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The time between

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

On a high pine bow at a bend in the river rests an osprey. Motionless. I see only the silhouette of the black and white bird. Perhaps awaiting his next meal from the gently moving waters below. Or perhaps for the raptor this is no more than a respite. The time between.

The waters remain unfrozen. A mild autumn. A silky flow of silver over smoothly polished stones. No more than pearls of ice form on low limbs overhanging the north side of the embankment. Small patches of hoar frost spread in secret spaces hidden from the sun along the shore. White as fresh snow, a reminder of what should be, what will be.

It is not easy to get here. A tangle of vines and fallen trees, grabbing my jeans, snapping branches, leaving welts of whip marks across my cheeks if I don’t duck in time. Keeping the river wild. Deer tracks. Signs where the coyote has crossed. No tell tale signs of rubber tread ahead of us; only our own following. Huge ponderosa stumps, roots and all, pile up like a log jam at a sharp bend. The water is choosing, creating a new route, cutting into the softer bank on the now receiving side of this flow.

They say winter is late to come here this year. I have nothing to compare it to. I seek references, association. There is a comfort in knowing. Putting the view before us in its proper place. A tidy jar on a shelf. Likewise, an unease in everything seeming so new.

We read about the many storms that have covered our old mountain, tucked her in tight for the season. That we understand. It fits into the links of the past we carry with us though we try to let go. If we were there, now would be our time for reveling in our solitude. Reconnecting with the trails and secret places that only we go. Reclaiming our big back yard.

I am aware of the selfishness of solitude. On one hand a breeding ground for deeper thinking. Undisturbed silence to allow our brains to bloom. My thoughts, my terms, my time. On the other hand is community and intelligent conversation. Are greater thoughts raised in the back and forth between interacting minds, or in the void of solitude? The challenge of defining and defending.

We are not there. We are here. A new mountain, new land, new back yard. And newness carries unease that only time can soften. The time between. Between the hardness of discovery and that softness of understanding.

Newness reminds us nothing is known for certain. We float precariously. Perhaps that is a more realistic point of view than feeling grounded, solid on assumptions.

I look down river again and the osprey is gone.

Beauty redefines

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Beauty is redefined
By necessity
It is what we expect it to be
What we look for
What we are comfortable with
In context with our past
Our present is relative
As is the view before us
Now seemingly a bit odd
An awkward moment that sticks around
We shall get used it to in time.

Must beauty be big and showy
Blatant and bright
Or can it be subtle, slow, vague, and mysterious
A distant view revealed between dense timber
A play of light gracing the valley below
Through a break in the clouds while snow softly lands on our shoulders

Slowly we begin to see, to feel, to understand the difference. We absorb it all, the moisture in the air softening smiles, plumping out the creases the high altitude had carved on my paling skin.
Big trees thicker than our arms can reach around, with our noses touching rich and sweet bark.
Beauty that soaks in like the heavier air, damp and dark and a patchwork of long shadows.

My old mountains screamed. Blaring sun, rugged peaks, stark blue and white
These mountains sing, a quieter tune, we hear only if we listen and look through the trees
Softer, easier, but somewhere in them, I think, she holds secrets just as deep
She begins to open herself to me
I am the one now reserved
I need to let go and release myself fully
How else can we receive

How many layers can we lose and still remain in tact
Can we peel beyond naked and vulnerable
Down to bare bone
Hard and dense as granite
Expose the inner core
Then find what we are made of
Our essence
Perhaps no more than air and water
Thin and light and a little bit ethereal
That which holds us together
Or spreads us thin
Binds us
Or blinds us

When there is nothing else left to protect us
Contain us
Identify us by
But waters smoothly flowing
Over solid rock

Raven

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Silent are the wings of the raven as he passes
Casting a shadow long against the withered brown grasses at my feet
Laid over in the wind like hair in my eyes
Escaped from beneath the safe and warm confines of a wool cap pulled tight

Under a still grey sky
Laid out above like the inanimate object
I try to reach and reward myself with a soothing touch
Something warm, like flesh, soft and pink
But feel nothing
Only the weightlessness of the air above

Raven on the fence post
Static statue on a barrier to no where
No boundaries to define in the fallow field
Like some random spot out in the open sea
Just a few posts remaining
Semi upright
As time and gravity pull them slower than the eye of a generation might see
Old cedar carved deep with creases like wrinkles on an old man’s brow
Then surprisingly speckled with a shock of brilliant chartreuse moss
Unexpected life where one might suppose no more than death
And a tangle of wire coiled like snakes hiding in the tall brown grass
Prepared to grab the unaware footstep

The world around me as a mirror to my soul
Now tired and tamed and worn by the wind
Dreams and desires whisked away for the season
Seed heads reaching mid thigh
Dancing like drunken old men leaving the bar past midnight
Leaning on one another as they make their way down the twisted cobbled alley

Where does it lead me
As I seek a trail through the woods
No more than a tangle of vines and fallen trees
Leaves from the past scattered like forgotten promises

A stir in the stagnant air
Raven takes flight and the flapping beat
Throb like lungs of a running horse
A deep and guttural pulse as legs pour forth in a frenzied rhythm
Across the wide wild open plains

A breath I can hear and feel and smell
Warm and sticky and so wonderfully sweet
And for but a moment
I am carried through those parting grasses
And my dormant wild ways are awakened
For but a moment
I am unbound
And take flight with that feral black bird

Deer Season

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Leaves fallen
Feathers plucked
Skin left naked and raw
Open to the whim of the wind

She steps away
Stripped of her robe
Fallen at her pale feet
Exposed and vulnerable
And lies upon a new land
Cold and hard and uninviting
Not a whisper spoken to her
No secrets to show her yet
Nothing but a cold blank stare
Impenetrable
Unfeeling

She longs to feel
Against the freezing ground she presses her boney spine
Arches her neck and looks up at a sky she does not yet recognize
A stranger above her
Her eyes roll back
Hiding blue as a sky behind thin clouds
White reveals a void
Releasing a guttural moan
An unfathomable sigh
Giving in
Giving up

She remembers standing up
Taking a stand
Vaguely recalls what she stood for
A dream behind billows or a dancer behind a veil
And for a moment she blends into the brown and rotting leaves
Blowing about her like a dirty halo
The rich musky perfume overwhelms
Dulls her other sense
Her wildly racing thoughts
And she rests
Quiet as the sleeping doe
Awaiting the hunters footsteps

Where I am

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Where I am.

I would share with you a soft and soothing scene. A glimpse of a connection to be. A description of the pastoral view before me. Another time. When I see it, feel it, and find it. Don’t get me wrong. It is truly beautiful here. It’s just not mine. Not here. Not yet.

We have arrived. Here for now. But alas as every traveler knows, arrival is only temporary. The journey is far from over.

For those expecting grief and some longing for the past, turn the page or close the book for you won’t find that here. For one, that’s not my style. I’m not one to cling to yesterday. In fact, I’d rather not cling at all. For two, it just aint there. Only a sense of relief, of strength and growth, of self understanding, and probably a stronger marriage and family because of it. We did it, together. After all these years of planning and trying, we finally made it happen.

Is it what we expected? Funny thing there. We had no expectations. We never looked ahead for what we’d find, only looked behind at what we were tied to. It was all about leaving. And now we’re free. Floating rather precariously perhaps, but free.

Where am I? I do not yet know… I could point it out to you on a map, but I do not yet feel it, know it, have secret places, and intimate connections. Perhaps I never will remain here long enough to create all that. I’m not sure there’s quite enough room for me. My feral side feels somewhat caged.

What I miss are the wilds. Not the ranch. Not those mountain. But the ability for me to be untamed, unbound, and a little bit uncontrolled. So far here I feel trapped between neighbors in plain sight, private property fencing me in, headlights shining in my windows, and an easement road running through my front yard.

We said it would be temporary. We didn’t know just how temporary, but no matter. The ball got rolling. As Bob told me yesterday, we leaped and the net appeared. Problem is there are a bunch of holes in that net, so we’re not settled yet. And as we slip through further, lo and behold, our wings begin to grow.

So last night after unpacking and pushing aside most of the boxes that carried our past to our present, and preparing a meal of steak au poivre with the last of our Highland beef, we settle in amongst the orange shag carpet and 1970’s veneer paneling, poured a glass of wine from a big white box, and enjoyed a candle lit dinner in front of the fake gas fire place.

I end with this quote, borrowed from a source I have not traced but cannot take credit for these words as mine:

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass….it’s about dancing in the rain.”

On the road again

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

750 miles up (north), and 7500 feet down (in elevation). That’s where you’ll find me.

Yesterday found me fixing fences and getting sunburn on my nose from the intense high mountain sun on fresh snow. Six degrees as I walked the dog before sun up.

Where will tomorrow take me?

And today, I’m on the road again. First time in a long time without my Bud, sitting there shotgun beside me, plugging our noses and singing… On the road again… I get to ride shotgun now, with Bob at the wheel… and that’s pretty sweet too. And anyway, where we’re heading, besides up and down, will be two days driving time closer to Forrest.

It it will take three days of driving to get there, and I’m not quite sure what “there” will be like when we arrive. We have trusted… odd connections made… the right person, the right place, the right communications and feeling… We’re leaping. If we don’t find a net, I believe we’ll sprout wings.

Excitement and anticipation swell. A new world to open before my very eyes. Will it be blinding and brilliant like the new snow? If I make it so, and some days I will. Some days I’ll probably look around my new world and wonder where I am, what I’ve done. It’s up to me. I think I’m gonna make it great.

Yes, of course, I may say something different as we drive through the front gate. But after years of my stomach twisting into a knot as we pulled around the corner each time we returned home, wondering what to expect, what disaster or conflict or problem awaited us upon our arrival… No, I’m not thinking it’s going to be anything too terrible sentimental.

Driving through that front gate, I think I’m going to feel free.

I can feel those wings starting to unfold…

Rambling on

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Ramblings… from a conversation with Julian of White Horse Pilgrim:

Have you ever found yourself drowning in your own thoughts? Your mind swirling and churning in crazy patterns making it almost impossible to stay afloat? Times like this I wish for calm waters, for simple psyche, level emotions, or at least the ability to focus and control my wits… I can’t say I have my mind mastered.

They are all good thoughts, almost all, just too many right now for me to make sense of. The move is almost overwhelming, just the logistics, as moves always are. We’re finishing a bathroom remodel, a horse trailer living quarters construction, cleaning up building material stored for years from all the projects here, giving the six rental cabins a good organization and shutting them down for the season, taking down storage sheds, tying up loose ends from the business we are closing and selling, hauling twelve horses and hay to our valley pasture and arranging to then haul them north… and packing, of course… in the beauty but somewhat inconvenience of a nice new coat of winter snow. All this with the goal of leaving Sunday.

We found a rural rental near a small but open minded community with a private stretch of river on one side and some wild mountains on the other. I’m always a bit surprised how many think “moving” means “giving it up.” As if I had enough of the country and am ready to move to town. Come on, friends… it’s me!

The move sounds refreshing on one hand, and shakes me up on the other – which isn’t always a bad thing, you know.

And it is just a stepping stone. I don’t know where we’ll go from there. This move just allows us to start. We were stuck here, in part due to finances, a big dept and not enough cash flow – unable to pack up and move out or buy another place. Finding the rural rental, complete with horse barn and heated shop and room to roam, was a stroke of luck, and I am really grateful. From there, we’ll have time to look around – find where we want to go next, what we want to do. And what will we do there? Worst case scenario, we can shovel snow and clean cabins. We’ve had plenty of experience with both.

I went through a similar move ten years ago. When I moved from the wild mountains of northern California, I heard time and again that I’d never find a place quite as beautiful. I didn’t at first. I had a terrible job with a horrid boss and found myself in the foothills where I always long to be in real mountains. But it brought my son and me here, and best of all, gave us Bob.

I don’t know what I am suppose to do with my life next, or where I am supposed to go. It’s a bit of a matter of trust. First, I must begin. Opportunities don’t arise when we’re sitting still. Start moving, and things start happening. This move gets the ball rolling. We’ll see where it takes us. I’m game to try, to trust, and to follow a new trail if it looks like it might be an interesting ride.

Now I will be 45 on Sunday, and still I have not figured what I should be or do “when I grow up.”

Part of it is planning, I know. But there is another part that is trusting – in what, I do not know – perhaps no more than circumstance and self. Trusting you will find what you are meant to do next, where to go, what to be.

Yes, exciting but scary, all at the same time.

That’s a good part of what’s been on my mind… really quite simple, you see, however then I begin to delve into deeper depths and consider life further, and things get really stirred up in that brain of mine.

Enough about me. I’m sorry – I allow myself to dive into the selfishness of this time of change and growth, but in reality I know there is much more of importance and little relevance to my thoughts.

Thank you, Julian, for listening, for sharing, and for allowing me the opportunity to try to clarify that which is still rather vague, but becoming more real. You are right: any time spent looking into one’s mind is not time wasted, but part of allowing us a richer life.

A little world

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Snow falls. Fat wet flakes. Big and chunky, each the size of cornflakes on a ground as white as milk.

A secret between the mountain and me. There is no one else around. She sends me off with this intimate moment. A soundless farewell. Words, song, fanfare, lights and crowds would not suit me, do not suit her. We need not speak, only stand together, I at her soft and white and unrefined alter.

This silence of heavy snow. It is mine. As a ballerina on a muted stage with no one there to see. We dance together uninhibited. We sing of silence in darkness.

I stand on the porch, the overhanging roof protecting me; the warm glow from the kitchen door left wide open spills a perfect rectangle on the snow. The dog returns with big white spots across his head and back.

My little world. Unrealistic I have been told. But who defines real when I feel taste touch and smell what one might call serene, but see no deeper than the smooth surface? Snow, thick and heavy like a warm blanket tucking me in to a world I am about to leave. The satellite dish is covered. Communications are cut. I am isolated. Why are we told that is a terrible thing when I find myself so safe within these silent arms? I am content talking to the dog.

There is no sound, no smell, no movement of air, only the softly falling flakes in a quiet dance, a silent film in black and white, I stare out the window and wait now for the lightening of day to reveal more to me. And for a moment my mind is as tranquil and subdued as the world around me. My little world.

Peachy

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

He tells me to cheer up, and I say “nay.” Not now. All in due time. This is the time to be deep, to dive into the dark murky waters of the unknown. I’ll leave the shallow shore and sunny skies for those staying back in the same place they were yesterday. Today I’m moving. Changing.

Sure, change is a good thing, a time of great growth and excitement and expansion of inner mind and outer horizons. But it is hard. And it is frightening for it requires we walk to the edge of the plank and step off. That last step is the hardest. So long to the comfort of the ship. But there aren’t always sharks in the waters below. Sometimes, or so I have heard, there are dolphins down there, benevolent and tender and playful.

Change. I’m not going to pretend it’s all OK. It’s not. But I am going to look at it all, even the deep, dark stuff, because that’s part of the big picture too. Shadows lurk strongest on the sunniest of days.

Shall I say it is fine and remain happy and light as I am falling into the abyss? No! Only a fool or coward who touches no further than the surface could feel that way. I’m moving without a job, without long term plans or permanent home, without anything but a big fat debt in my wallet and a lot of burdensome worries on my shoulders, and with a bunch of horses, cats and one very enthusiastic dog. How light shall I pretend that to be?

I let myself fall and dive and sink and gasp for air not knowing when I shall reach the surface again. I choke and sputter and nightmares follow me throughout my day but I would not have it any other way. For after the depths we find light, pure and real, as we again emerge to the radiance of day.

Have you ever seen anything more magnificent than the sun on the surface of a rippling sea, seen from under the surface of frigid waters as you rise to break through in anticipation of one big beautiful breath of air?

How can we touch the highs of happiness without knowing what it’s like to sink deep into depression? Yes, we could strive for the middle ground. You can. I won’t. I’m going to feel it all. Some days soft and smooth; others harsh and gritty. Some days plain old painful. But more often than not, sweet and bordering on bliss, because that’s what I look for in life.

That’s life for me, rich and full. As a friend wrote yesterday: Some of us live life biting into the juicy sweet peach and letting the nectar drip down our chin… because we can.

I’m not one to leave the peach on the shelf, and do no more than observe its beauty and appreciate its fine aroma. No, no, no. I’m biting in.

Stepping out of the comfort zone

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The blanket of snow I remember as a consolation for half my days of the past ten years I will no longer be allowed. Not here.

Awakening. The bubble has burst.

Stepping out of the comfort zone.

Development, just beyond where I found myself yesterday, the place and space of ease and solace. A shock of humility. I wake up and the world I thought I knew so well is gone, going, no longer what I thought it to be. Expanding views, minds, horizons, beliefs. Habits are broken. The chain tying us to past is torn loose.

I ask the woman in the mirror, “Who are you today?” There is no answer.

“What do you want of me?” Silence. A cold hard surface.

I don’t know the answers. I look for them inside. They are vague and misty and mysterious. A game I’m not sure I’d like to be playing, but there I am, in the middle of it, and the ball is thrown my way.

Still I smile. I am looking forward to not having “The Ranch” define us, bind us. But without it, the bottom falls out. I fall, seemingly endlessly. The rabbit in the dark hole.

Listen. Silence. In that void, I start to whistle. My own tune. It means nothing to no one but me. I can be myself again. Something I never was here somehow. The history, the attachments, my husband’s family, the stories told of me I still don’t know and don’t want to know. All of it. I just felt I fit into the picture. Contorted to the shape I was allowed.

Now I begin to draw my own picture, tell my own story. It starts now. With a simple breath. Deep and strong and dizzying with the dazzling stars of this high altitude I find myself staring up at as I walk the dog in the middle of the night. His wet cold nose nudging me awake becomes the blessing rather than the curse.

It’s all a matter of how we look at things. As long as we look. Even in the pitch black of mid night as the infinite stars above bedazzle my sleepy head.