Seeing solstice

December 21, 2012December 21, 2012 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Learning to see. Not just what I want to see. But what is there before me. Real and raw. And then find the beauty within, hidden as it may be at times.
Lessons learned looking through the lens.

(this inspired by the work of Harold Reinisch on his blog Okanagan Okanogan.

Light. Such a fascinating subject to focus on. I’d like to learn to capture a person’s light. Few opportunities present themselves here and now. There will be time. In the meanwhile, I turn to the mountain. Even on these days of long nights, with falling snow and white washed sky.

Learning to see. I’ve spent years here looking from afar. Now I find myself zooming in. Looking closer, deeper, slower. Does this have to do with age, patience or simply perspective?

The intimate point of view. Am I bringing you in there with me? Into the trees, a little lighter now than last year, sparser now with needles fallen from the dying spruce, and bare aspen trees tipped over and piled like match sticks in places. Seems like a new one across the trail each time we take our snowshoes through the trees. A nice place to sit and rest.

The camera – teaching me to slow down, maybe even stop, look closely, see the details. Breathe into an intimate gaze. I have seen the landscape. Know the view. Coming home from a snowshoe yesterday and my mountain, my muse, is spread out before me like a naked model, tempting, teasing, taunting. I lift my camera, held my breath and really look. I had taken the same picture before, I was sure. Probably more than once. Same snow, same light, same time of day on this very same day in December. I do not press the shutter and move on.

Learning to look close, close enough to touch, to feel, to smell and taste. To share that taste with you. Leave it sweet and bitter on your tongue.
It takes patience for me. Like being aware of my breath. A walking meditation.
Finding light on the darkest day. A metaphor for living.

After the even zero of winter’s mornings

December 18, 2012December 18, 2012 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

the weight of cold and clothes
slows us
down, lifting
bundled legs over
snow covered rocks
advancing up the
seemingly silent stream

a white ribbon running
through a white land

from her banks
she is silent still but
up close she
continues to sing

then suddenly she is
open, loud and
rushing from
a black abyss

broken

upon her smooth
surface, or gives
way beneath footfall
leaving breathe caught
mid way and
heart pumping a little

louder

we listen to find
our way, the stronger
she sings, the thinner
the ice, the closer we are
to rushing waters
and her secrets
chanting below
each hushed step
of snowshoe on powder

untouched

but for the occasional
criss cross pattern
bank to bank
like summer’s spider webs strung
tree to tree

in warmer days as we
come to the creek
and brush silk from our
sweaty cheeks
as we find a place
to cool and escape

now no more than an easy
crossing for
coyote and shoeshoe hare and

dog that turns wild on days like this
and allows us only
brief sightings
of brown fur and

domesticity

he moves silent as
the river, stealth
through dark timber
in his own world yet
never too far from
where we are

then just as suddenly
by our side
and we slowly progress
up stream together
while the waters continue
their muffled flow down
beneath each

uncertain step

I would also like to share this. It is beautiful.

The following was written and shared by “Yourothermotherhere” as a comment. I think you will see why I felt this should be shared in a post. Thank you, for your words.

it is about you
because your eyes
belong to you
and where you stand
the view is unique
to you

but it’s also about me
because you are more
than your eyes

you are heart
and soul
and mind

that all long to connect
with others of the same
creator
creations

an infinite gallery
of beauty
seen through
eternal beings

What I’m trying to say

December 16, 2012December 16, 2012 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

a scene from a snowier winter, what we’re still waiting for…

some days I see
nothing new
the same
blue bird in bluebird blue sky
and yes it paints a lovely picture
but what I need to see
to share
and what you look for
long for
is somehow

something more

the breath of the sparrow
last year’s grass standing stiff as straw
breaking the endless white hillside
into soft waves as the wind catches
stirs and deposits
obstructed by no more than
a blade of dried grass

the tell tale tracks of the
coyote catching
the snowshoe hare, white fur
scattered on snow like
heavy grains of frost

pin holes and chipped bark
on the broad rough side of
the blue spruce
that has scattered its needles on
the fresh snow below
pick-up sticks played as a child

the orange wash of the lightening
sky spilled across the flat white
of the horse pasture
now cleared of tracks
calm as the sea on a day
when the wind holds
its breathe

it can’t just be about me
and the pretty world
I live in
and all I can do is
hope
that what means something to me
might mean something
to you

No real cowgirl sings the blues

December 13, 2012December 13, 2012 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

So plug your ears, or you might just hear me cry.

`
(Picture of me and Flying Crow in the High Country in warmer days. Photo taken by Kate Seely)

`
Decisions are not random here. More often than not, they are based on nature. The high country, the rainy season, dropping temperatures, wind, drought, glaring sun, the road closed by snow. Things like that. Pretty simple, except we tend to complicate things with… emotion.
Our attempts at living where no one has before. A balancing act between human needs and nature. Complicated more by our decisions than what the weather does. Why can’t things be simple? As they are for the family of coyotes, loving the late-to-come winter, still out there pouncing voles in the dried brown grasses just out of Gunnar’s radar. Or the four elk still up high on Pole Mountain, grazing at an elevation of 13,000 feet. They say the Big One is rolling in tonight. These guys have not followed the forecast as intently as I have. I can only hope as the snows begin, they will turn to the timber and find their way to lower ground.

Now I’m looking through old photos. Warmer days. Sunshine, green grass, leaves on trees, solid ground to walk on, run on, kick up your heels on.

`
As I lay in bed last night, I cried. My husband unable to comfort me. And I am sorry I refused to let him try, for try he did. I know his warm touch would have soothed me, his gentle words a peaceful balm. Instead, I pushed him away, turned my back and cried myself to sleep.
I think you should know this. I don’t know why I share it any more than why I feel it. Sometimes I am tired of feeling and would rather find the perfect pill that washes it all away. Only not really, because I want to feel it all. I don’t want an unnatural solace, a potion that would make living less. I guess you have to take the good with the bad and there is always at least a bit of both if you’re really living.
This is ridiculous. I need to be stronger.

What do I really want?

Home. One. Seems pretty simple but it’s a constant theme. Here I have a love/hate relationship with the land. Yes, more love than hate. The best of relationships are that way. So why am I leaving again?
This is the last time I look elsewhere. If I find it there, I will move there. If I don’t, my search ends. That’s it. This place is not perfect, but it is mine, it is home. Complete with horses, chickens, cats and dog, a little family and a big mountain, and a healthy dose of normal problems to keep us all in line.
And there I am, loading the last four of my horses into the trailer to send them down to lower ground. Winter pasture. Before the road is closed. I wait until the last day. The last safe chance. My husband allows this of me. He knows how much it matters. He understands.
The hawk flies above me in the clear blue sky as my tears fall down into the snow. He is mine. There for me now when I am losing so much else. By choice. Damn it, what is wrong with me?

`
Winter will hit hard. Stinging against your cheeks like small stones as horizontal snow feels in the sub zero temperatures of early morning.
I won’t have to go out as early now. Tres will not be on back porch pulling down the snowshoes and ski poles to get my attention. I can wait for the sun to scale the mountain to the east and flood this little valley with sun on snow. But I won’t. I have been up early for years caring for those who need me, and really, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I will find something. The Steller’s Jays in the blue spruce, the pair of raven in the naked aspen, maybe even the magpie that shy from the coyote fence as I take the slop bucket down to the chicken coop each morning.
These will remain, a part of my morning ritual.
I frighten myself with my own decisions. Repercussions of creating life. It is not meant to be smooth, but we long for those still moments. They do not last.

`
And sometimes they die. A sorrow I care not touch on today.
The losses we have shared. Five foals in as many years. The scars are deep within me. I have carried each loss in my arms, bathed him or her with tears as he or she poured forth life that could not be contained.

`
No. Now I would rather focus on joy.
It is not always easy. But it is there if we look deep enough.
Horses have become me. A part of me. Chosen. Created. Not given, assumed or taken. I’m no lucky horsey girl grown up. I’m a horse woman, self made. An adult decision I like to say. Painted my own picture. And now I watch the last of them drive away…

Only for a few months. I remind myself and hold onto these words. Only words. But I can close my eyes and picture this. Some time in spring, long before leaves on the trees, streaks of snow patch cleared from pasture, brown waters in the Rio Grande, and tourists considering this a destination, we’ll be driving back with them in tow. And I know the feeling I will have, almost uncontained, bursting, just to have them again out of every window, following us about like bored children as we work about the ranch, the point and purpose to first light of day, ready to allow me at any given whim to wrap my arms about their neck and bury my nose in their warm hair.

`
It’s hard enough bringing Gunnar to Patagonia. I cannot bring all of them too.
How redundant to say “I will miss them.” These words are already assumed. You already know.
It’s not just about riding, is it? Maybe it was. Maybe that is how it started. But the deeper you go, the more there is.
They are now partners. We work with them, live with them, depend on them as they on us. Unlike pleasure horses, lawn ornaments, hobby horses, or toys. We are out there together and you hear me reading at night to the boys in our tent, while I hear you shuffling and stomping in the nearby trees. And some days we are both grouchy and other times both tired and short of patience, but you remind me to breathe deep and I do, and I smell you, your sweet musky sweat. And we get over it and get to work, and it’s not so bad, you know and I know so we get through it together. And then sometimes, just for the fun of it, we ride off to who knows where. Just because we can. We did more of that this year. And I thank you for trusting me to go where most wouldn’t dare and some places maybe that no horse has been before. You trust me. I tell you you can. And then I see your confidence grow stronger with each wild ride, like my child evolving into his own person. Maybe with a little bit of my help, but mostly because of you. Or maybe it’s a team. You grow, and I trust you more because of it, and really, it’s a very beautiful relationship changing all the time. It does not stop with what we did yesterday. Tomorrow will bring something new. Maybe subtle, like eye contact, little signals with a flick of my wrist, body language that we humans usually don’t quite get. We can learn to dance together. Not for ribbons or sport, not for some game or to show off. Just for each other.
And in that very moment, you grow and I grow. Perhaps not together. But maybe side by side.

(Here, Norman pulling a big rock and about as proud of himself as I am of him. This photo from “The Ditch Diaries”)

Yes, this is about home. It always is for me. The love of place and space. Balancing my love of home, mountain, horses, dog, husband and son. May be simple. But this is what matters most. To me.
And words. Though more than words. The spirit that words represent. The sharing of it all.
Now, something deeper than the pleasure of company which I will have again. Get over it. Be strong. Look what awaits me!
This is what is meant to be. Call me hokey but I believe that. I believe in the openings that presented themselves. The choices I have made. I will not let her down, let myself down, my husband down, who has believed in me through all the crazy stuff I have got him into.
At the end of the day this is my choice, what I want to do. This is what I wish I’d be the one doing if I heard someone else was doing this. Really, this is beyond a dream come true. I never could have dreamed this one up. This is no vacation. I wouldn’t want that, you know. “Vacation” is not my thing. Because even though I’ve made a living providing vacations, I have no interest in taking one myself. It’s got to have that point and purpose thing. And this does. See?
So, what I will take is this. Life. As full and rich as I can live it. And try to understand it’s just not always easy.
And then again remember this. I never ever would have dreamed up a place like this. Right here, right now. And this wonderful life we built here together.
But can I not want more?
How can something so simple become so complex?
Would I change this sadness and stay safe and warm in yesterday?

`
(The beautiful life of Bayjura)

Mother to mother

December 12, 2012December 12, 2012 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

You await your god to give you his blood
while we bleed ours onto the earth
and pour four tears
In times of drought

The blindness of being
of choosing to see only
the last green tree
In forest of falling needles

Like the mother who has two children
and after the first one dies
remains happy
Because the other lives

If I choose hope
I am off the hook

As if optimism were a fair replacement
For truth

A long story

December 7, 2012December 9, 2012 / Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Still fat and bright flooding the kitchen sink is the waning moon
as I run water to fill the percolator in the otherwise dark kitchen.

You can hear the rooster up early and footfall of the horses by the back door
stepping on the dry packed snow like crunching bags of chips.
They’ll wait there for me as if their presence might urge me to hurry up
and feed them sooner and I suppose in a way it does.

Another empty promise.

The cloud cover cleared and if I look up and away from where the moon is nearly blinding
I can see stars brilliant in their assumed mystery penetrating through what may be infinity.

Another hope of storm comes and goes and leaves us with nothing.

The coffee pot now heating over the pale blue flame of the propane burner
as I feel my way across the room to the wood stove
no frills model
nothing fancy
just a big iron box to fill with wood and heat this cabin we built of logs and love.
I bend and stack and light and wait as I have so many mornings before
this ritual primal and grounding and simple yet sings with such wild mystery

like stars in the dark sky.

What matters? What matters most to me? I tell myself to stop being so selfish. How hard not to think of “me.”

What matters most? Look at the big picture. Step outside. Not just the door. The comfort zone.

Do I dare stand alone naked on the mountain top and let the wind whip my flesh?

And wonder if my eyes are really open or am I dreaming, only to wake and find myself back where I was yesterday. Nothing changed. Like most of the lives I see.

So hard to see, to know, to understand. Something about compassion. Seeing beyond this view that could be a fairy tale of sorts except I never read one with characters living like us before.

I guess it started with my dog. At least that was the first sign I clearly saw. When I heard maybe it would be best to leave him behind. Best for whom? Of course the first thought through a mother’s mind. And then… what’s wrong with having him a part of the picture you painted? And therein lies the problem because the picture is not quite as it was painted. OK, so it’s going to be rather different. But the dog will still be a part of it.

Lets go back to talking about my dog. Gunnar. He is not easy. That’s a good way to put it. And yet, consider this: who ever said “easy” was “good” probably never learned a whole lot. About dog training, horse training, relationships, cooking, dancing and love…

On one hand, he is independent, confident and mighty strong of will. My mother while visiting us recently watched him and laughed at me. She said something about “what goes around, comes around.” Was this what I was like as a child?

On the other hand he lives life full. With gusto. Nothing half way. He loves with abandon, plays with such zeal, and when he gets a whiff of a coyote, becomes the epitome of Big and Bad.

He has an agenda all his own which has drawn me to resort to tricks, treats and leashes where I used to just trust my dog would be right here, and he was. Those were the other dogs. Not Gunnar. He who does not see the point in sticking to the trail when he’s already been that way. He may have a point there. Though perhaps I am more like my horses and find comfort staying on familiar trails. And then again, maybe I am not.

On this journey we’re preparing for, he has a role. I’m not sure what, besides complicating things for everyone on one hand. And on the other, I’m there keeping my promise and caring for him as I know no one else can. They might think they could, but I swear I wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Perhaps he is with us to be grounding. To slow us down, because I’m not good at sitting still, but know I need to learn. And really, he can do that too.

Slow me down. Side track. What’s the rush? Stop to walk the dog. Run with him or wrestle, because no dog I’ve ever known is willing to take you on like this guy will happily do. And he does make me happy. Lets me be happy. I wish I was wiser and allowed myself to be so silly when Forrest was still a child. I was Mama Bear and Papa Bear all by myself, all rolled into one, during what could have been the playful years. It was all I knew. Balance and letting go from time to time were things I could not do. I think he forgives me and knows I tried.

Ah, one of those born wiser than the generation before. I’ve met a few like that. I was forewarned when he was still within me. My pregnancy was spent working in a wood shop with a bunch of guys that were so clueless about women, all of them single and for good reasons. And then here is this skinny hippy chick with the growing belly. Quite the odd man out. They were good to me in their own way. Which was the way lots of guys are good in the “stand back and give her some space” kind of way. “Just don’t make her mad…” You know the sort.

Well, one of them, Justin, was waiting for the aliens to take him away to a better place, and in the meanwhile, he lived in a communal earthship just outside of Santa Fe along with a few others, waiting. He smoked his beedies and smelled of clove and did yoga and drank pureed grass. He painted, and he’s the one who told me Forrest was way beyond me, and I did then and still do believe him, though of course at that point Forrest was still months away from seeing daylight, tucked safe and warm in that beast of a belly growing behind my overalls.

And he, this one born wiser than me, writes me this morning with the greatest wisdom I could want to hear. “…intentions are good, but health may definitely affect the direction of everything … So maybe your job will be a little different, but still… it seems amazing for all involved.” Really, who needs to hear more? He is right, you know. If you’re brave enough to give it a try. I think I am.

You’re probably wondering what the job will be, our plans are, where we’re going and what we’re doing. Trust me, I’m wondering too, but I know a little more than you, so I suppose I should share some of that.

It started on a feeling. Those can be the things that get you in trouble, I know. But they can also be the things that change everything. I am ready for change.

For two months I had this ad on my desk beside my computer. A job in Patagonia. But nothing about it was right for me, for us. Sounded great for a young, weathy, carefree thing. I am none of the above. Finally I write, saying I am not the right person, but for some reason, I couldn’t get this off my mind. And there the connection blooms quick like if you plugged in a light and the power just spread… She was looking for a writer… to write her memoirs. Sound like anyone you might know? That would be me! And what a story she has for me to put into words!

You know what I love to say: Leap and the net appears!

So we agree, make plans to be there for four months, hubby and dog and me, room and board for my writing. It’s all falling into place perfectly. Oh my, a remote, off grid, beautiful place with horses. Sound like any other place you know? Right. Here. Weird, eh?

Sounds too good to be true and maybe it is or was but it’s not going to be like that. Maybe, just maybe, it is going to be even better. Better for us. Maybe not you, because maybe you’re still looking for a pretty place and that’s enough for you. But I’m looking for more. Something deeper, richer, more meaningful than a pretty view or a pretty face. I’ve got all that here! And I am finding it all. There. Topping the list: point and purpose. Then there is a brilliant person to learn from, live with, help out. An adventure unlike anything I have ever done. And a darned good story to boot.

I’ll explain it all more clearly in time. I know this is already far too much for one sitting. But I have to share this with you first, and then I’ll let you be. This from a letter I sent to a friend:

For two weeks, I’ve had this odd feeling in my stomach. I could not tell if it was strictly physical, or if it was emotional/spiritual taking a physical manifestation. Since it was just a nagging feeling, not pain, I kept assuming the latter, but could not “get” the message. Seems like things were/are going so well.

It got so strong. Again, not painful, just would not go away to the point that I was constantly aware of it, could not ignore it, and it seemed to affect my breathing as if I needed to breath stronger and deeper, which up here at almost 10,000 feet elevation is going to be a challenge no matter.

Well, last night I got a letter telling me we’ll be living on the outskirts of town and travelling around and acting in a position of caretaker/caregiver I did not feel either capable of, nor what I signed up for. And we won’t be out at the ranch. And I’m thinking, wait, we’re really quiet folks used to very remote, I’ve not lived near town in twenty years, and I have Gunnar, I just don’t know, this is a big change from what we originally planned. And what about the writing? Writing this book – is that still the focus? I thought that was my calling and the greatest gift I could give.

Bob and I talked it over while we lay in bed at night and decided. We would do it no matter. There are many reasons, but one of the most basic is something to do with trust and love. That got us into this situation. We have to continue based on that.

Besides, if we were to remain, we would be bored. Yes, bored. Even here. Think of it this way: we’ve been here, done that. Same old/same old. We’re too comfortable now, and we’re too young still to be ok with comfortable. You might think it’s neat, but we’ve done this. Yesterday. Many yesterdays. We built it, dug it, cut it down, birthed it, trained it and /or dreamed it. Sure, we’re proud of it. But we need not be so attached to it that we can not see beyond, and find a little more depth and meaning. It’s that point and purpose thing. That matters. What’s the point and purpose of holding onto the shallow surface? Dive in!

Anyway, that’s what we decided. And this morning when I woke, there was another letter explaining the situation further. It was beautiful. And the crazy thing is, through all of her explaining all of her problems, she is the most brilliant, bright being. As she said, “I might be losing my eyesight, but not my vision.”

The journey may be taking on a slightly different path than we expected. But maybe, just maybe, it is a greater one.

Oh, and that feeling in my gut?

It’s gone.

Ode to a Christmas tree

December 6, 2012December 6, 2012 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

You get an appreciation for life when you’re surrounded by death, you know? Trees are that way for me.

Although decorating for and celebrating Christmas is something I love, the Christmas tree part just had never worked out well for me. First, Forrest was raised in the far north of California where in winter the only action on the one-lane hair-pin turn road beside the rare sighting of one of the reportedly two hundred people who lived scattered in those hills and you hope on those rare times the driver was not drunk and remained on the road which of course was not always the case, was the logging trucks on days they could make it through mud slides, the occasional snow storm, and ice slick like a buttered pan in the sharp curves of the dark draws. Clear cuts like patchwork quilts secretly surrounded us. We would walk through fields that were once forest. It was a way of life there, a steady source of income for as long as the trees were there and then they would move on.

Now we live amongst Beetle kill. Hundreds of thousands of acres dying around my home. The tip of the iceberg visible from the window I look out right now. A hillside more brown and grey than green. And I know next year will even be worse. These little beetles leave a mighty large wake behind them.

The idea of cutting a tree for pleasure is not very pleasurable right now. For years, we cut Christmas branches. Big boughs off of the underside of the giant trees from the Pacific Northwest. Asked the tree for forgiveness, dragged it home through the mud and rain, then hung it up with bailing wire attached to the uninsulated wall you could see right through to sunlight if there ever was, which was not too often in winter.

Here, even before the trees started dying, we set up a fake tree. Saved from the landfill. No one ever seemed to notice. Who would guess, these folks living so far away on the mountain wouldn’t even take one tree? We couldn’t. I guess that’s why we live here, and those that only think about taking… leave. (Ahhhhh… the mountain heaves a huge sigh of relief….)

The trees up here don’t need thinning. Man’s intervention, from what I see from this window, and any other window I’ve looked out of, has been more than plenty. Maybe leave the forest alone for a while. Though now you know it’s too late for that. We’ve got a half a million acres of matchsticks curing out there now.

But… if I may for a moment try to justify my actions… Forrest is coming home for Christmas. I want the house to be festive. You’ve got to have a Christmas tree. The big old trees I could normally poach a lower branch from are mostly already dead. Bob and I discuss bringing home a Beetle kill tree. A tree skeleton, brown and dried and stripped of needles. A sign of the times. Maybe start something new. Kind of misses the holiday cheer, we decide.

Let’s get a tree that needs to be gone, we say. You know, find one too close to the road. Nope. Nothing. OK, one too close to the trail? We walk for over a mile. This one is too big. This one too sparse. This one has enough room, see, you could ride a horse around it. Leave it. It’s hard to kill when you care so much. We keep walking.

We find a tree that I know from personal experience is one you have to kick your boots from the stirrups and lift up your legs to ride through. And that’s even riding my little Arabian. What if I ride Big Fat Mamma Tres, or heaven forbid, the draft horse Norman? Really, it should go. We’re convinced. This isn’t murder. It’s necessary. It has a purpose.

We took it. Dragged it home well over a mile from the horse trail across river. It’s here now dressed up with colored lights that we can’t plug in because it is cloudy today. The downfall of solar electricity. A bit of a bummer after nothing but blue skies for what seemed like months. Grey skies today, and not even the reward of snow.

It is dry. Too dry. Remember, I live at an elevation of almost 10,000 feet. It’s supposed to be winter here by now, big time, and this snow which is not here is what should feed the river next year. The headwaters of the Rio Grande, wild and free above and around me. The drought continues. Ten years and counting. This year appears to be the worst yet. Warmest, driest.

Mid day and the horses are out grazing on last seasons grasses now dried and brown. The hawks sweep low and are rewarded with moles and voles still above ground finding no solace beneath the leafless cinquefoil.

Farewell to open waters

Still I trust the process
as longer nights will
shed more darkness that
turns the river solid

or so it should

these things must
Come
but have not yet

•

I am waiting to walk
on frozen waters
that now melt in the heat of
day passionless grey

skies skim over
Meaning nothing more
than the promise of returning

to blue
Which where I find myself

now unable to escape

the slow process of
silencing the river

•

watching sand
Fall between open fingers
That try to hold onto

What will not remain

the mountain turns
soundless as the river
freezes over and my

future lies before somewhere
in the twisted silver path thick

I think of mercury from a broken
thermometer dropped on a hard
wood floor and

Shattered

•

Holding no more weight than
a leaf from last season
scattered in the wind

waiting

I watch hillsides
fade to grass pale as snow

and shiver

Follow the flow

December 3, 2012December 3, 2012 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Something about expectation. They made this one up to be so profound. I was hoping, of course.

They said it was life changing. Those were their words. What they told us when they came back from “the elusive waterfall.” So we went looking for it. Twice. The three of us. Bob, Gunnar and me. It used to be four. And every day like yesterday, I still wish to share these special places on the mountain, our mountain, his mountain, with Forrest.

I’m going through yesterday’s pictures, sharing a few but wish you could see them all though you might get as bored as Bob and think maybe a few hundred is more than enough.

I’ll start with this. I’m no cinematographer, but Bob suggested I try to capture the sound of water flowing beneath frozen surface of the creek in a hidden draw along the mountain. An intimate sound. Not very “visual” but I think you might get the point: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClLSFqAdN0E&feature=youtu.be

Seeking the obscure destination, the life changing waterfall. Not the words I came up with, but ones I held onto. Ready to have my life changed. Maybe I say it wasn’t a big deal after all. Yet take a few minutes to reflect and maybe you’ll see it was. That’s how it happens sometimes. Not all at once. Not obvious. Slow like water cutting rock.

maybe not
life changing

that was their
thing not mine

though I confess I
looked for
a change

and what I found was
beauty

natural
and the love

of my husband
and dog
and humour

of getting my partner
off a mountain
with a blown out

knee and funny if you
knew this was not
the first time

the dog and
I scrambling this precarious
incline on all fours

and I was scared as
we slipped down a slope which
doesn’t seem like
much unless you were there

sliding

because we had to see
more and it was

perfect

I guess I was expecting something else. I thought we’d get there and be bowled over and everything would be new and different and wonderful. My manuscript sold, my dog behaving perfectly, my son finding his chosen path, my grey hair turned brown and my wrinkles smoothed over, our property sold, our debt gone and all these ideas for the next book I’m working on just flowing like water from my mind onto paper…

After getting over the initial shock that this was cool, but that’s about it, I started to see.

Life changing experiences. Are what we make them. Do we allow ourselves to be affected, and grow and change or do we hold on to what we were yesterday and think we want tomorrow without seeing what is in front of us today?

My life is the same today as it was yesterday, only my legs are more sore, and nose a bit sunburned, both of which are fairly regular. But me, I am different. Not just today, but every day. Some things in life I don’t want to change. That’s a tough one. Figuring out what we can carry with us into tomorrow. For starters, I’ll carry my husband, if need be. Especially if those knees quit him again.

Hush

November 30, 2012November 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Down by the
Muted river
Where hoar frost grows thick

Winter blossoms
Swelling
In frozen embrace under

Trees undressed
And you and I
In so many layers

Still cold
Though our hands touch
Through thick mittens

We pause over frozen waters
As the raven flies above
And the snow around us is

Marred by the last tracks of elk
Only there can we hear
The cry of moving waters

With depth greater than
Words we share
That shatter the silence

I read somewhere recently of the horse being the dolphin of the land
Then may I call this heavy frost the fish scales of winter

If you walked with me now along the north facing slope, perhaps you’d never notice.

The snow from a few weeks ago has held, now dry and packed, we walk on top with our boots and take twenty steps before falling in. This aged snow now turning to these fascinating crystalline fields of frost. In the trees you might think it odd that the snow is dappled with pine needles. Scattered randomly like in a childs drawing of cows in a field. Do you know what that means? The trees above are dying. Beetle kills. Needles fall like rain drops in the wind.

Perhaps we stop by a live Blue Spruce. It would be a small one. The little ones have not all been taken. At least, not yet. We notice the aroma.

Sap. Sweet life. A smell I have almost forgotten. For now it is rare.

We stop and close our eyes and soak it in, the sweet breath of the tree, inhaling to the depth of our soul. And we smile.

Bordering wild

November 29, 2012November 29, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Some days I’m out there alone (and I mean really alone – miles and miles from another human being) and I’m blown away. I’d like to come up with a more eloquent term, but it’s raw and it’s real and simple as it seems, it feels right. Blown away. By her beauty. Her silent strength. Her still power. Arms of wind that enwrap me as I stand on the breast of her mountain and listen to the last cry of open waters.

Trying to keep up with my imagination. The songs and sounds I want to share. She soars alone with wings silver and delicate as the frost forming on the north facing slope. I remain grounded. I run to catch up with her but am never quite there. Ideas brimming and bubbling. The lid rattles, ready to explode.

And there I am, doing no more than stirring a pot of green chili, tossing out hay to my horses, washing dishes and hanging clothes on the line we strung up stairs beside the bed, for frozen jeans take too long to dry.

As Julian mentioned recently, “In a busy world where true literacy is so rare, many people (I think) prefer to look at pictures…”

I hope then, this will do for now. And even then, there is so much more I wish you could see, wish I could share with you…

Gin Getz

On the intimate connection between person and place. Sharing words and images of wilds within and around.

Uncategorized

Seeing solstice

After the even zero of winter’s mornings

What I’m trying to say

No real cowgirl sings the blues

Mother to mother

A long story

Ode to a Christmas tree

Follow the flow

Hush

Bordering wild

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