And in that time and space between here and there and somewhere yet to be, there is a place, safe and warm and gentle as a quiet voice or hidden stream. Almost imperceptible, but there if we stand still long enough to hear. Like the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is there. Just waiting for us to sit down and take a breath.
Early morning low sun through massive fir trees on the edge of the forest behind me casts shadows like daggers across the meadow where the dogs romp together in tall grasses still wet with dew.
Today I sit on a simple little bench built of scraps of lumber from this land. Surrounded by soothing sounds, sounds of the familiar – the river, the birds, wind through broad oak leaves. Sounds that hold us in place.
Held by branches of a sprawling ancient oak.
I lean back into thick bark of the old oak tree. She holds me. Her branches reach around me and I feel like maybe I belong. Right here, right now.
At least for now.
I feel her embrace, like a mother, not a lover, allowing me a safe place to simply sit and be. She asks for nothing in return. The Giving Tree. As if she were only here for me.
Maybe it’s the stillness, the solitude, the simplicity, the natural beauty of this precious moment that every moment could be. Or is it the knowing that I have chosen to leave her let again to fulfill some persistent longing. Whatever it is, it washes over and I find myself for some reason wanting to cry, something that rarely happens (and I’m glad for this) since leaving menopause a safe distance behind.
It’s not that I’m sad or mad. It’s more like some sort of melting, a letting go, a complete release now that the armor is gone. Allowing myself to feel the connection with the tree, the air, the light, the dogs and the world around. All of it. Big stuff. I’m just one grain of sand along an endless shore.
Connected. Belonging. No matter where I am, though for now I find myself here against this solid tree.
I bow my head humbly into my hands and offer a place for tears to land, but really, there is no need to cry. It just feels good to know I can. Knowing I am somewhere safe enough to do so, to express myself with nature, with a natural release, a shared sense of humanity, of all living things.
And that feeling of belonging, to the trees, the grass, my dogs, to all of it, the bigger picture…
Yeah, this is big stuff I’m feeling.
And when you feel like that, what else can a gal do but cry?
And as I prepare to leave, if only for a little while, I wonder:
What holds us in place?
What brings us together?
That is what I want to know.
That is what I’m curious about. This is what I want courage for.
There’s too much separation.
A rift, a void between us all, like a looming black hole and we’re all afraid to step in and see if there’s common ground in there. But I believe there is.
A common thread that holds us together if we dare to feel it. It’s that which connects us, reminds us we’re all in this together. Maybe it’s something shared, like emotion or beauty or awe. These are things we all know. Not only that “beauty in the eye of the beholder.” But beauty in the universal sense. Like looking at the moon from fifteen hundred miles apart. Far apart as we may be, we both stare in wonder.
Please, tell me there is. Solid ground between us. Somehow I need to know this as I find myself leaving something solid, and stepping into the air of unknown.
No more time for baby steps. Now it’s time to leap.
Still, somehow there’s plenty of time to run after baby chicks with my camera and cut a barrage of bouquets just because. But packing? Ha! It’s oddly easy to put that off, waiting until the last minute, then stressing and sweating and running around like a wild hare… But no matter how it gets done, it will get done, and we’ll be on the road. Again.
This time will be different. Every time is.
This time, we’ll be together, and that is a comfort I don’t take for granted. Always harder alone, but sometimes we gotta do that too.
This time too I know where we are heading and the route we’ll take to get there. At least I know this more or less. It’s high and wild, rough and raw and rugged, and I am drawn to all of that as well.
It’s that pioneer spirit.
Or is it gypsy blood?
Maybe I’m just curious.
Curiosity is a curious thing.
How will I know unless I try, taste, touch and see for myself?
For is not curiosity the driving force behind pioneers, travelers, explorers, and even us simple folks with itchy feet?
In any case, curiosity calls. Loud and clear. And as if lured by the Pied Piper, I’m dancing that way.
For now, we are here, and at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.
A morning cacophony of summer bird songs makes me smile before I even get out of bed. From the kitchen table over morning coffee, we watch chicks on pasture and goslings in the river and rose blooms so heavy the bushes bend in abundance. Finally the garden has hit that point of saturation where we’re harvesting more than we can eat each day. There are few things, like a barn full of hay and the firewood shed stacked full, that make me feel like a wealthy woman. Today, my coffee cup runs over.
Now begins the challenge of seeing all over again. The promise of polish in a very rough stone.
Fair thee well for now, my beloved Riverwind, my haven in the hills holding me as if between generous breasts with your untamed river wrapped around this mild, wild land and entangling my spirited heart along the way.
It’s not what you might be thinking. It’s not about trying to be bigger, badder, better than badass.
Hell no.
Instead, it’s about what you do, where you go, who you are when you (try to) leave being badass behind. When you begin to push that part of your identity, or at least, that thing you’ve always strived to be, to the wayside. When the time comes to strip yourself of your armor, and find true courage to just be you… whatever, whoever that may be.
Maybe it will mean being badass after all.
Or maybe not.
We’ll see.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve worn a big knife on my belt. My first one was gifted to me well before my son was born. It’s been over three decades of different knives, but almost always some sort of blade hanging at my hip.
People think it’s to be badass or something (and yes, maybe it is a little of that) but if you walk around with me, you’ll see it’s used to cut thistles, dig up dandelions, open bales of hay, and a dozen other things daily. It gets used a lot. In fact, the few times I leave it home (it doesn’t go over so well in big cities, kids camps nor airplane travel), I end up feeling a little lost and find myself reaching for it like the handy tool it really is. Nothing badass about it, you see?
Is there life beyond badass?
Now, with just two weeks before we load up horses, chickens, tools and camp and head towards Colorado, that’s what I’m trying to keep in mind (and heart and soul) as we prepare to leave leave this safe, secure, serene oasis behind, at least for a little while, and head to rough and rugged, high and wild, and the adventurous spirit that ain’t about comfort and ease.
Do I have to be badass again?
Just when I thought I was softening…
“The hell I won’t.”
“Different” is the word they used to describe me when I was growing up. Gee, thanks.
WTF is different?
My brothers had brains, my sister had beauty, so me, I decided, I’d have… I’d be badass.
That was my personal choice for defining different. And when you’re different, I guess you have a choice.
And so it was. Badass it would be. It became that protective shield I could hide behind, felt safe behind.
I did my darnedest to keep up that identity, though I’ll save those stories for another time.
All I knew as a kid was that I was different, and well, that kinda sucks.
Different.
As in…?
I decided it meant find your own way. Take care of yourself. Get tough. Be badass.
Badass it would be. I’d carry that like a badge. Or a shield. Of course, a lot of us carry a shield we think will keep us safe, but all it really does is keep us apart.
What the hell did I know then?
Different they said I was; different I would be.
Now I’m old enough to be me. And very much a part.
Time to crack that badass armor open.
What’s underneath? We’ll see. Maybe a lot of mush. If so, would that really be so bad?
I’m thinking it’s a little more solid than that. Maybe more like clay. Soft and smooth and pliable, resilient and creative. Good stuff. The stuff we’ve all been waiting to share. The really rich inner river where you can lay back and float and find yourself flowing just fine, thank you very much.
Underneath that armor a lot of us hide behind (I think I’m not the only one) we all have a part of that river flowing through us, the surge of common humanity, streaming with shared experiences and emotions which serve as both fragile and tenacious veins like silken threads that hold us together, and keep us afloat.
But that’s deeper than I care to go this week. You’re off the hook for now.
Seems like badass is a popular thing to be these days. Right on, I get it. It’s been a guiding principle in my life, that’s for sure.
But it has a downside. Everything does. And maybe that downside makes it, at least for me in my ripening years, something I’m seriously thinking of leaving behind.
You know “badass” is a shell we hide behind that’s supposed to keep us safe. Maybe it does. Worked well enough for me. But badass as an identity can also be a wall that separates us from others. A wall that can be pretty hard to scale, you know?
It separates. Sets you apart. At least that’s how it worked for me. When what I really wanted (don’t we all?) is to be a part.
Time to connect.
Here’s an update:
I broke down and got a phone two years ago. I’m still not proud to admit that.
And if I didn’t then, now it’s really happening. I’m entering the modern era. At least I’m giving it a try. I’m learning social media. Just last week, I set up an Instagram account, mostly so I can check out the tiny homes and puppy pictures my sister likes to share. But it’s kind of fun. Maybe it’s not all that evil. (Just a little bit.) Maybe it really can help us all connect and find that common thread. Though so much of what I see out there is still about separation.
For now, I’m going to use it as a way of connecting. And of softening, a medium to share something beautiful everyday, something beautiful from this beautiful, gentle land and river that hold me, that let me soften and see, deeply, clearly, leaning in, safely.
And then, well, we’ll see. Then we’ll be in the high country where it’s all about open spaces, harsh and wild, and safety is a little more uncertain. But that doesn’t mean I have to be like the land.
One can be a soft spot in a hard place.
I think.
We’ll see.
So about being on social media, please, that does not mean I’m suddenly going to be posting selfies!
However…
I did it. Did a selfie with a bestie.
See? Modern woman.
“Sometimes a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.”
Oh, and… as for that new nose piercing? You might say I should know better at my age. I say I’m old enough to know what I want. That’s one of my favorite things about aging. I don’t need to give a damn any more (though oft times I choose to). Thirty five years ago when I got my first tattoo, it was something I had to hide. Now even my parents say ink is cool. In the shop where Cindy and I went in for our bling, the kids working there said about fifty percent of their clients were old as us. Times change, and so do we.
In my ripening age, I’m thinking it’s time to stop striving for badass. Really, my muscles and skin are already softening, or at least starting to sag. Go with the flow sort of thing.
Maybe softening is one of the privileges of age. It’s not so much becoming a fine wine. At least not for me. Feels more like oak barrel whiskey, and that’s okay by me.
That said, I don’t think I’m gonna turn to mush anytime soon.
It’s more like I’ve cracked the badass shell and now am learning to let molten lava flow.
And yet that thing about leaving this comfortable place for a while and heading out and up to high, harsh and wild… for sure it’s a little scary. And nuts. The challenge is in being in the harsh environment and still allowing my self to soften. Can I? Or does that work and world require badass, like Jeremiah Johnson and the Man from Stony River?
Not any more. Besides, they both had a soft side too.
I can write my own adventure. Be my own hero. Need not try to be the Terminator any more. And certainly never wanted to be a Disney princess. Just me.
And maybe being me need not require being badass. Just a little crazy.
And though we are not our lovers, we are more whole for having loved.
And so you see this need to choose one place becomes as complicated and complex as being torn between two lovers.
~
Like leaving a lover on one hand.
And with the other, holding onto your hat as you lean into the wind
trembling with the thrill of what lies ahead.
~
Here’s a rambling I’ve been working on a while yet have been slow to share. If you have time and want to read it, grab a cup of coffee, kick back, and enjoy the ride. It’s still rough, but I’ve been having fun working with it, so I thought I’d share what I’ve written so far, and one of these days, maybe I’ll get it figured out and share the rest with you.
I was not an apple that fell close to the tree, but one that rolled away.
The roots of that tree did not hold me, nurture me, nor call me to remain. Yet we are hard wired with that longing to belong, and so I set out, seeking.
In the search for finding belonging, always somewhere outside myself, I thought I found it many times.
Thus there are places I have fallen for, fallen in love with, where I wanted to belong, to be held and where I wished to remain forever. Places I wanted to wake beside as with an intoxicating lover tangled in rumpled sheets still hot and musky as dawn’s first light reminds us it’s time to move on. Or places soothing and solid and comfortable, as when with the lover you’ve slept beside for what feels like forever. She may no longer hold the thrill, but she holds you still, and when you are with her, with that sense of contentment that cannot be compared, there is no place you’d rather be.
Are we not more for each one we have loved? The lessons they shared, the memories we learned to laugh at, the scars on our heart and soul we cannot shake off, all of it cultivating us deeper, richer, wiser for having tasted forbidden fruits.
As with person, so with place.
Me, I have moved. Every time, always yearning for forever.
It’s not how I planned it to be. I was not looking for greener grass (there is none greener, for example, then where I am here and now). But responding to how life unfolds at times, and sometimes that means you gotta move on. Other times, it means following my heart for some calling I thought I heard somewhere out there, only to realize it is found only in the quietest, stillest moments when I allow myself to listen.
Still, I look back on all the places I have wanted to call home, wanted to belong, wanting to be so captivated and fulfilled and content… and yes, always hoping to find these things outside of my self rather than within.
Yet each place we settle into, each one we are with, we say to ourselves, “This is the one.” Until it is not, and then we move on.
I have been many places. Each like a lover, teaching me how to be, how to feel, how to grow, how to leave.
Sure, I could be shallow, pick one and remain. Just tell you I’ll let go of my dreams and “it’s good enough” knowing it’s safer to stay put where it’s easy and simple, and simple is good.
But that is not my style. I tend to dive deep.
Growing up we thought and were taught that New York City was the center of the universe, and for many of us in the suburbs a bridge or tunnel away, it was. My childhood was defined by the sense of not belonging – not to my class nor my peers, not to my family nor my home, not the town where I was raised nor the big city that loomed a mere thirty minute train ride away. It should have been easy to hold onto what is right there before you, and what everyone (but your own inner voice) tells you is true. It was not.
Sure it was a city full of energy, excitement and diversity that kept my younger self entertained. But the prevailing mentality is the same as you’ll find in any small town: where you are is where it’s at; what you see is all there is. Looking beyond is taboo.
I was accepting of that until I left and felt something else, something open, expansive, vast and wild, tearing my heart open as it burned into the once narrow view of my pale eyes and pasty white skin. It was intense, somewhat violent in a way, the process of being ripped free to the wildness of open spaces. Yet that sense of space held me all the same, wrapping around and capturing me. And once I breathed in that spaciousness and had my breath held in the bigness of it all, the search for where I belong began.
Odd that we use the term “deflowering” for the end of virginity when for so many of us it signifies the beginning of so much more. It can be a blooming, blossoming, flourishing. It can be more of an awakening as the floret unfurls, rather than a plucking of petals as in the childish game of, “He loves me; he loves me not.”
Though my innocence had been lost years before, heading to the Greek Islands at nineteen felt like the first awakening. Standing bronzed naked on the cliffs over the Aegean Sea while gazing out into what first felt like forever (though cheap pink wine and an oddly bewitching man probably had something to do with that) my soul expanded into the horizon; that urge to remain in that moment, that place, that ethereal bliss forever overwhelmed. And I realized we could live somehow limitless, boundless, ungrounded as my imagination took me soaring over arid cliffs and ancient stone walls and into gentle, saline waters that held me in her womb, softly singing into my ear, like a temptress snake hissing “Yessssssss, you belong here.”
Until of course there comes the day that you wake up from the daze of the dream and get dumped or somehow shaken or stirred and find yourself moving on.
The calling started then and the voice of wild spaces continued to lure me, like the Pied Piper, leading me out of town.
From the mountains north of Santa Fe with magic mushrooms, dizzy from high altitude and giddy from clear light – to the desert to the south, where we sought to unleash our inner Carlos Castaneda with sand in our sleeping bag and scorpions underfoot.
From the stark vastness of the Patagonia steppe where my heart soared like the condor that I swear called to me – to the high country of the San Juan Mountains where the snow and cold and a culmination of a painful past whipped me like spring wind.
~
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 recognize the warmth against my back,
wind like lazy fingers through let down hair,
a familiar sweet musky dusty breath.
swelling wide above me was
Colorado high and wild
~
And then there is here, the gentle embrace of this nor Cal river and hills. This is not the California I knew of or heard of and tried to avoid with sunsets cafes and volleyball beaches, strip malls and silicon valley, Hollywood and parking lot traffic. Really, did you think you’d find me there? Trinity is a different sort of state, in mountains and in mind.
Here I am held, softly, gently, kindly in a matriarch’s embrace. Wise old woman arms around me, healing, nurturing, tending the land as I tend to my soul. Nourishing me, not to remain safe, sound and secure – but building courage and vigor to leap once again. The crone’s craft with a basket of herbs, potions and remedies to create a resilient soul. She allows me time to weave my web, the net that will catch me when next I leap, as invariably I will do.
Held, embraced. A womb or cocoon. Wondering what will emerge when I leave these protective walls that confine and define. What is beyond the hills?
Look inside your cells as you look within your soul and tell me what you see? A sense of wonder, awe and curiosity?
Quiet as my voice may be, it whispers of this wisdom: I am more than this space, bigger than one place.
~
Roots unfurling
soaring through deep earth
grounded in the stars
she breaks free the shackles of solid ground
as a whale bounding from the sea for air
finding her breath as if for the first time, each time
finally understanding what wings were made for
ascending into spaciousness.
~
Slowly I fell for this land, with each shovel of dirt moved, brush mowed, branches burned and tree planted, Time sweating in the garden, sleeping beneath the stars or bathing naked at the beach.
Things grow here. Maybe even dreams. Apple trees, pears and plums, even peach trees I have planted. And already their branches bend with abundance.
This land gently grew in me. Her roots spread beneath my flip-flopped feet. I wonder how deep they have sprawled. The garden, full and lush and bountiful enriched by horse droppings I shovel each day. The upper meadow in early evening adorned with long golden shadows and a rolling view of distant hills. Sharing space with deer and turkey and a pair of ravens. Turtles at the swim hole and osprey hunting a shallow pool. The eagle on his daily pass down river as we watch from the kitchen table and the heron gracefully rises as I throw the ball for the dog too close to the bank of the river where he silently stood. The big bend in the river with sheer south facing cliffs above that heat from the sun and in kind warm the water below. The chattering chorus of evening frogs and the full moon dancing behind undulating waves of clouds. And rapids close to the house sing like voices I try to understand as we lay in our starlit bed at night after the wind and crickets have quieted and listen. I still do not know what they say.
It is a gentle land, pastel and creamy. Here is the good boy, fine and nice, the high school sweetheart. Here is not passion, devotion and fierce attachment as I have felt other places, and likely will never be. Yet here holds me in a state of contentment I am not familiar with, cannot describe, something that comes I suppose with age.
Comfort is new for me.
Do you know what it is like to hold the land as dearly as you do a lover; to be seduced, enthralled, captivated by the scent of rich soil and vanilla bark and the feel of wind and light and approaching storms? Go ahead and lose yourself in the embrace of a sudden updraft of high mountain air, or the fragrance of rich earth stirred by heavy rain, or the ecstasy of endlessness of open plains sprawling wide before you, or the soothing sound of waves as tide ever so slowly moves in.
If you have never loved land this deeply, I hope one day you will.
Let yourself be seduced by place.
But, my friend, be warned.
This kind of love is one sided.
For land remains indifferent.
And the connection we feel is that which we create.
I have fooled myself into believing I was embraced by place.
The stories we hold to are ours.
At best, the land allows.
At worst, she’ll chew you up and spit you out.
Likely she’ll do nothing at all but be as she will be, while we hold tight to a sense and security of the familiar, wanting to find ourselves in her rocks and trees, our stories in her wind and waves, wishing her spring rains to define us, and her generous load of winter snow to hold us tight.
So be it. Let it go. The attachment it all ours alone.
Really, that’s not a bad place to be.
Reflecting back, would I have chosen to forfeit the pleasure and pain and played it safe?
Commitment comes. Some of us are late to settle in. Settle into place as I settle into self with the softening of time and age and the perspective of experience.
Am I not all the richer, wiser, more resilient and complete for having frolicked with the land?
Though at times I tumbled, falling for place has led me to soar.
As at times we must lose our self in order to be found. Not only in place but in spirit and soul.
Are we willing to be lost in place order to find the essence of where we belong?
The land has held me, holds me, lets me be.
What more could I ask for with a lover or land?
Places that have called. lured me, seduced and tangled a web within my heart and made it into a place unto itself.
I have been held in place, by place, and that has allowed me to know the land, intimately and intensely, as I have learned to know my self.
Yes, I belong with the land as fiercely as I connect with my lover.
I am not the land, though I will love her, bestow upon her my wild passions and commit to her as long as I am there, wherever there may be.
The puppy’s paws on crunching leaves. Frogs. Horses shifting in their close-by covered pen. The ever present song of the river still strong from this winter’s rains.
It’s dark. Behind me, there’s soft light from candles on the kitchen table. Before me, just enough to see shapes in shades of charcoal gray from the waxing moon still up over in the western sky
I’m sitting out on the deck as I do most every night before turning in, letting the dogs out one last time.
My nighttime ritual of taking one small bowl in a pipe filled with my special blend. Home grown tobacco, mullein, and mugwort. I’ve never been much for smoking anything altering, and my days of smoking the bright red box are gladly far behind me, along with my dreams of being the Marlboro woman. I breathe better now. I no longer fear my son will watch me drown in my own lungs from my own doing. It’s over twenty years since I left that habit behind. Over six since I left drinking behind. But still a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do. I’m not perfect, know I can’t be, and well, not really interested in being completely vice-free. So it is for me with this little pipe, my little smoke, my little bad habit that brings me out at the end of most days and allows me to sit on the deck in relative silence, often under the eve while the rain batters down, and just sit, just be.
It’s clear tonight. Cold. Cold for here, but not for there.
Here, stars twinkling through bare oak branches above me that connect the earth to sky.
Trying to just listen. Not to think. Quiet the mind. Loose my thoughts in the rumble of the river and the bits of infinite space above.
Can I just watch the tiny glow from the tip of this little pipe, the smoke wafting softly from my lips, the big dog laying still beside me?
Isn’t that enough?
How hard it is to simply be?
Not all of us were born where we belong.
Maybe I am not there yet. Maybe we never arrive. Maybe it’s all just an endless journey passing through places and time.
Somehow it feels close. That sense of being where I belong. Only it’s not what I thought it would be.
Is it “where?” No. Because I am where I thought I’d be full. And something still feels empty. Though it’s filling. At an oddly calm and gentle rate. Like a slow inhale, exhale, and the pause in between, time and time again.
It’s not about place. It’s something so much more.
It is a filling from within.
I thought place would define me.
Or does it, I wonder, confine me?
It has.
Not here. Not now.
I’m starting to feel free. And starting to feel comfortable in that groundlessness of not needing a place to tell me who I am, tell you what I am.
A dear old friend Em so often told me, “Home is inside.”
The last place I thought to look.
“Stop chasing rainbows,” she’d tell me. “What you’re looking for is is not out there. It’s within.”
Yet I watched her never fully find whatever she was seeking and I was left to wonder:
Do we ever get there?
Or is this a never-ending journey, of longing to belong. Of growing up.
Why did I ever think it would be easy?
And why did I ever think it would be done?
Tell me, is it just me, or do you wonder too?
Here.
Rubbing my eyes and adjusting to the soft pale light of a California early morning spring sky, laden with fog, that when it rises into nothingness but blue with big fat happy clouds, reveals swells of gentle mountains undulating in crisp sharp shadows that begin and end spring days. Living is easy here with mild elements, warm waters, and heavy humid air. It is comfortable and congenial, words I never sought to describe my world. And yet, I belong here. I feel a part of the sand as I lay in naked by the river, the oak under which we sleep on summer nights, the geese that return to nest by the river before our house, and the twenty-something fruit trees we planted: peach and pear, cherry and plum, apple, persimmon and fig. I feel a part of the wood nymph fairyland of thick moss and ferns and ancient trees dripping with old man’s beard and the sound of frogs and wind-chimes and a swollen river. I feel a part of the people, my neighbors and friends and folks in town, people I am comfortable with, at home with, can talk with about sharing seeds, starting seedlings, thinning carrots and canning peaches from our own fruit trees. People that make me feel I belong.
And yet too I belong there. Colorado. A part of the stark open sky that shocks you at sunrise, the intensity of the elements that determine our days, the shivering sound of bull elk bugling and teasing call of coyote, the lure of mountain tops surrounding us like dancing muses, and the impression of being so close you can touch the stars as you sit bundled by the campfire at night leaning back into a silence of nothing but wind. I feel a part of breathlessness and burning lungs as the elevation calls and the mountain seduces and I find my tired legs climbing higher and higher and higher still like a feral beast appeasing some inner hunger. As if I needed more to call me, there is family, our son, and well, that love outweighs the rest.
It’s a cowboy boot and Levi jean life there, at least for half the year. The other half is down and wool and a lot of layers. It may sound harsh, and I suppose it is, but something about it entices me. Rather than chill my passionate side, the cold and harsh, the high wild life of those Colorado mountains makes me come alive.
On the other hand… even in these unknown hidden hills in the far north of California it’s flip flops and shorts for half the year, and in winter you don’t need much more than a slicker. Here, in summer, we sleep out on the deck beneath wide arms of old oak trees, lullabied by the sound of the gently flowing river. Here, in cool gray light of early morning with my husband still asleep beside me, the same one I have wrapped my limbs around countless dark morning back there, too, I wake to the smell of sweet grass and willows and wild mint that wafts up from the damp banks as I lay still, trying to count the awakening birds by their particular call. With closed eyes, I know them by their sound. The Redwing, the raven, Steller’s Jay, Tanager, towhee and chickadee.
Is one world better than the other? Who am I to judge? All I know is, some days I want it all. Both. Everything. Everywhere. Here. There. Home. A sense of belonging. With both. To both. Maybe to all.
A feeling that I am where I’m meant to be. But how does one decide? Does the place define, or do the people? Is it “where” or “with whom” or something else, something deeper down, an inner voice, a higher knowing?
How does one decide?
Does the place call us, hold us? Heck, I’ve been called, held, then chewed up and spit out. It can’t be about place. I told you how I wished it were, wished I always knew, wished I was born where I was meant to remain.
But I wasn’t.
And that too is neither good, nor bad. It just is. I’m not the only one.
So I look within. For answers. For home. And watch it grow.
It’s being built. One log at a time. A rustic, little cabin in the wilds. My kind of home.
The rain forest returns. Warm, wet, heavy air held suspended in undulating gray skies. Electric green moss wraps around rugged oak limbs. The roar of the river through open window where we sleep at night drowns out the cadence of heavy rain on hard metal roof.
Here in the far north of California, spring makes her first intimation with the return of the robins dappling the meadow, Canada geese flying in formation low along the river, Pacific bluebirds and several other songbirds I have yet to spot even in the nakedness of leafless giant oaks, all gracing us with joyous chatter. I imagine them happy to be home. Discernible leaves of shooting stars emerge on damp soil, new life awakens on the gooseberry bush, and the first daffodils of the season promise to burst open in what may be a matter of days.
I’m not ready for winter to end. Yet. Yet…
It’s hard to figure what to do next when I don’t know, like drawing straws, it all needs to be done and soon. Some days it feels like there’s no way we’ll get it done. Other days we remind one another: we’ve done this before. We can do it again. Yes, yes, please remind me that again and again and again.
Some days I get scared.
Can we do this? Again?
Not yet old, but already, I feel it. We’re older now. I don’t have the energy I had in my twenties when I built my first two hippy houses in the desert south of Santa Fe, stacking and stuccoing straw with a baby on my back.
Nor do I have the energy of my thirties when building the first of several Colorado cabins while guiding horse rides in the morning, peeling logs in the afternoon, and evenings spent cooking for the crew. All the while trying to impress my new lover and somehow sort-of home-school our son. I guess I did okay with that lover because he’s still by my side. As for home-schooling, God knows how he learned so brilliantly because it wasn’t my doing.
Nor do I have the energy found in my forties when we built what was meant to be the forever house, from the ground up. Falling trees in deep winter, deep snow, hauling logs across frozen river by snowmobile, and again pulling on the old draw knife day after day after day as my husband and son raised the walls.
Now I’m nearing sixty and though I sure feel far from old, I no longer feel that infinite fire and limitless energy I felt in younger days. Maybe that’s not all bad to let it simmer.
But the reality of facing the formidable task of building a cabin tight enough to winter in, putting in off-grid systems, setting up shelter for the horses, a coop for the chickens and something to keep plants alive… all this (and more) at an elevation of 10,000 feet which means high, harsh and wild…
It’s a lot.
I could use that infinite fire right about now.
Some days the stress of what is not getting done weighs heavy.
Some days the grief of what I’m leaving nearly paralyzes me.
Some days the excitement of what we’re starting electrifies me and takes my breath away.
Things change. I changed. I shall continue to change.
Yet as stand here with my hip against the kitchen sink, holding a warm cup of coffee between hands weathered and worn by time and place, darkened by sun and soil and years, something within me feels this sense of peace of the familiar, something I need, we all need. That need feels pressing right now, that knowing no matter where we find ourselves, even when the world seems upside down, inside out and backwards, so much still remains the same. Solid. Grounded. Sturdy. There is comfort in that knowing, soothing as the hot black liquid I am slowly sipping.
At this very moment, as I gaze up from dirty dishes I’m pretty good at ignoring, my attention scans outward, across pasture. Horses head down, chickens underfoot, bare branches of sprawling oak with tips not yet swelling, last years leaves still scattered across the patchwork quilt of ever green grass and tenacious wet snow.
What I am looking for is not yet there. It’s still early. Wait. It won’t be long. The 18th of February. That’s the date marked on my calendar. It is not only my mother’s birthday, but the date I begin to listen for his call. Then, or soon after, like some primordial clockwork that does magic of seasons and cycles of the moon, I will hear his song. I listen, for I may hear him long before catching the sight of his orange flash in the otherwise still winter scene, a landscape drawn in shades of gray.
It’s often later. A few days. A few weeks. But my stirring starts early and builds, always excited by these little harbingers of changing seasons. Sure, I can wait. I have waited before. Here, there, other places I have been, have lived, have looked and listened. He always comes. As the bluebirds when aspen or oak buds begin to swell. The pair of ravens that gather the shedding horse hair just in time to build their nest. The geese at river’s edge, hoping for a place safe from rising spring waters. These things come.
And so too will the unassuming Redwing Blackbird come, sharing his shrill whistle as I lean closer to the window to hear. Perchance he’ll rest on a branch of the sprawling oak that in summer shades the house from midday sun but now stands still with bare branches extended like fingers of an ancient witch; or perch on the stalks of willow that bend and sway with lessons in learning to give.
And even while I wait, anticipating what will come, the song bird, the change of seasons, the change of view from a change of kitchen window over a change of sink, for now at least, I am here. And right here, right now, there is no place I’d rather be.
Winter’s going way too fast.
The greenhouse is alive with spring starts of broccoli, cabbage, kale and chard, keeping company with overwintered geraniums and that sprawling avocado tree because I swore I wouldn’t buy the fruit, but man, I do love them. Seedlings spouting on the kitchen counter: tomatoes, peppers, basil, snapdragons, marigolds, all leggy from lack of sun.
(“How can you garden,” you may ask,”when you said you were moving on?” And my response, just as you’d expect: “How can I not?”)
Ten inches of rain one week, snow the next, then a clear spell long enough to dry our boots, but not those logs waiting to be milled before the next storm arrives.
You know that feeling of having to be indoors but so dying to be out there? Yeah, that one. Me, I can keep myself occupied indoors between writing and drawing out plans for the new house. And there’s always cooking, cleaning, baking, herbal crafts, little inside things I love to do, like happy sappy 70’s songs remembered from my childhood, distracting me from the longing of wanting to dig my hands deep in dirt, which right now, is not happening. The soil is either to wet to walk on or hard from freezing temperatures.
It won’t last. Nothing ever does. Give it time. It will change. And before you know it, I’ll be back out there longing for these languid days, which likely I won’t get again until next winter rolls around. And geez… hard to imagine what next winter will be like.
So don’t.
As for Bob, he’s making the most of it his own way, as he does. Indoor arts and crafts are not his thing. His way of having his boots dry out is hauling the first load of milled lumber to our new place. California to Colorado and back again. Three days driving, each way, taking the loneliest road, or four when you run into truck troubles and weather, both of which he did. Then back to me just in time for Valentine’s Day. At least I hope, as another winter storm has settled in.
Why mill and haul from here when there’s plenty of logs to build with in the mountains of southern Colorado? A seemingly endless supply of dead standing blue spruce killed by the beetle infestation that washed over those hills like a tsunami. Enough of those trees will hopefully still be good enough for using as full logs, but they have not the integrity, heft nor girth, we want for posts, beams and dimensional lumber, counter tops, shelves, ceiling and floors.
Meanwhile, here in northern California, the beetles hit too, but not as hard, fast and heavy. At this point, the damage is just the right amount for giving us dead trees to clear from our property; and all the lumber the Old Mill, my old man and I, can crank out. Beautiful lumber. Doug fir. Still hard and strong and perfect for what we need.
So, we do it here, bring it there. It may seem inconvenient at best. And yes, Home Depot is an easier option. But that’s not ours. Or us. Making the most of what we have.
Which right now is a forced break indoors, while the “wintry mix” outdoors keeps coming down.
We’re pretty hearty, but we have our limitations. Milling in these conditions is a big NOPE. It’s a nasty, sticky, soggy mess. I’d rather get covered with sawdust on clear afternoons when the wind blows my way. That time will come.
You know how it goes. One thing waits, while another happens.
Ever changing.
Some days so slow you feel stuck in stagnant waters.
Other days, hold on to your hat and brace yourself for the wild ride.
Time changes.
Changing times.
Like seasons.
Take time.
Time to stare at flames in the fire pit, or falling snow.
Time to slip on your boots and run out in warm rain.
Or slip off your shorts and immerse yourself in the river.
Time to smell orange peel, chocolate, the warm dry pup.
A new baby, damp rich earth after a summer rain.
Time to feel the sensation of that summer rain wetting brown skin burned by yesterday’s sun
or winter sun like a gentle hand on red cheeks, the only flesh brave enough to be exposed.
Time to celebrate last years leaves fragile as fresh eggshells crumbling beneath your boots
or cheer for melting snow if you drum up the courage to step out in hot bare feet.
Time to hear that river, that endless river, the never ending background sound of this land
or that sleeping dog’s heavy breath.
The inhale. The exhale.
The pause in between.
Time to rush around.
And time to sit.
Still.
Put the damned devise aside and see the magic you would have missed.
Time for solitude and socializing.
Time for reflecting and planning what is next.
Time to let go.
And how about, “time to get your ducks in a row?”
Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
You know, ducks will do that. It’s what they do.
And in a way, that’s a good cliche for what I’m trying to do.
Figure things out.
Things.
I dunno. Writing. This blog. Where we’re going. How to hold onto here. And there. How to afford it all. Life. That sort of stuff. Big stuff.
Right, at my age, shouldn’t I have that figured out, my ducks all nicely lined out?
Don’t kid yourself.
You never stop.
As long as you’re living, you’re learning.
At least, that is what I tell myself.
Makes me feel a little better when I realize how far I’ve come.
I once read an essay by the remarkable Wendell Berry that began with,
“I have never not known where I belong.”
Me, I have never known. I am still searching. It’s what I’ve always written about. The searching. That journey. It continues. Maybe someday I’ll get it right. Maybe I’ll get there someday…. Or maybe the non-attachment, the learning to flow, the openness, courage, challenge and adventure that searching has allowed me are enough. Who knows? We’ll see.
In the meanwhile, I have learned to love my wild life. Finally. Or should I say, for now. Because you never know what the future brings. Though I do believe the past has brought me to a beautiful present. It took a lot of work. Was it worth it? Yes indeed.
Moving has never been my intention. I always wanted to remain. Permanence, grounding, the forever place, that sort of thing. But life happens. And then next thing you know, I’m moving again.
Though I still sometimes think of myself as a lone wolf, I am not. I have my forever place in heart and soul, a foundation always with me, no matter where I am. My husband. Our adult son. Rock solid. My rock stars. And really, because of them, because of the “who,” the “where” doesn’t matter near as much.
That said, “where” sure can be interesting!
So, yeah. Guess what?
“Where” is changing again.
You got it. A new adventure awaits.
No, it’s not a wild horse ride across the West this time. Though it too will involve making my way from California to Colorado, with my horses. And once again, the adventure will not just be about being there, but about getting there. It will be about the journey. And then, it can be about what happens when we get settle in and get to work.
We’ll see where it goes. All I can do is start. So here it goes, friends. I’m starting to blog again!
Change. Big change. Scary.
I’ve put a lot of thought into this, probably too much, and still I’m kinda confused by it. Here’s why. On one hand, I love our peace and privacy. On the other hand, I think it’s an exciting idea to share our life and world. Living as we do, it’s hard to reach out, connect and contribute. Putting stuff “out there” is one way we can reach out and maybe even do something good.
If you haven’t noticed (and likely you did not), I’ve been avoiding social media for my mental health. Has it helped? Well, something has. Maybe it’s age. Having menopause behind me. Having my husband still with me. Maybe even the joy I find from my dogs, cats and horses. In any case, I’m happier than ever I was.
So why risk that by putting my writing, an intimate expression of me, out there again? Believe me, I’ve been going back and forth, finding courage then chickening out again. I’ve probably brewed this over way too much.
When I have trouble figuring out something big, my deciding factor is usually asking myself this: Would I regret it more if I did it, or did not do it? Believe it or not, I’d regret not writing, not sharing, not connecting, not having the courage to put my words out there. I need to try. That’s always been my mantra. Try.
Looking back nearly twenty years, I started blogging with the long since deleted “High Mountain Muse” site. It was initially created to be a “how-to” platform, sharing off-grid building and homesteading skills. It turned into a literary expression that resulted in my first two books.
See, I’m not interested in telling anyone “how to.” All I can share is “how I do.” There are plenty of experts out there. I’m not one of them. I am comfortable with simplicity and humility. And yet, I also believe there is much to be said for having the courage to put yourself out there and share. Not as an expert, just as a unique individual (or couple in this case) doing things a different way. Not necessary the best or right way, but our way. Doing what we can, what works for us. I don’t even want to tell other people “how to.” I think part of the journey is figuring it out ourselves. So if I can do any good that way, it would be in inspiring people to drum up the courage to try, whatever beautiful dream they imagine, their way.
What I can do, however, is share my world, my view from the front porch, or from some secret place deep inside. A simple, slow, quiet world. Expressed with courage and creativity, beauty and love. And in doing so, I hope you find some part of yourself, some inspiration, some enjoyment from reading what I share.
All that said, this blog was, and likely will be again, part “how we build an off-grid high mountain homestead from scratch,” and part how we live (or at least try to live) with care, creativity, contemplation, connection, commitment and contribution. The balance and harmony of inner and outer life. Sharing the untamed view – out there and within. That includes the soulful element. Diving deep. Things like the solace of nature, the peace in simplicity, the joy of open space and time, the awe and magic of the wilds, the pleasure in hard physical labor and rewards of a hot bath, and the comfort in love. This is part of the picture, that inner and outer landscape, just as is building the homestead, growing the vegetables, tending to the land and animals, and caring for one another. Thus part of what I share is transparent and hopefully inspirational with the reality of the difficulties, challenges and rewards of finding balance of body, mind and soul when your world is splattered with mud and sawdust, sore shoulders and frozen toes.
On the revamped “About” page, I shared this as an introduction, or reintroduction if you’re familiar with me and/or my work:
We move. We grow. We evolve.
I do. I have. I will.
So has, does and will this website.
For now, it’s about honoring my craft: writing. Writing of the wild view, out there, and within. And sharing the wild ride of building all over again: off-grid, out there, a bit off-kilter, and admittedly, a little out-law.
It is in part about building an off-grid, self-sufficient home and homestead life in the high (10,000 ft elevation/zone 3) mountains of southern Colorado. That includes life with my husband, family, animals, gardens, farming, ranching and slow living.
It is also about expressing heart and soul of nature and solitude, isolation and connection. It’s about love – love of life, partner, family, community and yes, even self. Therefore, it’s also about point and purpose, and the meaning of life – which is ever evolving, with changing bodies, minds and souls that aging allows.
Mostly, it is about writing. For me.
And for you, I sincerely hope, it is about enjoying reading, connecting, finding yourself in these stories and words, and delighting in the wild ride it takes you on.
So, there you go. My big confession. I’m back to blogging.
The plan is to write here regularly again, likely one time per week. That means I’m putting my other books on hold for a while. Yes, I always need creative expression. But I also need the focus, and right now, my focus is not about menopause, midlife passages nor my Long Quiet Ride. It’s about moving – and building again. All over again. At our ripening age. Like fine wine. Fragrant, rich, deep and earthy. At least, I hope that’s how it is. Of course we’ll be as we always are: off grid, out there, and again, high and wild. This time, at an elevation of over 10,000 feet. For those who know my passion for farming and gardening and creating the self sufficient homestead, that’s an interesting challenge I am – we are – willing to take on. I won’t be the first, nor the best, and of course, not an expert. But if I say I’ll do it, I likely will.
So begins the journey, the wild ride, the adventure of starting over again, out there, off grid, high and wild, together.
Before I take leave today, I’d like to share a note to subscribers (did you ever think I’d blog again?), and/or whoever may find this site anew.
If this is not or no longer of interest to you now, please follow the unsubscribe directions from WordPress that I think are linked at the bottom of each page. (If not, please let me know and we’ll figure it out). And if you think this might be of interest for someone you know, please, pass it on. Remember, writers write to be read.
For those that want to stick around to see where this goes, great, thank you, I am honored.
We’ll see where the writing, and this journey, takes us.
For now, we’re here and now. And right here, right now, there’s no place I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing, and no one I’d rather be with.
Gin Getz 