my memory) was HUGE and I’m kind of small. I got this, I thought, and tried to fluff up my feathers and look bigger. I went to work with my new found skills, made my face cut, and then the back cut, and then tapped in a wedge, and there the tree began to fall… slowly… falling… looking pretty impressive… I’m really puffing up now… until… that darned tree got snagged up in another even bigger tree. It stayed stuck there for years, reminding me that this firewood thing, and the simple life, ain’t always easy. And humility is indeed a prerequisite.

Later that winter when I ran out of firewood (so much for my chainsaw skills!), John got wind again. And again, angel John quietly came to the rescue. He asked me if I’d come meet him on this back road because there was a tree that fell in the way and he could use some help with it. Of course I’d be glad to help, but lo and behold, when I got there, that tree was cut, blocked, stacked and ready for me to load to take home.

These kinds of stories happened all the time with John as so many in this community know. It’s what he did. Cared about people. And did something about it.

When I had to move away, John convoyed with me, driving all the way to Colorado to help me get to my new home and start my new life. And when I returned, nearly twenty years later, he made me feel like I was never gone.

He’s not really gone. Parts of him are all over my house and garden, not to mention my heart. From the white daffodils blooming along my garden fence beneath the peach trees started from pits he had saved, to the bird house box in which the swallows are nesting, and the pie tins and bakeware and all these silly little kitchen gadgets that I said I didn’t need but funny, I find myself using them all the time.

The last thing he said to me was something he often said so often to anyone willing to listen:. “Follow your bliss!”

Thank you, John. I am!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Riverwind

/ Gin Getz / 10 Comments


Five years ago today, we arrived here after leaving what was meant to be our forever house. We didn’t realize what we were getting into. It’s California, we said. Surely it will be easy. It wasn’t. Or maybe we’re just getting older. Starting all over again was harder than we were figuring. When we arrived, the house was so rank we spent much of that first summer sleeping in the van while working on the remodel. The pastures where we thought we could graze horses were overgrown with dried weeds. The land was scarred from old fires and tangled with all kinds of invasive things that poke, stick, prick, scratch and itch. And the hill where our garden now grows was a mysterious mess of vines and gravel. Thank you, my beloved Bob, for seeing the diamond in the rough with me. All that weed whacking and mowing, digging and trenching, falling and milling trees, and moving manure and dirt paid off. Today, the land shines. Sure, it’s still rough and rustic, a continual project and never slick around the edges. So are we. But it is a peaceful sanctuary: happy, healthy, abundant and beautiful. A place where bucks join us on fresh summer evenings and wild geese come to raise their young. A place where the redwing blackbird chooses to nest and earthworms multiply faster than ground squirrels. A place where we sleep out on the deck under twinkling stars and ancient oaks, and the Riverwind breeze keeps mosquitos away. Where tree frogs, toads and crickets serenade us to sleep and the rooster joined by a cacophony of birds wakes us at dawn. Where bees, butterflies and hummingbirds sip natural nectar. Where green grass grows and the twenty-something fruit trees we planted flourish (in spite of those nibbling bucks). Where bears outnumber truck traffic by around three to one. Where the sun is our power and the river our bath. Where horses roam without fences and the bounty of the garden is shared with friends. I know, it need not be forever. Nothing is. But today, even in this heat (well, maybe) it holds me. Safe and strong and beautifully. Filling me for whatever comes next.

Gunnar von Gusto

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

Gunnar left us yesterday. Stubbornly and strongly, as was his way. He was 14 years old. With how hard and fast he lived, and all his injuries along the way, we never thought he’d make it to ten.

We all miss and grieve the loss of our pets, usually claiming “he was the BEST.”

This one was not. He was the hardest. But maybe that’s what made him so engrained in my heart. 

He was the black sheep, in wolf’s clothing.

He wasn’t easy. As a puppy, he was kicked out of obedience school. When we managed to get him into agility class, the other participants would quickly kennel their dogs when Gunnar was out.

He travelled as far south as Esquel, Argentina; as far north as Deadhorse, Alaska

That crazy dog joined me on all my crazy adventures except the last, where for four months he sat on the porch and waited for my return. I returned.

He put on a lot of miles, but didn’t make a lot of friends. 

Other dogs would bark at him, fight or run away. People were more likely to cringe, keep their distance, and shake their head.

He didn’t win popularity contest nor blue ribbons but put on more miles and had more adventures than any dog I know.

Big and loud in body and spirit, he was the fearless heart, and I loved him for that.

He had courage, grit, gusto, and more inner and outer strength than any dog I’ve ever known.

He wasn’t warm and fuzzy, did not like to be touched, but was always somewhere not (too) far.

He’d try anything, go anywhere, and you couldn’t lose him on the trail, though there were times I wished I could.

He was a pain the ass, head strong, stubborn, and never truly tamed no matter how I tried. I tried. He taught me more about dog training than I ever wanted to know.

They say dogs mirror their people, at least that stage of their lives, as we each usually have many. I dunno about that. All I know is I think I’m relieved this part of me is behind. He was my empty nest, menopause, and many moves dog.

Somehow he was my soul mate.

I never want one like him again, and may never love one like him either.

A Long Quiet Ride

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Tomorrow, I am leaving.

I am not sure how often/when I’ll be able to check in or post updates, but I truly look forward to touching base and sharing when and as I can.

And though I have not figured out how to connect these things, between Facebook, Instagram (ALongQuietRide) and my travel blog (ALongQuietRide.com), I’ll try to keep in touch along the way.

With much gratitude for all those who have connected with me and welcomed me into or back to the somewhat frightening and overwhelming world of social media, and have helped me prepare for this journey.

Sending blessings to loved ones and land while I am gone, especially my beloved husband who I will hold in my heart as I try to find my way for just this while without him.

#alongquietride #spiritualjourney #horseadventure #wildride

Nothing is not the answer.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

I wrote this six months ago after an intense month working at a midwifery clinic in El Paso where I was graced with and in awe of the power of women of all colors, all races, from all over the world working for… life. Not “pro-life,” just life. It wasn’t about borders, or judgments or criticism or one being better than another. Just women, working together through one of the most primal, personal and passionate acts a human can experience. Women of color, midwives of color, in a sea of passion of bringing forth life, new life, and old issues, blood and sweat and tears and joy and pain and ecstasy and dreams being born and dying and crying…

Birth is intense, but on top of that energy was a melting pot boiling over. Within and around was steaming anger, racism, old wounds, generational wounds, finally bursting from the surface in a fiery rage as in our cities and on our streets we were turning to guns, shooting cops shooting young black men, and life was being taken as quickly as we were delivering.

As one of the few white women in a clinic primarily of and for women of color, I got a well needed update to my education. Not only in birthing, but in the current situation of race relations in our country and along the border. Of course, what was current six months ago is all old news now. Everything has changed.

No one wanted to read this then. We still wanted to keep the lid on the boiling pot and hope it would hold. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Wrong. That top is not holding. It’s bursting open. Our safe little place is getting a rough shake up of reality, and it’s not looking that pretty. And maybe, just maybe, that steam needs to let loose in all its wild fury.

What I wrote then may be outdated now. It’s a little too late. We’re well beyond listening. Now it’s time to stand up and… and what? Scream? Cuss? Sing? I don’t know. But I’m open to suggestions.

What’s the answer? I wish I knew. I wish someone could tell me. Is there an answer? As I’m known to often tell my family (“tattoo this on your forehead!”): Nothing is not the answer.

Start with something. Something simple. Listening. Opening. Sharing. Compassion. Remember that we all have a story. We all came from somewhere. We’re all going somewhere. Hopefully. Maybe together. Maybe side by side. Maybe parallel lives on the other side of a… wall.

Are we too late? The eternal optimist within tells me we are never too late.

Look what we have done. All of us. We are all responsible. Each and every one of us.

And each and every one of us CAN make a difference. Please, try. All of us. Please. It’s worth it. My sisters of every color are worth it. My children of every race, religion and creed are worth it. Our environment, the globe, our beautiful planet Earth is worth it. Our dreams and hopes and prayers are worth it.

Nothing is not the answer. Something is. I don’t know what. I’ll talk. I’ll listen. I’ll stand up. I’ll shake hands but not my fist. At least, I’ll try really hard not to do the latter.

Somewhere in all this anger and outrage is the answer. Somewhere in all this crazy talk is thoughtful and intelligent communication. The mindless, selfish, safe rants of social media do not seem to be helping. It seems more filled with disgruntled, spoiled lazy people trying to stir the waters without lifting a hand – people feeling the need to express but not actually DO anything.

If there are two things we each can all learn from this current situation:

  1. How am I responsible for allowing/creating this to happen?
  2. What can I do to try to resolve this/make things better?

This is what I hope to focus on. This is the message I hope to share.

My son shares with me:

There are no easy answers. Or even apparent answers… proper communication is key. Even if people have different opinions, somehow fostering productive discussion is valuable for everyone. At the very least, both will walk away thinking, “ok, i can see their side. They’re not unreasonable!”

Now, how you actually do that in this day and age…

Let’s start, my friends. Not tomorrow, but today.

I’ll start by sharing this.

White on White.

I’m a hip white chick.

At least, that’s what I’d like to think.

Yeah, I’ve had dreads, got tats and piercings, been around the world and have friends of all colors. I’m not in the corporate world, drink my fair trade coffee (when I can afford it) and recycle (most of the time).

But I’m still just that. A white chick. Nothing is going to change that. No matter how much time I spend in the sun, my skin is still white. And though I’d like to think this doesn’t matter, I know it does.

I grew up in and around New York City in the 70’s and 80’s in the aftermath of the Civil Rights Movement. I was raised to be color blind, as in, oblivious to color. That’s how we acted, that’s what we strived for, that’s what we thought was the thing to do. It was what we were taught to do and it was socially acceptable. At least by the standards of the circles that taught us.

But we know that’s not how it was. Just because we didn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Turning the blind eye, so to say, only means you’re bound to trip and fall. I think that’s what’s happening now. We’re falling flat on our face at times. And maybe it’s not such a bad thing. I mean, of course any injustice, any acts of inhumanity, any violence or death is not okay. I don’t mean to trivialize those things. They matter. They matter a lot. They matter enough to shake us up, wake us up, and open our eyes.

Black lives matter.

Well, for years, I could choose to see everything as okay. There’s no problem, right, if I don’t see it? Right for me. I felt good about it. It was comfortable. For me.

But now it’s in my face. There’s a movement reminding me that our old approach didn’t work. That people of color are still treated unfairly. That fear is still based on a sliding scale relative to the color of a person’s skin. That prejudice does exist. That inequality is way to freeking real

So maybe being color blind wasn’t the answer. Maybe it’s time to open our eyes. There’s a scary truth out there. Racism exists. And though you and I may not feed into it, pretending it’s not a problem doesn’t make it go away.

Seeing Color

If being “color blind” isn’t the answer, what is?

How about looking at reality? How about considering the deeper truths? How about sincerely understanding? How about actively working towards healing?

Uncomfortable as this conversation may be, let’s start by opening the dialogue. Let’s start by asking ourselves these questions. Do you really want things to heal? Or do you just want to get rid of the guilt and shame? Do you really want to make the world a better place for everyone, or do you just want to return to or remain in your place of comfort? Do you want to defend your position or do you want to try to understand another’s position? Do you need to tell me your stories, how it was for you, how it works for you, how it affects you, how you feel… or are you ready to listen?

Listen. Maybe what you’ll hear is this. The truth. That it’s past due time to open our eyes and take a look at what’s been hiding under that band-aid all these years.

Listen. Just listen. And try to understand. Open up the damned wound if you really want it to heal.

Listening.

So yeah, when the conversation opened up, in my face and uncomfortable, when the shit started to hit the fan, I don’t know about you, but my first reaction was this. Denial and defense. It’s not me. It’s not mine. I’m not the racist. I’m not prejudiced. And it’s not my problem. I could tell my stories. You know, the one of the black guys I dated and the rights I spoke up for and the brown friends I’ve had and the living among brothers and bonding with sisters of color. My colored experiences from my pale face world perspective. Yeah, I was trying to prove myself. Defend myself. Call it what you will, and if you’ve done the same, maybe you’ll come up with a nicer word for it. But here’s the truth. I was proving my racial tendencies in the fact that I could remember these token situations

In retrospect what I’m realizing was this. Being blind was closing our eyes to the truth. If I don’t see it, maybe it doesn’t exist, right? Well, the band-aid we put on the wound hid it from our sight for years. During that time, it’s been festering, but not healing. Now it’s bursting forth in all its ugly reality of the deep dark wound it is. Now it’s time (yeah, it’s over due) to finally open our eyes.

And our ears. And our hearts, minds and souls.

Now it’s time to let the repressed voice speak for a while. Shut up and listen. Let the other guy talk. Stop interrupting and telling your story. I’ve heard your story. Have we heard his?

Can we keep our mouths shut and stop defending ourselves long enough not just to hear but to feel? To truly understand? Maybe then this color crap will finally get fixed. Because playing the blind card obviously didn’t work. So, step one: shut your mouth and open your heart, okay?

Just listen.

The truth comes out.

I’m not  going to tell you what it feels like. Because I don’t fully know. I’m trying to listen. I’m trying to understand. It’s going to take me a while. I’m going to stick with it because I care, because it matters, because this time, I’m not going to put on my blinders and turn my back. I’m going to stand there and take it. In my face. Tell me what it’s like. All the real, raw details. I need to know.

I am committing to make a real change, and strive for honest equality. It’s not going to be easy. And it’s not going to change fast. But this much I know. Our ignorance is not helping heal or solve the problem. It is a problem. Generations old. Now we have generational wounds. And these will take generations to heal.

Black lives matter. Say it. Stop telling me all lives matter. We know that. Sure, we are one. So as one we need to open our hearts and minds and clearly step off our soap box and let the colored person step up. It won’t be easy. Not for him to do or for you to allow. He’s been surpassed for a long time. How long? Find out for yourself. You won’t if you want to hold on to your safe white place. Listen. Maybe he’ll tell you himself. Probably a very different answer than what the history books told you.

Changing times.

Our policy of color blindness didn’t work. It didn’t heal, just covered up injustice, prejudice and deep wounds still bleeding. Racial injustice isn’t a thing of the past. It is a reality of the present. Thus the deep wounds aren’t old scars. They are fresh and they are bleeding.

Instead of defending our space, let’s be open to their space. Us and them? Until we create the reality of actual equality, yes, that’s what we got. Us and them – unequally divided.

Don’t think it’s a quick fix and do know that anger will need to be expressed. Allow that. Honor that. Don’t close your eyes, your ears, your mind, your heart. Don’t defend, judge, tell your side, because that’s not what we need to hear right now. What, then, do we need?

Sharing some deep thoughts and pretty pictures.

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

coming home

There is a time for expansion, and a time to retreat.

There is a time for the inhale, and a time for the exhale.

Wholeness comes with the balance of the breath.

The inhale. The exhale.

What time is this for you?

The power of just one breath to balance us, to bring us back to wholeness.

On the inhale, deep into our back, with power, strength, receiving.

On the exhale, from our heart, with love, with giving.

~

As caregivers, we must remember this.

If we intend to care for the whole person, so must we be a whole person.

What does it take to be whole, to find wholeness, to re-center our being and find that place of balance so unique for each of us?

~

And you, dear mother, dear mother-to-be, are you not a caregiver too?

Who better than you will care for your child?

~

So it has been a time of withdrawal. Of hands digging deep within the earth. Blackened tips of the nails and calloused palms and skin worn to leather by the sun and wind.

And so it shall be a time of hands softly, gently upon the womb. Supporting. Witnessing. A miracle every time.

~

This is about birth, death, life, rebirth. Where does one end and the other begin with one season flowing into the next, one closing to allow another to unfurl?

~

And so the seasons move. Slowly at first, then gathering momentum, and we find ourselves running to keep up.

Can we see beyond the path on which our feet are moving?

What happens if we stop?

Now, look up. Look around.

Once our eyes have opened, what do we make of the view before us? Shall we revert to blinders, or shall we step forward into all the ugly beautiful mess before us, calling us like the Pied Piper though we often care not to hear and heed, choosing or safely remaining distracted behind the cloudy veil that enwraps us with a false sense of pride found in busy-ness…

What would happen if we let go and simply stood still?

Would you feel the wind, hear the laughter, sense the rising light?

Paring down to feel the elements.

Return to presence.

Unencumbered by the weight of social pressures, expectations of others, demands of self, and ego.

Who are you trying to please if you cannot please yourself in a sincere manner?

Oh, the worries, such a heavy burden and undue importance we place upon each until we see them all like grains of sand, and there on the beach we sit before the eternally churning waves. Are you still concerned with that one grain of sand, I ask you, and you smile, seeing the senselessness of the situation, and open your eyes and heart to that which is all around. It is beautiful indeed.

~

A long dormant winter.

Though summer solstice nears, I remain in my retreat.

Not a place I pay to go, but rather work to remain at. Not a master that guides my learning, but rather the wind, the water, the elements to help me find the answers hiding within us all.

This has been a powerful time of awakening and awareness.

Of remaining present.

How can I reflect and write and share with you when what I need right now is simply to be?

Without reflection. Without judgment. Without expectations, demands, and even desires.

This too shall pass.

Nothing remains.

Everything changes.

You and I included.

Those who claim enlightenment as a state once achieved and forever remaining will set themselves apart and above contrary to the true meaning and state of bliss and understanding. I am grateful for the fleeting glimpses. And then I get back to work. Is this not what life is about?

And then there is this.

The part about life being about giving – beyond oneself – for the bigger picture – no longer about me – learning to shed the skin of ego and stand naked and know you still have all I need.  You are. Unencumbered. What cloaks do we cover ourselves with and think we are because we wear? Are you really the robe than enwraps you?

~

As a student and nearly fifty, there is a great lesson in humility. Of simply being open. How else can we receive? The very premise of which is admitting I do not know all the answers. And though I know no one does, it is the wise student that makes no claims and opens themselves to discover. Likewise it is the foolish teacher that takes the stand and defends and judges. No, my friend, the lessons are not about you. Only what you make of them, take from them, and pass on and share. We all have the ability to be both the open slate student as well as the wise teacher – like the Tao – teaching without saying a word. Guiding by living our lives.

~

As a student midwife, it has become clear that part of midwifery is not just about birth, or body work, but soul work. It’s working with the whole woman. And as a caregiver for the pregnant woman, how can I care for and nurture you and walk with you while you heal your wounds if I have not done the same for myself?

Yes, midwives can operate without this element of care. The medical profession has encouraged us to look at the body as a separate entity. A machine. Detached from mind and soul.

Are you not the whole of all these parts?

~

Being present.

How can we understand the truth and see the beauty and feel the connection if we can’t slow down? We rush around and miss the point and seek the answers but never stick around long enough to allow them to be revealed.

Stop the madness. Stop the filling the self with busy-ness and stuffing the soul with false meaning found in title and a price tag and the latest greatest shiny thing, and trying to fulfill our innate sense of longing to belong with the false premise of social media and shallow relations.

Can’t we get deep and still remain simple?

~

After a year of putting myself out there to promote my books (oh, the unexpected discovery, I suppose, that I am a writer, not a salesman) and a year following of returning to wholeness, this season of deep withdrawal has been a powerful transformation and awakening.

The wild beast moves. The wind shifts solely from the flick of her tail. Is it time to rouse?

~

And so it has been. At some point we find this within us: it’s not about me, but we. It’s no longer about what we can get out of life, but what we can give to life. It’s no longer about taking, but giving; no longer about me and mine, but at times my place in the bigger picture, and at times, nothing to do with my place at all – only a greater understanding of that bigger picture, and accepting my irrelevance, and realizing that too is okay.

It’s ongoing. I’ve yet to meet someone fully “there,” wherever and whatever “there” is. A state of enlightenment? It’s vague. It’s fleeting. Like seasons. Like days. Some days we’re it. Some days we’re not. I guess that’s why we get to live so long and have this crazy strong desire to keep learning, growing, evolving. Lots of chances to try it again.

One of my wisest friends reminded me. It’s here. Where ever you are. Look around. Be in awe. It’s beautiful. And the answers you seek are already there. No matter where you go, what you run after, what you claim to be seeking… it’s within. You are already there.

I open my eyes as I open my heart. The wisdom is all around.

Lessons from the Elements. Wisdom from the wilds. In this season of turbulent winds and waters, a gentle calm from within.

What have the wilds taught me?

What has this past year taught me?

That next year will be different.

That tomorrow I’ll be someone new.

I’ll say something else.

That nothing stays the same.
Which brings us back to…

It’s ongoing. You don’t get there and remain. You have to work at it, every day. That’s what living is all about.  It’s not a state achieved and remained at status quo and stagnant.

And a half a century of questioning authority taught me this time and again. As soon as we claim a superiority, we separate, and thus we degrade. There is no superiority in this world. The moment we claim to be better or know more is the moment we step into the place of ego, and out of the place of enlightenment. Am I wrong then for sharing what I have found? Maybe…

I do not care to impose my beliefs (and certainly not those of another) but to simply support women in their choices, and am working to have the skills and abilities to do so. It’s about birth and life and maybe a little bit of death and rebirth. How can you have one without the other? Like the inhale and the exhale.

The greatest lesson absorbed from my studies to date is not the message of undisturbed birthing nor the know how of health care. That’s simply part of the package of supporting women in their own choices, rather than imposing mine. Really, it’s the message of humility. That’s what makes a midwife. The ability to serve, to support, to do what needs to be done which may be nothing at all… All of these “skills” come to life within us only through humility. Without humility, we return to it being our beliefs, our trip, our vision of what women should be, birth should be, life should be. Who then are we truly serving?

Oh and one more lesson I’m still working on.

To listen.

I begin by listening to the wind.

And the water.

And one heartbeat at a time.

 

After Equinox.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

looking closely

The agitation of the wind creates unrest among naked branches. Beneath an unsettled sky, the monotone of a thawing land broken only by the continual call of the river reverberating against still frozen cliffs, while mud caked boots poke through remaining snow drifts and blistered hands touch sunburned noses and the brown back of the neck – bits of exposed flesh found uncovered from a down jacket that remains adorned though now unzipped.

forrests birthday

Another winter sheds her white skin. The peeling of the snake reveals that which is real, raw, delicate in its renewal. The season begins showing herself subtly in sepia tones. Like an old worn photo looked at time and again, we hold to the past in a futile gesture but the present is always new. Look around. See it. Feel it. Hear it. Celebrate it. Join in and dance with it.

above geod beds

Spring is late to unfurl here in the high country and her early song is soft, hard to hear, often hidden beneath late season snow storms and the howl of the changeable winds. In a land where winter claims half a year, the other three seasons come and go quickly in the shared space of the other half. Savored, appreciated; nothing is taken for granted.

Tenderly she reveals the simplicity of the wilds. We see her new breath in the everchanging motion of the unsettled sky, the unrest in the wind, the thawing of the earth, the swelling of the river, the return of wildlife, the luxury of longer days, shorter shadows, an open road, and the tenacity of simple nameless yellow flowers emerging through the snow.

And the silent assumption that within the swiftness of the season stirs the lure and excitement of change…  Into what, she whispers? And the wind shares a response I do not yet understand.

tres and co

Interwoven in the web of life awakens questions more than answers if we listen solely with reason. How else can we hear? With our hearts, not our minds. With our senses, like the wilds that surround us, knowing not because they read it, heard it, were told to believe. Or are we so different we forgot how to feel? Let go of that, she tells us. Her answers are in the soft shades of brown and grey of the newly opened hillsides.

Do we just let it go? What we had last season? The assurance of the assumed. Today, I tell myself here for half the year, it will be cold and white. What will tomorrow bring? Plans? Expectations? Hopes and dreams? What would we be without them? Shed them and be free, she tells me. But I too feel naked without. Such is the time of awakening, allowing the season to bloom means starting with a seemingly barren hillside.

blue castles

The land calls. I speak to her. With her. She answers with a whisper veiled in translation I try hard to decipher. Words, ideas, passions still remain. From within this tangled tapestry can we see the bigger picture? Can we see the fine lines into which we are tightly woven or the space in between? Perhaps in the early morning when dew catches silken threads and pale pink air is still but for the rousing of the robins unintentionally sharing their sweet song from beneath the leafless trees, and stirring of distant geese down by the expanding open waters of the full to bursting reservoir.

It’s mostly space, I am reminded again. But we choose to see the little bits of matter within the big wide expanse.

Morning’s stillness shares silence of the mountain in a slow gentle outbreath before the awakening of the day, the season, the beginning of change. This is a time of both reflection found in glassy ponds of melting winter, and planning for something we don’t fully understand. Oh but the leaves will unfurl and the grass will green and the summer homes will be lit and the road will be abuzz. And so it goes, no matter what I do and you say.

that unsettled sky

Two different sides of wild.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

~

rose hip

~

horses in snow

~

Stand still.

Listen.

A primordial heartbeat, deep and low, buried inside the great expanse of the thawing lake…

Felt within like a slow, steady drum, the Earth pulses back to life.

Ice moans, the river swells, snow is consumed, and red wind roars from the west. The redwing blackbird, blue bird and robin return.

Solstice nears again.

~

After the dormant season of natural withdrawal, now I too stir to life, sharing words upon awakening.

Today I share a rather unusual post.

First, an article on birth. The wild side of birth.  Or perhaps, a little bit about the wilds within us all. If you’re interested, you can take a look here: www.cordmama.com.

Second, a follow up to a previous post for which many of you have asked me for a follow up. So, following is just that. (Got all that?)

~

An Update on the Elusive Lynx Relocation Efforts along the Upper Rio Grande

The lynx release program into the southern San Juans has been ongoing in our area for nearly twenty years by the CPW, formally the CDOW. Today this project is co-managed and funded by the USDA Forest Service. We love to look at this as a “wildlife success story,” but sadly, we see a very different side to this story, and the biggest loser is the lynx.

The lynx are not listed as an Endangered Species. Nor were the lynx ever considered native this far south. From the US Fish and Wildlife Service website: “Historically, the lynx ranged across the vast northern boreal forests from Alaska to eastern Canada, including the northernmost U.S., and extending in an increasingly patchy distribution along the coniferous forests of the Rocky Mountains as far south as Colorado. For reasons that are not completely understood, the lynx is believed to have disappeared from Colorado by 1973.”

“…There is little evidence that the original lynx population ever lived as far south as the San Juan Mountains (‘Lynx Reintroduction . . .’). According to Byrne, in Colorado’s history there have only been eighteen confirmed records of the species living in the state, and only four of those occurred after 1935, with the southern most being near Breckenridge and the last near Vail in 1973 (‘Lynx Release . . .’)… Nobody knows what caused the species to disappear from this area the first time. Before the animals completely disappeared, their numbers had dramatically dropped for no apparent reason.” From  <http://www.123HelpMe.com/view.asp?id=10148&gt;

No evidence has indicated that these mountains were natural lynx territory, nor do we understand what actually caused their initial decline, but the propaganda and press have incorrectly been using the term “re-introduction” and the public has blindly agreed. And in this day and age of changing climate, global warming, whatever you want to call “the new normal,” trapping an animal in the north east of Canada, and bringing them to the “high and dry” southern Rockies… one can question the reasoning behind this program, see why this program has been struggling against all odds, and sadly understand why so many lives (the lynx) were lost in this human-induced effort.

But still, this animal has tugged at our hearts, received our support, and captured our interest with the regular use of stock photos of the precious kittens. But do we really know what is happening, what has been done, and at what price?

It is our understanding that other species released in this state eventually bring income to justify the human led venture via hunting, or rather, being hunted. Almost twenty years after the initial introduction, and how many millions of dollars later, and at the loss of how many re-located animals from their native Canada, these animals are not hunted, bring no income, and the program continues to spend.

We have lived here full time for nearly 15 years. We have seen more than many wished we would. We live gently upon the land and with the wilds (I am known for running with the wilds, not after them). So as much as I was enamored with the initial idea of having another small game predator on my mountain, we quickly turned from supporting to speaking out against the nature of this program when it became clear this was not for the success of the wilds, wildlife, or those out here connecting with the wilds, but for the success of the humans running the program from some far away desk. If the lynx survive, it will not be because of the efforts of these humans, but in spite of them. Nature is beautifully resilient.

It is reported that our county agreed to this introduction years ago, when those counties further north and more close to the natural lands the lynx once roamed refused. But has our county, or the residents, been involved, concerned, or in any way benefitted from this ongoing effort which cost the taxpayers millions of dollars? Do they even know what is going on?

For many local residents in both Creede and Lake City this project was considered a closed case and a lost cause years ago and most are unaware of any continued efforts, actions and funding. This operation has not been a part of the local community or economy, not supporting nor involving local residents. Furthermore, it is our understanding that the USDA Forest Service on a local level may also be unaware of the continued efforts and the oversight of the contract workers operating within the Forest. Who then is responsible? Who is making these decisions for which there is a great amount of money being poured out, and where is this funding coming from?  And who is concerned with the comprehensive well being of the land and the wilds of the forest, and the public interest, which is intrinsically linked into the responsibilities of the Forest Service plans and actions?

Without taking the time now to site the years of noted and notable concerns with this program, the point here is to simply open your eyes to the current situations. The efforts are continuing, and at a rather large scale. Even from our limited observation base, we are aware of a crew of six trackers, and the daily back and forth by both trucks and then snowmobiles in attempt to collar a few healthy lynx. This is important to note as not all animals trapped are of course lynx, and not all lynx are in fact healthy, and thus not appropriate to collar.

This also brings up the point that we were informed by the CPW that this was a one year only effort in order that the Forest Service could trap, collar and observe the potential long term impact of the dying forest on the lynx. We know already that this so-called one-year program was in operation last year as well, though the trapping efforts were apparently not successful. And with at least one trap left behind and in place from this year’s efforts – do they intend to continue when the road becomes more travelled and the camp ground more used by fishermen, or leave the trap in a public campground and resume again next winter?

Just last week, I was finally able to walk up the road with my dog and without fear of running into the lynx trapping crew. Between the fact that a coyote had been killed for disturbing their operations, and the concerns that my dogs have been known to get in their traps for free goodies, I felt it would be best to stay away from their operations and avoid potential conflict or worse.

I walked to the well known and used campground beside the river at the far end of Brewster. It is an easy afternoon walk along the road, there and back, from my house. This is where I had camped alone in peace for two weeks at the end of hunting season last year and likely the most popular camping spot in Brewster and this far up USFS Road 520. This is also the historical location where the outpost used to be that once rented horses to help travelers get their wagons up Timber Hill. All in all, perhaps the most well know and well used location for recreation on this part of the Upper Rio Grande.

What I found in many locations around that campsite were green aspen trees and green spruce boughs cut and scattered under and around trees. One can presume this is where traps had been set all winter long. One trap still remains in the campground. It is covered by cut live spruce boughs. Cutting green trees, whole or branches, is against the policy of the USDA Forest Service. We have been told the CPW may operate “above the law,” yet leaving evidence of such activity in and around a public campground may not be of the best interests of forest users. This also goes against common sense when up to 90% of our spruce trees and a still uncertain percentage of our aspen have been lost in recent years. Look around up here – how much green do you see remaining?

This is just the latest degradation to land and wildlife observed this winter. Within the lynx program, this winter we’ve put up with dead deer hanging from trees as bait (though lynx are not known to eat dead deer – coyotes are), traps set alongside road with dead wildlife within, and of course, the infamous killing the coyote that was feeding on said bait that became a so-called nuisance to the trapping operations.

Trapping continued well into kitting season. This is the time of year mother cats are so desperate for food they once tried to follow my housecats through the cat door, and chewed on a tarp where we accidently spilled eggs another year. Furthermore, on the chance that a mama cat did fall for their bait and become stuck in a trap for 24 hours, what would happen to her newborns that need to nurse every 2 – 4 hours? One can only hope this was not the case.

…And what for? For the latest efforts, we were told trapping was for collaring and in turn for observing over the next five to ten years to see what impact the dying trees have on the lynx. Our trees have died and continue to die. Snowshoe hare eat the fresh branches of live spruce in the winter. And snowshoe hare are the mainstay of the lynx diet. You do the math. Will these collars tell us otherwise?

The saving grace here is that nature is adaptable. The survival of the lynx in their new territory will not be because of what we did, but in spite of what we do. And still, man (or woman) will take the credit.

~


 moose~

on the reservoir

~

The Still, Silent Rousing of Solstice

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

frost

~

Mid morning after a pale sun rises over the silvery snow of pasture. The last herd of elk on the mountain, a few cows led by a young spike bull, nervously jump the fence, one at a time, each one hesitating, stepping back, moving forward, a slowly progressing wave. They are working their way down river, down mountain. The horses watch. Curious, not disturbed. They see this coming and going every six months, as they remain. Now colder, now warmer, now working hard, now not much more to do than paw through the snow just for something to keep busy with while waiting for the next flake of hay. Now is their wild time. As it is for me too.

~

coming in for dinner

~

Mid day I sit by the river. An open patch where the creek comes in. Most of the river and creeks have frozen over by now, ice covered with snow, insulation. The mountain is quiet.

The other day on a snowshoe, a warm hillside, a dead standing aspen having held onto its leaves. The updraft air moves through the dried and brown leaves. A rustle like walking through the big piles of dead leaves we raked and jumped into as children. The sound stirs me. Remembering seasons past, yet to come, the great cycle to which we are but witness. Or are we a part?

Now I am here to listen. The song of moving water.  Rising from seemingly fathomless black depths only a few inches deep.

This soft sound, the little space of open river.

I gaze with soft eyes, unfocused, a peripheral view, and it is like I remember as a kid staring into deep waters and waves of the infinite space of the sea. Daydreaming then. Daydreaming now. Taken away by the water.

Now she shows me her veins. A small spot open to the elements, of the elements. The life blood of the mountain. Exposed.

For a moment I sit with her, her song, her movement, her flow, the primordial pulse, the connection of life and blood, movement and eternal migration. The low sun dazzling on the tips of the currents, tiny white caps that have yet to freeze. I too know they soon will. Winter has only begun.

~

small rock in big river

~

Today I return to the mountain. Away from my desk.  Both of which I am a part. In which we find balance, ever shifting. We adjust our stance and move on.

Somehow fitting that yesterday my final work of last season was submitted. Today a celebration of completion found in the quiet wisdom of Solstice, one that is only heard if we listen closely, only seen if we are still and wait and watch.

~

Deep within a primal stirring.

In this time of deep dormancy, dark days and internal energy, it all comes together, at peace in its center, like the center of the earth,  guarding its molten core, the slow gentle breathing of the sleeping beast exposed in an unexpected gust of warm air.

I hear him sleep, his gentle breath, and deep down into myself I follow.

Nature, the nature of our beings, of life, the nature of my soul.

Now is the time sap gathers in the roots and the bark remains dry. Out there it appears nothing moves. Day after day of still and white.

Now is an awakening, and a transformation, and though it may be a while before we can hold the well earned throne of crone, before then there is the Matriarch calling, and so to her I am shifting, opening, serving, and finding how to become what is unfolding into the most powerful stage of life.

The wings began to unfurl only months ago. They are still damp, drying, learning to catch air and lift me. And when they do, I have found myself higher than I have ever been.  It’s not a giddy stage, but a solid one. As if the ground beneath me too has risen.

And though I wonder if I will ever fall back down again, the inner wisdom in me tells me not to fear. We find our truth in those dark corners and hiding under places others dare not peak. And so we overcome as we become.

~

A sharing of reflection, evidence, found buried beneath the snow.

Solstice as a time of contemplation, withdrawing, looking within. Followed by The Gathering. Of resources, wisdom, strength, direction.  Followed in turn by A Time of Giving. The natural evolution of things, the way the wilds work.

We learn from the seasons, the cycles of life. Now with our blindly outstretch hands in winters early darkness. Our fingers reaching, touching, exploring. We see with eyes closed that which is most essential to observe.

~

fall leaves in winter snow

~

I may not have time to share words with you for a while. In the meanwhile, I leave you with a long one to take in as you like. This is on the notion of Natural Resilience. Inspired by a group meeting I was honored to be a part of here at our ranch recently.

This was written almost two months ago, on my retreat, scratching out the birth of ideas with pen on paper as the first snows fell and the river only began to freeze and I was upriver alone and so fulfilled and the great shift began.

This is not polished, it is not meant to be. It is a natural outpouring, and nothing more.

All it is. All it needs to be. A drifting thought no more permanent or important as stick floating down river. A quiet reflection on Natural Resilience.

~

It is hard to see in the plush season of summer or the stark covered winter. But now, in her season of exposure, of abandoned quiet grace, we begin to see again. This time of year is so clean. An open view. Bare branches, with leaves freshly shed.  Upon the unadorned mountain, clarity surrounds us. Now is the season of exhaling, letting go. A natural allowance in the cycle preparing for the well needed dormancy that is descending.  Balance. The eternal cycles of life. With every death, be it the fresh needles fallen and crushed beneath my gentle steps as I run through the woods, or burned hillsides standing cold before you… from this loss comes rich fertility, new life, new growth. A new cycle begins, or rather, continues.  As with us, each trauma, each challenge, each new experience a lesson and a chance for natural expansion. The eternal rise and fall, death and rebirth. We are reborn every day, every moment. We humans have a tendency to hold onto the past, perhaps out of fear, comfort or laziness. We remain attached to the way it was as we are attached to identities and desires. Like the standing tree that refuses to shed its leaves, or the fallen tree than refrains from rotting.

Is this natural resilience?

~

Just down river from my camp beside a large beaver dam, past a swath of mixed live and dead blue spruce and vigorous willow bushes making walking through a challenge as in a labyrinth,  I stumble upon a group of healthy, fat old aspen trees, all fallen down into what appeared a senseless jumble. The beavers had done this work which at first looks like vandalism, irrational human doing. Silly me – for nature rarely works in ridiculous ways, things coming and going for a reason, with a cause and effect, a part of some bigger picture that we may never understand. Unlike our man made ways, the rest is interconnected, parts of the wave, now rising, now falling, one moving and in motion with the other.

They, the beavers, as so much of wildlife we’ve noticed around here this year, are preparing for a big winter.  They see signs we miss. Further, as we have observed numerous times, the felling of large old aspen springs forth a mass re-growth the following year of new shoots.  A common biological reoccurrence creating natural sustainability. Upon further observation, I note there are few “middle aged” aspen. After t he so-called drought in this area lasting ten or more years, followed this year by the incredible rains, what I do note is a field of brand new shoots, healthy and prolific, having arisen from this especially moist year. The cutting of the old trees will allow these light to grow, and new life will be initiated in the process.  This seems random and pointless at first to us, but when we look closer, longer, and do not interfere but simply, silently watch, we see. Natural resilience in action.

~

Sitting on cool damp sand surrounded by the silent calm of dead standing spruce trees, in small intimate opening down by the autumn river, I meditate.  Ice begins to form along the banks and on the north sides of large boulders.  The flow is lower now, more tranquil, serene, as the upper mountain springs begin the big freeze for the season. As if even the water prepares for hibernation, quieting the pulse of the mountain.

Here, by the river, with no further distraction than the occasional passing bird, and my dog patiently sitting on guard behind me, it is easy to become mesmerized by the water flowing over rocks in the river. The sound, the motion, the light. The continual movement, and the shift of attention from the fluid water above to the steady rocks below.  I consider if we, as human beings, are more like the water, always changing, moving, following the path, and eventually ending up a part of the great ocean?  Or are we the rocks, calm and unwavering and worn to a smooth grace by each passing molecule of water, like all the events of our lifetime, our lifetimes.

Starting from where, I wonder, what sweet seeping spring high up on the mountain has this water come? Endlessly, the water gathers, grows, flows and finds its way around each rock on a calling forever moving, together.  And the rocks, each holding firm but worn so soft and smooth to the touch, as the waters continually flows by, taking a piece of the rock with it and leaving the essence of the rock behind to tumble, reset  or remain in the ever changing waters.

And as the water would not be contained if not for the strength and direction of the rocks, and the stones would not be exposed if not for the gentle force of the water, I am reminded there is no separation.

And so it goes, the continual movement. As a drop of water flows, merges, stills, evaporates, and returns to the river once again in the delicate yield of a flake of snow.

And so it goes, the wearing, smoothing, settling of the stones. As the undying breath of the river continually brings forth and leaves, inhale, exhale, the eternal balance of that which will be, that which was, and the stone sitting solid in the here and now.

Now in my hand I hold one of those stones. And another.  Each soft and round and smooth.  A bit unusual and oblong. Each unique. With my open palm I smooth a small patch of sand beside me. Slowly, I balance and stack, a small shrine, and do nothing more than stare at this pile of rocks.

Perfection found in the harmony and balance of so much imperfection.

Is this not the key to natural resilience, this understanding, acceptance, and respect?

~

Here, by the river.  That began as clouds, and will return as clouds, and back again, and so continuing as long before and far after me, in this one body, this one incarnation, this one chance at understanding more.

Yesterday morning. I wake to the silence of the river. Snow enwrapping my world. The simplicity of the monotone environment, washed in white. All inclusive. Without judgment or preference. Spruce  branches, both living and dead, bow gracefully, and delicate limbs of the aspen humbly hold what they can. It is so much. And this intimate connection which becomes our shroud reminds us of the grace coming from above, sparing none. I step out and stand within the open air temple. I hear the song of falling snow. I stand beside the trees and too am covered, my lashes full and white, bow first, then my snow covered cap and shoulders.  Snow embraces me. I shed tears which become a part of this eternal movement.

I can study the beauty and mystery of one individual snowflake. Each so remarkable and fleeting as they melt in my palm. And then see the whole forest turning white, covered, included, embraced. Can we see both the magnificence of one tree and the majesty of the whole forest with the same eyes and heart? And then look inside ourselves.  One cell, and one whole body. The interplay, the interconnectedness, the interdependence, the unique beauty in all its perfect imperfections.

How connected we all are!

Why then do we keep ourselves so separate?

This, I believe, is natural resilience.  And I am a part of it.

We all are.

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And here is the secret the earth shares with me in our silence together. I know you know this too. In spite of human greed, fear, anger and lust, in spite of what we do to the earth, the water still flows. The seasons still come and go. The waves ebb and flow. The sun rises and sets. Places burn, epidemics spread, and new trees, new life, like new babies are born.

Nature is resilient. Are we?

Life.  Life happens. When we open our eyes and our hearts to see the incredible eternal power and beauty of the natural way, how can we not be in awe and be humbled?

We are in a time of great change. In change, there is great hope. For what?  Open our eyes. Behold!  Open our hearts. Breathe in deeply.  I need not say more for the answers are all there before us and within  us. This beautiful, resilient nature. Of which we are a part.

~ ~ ~

With grace and gratitude.

For my beloved mountain, river and Earth.

For those with whom the fierce love of land, all land, all waters, and the deepest reverence for the Earth drew us closer.

For those with whom my spiritual quest and questions have blessed me with our connection.

For the new life and exciting changes being breathed into our guest ranch, Lost Trail Ranch.

For my dear teacher and friend of The Matrona from whom I have learned as much about life as I have about birth.

For my next book now birthing.

And mostly for my family, my boys, my two best friends, my team. Together on this mountain.

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family over the rio

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