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Thoughts on home

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Home.  A relative term.  Think about it.

We all know those who have spent their entire lives in the
same one, sometimes generation after generation.  And I’ve seen it brings no more stability and inner peace as those who move around because of work, family, environmental needs, excitement for change, a desire to learn and grow, or some need to get away.

A home forever, or for now. Each have their benefits and draw backs.  Yet each is only as strong and stable and beautiful as we make it.  And that’s it, isn’t it?  Home is what we make it to be.  Where ever we are.  That strength, that stability, that beauty…
it’s not found around us.  It’s in us.  Or not.

We may cling to its walls to find our own strength, or for
fear we will be lost without, unable to define who we are.  The walls do not define you, but may confine you.

Have we forgotten that we built those walls?  Therefore, ultimately, the strength once again isn’t in the logs or boards or plaster or stone, but in the hands and minds and dreams that built them.

I’m finally getting what I’ve been told for years. At least today.  Tomorrow may be something different.

Healing

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

So I guess it’s time to go.
Again.  No, not quite as hard the
second time.  It will get easier.  It’s all in my head. In my heart, I am nothing
but pleased and proud.

And so Forrest has healed from the concussion, has more
character from his broken nose, and has learned to live with those missing and
cracked off teeth.  Though even they will
be replaced before I see him next. Yes. He has healed.

(We laugh at it now, he and I. I
told him to dive in.  He did.  Head first.)

This is what he does. There will be other times. I’ll be
there for him again, hopefully faster next time.  Just as I know he’d be there for me.

Me, I’m starting to day dream about riding horses through a
trail of golden leaves.  There are certain
things I miss.  My dog, my horses, familiar
trails, the resonance of the late season river sounding as if no more than a
gentle brook, evening light spread horizontal across the top of the poles of
Pole Mountain, long shadows through dark timber and blowing yellow leaves like
fairies loose in my wild woods dancing at my heels.  And at the top of the list is, of course, my
honey.

Ha!  Home? We have
work to do.  Always. But different this
time. Time to pack, clean up, clean out, head out, move on. I am ready. Perhaps
I too am healing.

A poem behind a rain streaked window

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Rain on the window sill like anxious fingers drumming on the top of a table
The unsteady pulse of traffic below
Kicking up puddles that flash florescent in passing low beams above the slick ink black pavement covered by two days of rain
And above the colored flashing chaotic lights of town
The mountains calmly stand serene
An instant space of silence
Secrets hidden behind veils
Layers unfolding
As skirts on such a grand Victorian lady
Ashen coating softens the deeper you dive in
Irresistibly drawn
Back into the seemingly endless sea of jagged peaks
Back towards the richest of treasures
Sparkling a faint silvery gold
Diamonds in coal
There before me
Changing views as the heavy clouds
Languidly rolling about her hips
Unveil new secrets just long enough for me to question
To draw me in
Back there
And all that is or was the foreground suddenly disappears
My breath calms and gaze widens and I am there
Somewhere between the sea and sky
In the layers of grey fading like a childhood memory
A blurred vision I saw once in the back seat of the station wagon
As the motor hummed and my family loudly carried on
A faded photo with colors washed out over time to a pale patina of light and dark
There before me the view which lifts me over the lights and noise and now a siren I think I heard
Now so far below me
As I somehow progress deeper and higher into the infinite wilds
A place with expanding boundaries
Is anything anywhere left untouched
That I may be the pioneer I dream of

Where I am now

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Change. How do I put this into words? Share this with you? It is not what I expected. Not what I am used to writing about. Uncomfortable. Not bad, just different. So different I am out of my element. Out of touch. Out of words.

I didn’t plan this part. Guess we’re not always in control of the world around us. But we can control how we react to it all. Ride the wave. Rather than tumble under and gasp for air. I’ve been there, too.

Still, this is not how I wanted it to begin for Forrest. This is not how I wanted to come back to visit him. But we do what has to be done. And hopefully learn from it all.

I’ve learned a lot already. I’ve learned you never stop being a mother… or sister or friend. Distance doesn’t matter. If you’re needed, you’re there. I should have known this one already. I’ve tested the boundaries of my own mother (and sister and friends) plenty in the almost thirty years since leaving home, and learned that this is in fact true. Tested and proven, over and over and over again. There is comfort in this for me. I’m not ready for mothering to end. Though I look forward to where it brings me, now dealing with an exciting and interesting adult for my so-called child. For now, it’s brought me to Squamish, British Columbia to nurse him back to health after a mountain bike mishap. I can think of worse places to be.

I’ve learned my son is as strong, smart, capable and independent as I expected, which is a lot. However, there are some times one should not be alone. Like after an accident. And then dealing with broken out front teeth, a busted nose, and a rattled brain… all after living here for less than three weeks. Minor details.

So here I am. Wishing I could do more. Not as upset as I thought I’d be to see this handsome young man looking rather rough.

Here I am. Sitting with my son on our rental apartment balcony in the morning sun, with downtown Squamish bustling before us, and these wild mountains cradling us all in the shockingly soothing light. I can almost hear the call… deep, old, wise words singing in the soft moist wind as it winds from the sea through these lush green peaks jutting out from the cold Pacific waters.

Yes, I could think of worse places to be.

Unadorned

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Your peaks were painted with snow yesterday. And for just a moment I stopped my work, stood outside and looked at your white laced mountain tops, and felt the same stirring I have felt each year, a yearning for the excitement of anticipation of the season. Primal and uncontrollable, yet still soft and deep enough no one ever really knows.

For how many years have I worked on our little piece of land here on your big broad mountain side and looked over my shoulder awaiting your leaves to put out your final fiery display and then blow off, taking with them the last of the summer tourists, leaving you here with me, unadorned, as we remain and near the stark white season, that which settles in and consumes, quiet and calms, allowing me to hear my breath in your winter winds.

And yet this winter will find me on a different hillside, a different mountain to cradle my fears and passions. A winter, hushed and sleepy and snowy, awaits me but in a new land, new places to explore, touch and tease me, unfold before me like lacy golden wings, delicately covered with frost in first light of an early winter morning.

But will I find wilds? Will I ever be embraced by the wilds that have surrounded me here for half the year? The solitude and silence have become me. I have identified myself more with the mountain than the people who come and go, and from both I step away. I will find them again, that which matters most, the wild places and spaces, elsewhere. Some of us belong somewhere just a little more wild. Or is it that perhaps we don’t fit in the other places.

9/11

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Ten years ago today.

We all remember where we were, what we were doing, who we were with when we heard the news. I was working at a kids’ camp. A warm sunny northern California morning and I was wearing shorts. Jean cut offs. Over exposed. Vulnerable. So American.

In shock I walked down the hill and worked with my horses and gave riding lessons to kids in the upper outdoor arena surrounded by ripe blackberries and poison oak. I kept busy as the concept slowly sunk in, processed and became real.

No. Unreal. Crazy. Those kinds of thoughts kept coming back.

For the kids, we rose above it, didn’t discuss it but in the hush private quiet time when no one could fully comprehend how such an unreal event really happened and jaws were left hanging and brows furrowed as we looked at each other in a stupid silent disbelief.

And how has it affected us all since?

All of us, it has. All of us. No American is immune. We travel in airports and sign waivers and read the fine print and jump to conclusions that acts by a crazy man must be terrorist threats. We look at our neighbor differently because of where he came from and how he prays and dresses, and that is the most unfortunate of all. I thought growing up when we were so proud as a community to rise above the ways of our parents or grandparents judging our neighbors by the color of their skin that we’d never go back.

What have we done for our country in turn, when she was caught off guard, found her weakness, her soft spot, and crumbled with such violence that stole 3000 lives in one day? The shocking truth of such blood shed on her land, our land. A stain on our flag we are unable to wash off.

We used to be strong, impenetrable, mighty, untouchable. We were proud.

And then we questioned, and were questioned, and can we well answer this and retain our country’s pride?

What have I done?

What have you done?

Have we made our country more sound, secure, stronger, a better place to be? Safer for our children, our husbands, our neighbors? Or have we cried from the deep seated emotion of shock, and then cried for our fear of potential demise, and then continued to cry for our childhood has been shattered and our perfect country, like a mother, the great and mighty US of A begins to falter and weaken and tear at her seams.

We sit back in our lazy-e-boy with our spreading girth and curse the bad news on TV. And all we do is see our selfish loss. How has it affected us, what have we really given up, what have we done differently, what have we given to others?

Have we made the greatest sacrifice by giving our sons and daughters to the front line? Those so brave to have been drawn to the duty of our country when the rest of us sit back and judge?

How easy it is to point a finger of blame. How hard it is to take the hand of responsibility.

In reality we still have so much but whine about the cost of gas as we steer our big truck through the drive-in and complain of the prices to the person in the check-out window who rolls her eyes back to us because she’s heard it all before. And heaven forbid we do anything different. The inconvenience of change.

How many of us still feel the rest of the world wants to be one of us, when slowly, they do not. And not because of 9/11. But because of our whining.

Listen. Once again, I hear folks whining who have too much to lose, and still have too much.

It should have been a wakeup call. Are we not the children of this beautiful nation that once nurtured us, now stepping up to care for our weakened mother?

We have so much. Look around.

Do something. Do something brave and strong and mighty. Not for yourself, but for your country. Stop whining and start acting.

Grow up.

Rain at night

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment


Rain. Its primordial rhythm on the metal roof calls me, lures me seductively like an enigmatic wood nymph out into the ink black night. Akin to the murky depths of the ocean, the moon and stars are shrouded behind this heavy cloak. Darkness is complete. I stand in the doorway and look out as if with closed eyes.

Suddenly a close strike of lightening, the ranch illuminated before me instantly, seemingly unnaturally as if under glaring spot lights of a semi truck and I can see it all for just a second, the dirt drive, the cabins, the grove of aspen trees and old manure spreader we set there as an odd sort of decoration. Then the blackness returns and seems cavernous.

The dog and I step out into the abyss. Now the rain taps on my hard brim hat and I break the blackness with a beam from my flashlight. The drops of cold rain illuminated like a million diamonds falling from the sky. They feel close to ice, close to snow. A soft sign that summer fades as the tired aspen, leaves paling as their annual brilliant grande finale is about to begin.

We follow the flashlight’s beam to the barn and open the gates to allow the mare and foal a warm dry shelter for the night. They are there waiting, bright yellow eyes captured by the flashlight. I return to the cabin and release a contented sigh, kicking off the muddy boots and hanging the damp slicker by the door. They will be dry by morning when I slip into them again.

Mornings

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments


One morning I wake in the rain forest, surrounded by ferns and cedars and moss covered rocks and undergrowth so think my dog remains on the road with me as we jog in the heavy humid air, thick like syrup, it has texture and substance so unlike the thin clear high mountain skies I am used to. My forehead and cheeks are damp with sweat. Early morning light filters through opaque woods, soft and faint like falling snow from the first storm of the year, somehow with a similar anticipation for what it will bring. Today will be a hot one.

Another morning I wake in the wide open flats of corn and alfalfa and the stench of dairy cows in a muddy lot that was stronger last night so I must be getting used to it after breathing it in all night for I don’t smell it as strong this morning. And there is the magenta of first light coming from what seems like a million miles away, a vibrant red swath on the edge of the horizon where the earth meets the sky, lightening, brightening, as the sun prepares to rise from so far away. Something we never see in the mountains, where morning arrives abruptly after the sun struggles and climbs and finally clears the mountains to the east.

The next morning we are driving through the cradled basin of Salt Lake City in the still dark hour as the mountains to the west capture the first of the sunlight and glows like a sparkling crown in the distance, and those to the east remain a rugged looming black silhouette. In between, a twisting ribbon of on-coming headlights and quickly passing billboards telling me where to go for the best care for a heart attack, eat the finest fast food, or shop for sexy lingerie. Pieces to a puzzle oddly out of place.

And then I am home. A familiar morning. An odd place to be. Betwixt and between. A separation I am setting in motion. And the closer it gets, the more I find myself grasping to hold on to what I had. For fear of having nothing but the unknown.

How uncomfortable a place when we find ourselves standing with nothing beneath our feet to support us?

Where we started and where we will be. Change brings us to a higher place, a step above, if only because we have learned and grown from the experience. (For if we have not, we have not changed, only the circumstances surrounding us have.)

Of course between where we started and where we will be, there is that period down below. A dark place at times. The inevitable flutter of the rollercoaster ride. Fluctuations between fears and excitement. These dramatic ups and downs and little stable ground in between.

“It’s not so much that we’re afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it’s that place in between that we fear . . . . It’s like being between trapezes. It’s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer. There’s nothing to hold on to.” Marilyn Ferguson

For now, I am in between. How much of our lives must we find ourselves there?

An open letter to my son

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

To my dearest Forrest,

And here it ends.
And here it begins.

I leave you in the arms of another mountain. Listen, if I may ask, for a moment to me. And then to the mountains. The rush of her rivers. The hush of her winds. You will never be alone. Let her embrace you.

This mountain, your mountain, a grand mountain indeed. She will always be there for you. She is yours. You chose her. Turn to her when you need to. She will listen. Some days she will shed tears of freezing rain or hail as your heart opens and breaks and mends. Other days she will enwrap you in her bliss with warm lazy sun to allow you a brief repose, or soft deep powder and invite you like a tempting muse to come and play. Enjoy it all; she has so much to give.

You found her. I see who you have chosen as your own for the first time and she has taken my breath away. She dwarfs our dear San Juans and the entire state of Colorado and the most dramatic mountains we have intimately known and lived on to date. And now, she is yours. She has lured you. And she has earned you, you wonderful and true child of the mountains.

You chose her. How brave and mighty! Do you see how you have grown? Perhaps I did not really see until now, until I turned one more curve in the road of these last two weeks driving together to be here, and there she is before us, grand and mighty and eternal, still and calm and old and wise, and my heart beats faster for her beauty is profound and she feels so right.

I am proud of you. Incredibly proud. You are a brave and bold (though quiet) sort. Your wild child side is strong!

You have earned your place here; you are worthy of your next great stage in life, the next opportunities, challenges and adventures. I watch this tall bright fine man standing next to me speaking for himself and I shine with such delight and honor. On one hand, I can say eighteen years of work paid off. This job is complete. And yet, I know parenting is never complete. It only changes and evolves. I guess I’m enjoying our evolving relationship as I am enjoying you as a growing man.

Everything changes. We do all we can to make change positive. This, my bud, is a dream come true. A wonderful, positive, beautiful dream.

To this mountain I now give you. I will leave you here. That is the hardest thing I have ever said.

For four years she will hold, include, support and nurture you. Accept her embrace. Revel in her fresh waters and unending views and powerful presence of jutting slopes, and delicate array of swaying wild grasses with jewels of seed heads ripening to full blossom in their short growing season that you understand so well. Remember to take time to notice the little things, the simple things, the quiet voices of the mountain you’ll hear only when you’re alone with her, quiet and still, touching and listening. Find a new rock to sit on, your place, a place to allow you to look within. Turn to her when you need the comfort that only the mountains can allow, only a mother, our mother, the mother of us all, Mother Earth.

And then I, your mother of this earth, shall turn her back to hide the tears as she steps into the truck and turns back to a home that is no longer hers. One we built together, for each other. I never meant to bring you this far only to leave you in a foreign land two thousand miles away. I shall keep our family together and shall be closer soon.

In the meanwhile, learn, study, grow, live, play, work, and enjoy all the wonder and beauty and richness that life has to offer and still thirst for more.

May her rivers never go dry, and may your thirst never be completely quenched so that you may always be open for more.

I can say no more. This is not good bye. You know I hate good byes.

And so I leave you to this mountain. But I leave you not in heart and soul.

I love you.

Beyond the surface

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Beyond the surface
Dragonflies, big and blue and about the size of hummingbirds
But mute, mysterious, and yet somehow, more real.
There are no red plastic feeders here
Wild and silent and shimmering in the otherwise flat grey light of dawn
Leaving big ripples on the still forest pool
Perfect circles expanding
A bull’s-eye.
It is different here
New and as such, slightly odd.

We are camping beside a large pond with cattails taller than the camper on our truck and lily pads the size of dinner plates skirting the edges. Earlier this morning the largest bull moose I ever saw splashed in through these lilies and swam to the other side, his huge and heavy rack held above the black silk surface in the haze of first light like a burdensome and looming ship crossing a medieval mote.

At our camp site is trash, always an unwelcome site. Local trash. Tell tale signs of broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, shotgun shells and business cards from a shop in the nearest town about a half hour down the mountain. Little pride in their beautiful land. I’ve never understood that. Does it form from a sense of helplessness or ignorance? In any case, I call it a bad sign.

I am looking for signs. Signs that tell me “this is the place.” Home. I’m not finding it and it’s somewhat scary since I am committed to make this move and soon, yet have not figure where this move will take me. And depressing because I keep hoping to find it clear and simple, “Eureka!” there it is, and am disappointed each day as I sit in the back seat of the pickup and look out the side window at the landscape rushing by, hoping something there will call me, tell me I belong here. But I hear nothing beside the rush of the motor and the blaring music of my son and the regular outbursts of silly humor of the three of us telling jokes and stories in our funny and familiar way.

I lose faith in myself and wish I had faith in higher powers. But higher powers haven’t got me where I am. Hard work and a strong sense of daring have. I have no blind faith. My eyes are wide open. I know that will upset some to read. The same few who might admire my life and keep praying to live where and how I have lived. I would like to believe prayers will get you as far as grit but haven’t seen this first hand.

Funny though that I still keep praying, asking for a sign, asking to be put where I belong and do what I can to best serve this beautiful world.

And the truck rumbles on, and another day passes as fast as the view outside the side window, and in a blur I remember the answer but it’s not as clear and comforting as I wish it were.

Make it happen. There is no red carpet laid out for the journey of life. Weave it as you go along. And weave it yourself. All the velvety red ribbon is already inside you. It’s not the place; it is you. All you need to do is get to work and weave the path yourself. Believe in yourself. I’ve heard those words before.

There’s more to it than that. I’m listening for the answers. But I’m learning to listen within.