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Farewell to the Prince (Charming)

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

(a.k.a. So Long, Sucker)

Keep this in mind.  Nothing is complete.  It’s all a work in progress.  A poem.  Our lives.  Society.  The words I’m sharing with you today.  About… Prince Charming?

And if he were a horse?  My little Arabian, Flying Crow, reminds me how much work a relationship is.  The hardest horse I’ve had to train.  And from him, the most I have had to learn.

A dance to the silence of winter

the dog enchanted
by the echo of his bark
against frozen cliffs
across solid water

and when he settles
and his echo and ego
let him go
I am there immersed
surrounded by
winter white sounds

And then there is my dog.  OK, let’s not go there.  He is still a work in progress.  Progressing several times a day and I’m not quite sure we’re getting anywhere.  At least not where I was intending.

But this is not about them.  This is about… men.

A revelation of sorts.

The myth of Cinderella and Snow White and the Walt Disney Princess.  Shattered.

Well, many of us figured that one out already.

But what about…  him?

Seems like the woman is always blamed for holding on, seeking, expecting that myth to be maintained.

But what about the man?

Really, take a good look.  I think you’ll see he can be equally at fault in this fictitious fantasy, holding onto the hope of being and remaining Prince Charming Forever.  Societal teachings started as children.  Based (loosely) on nature, one might say.  And perhaps some men DO want to be the provider, the knight in shining amour, and Prince Charming.

Come on, guys.  How many of you used to believe that’s what a Real Man should be?

Or at least, have you thought maybe it would be nice to be HIM?  There you’d be, with her hanging onto your arm, following you fearlessly through hell and high water because you are brave and strong and will provide for her and love her until death do you part…

Forget partnership.  Forget a real relationship.  A healthy, loving, respectful interaction between two individuals.  That’s hard work. And not always healthy for one’s manly ego.  Instead, let’s hold onto that castle in the sky.

Now hold on. Who am I to lecture on relationships?  I’m about the last person I ever thought would have (or make) a “good” relationship; a “healthy” one; a balance of respect, love, fun and compatibility. Figured I’d always be my solid, solitary self.  (Or not so solid, but that’s another story.) Yet here I am, ten years into one better that I ever imagined, and I’m not falling apart at my independent seams.  In fact, he kinda helps hold them together as they unravel from time to time.  Scary.

But  really, that’s not what I mean to do.  Lecture.  All I wanted to do was share my revelation of the all too present social expectations not only for her, but for him.

Considering this is a biased audience already proving to be Modern Men by reading a Woman’s Blog (that said, fact is half my readers are men)  we may not get a true view of the whole of our society.

Let’s start with this one: Happily Ever After does not exist.

Ah-ha.  But Willing to Work through the Hard Times does.

Look around.  You’ll see the Neanderthal hunter- gather is no longer in high demand in today’s society here in the Western World.  We have Safeways.  And we all know it is actually the same guys out there practicing their primitive skills as stopping by that Safeway for a ripe bell pepper to compliment the meal, a crisp side to go with their fresh kill.

Whatever. OK, think of this. The old macho traits aren’t what are going to get us further in society.  One could say we as society have been there and done that.  And now we have evolved.  Looking back, that Neanderthal dude was not the best thing mankind had to offer.  Sure, you may want to hunt, go ahead and do it for fun or food or what not.  But don’t think it makes you a better man.  A more primal man, maybe, but it’s been a long time since one considered “primal” a truly attractive trait and one that has brought society to its higher state.

Well then, what is he?  Who is he, this Modern Man?

He need not be Prince Charming, a football quarterback, or a Neanderthal hunter/gatherer.  He may not be the blue collar worker home from the mill kicking back on his well worn Lazy Boy with a can of Lite beer in one hand and the remote control in the other.  I rather hope he is not just that, but that’s my personal thing….

He need not be the Metro Sexual donning shiny shoes, carrying  a Murse, and sipping espresso while ready poetry or the sensitive man tearing up watching The Titanic.

But maybe he is.

And that’s the thing about the rise of the Modern Man and the death of Prince Charming.  Today’s man has choices.  As Women’s Lib opened doors for we women, time has opened choices for men too.  Let’s get rid of expectations.  You do not HAVE to be the hunter, warrior, provider or Prince Charming.  And if you can be, guess what?  So can I.  That, my friends, is the best part of the modern man, the modern woman, the evolution of the human species.  We can choose.  We can grow beyond expectations, assumptions and fairytales.  We decide what is right. We can use our brain, not Walt Disney’s.  We can dream.  Our own dreams.  Not some phony one we saw on the big screen in pastel colors.

Pardon the comparison, Modern Man and Women’s Lib, for man is not traditionally suppressed simply by the sex into which he was born as woman worldwide too often are.  I speak from my personal perspective, a narrow view from a most privileged part of the world.

So where was I?  Oh yes. Prince Charming.  Stop waiting for him, gals.  Bet even if you think you found him, chances are pretty good he won’t be what you were hoping for.  He’s a pretty shallow and selfish character. And chances are, if he thinks he’s your Knight in Shining Armor, than you’re just a damsel in distress.  Don’t go there.  Please.  Hope for better. Expect, demand, work for and create better.  Really.  You deserve it.  Believe in the best.  But don’t buy the fairy tale.  Believe in yourself, the power of the modern man, the strength of a healthy relationship, your own ability to build the life you want, balanced with the ability to ask for help when you need it without thinking it’s the knight in shining armour that’s going to come to your rescue, and whisk you away on the white horse so you can be happy ever after.  You won’t be. That’s life.  Enjoy the ups and downs and hard work and heartache and stumbling blocks and growth and all of it.  It’s a package deal. They don’t show you that part in the Disney films.

This rant is inspired by the wonderful, strong, independent woman who (like most of us) once may have fallen for the fairy tale… And when her fairy wings sprouted, she learned to believe in herself.  And fly.

For my daughter, if I had one.  But I have a son.  So for him, a reminder of what he can be, and need not be, too…

The last of open waters

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Today I share with you water instead of words.

An intimate view of a waterfall in early winter.

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Holding onto the wind

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

 
Seeking solace in the high country. Looking for an answer. I know not who to ask. Don’t even know the question, so it seems some days.

Don’t get me started, this is a tangent that could take me far and wide, just please let me share this with you. I was given an answer I still need to understand. Maybe it will take a lifetime. I am in no rush. I will do my best to enjoy it all. The journey. Spread my wings and soar. Where the wind takes me. For she is far stronger than I am, and will blow long after I am gone.

And for no reason at all, I find myself lost. Even with the Yellow Brick Road winding before me. No matter. Somewhere within me, there is the lost child still doubting, questioning, afraid. I once read one should comfort her, but days like this, I’d rather tell her to grow up and get over it.

Tightness in my stomach, the same I remember on test day at the end of the semester, thirty, forty years ago. Come on, still?

Really, I hate that feeling. I see no good reason for it. Self induced stress. I used to think I should listen to that internal voice, inner wisdom, perhaps she is warning me, portending an unforeseen doom. Time has taught me otherwise. More often than not, it’s nothing more than my over active imagination and my under active sense of security flaring up.

Indulge in a desire for comfort, or get tough and get over it. Let’s choose the latter.

I woke early as I often do and looked briefly for a shooting star, having read the night before there may be a good show. Thirty seconds pass. Long enough. Nothing. If there was to be a “sign” it would have showed itself by now, I told myself. I’m not forcing it.

A sign. What am I expecting?

Don’t expect. You know? Just be open. And the signs arrive in a timely manner. Far better than if forced.

So there I am in the late afternoon, working on the water system for the cabins with Bob. And overhead I feel then see. A hawk.

Not just any hawk. But the one that joined us for the first time this summer and sat perched on the dividing fence or the cedar post by the barn as I fed each morning. The one that I am pretty sure reduced the Morning Dove population, not to mention helped with the onslaught of rodents that flourished in the long and mild summer.

He circles, the hawk, flying in from the south, loops around the dog and me, lands at the tip of the big spruce tree next to our cabin. Grandfather Tree, we call that one, with the tree house Forrest built when he was nine. So high I still have never been up there. I suppose that was the purpose, knowing I was afraid of heights as I’m sure he did even then.

Odd to see him now, this hawk, any hawk. All seem to have left a month ago, as the small birds were heading south and before the ground squirrels and moles had tucked themselves in for the season. What brings him back now? The ground is silent, covered in a thin blanket of white. The air too is silent, except for the group of Steller’s Jays that come begging each morning and the pair of Ravens that always stay.

I have missed the hawks, all their variety and interest and tension they circled our little bit of sky with this year, but understood their need to leave. Why return? What will he eat? I need not worry, Bob assures me, when he can fly fifty miles in a day. How easy for him to find lower elevation, open ground and a meal in a matter of hours. The whole world is not white. Just our little bit of mountain, up here at ten thousand feet. I forget sometimes.

We make eye contact. He does not move. Not for me entering the house below him to retrieve my camera, the dog barking, Bob pulling around in the truck.

I don’t notice until I look at the pictures I took. The waxing moon behind him.

I thank him. I am not sure what to believe, but I believe something, and something is better than nothing on days like this. In fact, right now I think something is… enough.

 

 

On yet another tangent, for anyone interested or curious, I’ve just updated our Lost Trail Ranch website (http://www.lost-trail.com/). Starting to take reservations for next year. Geez, time flies. It’s not even winter yet, and here I am planning next summer. I must be growing up.

 

 
Oh, and the poem below – more re-working going on here.  This one originated this time last year, away from Colorado, in the northern part of Washington State.  (Wanted to upload an audio file of the reading of the poem, but still can’t figure how.  If you can help me out, please write.)

Thoughts? Suggestions? Pointers? And yes, even criticism? (I can handle a little, but just a little…) Oh, and Harold, the spacing is starting to make more sense to me when I read it aloud… but still seems so random at times.

 

 

 

Seduction of earth and sky

 

the sky appeared
above as a
familiar lover
I have not slept
with in years but
still haunts me

in my dreams
spread out on
top of over next
to entwined with
me

I vaguely
recognized the
warmth against my
back wind like lazy
fingers through loose
hair a familiar sweet
musky breath

swelling wide
above me was
Colorado
bright and blue
clean and open
a crisp dry
chill through my
nose and throat
and lungs as we
climbed the
hillside on the
clearest day we
have witnessed

since moving here
it took me
there and I was
reminded there
was not where I wanted
to be I left
for a reason
for a hundred reasons

and still I
look back and
see an attractive
comfort and that
entices me

it is hard to
let go of
what you had
when you have
no clear
picture of what

you have
so we are
seduced by
desires of the
past holding tight to
false hopes that
we may carry
knowns and givens
with us the familiar
lover you cannot
leave because a warm
body in bed
is better than
no body at all

at least that
is what we are
often told I

challenge that
assumption easy

for me to
do as my lover
lies safe and warm
beside me
and the thick gold
band on my finger
combined with my
stubborn sense of
commitment

reminds us both we
will watch each others’
wrinkles spread like
hoar frost down
by the river bank
and still lie
next to one another
and spoon close on
cold nights many
years from now

today

we find
ourselves out
under a low grey
sky hats and
shoulders turning
white
amid the first good
snow of the season
as we walk in
the dream state
first days in a
new place seem
to necessitate

and for today

at least I
am freed of
the burden of
the seduction of

the dazzling blue

 

 

Holding onto open waters

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

 

I lean
over
and dip in
my hand calloused
palm seared by cold
waters fingers
outstretched seeking
searching as
if I might

hold onto
something

solid

 

Rhythm and Voice; finding something solid in the wind

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

 

A seashell sliver of the new moon set low to the south, early over west side of Ute Ridge. You’d think by now I know her pattern, can predict where she will choose to settle. Yet she remains an enigma. And part of me likes it that way. I don’t want all the answers. Why can’t we appreciate mystery for no more reward than the observation of outward beauty, and the stirring of inward intrigue? Give me all the answers and maybe that is gone.

Under the sparkling throw of a deep black sky. I stand. Silent. Dog at my side. It is warmer tonight. But not too warm. The snow is becoming. Permanence of winter becomes. I say I allow it but have no choice. I accept it. It is what I want.

This morning was a “balmy” fourteen degrees Fahrenheit. Tonight I open the window after my tub so it will be cooler when we return inside and retire. We remain out there another moment. Gunnar, looking ahead into the void for something scary because that’s his job, or at least, the one he claims and works so hard to perfect. His title. Me, staring up at dizzy diamonds in coal. No title. Just one very small person in a very large universe.

The pair of owls speak. To one another. Only by chance do I hear. It matters not to them. They are there in the abyss, somewhere by the east fence line, somewhere in the deeper darkness of the tall spruce trees. Gunnar gives them a quick “woof” and senses they are no threat. He listens with me. I think they are guarding us. From what, I do not know. But their presence is somehow huge and deep like the whale in ocean and bring with them a wisdom I wish to understand.

So, Amy, you ask about rhythm, and I got it. No, not really. I’m working on it. I can’t say I get it yet. It is harder than I thought.

This part isn’t coming easy, but I like it… reading it, hearing it… sound and motion… if I can make it work. If I can write it! I share with you what Harold shared with me. Using my words, but changing their rhythm. As he mentioned, it becomes a little more “universal.” I find it a little less preachy. It is no longer my lecture, but a poem I share with you. Adds interest, motion, without (borrowing the metaphor Harold suggested) the regular footstep of horse down a trail.

Feedback would be most welcome and appreciated.

a love poem a
first for me words
we just assume and
so I tell you what
I should have
said and maybe
I will not for
I think you already
know without
saying with feeling
something in trust
completion pride and
assumptions
I am more
whole with you
I am more of
me because of
you you let it
be all me when I
need it to be which
really is far too often
I say and you say
nothing at all and let me
rattle on which I
will do no matter

today was one of those
days I’m really
up and
down I have

always thought
the curse of
the creative mind
passion puts one
out of balance
it comes in
waves swelling and
curling and pounding
and drawing back
to low tide

then again
maybe it is
just me
probably I’m sorry
poise is nothing I
have known
stability does not
come easy that is
one of the reasons
I need
you so much you
are the rock to my
rushing waters

today was a tide
drawn out day
leaving
the stench of
the barren beach
in the wake
tomorrow
I will be better
and this much I
do believe
tomorrow I will
love you still
though I may
only say so in
the darkness as
our sweat cools
and we are there
tired front by
side which is
exactly where
I want to be
more complete
because of you

funny how I am
not afraid
when I always
thought I should
be less
of me and more
of you

 

Unworthy of a title yet

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

I am learning how much I have to learn and it’s often rather frustrating.

Harold, I am trying.  I have a ways to go.  Please don’t give up just yet.  Here, imagine the format like a waltz as I tried to type it, one-two-three, as I saw it done by William Carlos Williams. But somehow it is lost.  I won’t fight it.  Accept it.  Hope this works, though not quite the same.  Of course it would not be. Perhaps it wouldn’t work the way I indended either.

For Bob who thinks it’s always “nice” and is learning to say more.

 

Unworthy of a title yet

a love poem
a first for me
words we just assume
and so I tell you what I should have said
and maybe I will not
for I think you already know
without saying
with feeling
something in trust
completion
pride and assumptions
I am more whole with you
I am more of me
because of you
you let it be all me
when I need it to be
which really is far too often I say
and you say nothing at all
and let me rattle on
which I will do no matter
today was one of those days
I’m really up and down
I have always thought
the curse of the creative mind
passion puts one
out of balance
it comes in waves
swelling and curling and pounding
and drawing back to low tide
then again
maybe it’s just me
probably
I’m sorry
poise is nothing I have known
stability does not come easy
that’s one of the reasons I need you 
you are the rock to my rushing waters
today was a tide drawn out day
leaving the stench of the barren beach in the wake
tomorrow I will be better
and this much I do believe
tomorrow I will love you still
though I may only say so
in the darkness as our sweat cools together
and we are there tired front by side
which is exactly where I want to be
more complete because of you
funny how I am not afraid
when I always thought I should be
less of me and more of you

Re-working old poems

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

Because I can.

Because I am indeed feeling bold.

Because the opportunity presents itself

And I would be a fool to let it pass.

Because I have always written

Will always write

But don’t always learn.

Because friends, feedback, teachers and editors

Don’t appear every day.

And so I begin.

Re-working old poems.

In hopes of seeing words anew.

Or rather

New uses for old words?

 

 

Succumbing

 

The water lures me

As she has so many times before

 

Now emerging

 

Discreet

 

As a delicate muse in the woods

 

Her hollow voice tempting

In a distant primordial song

Of silver coins tossed from teasing fingers

 

Her sweet smell and silky sway and wave

Taunting down the mountainside

 

Am I no more than a voyeur

Standing safely out of reach

Dry on her precarious banks

 

Enthralled

 

While she takes no heed of me

 

 

 

I am but a hunched form

A leaning tree

Casting shade across her face

 

As her struggle to keep fluid

 

Ebbs and flows

 

In thickening waters below

 

 

 

And if I stand here long enough

Will I see her freeze

Watch her facade relinquish

To the static state of

 

Solid water

 

 

Welcoming winter

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

 

Seven degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and a foot of snow.

Winter has come.

Spread out her picnic blanket and begins to unpack her feast.

She has arrived early.  We take this as a gift, for our winter will be shorter this year, heading south to summer again in January.

The forecast predicts the “real” cold comes tomorrow. A rude awakening, they say.  If you weren’t ready for winter, you will find it regardless. It will find you.

We’re ready.

Yesterday we took the afternoon off (the weather providing a wonderful excuse to not work) and snow-shoed along the other side of the Rio Grande in virgin snow, looking back at our mountain, white again, horses and houses tucked into the snow laced trees, seemingly so little and far away. And I think of how far away another person today might be.  Any one else.  Miles away.  And you know I find comfort in such distance.

We follow the hillsides like waves, and again cross the river, now where she is open and as yet, still unfrozen.  That will come in time.  Many more mornings like today and it will not take long.  For now, however, there are no black depths lurking through solid white, but rather, she calls quietly and shows me her brown and green rocks at her soothed soul, and invites me to step in.

Snow shoes and all, we walk through the water.  All we can do is hope waterproof boots are just that, for turning back the way we came on our first trek of the season that proves more extensive than planned is not what we want to do.  You know how it is.  Once you start, you just keep going.  It’s so crazy beautiful.  You just can’t get enough.  Until all of a sudden, you had too much. And then you find yourself… exhausted.  And still with a ways to go to get back home.

The boots proved tight, our crossing worked well.  Except on the other side the wet boots and snow pants coated with dry snow, packing thicker with each step, and became quite heavy. The two mile trek back up the snow packed road seemed very long indeed.

We feed the horses double in the storm.  Three times their normal rations last night.  Icicles on their muzzles this morning.  Norman’s furry feet dangled with little snowballs, jingling almost joyously as he lifts his heavy feet to come find me feeding this morning before sunup.

Yesterday morning in the thick of the storm, watching Bob take the horse trailer down the road before it got snowed in.  We can ride the horses out when I am ready to part with them and allow them their winter pasture in lower lands.  They might be ready, but I am not.  Those that have spent most of their winters up here with us (Crow, Canella, Tres, Bayjura) do not find it odd to weather the storm and hunker down as the snow coats their backs.  They hide in the Aspen and gnaw the bark of the freshly dead trees while waiting for Gunnar and me to show up for their next feeding.

This morning the last of the elk have left their tracks across our pasture as they scramble for open grounds.

Now we enter the time of depth, physical challenge, silent connection, intimacy with the elements, isolation with earth and sky.  Alone need not mean loneliness.  For some of us it is a state of awakening.  An opportunity to flourish.  A quiet radiance.  The winter crystals bloom so brilliant, though are more fragile. Both created by and at the mercy of the sun.  Exposed to the elements of which they are a part. So delicate in nature, so susceptible to the whim of man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Begin again

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

 

 

 

And so it begins again, as it has so many times before. 

I wake long before light to heavy silence.  You can feel it.  A pressure of sorts, weighty, though not oppressive.   I know.

I feel my way to the window and there is the view as I expect it to be and as it is for nearly half my days here.

The branches of the blue spruce at the same time laden and light.  The ground below bright and glowing as snow continues to descend in darkness.

This is the time the land shines and shivers.  It is her time.  When she is allowed to be solitary.  Nothing to give or take.  Demands washed over in white.  Pure and pristine in stillness and strength.  If Artemis was a season, she would be winter here.

She is out there, singing her own song, loudly but only for herself, with no one around to listen, comment, critique.  I hear her in intimate moments as the sound of falling snow.  I try to respect her space, walk lightly upon her with downy steps, and bow my head (and roll my eyes) in apologies for the sudden barking of my dog as he finds the tracks of a coyote that recently passed our path where we walk in the twinkling crystal light of fresh falling morning snow.

 

 

 

And where am I going?

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

The last of running waters. They say winter will be here tonight. The water and I await… this inevitable change.

 

Leaving what I love.

Driving home.  Headlights in the snow.  Owl and elk, coyote tracks and a snowshoe hare.  Only a dusting.  Perhaps it will be gone tomorrow.

We leave town.  Down past Airport Corner.  I will see no vehicle from here on up to home.  Even Freemon’s Ranch is still and silent for the season.

As if eyes almost closed.  We squint through snow shooting towards the windshield, whipping up and over at just the last minute.  A blinding tunnel vision.

It will not last.  We know.  By the time we reach the Reservoir, the sky is an even white, like a bed sheet draped over my head, tucking me in for the season.

This year is different. Every year is.  I cling to the early winter because it is all I have now.  Mid winter will take us south.  Far south.  South of the Equator.  South America.  Where the sun will shine north of us.

I never thought we would be “Endless Summer” season travelers when Winter is what we’ve lived for.  But who can resist an adventure?  And a big one lies ahead.  I can not say no.  We will go.  Four months in Patagonia.  It is summer there.  We will leave deep winter, dressed in long johns and parkas and heavy boots and riding on the back of my husband’s snowmobile with our dog balanced between us.   Somewhere on the drive to the airport perhaps we’ll slowly strip.  Leave the layers behind.  Go lightweight. Hawaiian shirts and flip flops.  Not really my style.  I think I’ll keep the Levi’s and cowboy boots and sweat it out if need be.

I will say farewell to my mountain for winter.  Close up our home, farm out the house plants, dig my nose deep into the hair of my horses as we bring them to lower ground.  One last whiff of their sweet smell, each one of which I am so familiar I could identify him or her blindfolded by scent alone.

And the twist to this story:  it’s all for the sake of writing.  Part of becoming a writer, or rather, expanding, evolving…  A chance to complete another story.  A good one at that.  I’ll save the details for another time.

There’s more to it than that.  There always is to every tale, isn’t there?  And this one won’t end otherwise.  In this case, there is, “For the sake of adventure.”

Because life is too short for Woulda, Coulda and Shoulda.  I’d rather stick with, “Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

 

Water and light. Perhaps for the last time this season.