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Withdraw

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

 

Stripped stark

Barren trees

Allow more light to penetrate

An insatiable hunger for the withering warmth

Mid day light diffused by the soft sky overcast

It is only a matter of time before the snow settles in for the season

White world we know here for half our days

Until then longer shadows leave a vague pattern

As if something man made like an endless cattle guard

On the edge of the dying meadow

 

The thermometer has risen to twenty.  I postpone a longer walk and return quickly from feeding the horses, the dog from chasing off the magpies.  I am not yet used to the cold, too soft, still holding on tight to summer ways of forgoing long johns and tall boots. The cold has barely begun.

Horses at the water trough pawing through the ice.

The doves are down to four.  I see them now settled on the fence by the one big Blue Spruce that provides protection.  There is literally a pile of assorted small birds behind the house, all having been run into the windows.  Even the cats can’t claim responsibility.  The falcon flies by and creates another fury and another bang on the window.  A feather and dusty impression of wings remain before me.  A clear, hard wall one can barely see.  The crystals I hung in every window have not helped.

The little dark mare turns from the water and snorts. I see water dribbling from her muzzle like a silver spray of shining beads, as she stand tight , tall, alert, neck and tail high and ears forward. The language of the horse.  The moose is again in the willows.  Or at least, that is what she fears.

The wind rouses, rips up the remaining thin brown leaves of the bush.  No lurking sent is stirred.  The little mare lowers her head, relaxes her back and slowly returns to the herd.

A great horseman once told me that to learn to be a great horsewoman, all I needed to do was listen to the horse.  They have all the answers I seek, he said.  His wife reminded us both that this theory only works AFTER one has learned the language of the horse, and not all of us were “lucky” enough to be born into a world of great horsemen as our parents and peers to pass on such information.  A disadvantage on one hand. I had to learn it all from scratch.  An advantage on the other, for we learn to speak ourselves, with our own voice and manners.  After the magnitude of mistakes levels out, we are left with an understanding that is ours, between the horse and me, built from the ground up like a stone castle.  This is more solid, strong and real than if it was handed to me.  That is at least what I tell myself.  Might as well.  I cannot change how nor where I was born and raised.

Not everyone is lucky enough to be born where they belong later in life.  I say that on one hand yet I have heard to those that say there is a great burden that comes with “being born into…” Or are we the lucky who have the blank canvas before us and paint the picture as we will?

No matter. We can choose who, what and where we are.  And we can change it all too.

Can’t we?

Bird of prey

/ Gin Getz / 23 Comments

 

Wind strips away the last of the leaves and sucks the heat of the woodstove out from between cracks in the log walls before warming the room.  The wind chimes rattle ceaselessly on the back porch.  Bare branches wave wildly as if saying their final farewell.

I sit in the cabin and stare outside at the browning hillside.  Flocks of geese on the Reservoir flats joining up to prepare their journey southward as the tourists already have done.  Those of us that remain prepare for departure or hibernation.  I will do the latter.

“The feast before the famine…” Or so the saying goes. But this feast is bittersweet.

Now is the season of birds of prey.

In the sharp shadows of early morning, from the kitchen window I watch a falcon fly through the flock of mourning doves. They are slow.  He is agile.  A fascinating combination, confrontation, obvious he will be victorious, and of little surprise when after I count one less dove scratching at the seed by the hay shed.

Late afternoon looking out the same window.  High above the field the Red Tail hawk dances in the middle of a whirlwind of what appears to be golden birds, whirling, swirling, fluttering, flickering in the lowering light.  At first I think he flies among tiny birds, a flock larger than I’ve ever seen here and strain my eyes to identify.  But it is only freshly fallen leaves caught up in the twisting air, a wild dance of nature, the bird of prey participates in what seems like a joyous display of fervor and wind.

So the season blows away, leaving the last of the orange leaves to glow like rare pale sentinels in the high hills, while the rest of the mountain fades to grey, silent and peaceful as a monk under a heavy hood. At once comforted and burdened by the weight.

It is time for me to withdraw. To give in to the brown and grey and barren wind.  To write.  I begin with letters I have put off for months.

From a letter written earlier this week to a friend who probably wished he never asked:

 

This will more than likely be way too long and rambling, or way too short and say only a fraction of what I want to say.

I’ve been going through an odd adjustment with Bob working in town a few days a week, Forrest off to college and trying to figure what his future holds, and myself trying to find more of my own self through work and business or lack there of. Not a big deal, just little life changes. And too much time to think. At this stage in the game, I should be doing more than thinking. Giving more than taking. I’ll figure it out. Just an adjustment period.

Where to begin?

I’d like to begin with the financial matters we first discussed back in August, I believe it was. Crazy the power money holds over us, even when we try to live so simply. I appreciate you sharing a bit of your story. Your honesty and openness have always been refreshing, though a harsh reality at times. You are right about the burden debt holds over us. Walking away (though of course I know, walking away still brings a tangled thread dragging behind) for us is not an option at this point. We are oddly in a state of having to wait it out. Let me explain.

Our debt is created by having to fight for ownership of part of this land, the part with the cabins and business my husband built, separating him from the “Evil In-Laws,” the part of the family that fought all the rest of us for no better reason than because they could, to stir the waters, or because conflict and confrontation are a way of life for them. Fighting to own what we have worked for was worth it on principle alone, though a hard fight, and a personal struggle, as family matters, you know, often are.

Fighting for ones land does one of two things.  It can turn you off and chase you away, or draw you closer like a mother and child.  For us, it has been the latter.  Only at times I know not if I am the mother to or child of this beautiful land.  I have only learned it does not matter.  We are connected now by blood, the blood I have shed upon this land, as sweet and rich, wet and warm as my tears.

But alas, “moving on” is this odd carrot before my nose. I grab but can never reach. I know it will happen. At least, most days, I know. Other days, I wonder.

And what does “moving on” entail?  For moving on does not always mean a physical move.  What it can mean is staying right where you are… only you are changed.

Here is everything my husband ever worked for, and what I have helped build and gave all I could for the past eleven years. It is not a miserable place to be, just rather “status quo.”  I prefer change, growth, adventure. My insatiable curiosity for what lies over the next peak of the mountain drives me. I just want to live life as full as I can, in my own quiet way.

But what can I do? What skills do I have now besides running a little business, raising animals (and a child), cooking, cleaning, riding, training, gardening… nothing of value in today’s world. I am lost.

We’re not operating the guest ranch in the same capacity we were, and we’re not outfitting any more.  This is hard because I so love horses and riding and even sharing the knowledge and experiences.  And both Bob and I have considered working with horses as such an integral part of our identity. We are still relying on our horses for work at the ditch, which involves riding and packing into Wilderness, back and forth, for 20 – 30 days per summer; and using the horse for dirt work. But it’s not the same, and not quite enough for me. So I’ve been compensating by doing these big, extreme, crazy rides trying to fulfill my horse time, miles, and unsaturated soul. It’s almost addictive. How hard/far/long/challenging a ride can I do today? And then return home grateful to have survived.

Horse time is almost over here. As soon as the snow begins to fly, and the north sides of the slopes and in the trees begin to ice up, it’s over. It will be soon.

And still, fun as it is, it is not enough. One can only “play” so much, enjoy ones down time so much. That point and purpose, direction, meaning I’m longing for is still so far away.  I am no closer today than I was yesterday.  Or is this a path I cannot see, and shall I wake one day and find myself… there?

Once again, you see I have foregone short and sweet and tended towards long and drawn out.  Stay with me if you’d like.  I will be here, and I will share. Though the season of withdrawing and crawling deep inside the cave is coming.  And I intend to use that time well and wisely…

 

As blue as the big sky above

/ Gin Getz / 22 Comments

 

And what can one do but await winter?

 

Sometimes depression isn’t chemical, isn’t disease, isn’t moods.  It’s a result of circumstances.

Sometimes we have bad days, we go through hard times.  Don’t ask me to smile and get over it.  I need to be mad and sad for a little while.  I dare say I’ll “get over it” when I’m good and ready.  I’m not ready today.

What is so wrong with saying I’m bummed out and it’s got to me?

What’s a girl to do?

Saddle up and ride, I say.

Maybe that’s shallow.  But it works.  At least for a little while.

Yesterday the dog chased the coyote across our pasture and onto the neighbors’ field.  A big no-no.  All I saw was a little silver coyote about a quarter mile away, followed by Gunnar, full speed ahead.  Two streaming bullets heading straight for the trees.  Then I could see no more.  But I could hear.  And hear I did.  It wasn’t hard to figure where those two went.  Right into a pack of screaming wiener dogs being walked by a woman barking louder than all those dogs put together.  I cringed. The neighbors up for the weekend, enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll.  Oops. I called.  Like he was going to leave all that crazy commotion and come to me.

The visual was a good one though, imagining coyote bait scattering wildly in all directions as the coyote runs right past, having better things to do than grab a quick meal with my mad dog at his heels.  Really, I know, I should have gone next door to apologize for the ruckus my dog caused, but it is way too late for that.  These are my in-laws, and I’m the out-law.  We haven’t spoken in years, and if there was a time for apologies, I think it would have been long ago.  So I look at this as giving them one more reason to hate me.  Add it to their long list.

Next thing you know, there is the little Bull Moose (“little” being a relative term, of course) stepping over the field fence and stirring up the horses.  And I know the dog wants to chase this guy off too. What a helper. But the thought of the Bull Moose heading toward the pack of wiener dogs is a bit much, so I keep the dog on leash which makes working around the ranch a real drag.

And I confess, I had already awoken in a bad mood.

Enough.

(pause)

And then I’m out there.  Out on the trail on the back of a horse.  Heading higher, always higher.  Leaving it all behind. The dog behaving well following the two horses.  One I’m riding.  My silly little Arab, Flying Crow.  The other I’m leading along, his partner and my best mare, Tres.  The more we ascend, the more the trail opens, the view expands, the leaves have left the trees. There is my yellow brick road.  I am on it.  Following where it may lead me, and right then and there, it didn’t matter where “there” may be.

The golden path before me, ascending to the silver sky.  The clouds are building.  Thunder over my shoulder.  We ride on. I have my slicker tied onto the saddle.  I drape the rains, reach behind me, and slip it on like a protective cocoon.  Such a thin barrier against the elements of the Mighty Mountain.  But enough.  Just enough.  Not too much.  I don’t want to get soft.  The rain and hail begin. An added interest, intrigue, challenge.  A reminder of the harsh elements surrounding me.  A reminder that I forgot my gloves. I lean forward and press my hands on my horse’s neck, scrunch my fingers into his mane.  Who needs gloves when you have a warm beast below and beside you?

And for just a little while (yes, “little” is a relative term, but in this case, big enough) my mind is clear of the self created burden of my own thoughts that weigh so heavy at times, more from the value I give them than what you might think they deserve.

 

She crawls deeper into the cave

Back to where the light is muted and vision is vague

Awaiting total blackness to wash over like the blanket of deep night

And lies back upon the brittle rose branch

Still tangled in her hair

 

Grounded

/ Gin Getz / 51 Comments

Grounded.  And still so far away from where I want to be.

Forever longing.  Is this the state of human nature?

Touching down on solid ground.  Become a part of the elements.  Return to soil.

Autumn. Falling into place.  As if I intended it this way.

Dealing with the empty nest by filling it with six laying hens and a rooster just learning to crow.

The scratch and clang of yet another pack rat captured in the have-a-heart trap set under the front deck.  The season of rodents is winding down.   They all want to come in. How plentiful this year has been.  Attracting the added bonus of hawks that have come to heed the call of this bountiful crop, fed full by the warmest, driest longest summer we remember.  Or are our memories always painted more lush than reality was?

And now the coyote, mother and two pups, crossing out on pasture, undisturbed by the running horses.  Mother drops below the horizon, while children linger, distracted by a tall patch of dried grass and the stirring within.  They stop, arch, spring load, and pounce.  Then scamper off to catch up with mother.

Mother, mentor, magician or priest.  Someone show me the way when I am a little lost.

I write a friend and look for answers and only find more questions:  I tell her there is some darkness that comes over me every fall. Perhaps the change of light. Not a real sadness for the loss of summer, for with that means the arrival of winter and the departure of many things I could do without, and that’s all good stuff. I don’t understand what it could be.

Except… human nature… reflective… wanting more…

Falling.  Down.  Chilling, clearing, washing away…

I do my best to fill the emptiness inside, lighten the inevitable darkening.  I keep busy.  There are always things to do.  Laundry, bake, feed the horses, walk the dog, split wood, paper work.  I want more.

Falling leaves.  How quickly the trees let loose of their brilliant display, the grande finale, the dramatic completion.

To be replaced by what?  Barren trees.  Still hillside and silent winds.  Dormancy and hibernation.  The season of turning within.

I find myself sitting here doing nothing.  There is nothing I have to do.  I have never thought that was a healthy state.  I prefer to keep busy, have a full plate, have things that have to be done, deadlines, a little bit of pressure, point and purpose, you know?

How lucky I am to be able to have nothing, you might say.  But those are foolish words.  For who is lucky who is not employed, not doing enough, not with direction and meaning to each day.  I have never wanted ennui, abhor sloth, and fight them and the ensuing poverty that they carry with them as an added burden.

Get out and enjoy it, you say.  The rain holds me back. I’ll find other excuses.  One can’t keep going out “enjoying.”  At some point, responsibilities and realities ruin the fun.  I want to be productive, do something positive.  Yes, even make the world a better place.  Why not?

“I do not have a mansion,

I haven’t any land,

Not one paper dollar

To crinkle in my hand

But I can show you morning

From a thousand hills

And kiss you

And give you seven daffodils…”

(from an old folk song I once heard beautifully sung around a campfire I never was brave enough to sit near enough to warm my soul)

How simple can we be

Forever needing point and purpose

In this ever changing world

When some days change does not  come when and where we look for it

The gears are stuck

We are left waiting

The jolt, release, exhilaration of letting go

Now what?  We’ve fulfilled our calling in life of providing vacations, searching for something deeper, more meaningful.

Where is the yellow brick road hiding, or how far am I from finding the way?

Fallen leaves

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

 

The Grande Finale.  Washing away in early morning rain. Giving in, giving up. Pacifying rain.  Perhaps the last of its kind for the season.  I listen to its placid song on the metal roof.  Quieter now without the rustle of the leaves and their subtle refrain, now stripped from the trees and tangled in the dried brown grasses below.

Fallen leaves.  Bare trees standing static. Awaiting.

Darker days, longer shadows, I prepare for the inevitable quieting of mountain and mind.

Yesterday’s deep, rich, ripe orange. A juicy peach full of fresh life and sweet promises. The color of the Aspen leaves before they let go.  A hillside on fire now paling to grey. Where even the evergreens are no longer green.  I will find a subtle beauty in this too, you know.

Swollen with a passion as brilliant as the fiery hillside before me, then accepting expiring flames, blowing out.  We are left stark, silent, solitary, each of us on our own paling hillside.

 

 

(For a greater display of the brilliant fall color from earlier this season, please see: http://www.facebook.com/#!/media/set/?set=a.4184427821999.164195.1623616997&type=1 )

 

Mid September Song

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Heavy clouds holding in the mountain 

Containment, wet and shallow

Not deep enough to drown

The rage of waves

Ocean lures

Stirs me

I wake

Tumbling

Upon the spine of the sleeping beast

Land of dormant fires

Awaiting the chance to ignite

And then it clears.  Then it dries.  We return to blue bird sky and say this is how it should be.

Twenty five degrees and a heavy frost this morning.  The garden has turned to mush once again.  Heck, it’s later than I expected, later than most years.  I gather the bounty of my harvest.  Three baby zucchini and a couple of green tomatoes.  That’s it.  More than most years.  Yes, I know.  A greenhouse goes on the south side of my next house…

Colors turning early yet cold arriving late.  The Aspen begin their show, gaudy as fluorescent flashing lights.  Dazed and dazzling.

A long season coming to an end.

I am as weary as the grass, browning, turned to seed, swaying in the rains, bent over with drops of raining clinging like children to their mothers dress.

An early autumn

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

fall color. coming on early this year.  pictures speak louder than my words which seem somewhat hard and heavy and stuttering…

Big Haus

/ Gin Getz / 17 Comments

(a rare photo of the three of us, thanks to Tomek, in honor of our anniversary, today…)

 

We sit before the campfire, just my honey and me, the big cabin behind us empty but for three old cats.  The house looms large.  Unused.  Wasted.  Too big.

I’m calling it Big Haus, for big is how it feels.  Approximately 2,200 square feet.  The Census Bureau reported the average size of a U.S. house in 2011 to be 2,480 square feet, a slight increase from the 2,392 square feet in 2010.  Looks like we’re pretty close to average.  Funny. I’ve never considered myself much a part of the norm.  This fact somewhat frightens me.  So much for being different, breaking barriers, stepping outside the box.

2,480 square feet, and still I hear a heck of lot of complaints.  The same old stuff.  Things like the price of gas being too high.  A fact for which I hold little sympathy. Seems to me you don’t HAVE to drive around alone in that big fancy truck or SUV.  Your God Given Right, you tell me.  Whatever…  What on earth matters most?  Cheap gas?  Get a life.

Bigger is better, or so I hear.  I’m not biggie size person.  I like small, simple, old-fashioned and conservative of natural materials.  What a concept.

Just last week there were two other people with whom we shared the house and the size seemed just right. But today, the upstairs is looming, the downstairs seems hollow, and the space in between is too much.

I think about heating it this winter, trying to keep it clean, wasted firewood and a full morning twice a week to keep the dog and cat hair in check.  I should have better things to do.

Is this the empty nest syndrome, grumbling about too much space to heat and clean and collect clutter?  I thought “empty nest” referred more to the sadness one feels when the children fly the coop.  This year I feel no sadness or loss, only excitement for the positive current and future life of my son. Dang, I’m happy for him, proud of him.  And sure, I won’t deny, a bit of excitement already for Christmas break when he’ll be back home.

Lessons I send a young man off with this year.  Same as last year.  Same stuff every year.  This is what matters to me.

1.  Live life fully.  Live each day with passion and purpose.

2. Be involved.  Take a stand. Stand up for what you believe in, who you believe in.

3. Be yourself.

How dull a life if lived without passion. How shallow a world if we stand for nothing.  How boring a person if not unique.

What else is there?  Half Life.  Living life without meaning, integrity, point and purpose. Direction and belief.

To live without a backbone along the backbone of our continent.  Spineless, drifting slowly to grave.

We are surrounded at times with a leisure class that cares more about cocktails than kids, more about gossip and rumors than building, growing, giving, sharing.   And heaven forbid, caring.

Like jellyfish, turning to mush in my hands as I squeeze my fingers to a fist.

The more they hold back, the more I want to push forward.  Suppression in the air stirs a strong desire to bust free.

Ah, yes. So there we are, out by the fire, our backs to the house that seems so big, so empty, so underutilized and perhaps even unnecessary.  And we start planning.  For the next house, you know.  Of course.  The one by the river.  Because although we’ve got the Little Cabin there for now, there will be THE house, our house.  Not a big house, not too little.  Just right.

Because life is not about yesterday.  Holding onto the past won’t build your dreams.  Take a chance.  Make a change.  Step out and stand up.  Participate in life.  Build it better.

And in the meanwhile, I’m here.  Big Haus.  Stocking up a lot of wood for winter.

Moving On

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

First, my apologies.  Our internet has been dysfunctional the past few weeks.  I suppose I am lucky to have it at all out here.  Unable to post, keep up, respond, check in as I would like to.  There will be time to catch up in the future.  Winter comes.

Though I care for many of you, in my odd and quiet way. Strong and fiery as my voice may sound at times.  To those who noticed my absence and wrote to check in, thank you.  Yes, I am alive and well.  Not even too busy or depressed, off in the wilderness or on the road.  No real good excuse except the satellite connection, or lack thereof.

Second, an update.  Where I am.

Where I am is where I was is where I will remain.

Where I am meant to be.  For now, if not forever, for who can portend the future?

Full moon on frosted grass in the dark hours of morning.  Silver lights shine underfoot with almost as much mystery as the sparkle of the overhead stars.  Familiarity is lost to magic of the moment and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Changing of seasons, of stages of life.  Aging, passing, birth and death.  A dying forest surrounding me, calling for my voice to speak where it cannot.  A hawk circles me, confirms, accepts, allows.  We speak a silent dance for just a moment.  Long enough.

So much changes, remaining where I am.  The soothing blanket set out to dry in fierce winds.  Refreshing.  Discomforting.  Take not the console of comfort for granted.  Too easily lost.  And found. Changing.

The first of leaves fade brown and yellow.  An early passing this year. You know I am ready.

Forrest returns to university, to Canada.  Bob and I to our empty but busy nest.

Plans for winter projects, putting up hay, groceries, firewood, chickens, starting winter lettuce to grow in my kitchen this fall…

Third, some thought of gratitude, words of thanks.

Thank you for joining me here.  Some strangers, some friends, even a few I have never met but have become a part of our family over the years…

Thank you for being there, for sticking with me.  Allowing me to speak.  Quiet as my voice may be.  Allowing me to listen.  To challenge and talk and argue…No, we won’t always see eye to eye… I don’t need to speak with a mirror.  I would rather speak with you.

Thank you for being there, for reminding me none of us are
ever really alone.  All we need to do is reach out.

Today I send a long arm out to you with a slow embrace through the wires or wavelengths or whatever makes this stuff work.

Namaste.