aging

Up close and personal.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

This is me.

Real. Raw. A little rough around the edges. No frills and nothing fancy.

Some days unsettled in shifting clouds, stirred by wild winds within and around me.

Other days grounded in terra firma, pummeled by fall rains, nourishing dormant seeds, creative seeds, growing enough to give a part the self to others. Because what is life without something to share?

The other day, I had this revelation. A big one. It hit me:

I’m happy.

A year away from 60 and finally having grown into my skin. (Notice I still won’t say grown up.)

That skin’s a little loose and wrinkled, now weathered like driftwood and aged like well worn levi jeans. It is familiar; it fits me well. Finally at home in my skin, here or there, or someplace yet to be. But always a wild place. A quiet place. With plenty of room to roam.

And today at least, there is no place I would rather be. No time I would rather return to. No life I would rather have than mine. In all its imperfections, complications, confusions, and curiosities.

I am as happy as I’ve never been.

I have never felt more whole.

Not despite flaws, fuck-ups, wrinkles, wrong doings and imperfections. But perhaps because of them all.

The road map of my life so far, etched across my face.

The woman as seasons. Each of us a leaf on a big beautiful tree.

Here and now as I watch those leaves fall and trees left bare and my skin weathers and hair grays, this is where I am.

Our lives are each a work of art.

This is what I created. So far.

Already an ocean of wondrous waves that somehow I managed to ride. Some that lifted me high, others pulled me down, yet mostly there is floating, out there on the open sea with the big blue or black above, open and seemingly endless, holding me as I rest, nourishing for whatever wave comes next.

The highs are based on love. Birthing, mothering, parenting and evolving into adult friends with my son. Forming a strong, supporting and enduring equal partnership with my lover – something I never felt worthy of. Dogs and horses and learning to commit with courageous heart in this ever changing world, with ever evolving relations. Being true to my calling, creative expression, the art of of writing, and crafting a quiet, wild life. Somehow I managed to build my own box, yet not get stuck inside it. Remaining true to being the outdoor cat, somewhat feral, fleeting and self sufficient.

And the downs, to date, admittedly there have been a few. All the challenges, from poverty and placelessness, loneliness and single parenting, drinking and depression – these were part of the picture too. These have been my teachers, the wise ones gifting compassion, empathy, understanding, and true wisdom based on the balance of heart and mind, first hand. And grit. Definitely a lot of grit. Without much for formal education, I was not formed. Instead I learned to dig in the ground with bare hands, find raw clay and form my life myself. Inspired by the natural worlds where I found myself, I have tried to make it beautiful, wild and free, full of creativity and curiosity, passion and peace, respect and responsibility, and above all, love.

Of course there are things I regret. The hardest was wishing I was more present for my son rather than struggling to make ends meet and prove my worth to others who didn’t matter near as much as he did. And things I wish I had learned earlier. Going sober tops that list.

At times I wish I had a crystal ball to portend my future and lead me the right way. Instead time is the wise one and will share her wisdom with me as she unfurls in seasons yet to come. And all I can do is accept what she brings me, hopefully with grit and grace and gratitude. All the while, remaining a little wild and holding onto a childlike mind that finds beauty and magic and wonder and awe every day.

How long will this wave last?

I have lived enough to know that nothing lasts forever.

And with each passing wave, we learn about balance and flow.

For now, I am here.

This morning I sit out in diffused sun beneath a waving veil of high clouds. Eyes closed. Lulled by the song of the river, blending high notes from flickers and phoebes, chatter from dippers and jays, and a light wind softly trembling through the last holding leaves on these ancient sprawling oaks. And ever the refrain of the river harmonizing wild and free as the blood that flows through me, inspires me, fires me, and keeps me afloat.

I walk the trail paved with fallen leaves and emerging mushrooms and lingering thoughts I cannot shake free from my mind. Big leaves, oaks orange and brown, vibrant aspen gold of maples leaves the size of dinner plates, and dogwoods’ delicate reds, ranging from rich crimson to a dreamy peachy pink like water color spilled across the page.

The season inspires poetic words I long to master of emotions tamed like circus lions, emotions that pass by as quickly as these leaves are stripped from tree by rousing wind in which my soul surges, and my heart feels very very warm, somehow settled, an unusual feeling for me.

We run to catch the leaves. Yet our rapid movements make the leaves dance in a maddening unpredictability we cannot control nor capture.

Instead we sit on the deck beneath the old trees, where silent and still, a leaf gently falls into outstretched, opened hands.

It is a good place to be.

A pause between rains.

One day the river rages, thick and silty. The next, a calm clear flow.

But the pathway remains the same. Banks like skin, like soul, containing, confining, defining.

Somehow through it all, though every moment brings different waters, the river remains.

Changing, and yet, unchanged.

And I wonder, are we not the same? Though parts may soften, as water to stone, slowly over time, chiseling away coarse edges, washing away the ever altered surface into grains of sand, softening with time and age. A sandbar moves from here to there. Banks scoured. Rocks tumble and settle anew. Fish battle their way upwards as entire trees are swept away and brought out to sea.

That is my course.

That is where and I how I flow. At least for now.

Some days wild and raging, brown and turbulent, roaring like thunder in steel gray skies.

Other days gentle, buoyant, holding soft and quiet as a trickle as I sit here alone, sun burning golden through closed eyelids.

Mystery prevails the process.

Edges blur. Sides merge. Like oil on canvas as the brush takes another stroke.

Finding beauty both in the creating and the creation and all the wonders of this imperfect life.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

On time.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

This is not for those who want a quick one liner to rapidly read, cringe at or smile, and go on about your day. I ramble.

For those with the patience and interest to read, I hope you’ll relate and enjoy. And for those to whom I have yet to respond to your always appreciated comments to the last rambling I wrote… I am sorry. It matters, you matter, and it all comes in time.

Time. Slips. Away.

This morning, the regular light frosts of summer turned to a heavy freeze.

I woke to frosty breath, arms and legs wrapped tight around my man to keep warm. Now with the little heater turned on and the sun up over a full ridge south from where it was two months ago, our little camper drips with condensation, streaking the windows, making a little puddle on the wool rug and wet spot on the table cloth beside me as I write. The thermometer read a mere 25 degrees. What will it feel like at 25 below?

Sure, the roof is done, and in another week or so, Bob and I will have the walls and windows closed in. The shell will be complete.

But we won’t move into that shell just yet. Building is more than making a shell, and it takes more than a shell to live up here, out here. You gotta be prepared. You gotta know. You gotta have some things lined out. A shed full of firewood is of the essence. Likewise a pantry put up for when you’re snowed in. Closed in shelter for us, the horses, the chickens who still call the horse trailer home. Indoor plumbing would be sweet and an outdoor spigot for horse water when the creek freezes over, which this morning reminded me, will be a thing.

These things take time.

It’s not that easy here. The cold and harsh and isolation are real. Not forgiving. You gotta take care of what needs to be taken care of because there is not much margin for error.

And you gotta be tough.

Some days I tire of tough. I want to soften.

I can’t – at least not just yet.

Toughen up and finish up.

In the meanwhile… this morning, reality hits. I’m thinking about how close we are to finishing this part of the project. And thinking about how much more still needs to be done.

I’m whining. I’m sorry. I want to be stronger. Tougher. Harder.

But at the same time, I want to soften. I’m tired of being badass sometimes and want to settle in and be held and cared for and pampered, but that’s not how it is for me. Not the marriage I have. And though on days like this it sounds tempting, it’s really not what I want.

If you want me to soften, allow me a place in which I feel safe to be soft.

Building a balance between a rock and a soft place.

Where did summer go?

When the thermometer rises to fifty, we’ve been getting our yoga mats and spreading out for field yoga to begin our day. That won’t happen today. It won’t reach 50 until mid day, and this morning the ground is covered with a hard heavy frost. The coffee pot and cups were frozen down to the counter outside where we wash.

I know where summer went. I see it in the finished roof and nearly closed in walls and windows. I feel it in my tired arms from wrestling timbers into place, sore legs from up and down the ladder as we set the roof and laid the metal, and skin weathered and worn with the only reprieve a ball cap for shade and the occasional bath in that outdoor horse trough heated beneath by fire.

Now as I look out there from the window of the little camper windows veiled with condensation (the only running water to be had in this camper) I am proud of what we have done of course. And at the same time, see how much more we still have to do. Opening (and tightly closing) doors. Floors and ceilings. Window trim and interior walls. Exterior finish and backfilled soil. Cabinets, counters and shelves. Tables and chairs and a bed. An indoor bathroom. With running hot water. And all the pretty things that make a house a home for me: curtains and rugs and pictures on the wall; candles and crystals and racks for my cast iron pans.

The horse barn and greenhouse will come before that. I have my priorities straight. Like most of the horsewomen I know, I don’t sleep well unless I know my critters are sleeping well. So the next project will be the barn. Before such luxuries as that running hot water.

Next year.

But for now, be here and now.

What do we need to do today? Oh yes, poke a hole through the brand new roof to install the pipe for a woodstove.

And as the season passes far too quickly, or so it seems, so does time.

Where does it go?

At some point in the process of losing time, you wake one day and realize not only your youth, but the first half or more of your life is… gone.

It’s not that I’m afraid of aging and honestly, I don’t really feel old, whatever that is supposed to feel like. It’s just that there’s so much more to do and it feels as if time is running out. It’s like one friend told me, as is the case with the end of the roll of toilet paper. Things go faster the closer you get to the end.

My energy is not what it once was, and maybe that’s okay. I’ve spent plenty of years buzzing like a bee and running like a feral dog. Slowing down ain’t all bad. I am not who and what I was in my thirties when I would wake before five to have enough time to write, light the fires and feed my family, could single handedly saddle a string and guide horseback rides, come home to straddle a log and peel the bark the old fashioned way for the cabin we were building then. And then wash up mighty quickly in a cold concrete slab showerhouse, put on the apron and cook up a lovely feast for a crew.

No, I’m not that person anymore. And I don’t wish to be. I don’t look back longingly. It was hard. I’m good leaving the past in the past. What I’ve got now is wonderful. And maybe even who I have matured into doesn’t feel too bad to be.

Matured. As in, grown up? Finally? I dunno. Maybe.

I don’t really know what that feels like. I just see what it’s starting to look like.

I want to let my hair go grey and my skin show the road map of my life in lines. I want to be at peace with what time and life and living does. Maybe even proud.

I don’t want to look shiny and new, young and untouched by years and experience nor as someone sheltered from the elements. I don’t want to be plastic and pulled tight and fight gravity and try to be something I am not and don’t care to be any more. I am deeper than that. Richer. Happier! Beauty is found in diversity, in black and white and all the shades of gray. I’m not interested in trying to be today what I was yesterday.

Honoring the changes of time. Accepting of how life happens.

At the same time, it’s strange to see myself not who and what I was even ten years ago. My image is not what I expect. I don’t want to be vain. But I think for most of us, it’s harder to find beauty in frosted wildflowers turning brown for the season, in withered leaves and shriveled fruit turned to seed.

There’s not much of a mirror here at camp, but I caught a good glimpse of my head in this little tin decoration hung on the outhouse door. The sun was shining and the light caught the juxtaposition of mirror and me just right. And guess what? I was shocked.

When did my hair get so gray?

When did I get so old?

This summer aged me.

It’s not an easy life here. It’s hard and harsh, though it is what I choose. But it takes its toll on me too. The image I saw shocked me. It looked as if I am withering and wrinkling, yet I still feel tough as nails and strong as I ever was. Strong as I need to be to live this life we’re living.

And yet…

Some days I want to be more. Or maybe it is less.

Pretty for my husband. Girly. Soft. Gentle.

I want him to look at me and still say, “Wow.” And yet I know it has never been those words I just used that he ever used on me… and yet he still said, “Wow.”

If you haven’t noticed, all the photos of construction are always of Bob, and the few that have come here to help. (Thank you, Chris and Lee and Forrest!) Never of me. Huh. Makes a person wonder, no doubt. I’m the one who takes the photos. Yet I’m also the one up there, out there, cutting, drilling, screwing, lifting, lowering, and staring in wonder and awe (often through the lens) at what we managed to build. Together. As Bob reminded yet another person giving him all the credit, as those of us women in so-called men’s worlds are used to hearing, we’re in this one together. I just don’t have the photos to prove my point.

Alas… I want a little leisure and comfort and ease. Just a little would be nice.

I want to wear nice clothes, at least clean ones. Without holes. We’re not talking dresses, dress boots, slick hair and make-up and that sort of thing. But more than what I see when I show up for work wearing the same work pants I have worn all summer long (testament to how impressive these Dovetail Workwear women’s work pants are, I dare say). Or I sit down for dinner and I’m still kinda feeling dirty and disheveled and wish I could look a little more like the lovely ladies I see on social media, primped and pimped and preened, with bright red botox lips and false furry lashes, hair dyed and quaffed just so, painted nails and skin pulled so tight it reminds of the old lady in the movie “Brazil.”

No, I really don’t wish to be her.

That woman is beautiful too. But she is not me.

I guess what you see is what you get.

Some of us are meant to be rough and rustic, rawhide and worn, warm leather, flannel shirts and dirt in our nails and our hair pushed back by the wind.

Am I right in feeling I’m not the only one?

I wish I believed that with age comes is wisdom.

We know that’s not always the case.

Without contemplation and reflection and the compassion of true understanding, age is but a number.

I want it to be more.

I want to have something to share, to give, to be a safe place where others can come to soften.

I want you to know what took me too long to learn.

And I am wise enough to know you will have to learn for yourself.

I want to share the lessons that took me way too long to figure out.

And I know you too will one day kick yourself for having had to wait so long.

I want to continue to learn. Something, every day. For as long as I am blessed to live, to age, to grow old.

For now, I sit back and stare out these wet windows onto the worksite that’s calling me loudly, “Get back to work, woman. There’s things to do.”

Time is a wasting.

Winter’s coming.

There will be time to write when we’re settled into the season. I’ll make damn sure of it.

In the meanwhile, no time to be soft. Time to build. To kick ass. To get it done.

I got it.

Oh, one more thing before I leave you today.

Remember Harry? The snowshoe hare the dog found on the drive to our camp? The little feller grew beautifully. He was ready to go. And so, we released him back to the wilds this week. You know there was a twinge of that bittersweet sadness as we set him free, even though we knew that is where he was meant to be.  

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin

The intimate connection between person and place.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

(viewing this land from the top of Boot Mountain)

Another morning sitting at the table in this tiny trailer to write while my husband leans back in bed less than ten feet away holding his coffee cup in his hands as if in silent prayer, and the dog lays with gentle deep breathing at my feet beneath the little table that serves as kitchen and office, work space and desk, and the first of today’s sun pours in from over the hills to the east, spreading across the table like spilled milk.

So much I want to share with you this morning. My hands are unable to move as fast as my mind, and my mind cannot keep up with the hugeness that is my heart right now. I want to share with you about the dozen mama elk descending from dark timber on our lower pasture whilst we sit by the campfire witnessing the nursery band of their babies held safe to the side by the sentinels while the mothers graze. I want to share with you the haunting sound of a family of coyotes at last light, singing to one another, but stirring us in the process, simply by bearing witness to their wailing, while our pup even sat still in reverie close by, amazed at the mystery of his distant cousins. I want to share with you the intoxication of being high, really high, top of the mountain high, above treeline and dizzy with elevation high in thin air with rubbery legs and a tired euphoric pride from having hiked from our camp to the high peak of these mountain, standing their together, my man and me, in absolute awe of the land we are becoming.

I guess what I want to share is simply the intimate connection between person and place; exposing the sensitive openness of the soul into nature and wilds. This is what I can give you today. This is what I offer to share with you with humble outstretched arms and a very vulnerable heart.

Already we start to see forever. That’s what we do and who we are.

We try to keep ourselves reined in. We’re just committing to today. We’ll see how things go from there.

Only we can’t help ourselves. It’s what we do. Connection with land grows, tight and strong and intense as we toil. So from the get go, we’re planning and plotting where the garden will go, the big hay barn, the calving shed… the three bay garage for our son…

Slow down.

We felt the reality of age in the last couple months – the back and forth of unwanted time on the road,  the physical limitations of our bodies, the unpredictable yet governing weather, the desire to enjoy the magic of whatever mountains we live in and the insatiable need to grow roots.

Can we grow old here? Can we grow old there?

We are not snowbirds. We don’t want two places, two lands, two lives. We are grounded. We work the land. Give more than we take. We become a part of the land, as the land works its way into our veins from open wounds, beneath our fingernails, into our pores, into our bones. The land finds its way into our callouses and sweat, and our blood seeps into the waterways and into the roots of the hungry trees.

I am monogamous with the land as I am with my lover, like my beloved ravens. I have mated for life, but I am not certain where we are meant to build our final nest.

The search for the sense of belonging is not found in the view but in the intimate connection between person and place that comes and grows with time, care, tending the land, committing to the community, good times and bad, hard times and easy, stories and dreams and dramas.

I don’t want advice. If I wanted a life like you, I’d have it. I want a life like me. That’s the wisest thing I can encourage you to do too – find your own way, listen to the song of your heart and have the courage to dance to that tune.

We’ll listen for the wisdom of the land and of our hearts. We’ll see what this summer brings.

Already I know I am not going to want to leave this land come fall. I want to commit. Wherever I am. But here, there is something that stirs me, tempts me, digs into my bones. I will want to see her wither and brown, then grey and white, brittle and frail and frozen. I will want to witness the silence of winter when morning birds head to lower ground and the creeks freeze over and the branches are stripped bare of quaking leaves. I will want to stand out upon her frozen grounds and listen to the distant call of the coyote and the raven, the few hearty enough to remain, and say yes, I am with you, I too not only endure, but find the beauty and awe and wonder and grace in the wide, wild, white open slate that winter will bring.

But for now I want to just be here. Experiencing the wilds. The wilds that hold us, open us with frozen mornings and biting winds, and define us with the challenge of our heart to not only endure, but to burst free.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

First things first.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

First things first.

Plant trees. Got a dozen in the ground on our fifth day here.  Native aspen and baby blue spruce planted on the hill behind the outhouse. Just feels good to give back to the land, whether we are here to enjoy them, or someone else is.

Second thing is this. Get the garden in. Well, it’s not much of a garden. Eight feet by thirty inches. “What are you gonna grow?” our neighbors back in CA ask. “Radishes?” Not much else would fit in that space.

But I’m hoping it’s just enough space to fit in the plants I started and brought.  A little kale (admittedly, the chickens “pruned” these plants rather severely). A few pepper plants, a zucchini, some herbs A  half dozen tomato plants already laden with green fruit because they were born in raised in California. Don’t know if they’ll ever turn red, but a gals gotta do what a gals gotta do. And this gal grows things. And yes, maybe I’ll get a few radishes going because seems like you always can grown them.

Admittedly I’m missing the abundance of fresh veggies I was able to provide for us year round, but Bob reminds me: There were no fresh veggies when we moved to California either. There was no garden! These things take time.

You gotta start somewhere, so this is how we’re starting.

A chilly 33 degrees this morning, but chillier when I walk the dog at dawn down by the creek and spook off a couple of cow elk bedded in the frosty bunch grass.

Now the sun is up and our world is already warming. In this elevation, that sun is intense!

So is the elevation.

My nose bled last night (again) and this morning I have (another) headache. I’m surprised and disappointed to be having trouble adjusting to the elevation, after living at 1,500 feet in Northern California for the past six years. I think we’re at 10,200 feet here. I spent 17 years living year round at 9,800 feet and didn’t have trouble then. Does this additional 400 feet really make such a difference, or am I getting too soft and old to handle this?

~

Now that more is going on here –with both building and writing – I will try to post twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. It’s good discipline for me to finish my thoughts, as well as a challenge to honor and hone my craft. Plus it might keep my ramblings a little shorter each time. As always, my hope is that you will enjoy reading and seeing as much as I enjoy sharing with you. I’d really appreciate your feedback – please let me know.

Until the next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Beyond Badass.

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

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.

I can do that.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Loud motor; quiet voice.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Covered in sawdust and gear grease and dressed in baggy shorts not long enough to hide skinny white legs sticking out below, scraped up knees and all. Skin like rawhide and at times, admittedly, a personality to match.

This is no hot date.

These are two videos I took yesterday of us at the mill for anyone curious what our hot times look – and sound – like. In this case, loud. Yes, we wear ear protection. Bob is already hearing impaired. I can’t afford to be too.

My cinematography sucks, but that’s not what it’s about. It’s just an attempt to show you how it works.

There’s a sign I found a few years back that I just had to have and hung at the entrance to our ranch.

“Beware of the wife,” it reads, and if you know, you know it’s no joke. Depending on what mood I’m in, how tired I am, how late it is, and how late you are.

Still, I’ve been told more than once,”She cleans up well.” I think that was a compliment. I think?

In any case, this week found us dirtier than usual, arguing out of short tempters and frustration, not with one another but from working with rotten wood, in the heat and wondering why we’re doing this – and how the hell are we going to make it work. And of course, taking it out on each other. That’s the downside of partnership, of working with the one you love. They get the brunt of it, whatever “it” may be. We both are guilty of this. And working alongside one another as we’ve done for over twenty years, when the going gets rough, you can’t just walk away.

I wouldn’t want to if I could.

The comfort in commitment. The joy in being able to make each other smirk and smile, laugh and long, even during a downright dirty day. That’s good stuff.

Comfort in commitment… above and beyond love, and that’s the absolute essence. There’s commitment to habit and routine as well.

This is mine.

Early morning.

The alarm rouses me before the roosters. Right now that’s just past five. Slowly outside shapes emerge in shades of gray. Colors are slow to awaken. It’s a while still before sun graces the top of the farthest hill I can see from this little land tucked in as womb along the untamed river.

Now is the quiet time after frogs have settled and before robins wake. Even the dogs still sleep. The only sound is the river, humming as a steady wind. It is a time of tranquility, as if life on hold, the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is a time to get in yoga and meditation practice, sharing the mat with two dogs and two cats. It is a time to softly putter about the cabin, often lit only by the setting moon or a single flickering flame. Time to get the wood stove going and the kettle on, coffee ready before Bob wakes, then time to write (often by candle light) before heading out to care for chickens and horses and walk the dogs.

Comfort comes in the familiar, in sounds like rain on the metal roof when I’m still in bed and the ticking of the cast iron woodstove contracting, a signal for me to put another log on the fire.

I like routine. It’s a safe place. In a world filled with chaos and conflict and unknowns, this is my solid ground, my foundation, a cradle that gives me some sense of stillness and calm. A time to be and breathe before the dirt and grease, sawdust and sweat, grit and grind.

The quiet before the noise.

(If you saw that video of the mill, you know what I’m talking about.)

Late afternoon.

Taking a break, laying back on lush grass, together with a couple of dogs.

Long golden shadows. Big cumulus clouds like plumes of smoke growing and gathering. The air is perfumed with blossoms of wild madrone and apple. Oak leaves suddenly full and waving in the wind as abundant undergrowth comes to life. The first of the turtles and gopher snakes cross the dirt road. Wild geese have come to rest among chickens and horses on pasture of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. The puppy plays with the big old dog (funny because the big old one was the young one just a few years ago), and mama hen pecks in the grass with her five little chicks around her.

Sawdust and the sound of the mill feel far away. This feels like a dream. A dream I didn’t know was in me.

Get real. It’s unreal.

Who’s to say what’s real?

Living in a place which most days feel pretty dreamy, we’re often told this isn’t real.

Okay then, what is?

“It’s not the real world,” they may say of this kind of life, this place, how folks like us chose to live.

I get it. Growing up in the suburbs just outside “the” city, I didn’t know a life like this was possible, didn’t know this world existed.

“Grow up and get a real job,” you’re taught.

“Wake up and get real,” people tell you.

“C’mon… get over it… join the real world,” is what you hear.

Took growing up for me to figure out what “real” really was.

Am I living a dream? I dunno. Pinch me. I’m awake. Seems pretty real to me. And at the same time, sure enough, this is a dream come true.

Guess you gotta start by having dreams. Boy, did (and do) I.

I dream. Then get to work. Hard work. Willing to live with dirt and bugs, blood and bruises, and regular cold and wind; live in cars and tents, mud shacks and mobile homes in someone else’s back yard; live without indoor plumbing, central heating and heaven forbid, luxuries like hair dryers, coffee makers and cell phone service. “Live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later,” we once read. I am willing to try.

That’s what dreaming has meant for me. That was the price I paid. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Everyone’s got their own price, their own path, their own definition of what “living a dream” might be. I don’t know what that means for you. I just hope you’re living it too.

If not, there’s still time.

Who says you’re too old (or young or poor or whatever the excuse)?

I don’t ever want to stop growing up. And I don’t ever want to be stuck being grown up, either.

Growing up doesn’t mean to me now what it meant when I was young. Maybe because now I’m easily as old as what I thought grown ups were supposed to be, but I sure don’t feel like them. Then I thought grown up meant boring and stuffy and sensible shoes, clean jeans and finger nails and well groomed hair, sitting at a desk all day and raking leaves on weekends; cocktails promptly at five o’clock and nothing much gets done after that. No thanks. That’s not for me.

As a kid, too, I remember thinking that being grown up was some required state of feeling like you know it all, losing that sense of curiosity, wonder, and awe. I haven’t felt that, and hope I never do because the moment we feel we know it all, have all the answers and/or have the right to speak our truth as if it were “the” truth, we start closing. We stop seeing. Stop hearing. We lose our sense of wonder and we turn into old farts. Not the most eloquent choice of words, but you get the point.

What makes life living more than curiosity, wonder and awe?

And of course, love.

That’s the magic of life. The hot and spicy. The zip and zesty. The fascination and enchantment that makes life worth living.

That childlike sense of openness.

The beginners mind.

Finding magic every day.

Making magic, too.

The ability to laugh at dumb jokes. And laugh at yourself.

The reminder to smile warmly at strangers, and enjoy watching kids and puppies play.

The nudging to just let it go when you’re cut off at the end of a passing lane or that parking spot you were vying for is taken before you can back in.

It’s taking time to smell the roses, watching baby geese take their maiden voyage, laying back in the grass or against the front steps with your eyes closed and listening to crickets on a still summer eve.

It’s listening to the same old stories from an old man or same old jokes from your partner, and still chuckling every time.

It’s having your breath taken away as a pair of red tail hawk do their courtship dance overhead or watching thunderheads build for the first time this year gracing us with an unexpected blast of thunder so sudden the puppy barks.

It’s accepting that you’ll never know it all, control it all, or do it all, but having fun trying, maybe failing, and trying again.

If missing out on any of that is what growing up means, I’m glad it didn’t happen to me.

Growing up is a work of art, fluid and ever changing, like an endless emerging of butterfly wings.

It’s not a place we get to – you know, as in “being there.” Rather, it’s an evolution that lasts as long as we are blessed to live our one wild life.

Now it’s the end of the week. We’ve kissed and made up. And washed up. Even got a little rain to keep down the dust and water the garden without moving a hose.

Now we’re back out there, getting ready to stack the next load of boards and beams for Bob to take to Colorado. All the bells and whistle and gears and grease are doing what they’re supposed to do. The broken rototiller remains broken but we borrowed the neighbor’s working one. (Thank you, George.) The garden shines and grows, somehow joyously. And looks like we finally figured out a floor plan we can build in one season with the material we’ve been working to amass.

Keep on keeping on.

It’s what we do. Would I want it any other way?

I choose to keep living the life we live and love doing what we’re doing, with wonder and awe, feeling fulfilled and full of joy by doing what we do, together.

All of it. The ups and downs and ins and outs and round and rounds and all.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Sitting around eating bon-bons.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

If only. Only that’s not how the simple life seems to work. Or at least, I haven’t figure it to work that way. Not yet at least.

Funny thing is, a lot of us striving to live simply find ourselves explaining that really, no, it’s not about sitting around eating bon-bons. We just make it look easy.

It’s one of those things. If you know, you know.

But a lot of folks don’t.

Simplicity is a lot of work.

“Don’t you get bored?” we’re too often asked.

Bored? Really? When?

When we’re kicking back tilling the garden, pulling weeds, pruning trees, moving sprinklers, mowing meadows, kneading bread, feeding chickens, fixing fences, flushing out lines of our water system and maintaining batteries of our solar system. And then, figuring out what to cook for dinner from all those eggs we gathered and fresh veggies we just harvested when we’re so dang tired at the end of the day, and hopefully sitting down to eat before 9pm (after being up, of course, at the crack of dawn). Oh yeah. And we’re building our own homes. All the while, kicking back with those bon-bons.

This was something the Old Man used to laugh about often. He had spent the greater part of his 95 years hard at work for the “easy” life. Up till 2am canning, starting seeds, grafting fruit trees, splitting wood, caring for critters, and somehow, caring for his community as well. He was still planning on planting potatoes and garlic until the very end.

There’s a lot of folks out this way living that way. Simple, but not easy. My closest neighbors are primo examples. They’ve got that off-grid-pioneer-self-sufficient spirit mastered! But I’m not gonna talk about them since they might be reading this ;) Just know that if I did, it would be impressive and inspiring.

It’s tempting to sit down and write a whining rant about what felt like a set back, or at least a week of slow progress. Between the sudden heat wave and learning how well sawdust sticks to sweat, the frustration of rot in the beetle killed trees coming on faster than we can cut out, a wave of bugs hatching out of bark we’re peeling, crawling in my shirt and pelting me in the face as I mill; that mill breaking down requiring us both to spend the day deep in grease and gears instead of whipping out (okay so, it actually never happens that fast with our old mill) boards and beams or getting the garden that feeds us in; and the looming dread of thinking there’s no way in hell we’re going to get this all done.

But no, I’m not going there. Why bother whine?

Because at the same time, there is grass growing greener and more lush than I ever remember seeing, a young hen hatching new chicks , apple blossoms blooming thick as cherries, the puppy reminding us how joyous every day should be, and my beloved garden providing so bountifully even though I *whine* that I don’t get enough done. As I’m serenaded daily by tree frogs and the first of the crickets and the Redwing and robins and always, always the soothing hum of the river, I am very well aware how sweet life is. Most days I can’t believe how lucky I am. It’s a beautiful world and a day does not go by without my appreciation and gratitude to be right here, right now.

Even when I’m covered with pine beetles, sawdust and grease.

Instead, what I’ll tell you about today is the Old Man.

That’s what some of my friends and family called him, but to me, he seemed almost childlike. After almost a century of life, John had retained a sense humor, wonder and awe, still open, willing to learn, with a deep heart rich with wounds, sensitivities and insecurities like the rest of us.

For years, I had the honor of visiting him on Tuesdays. Kind of funny to note that we started with Mondays, but he changed the date, inspired by the wonderful little book he loved, “Tuesday’s with Morrie.” So Tuesdays it was with John!

Tuesdays became the big day for me that the rest of my week sort of revolved around. Mondays were spent in preparation of actually leaving the homestead – harvesting, washing, sorting, boxing up produce, gathering eggs and picking bouquets, Then Tuesday morning I’d load up boxes and a dog or two and head to town.

All I had to do was show up. Sure, I’d bring him flowers just about every week, almost all year, produce in season, and sometimes, homemade biscuits to go with that packaged breakfast gravy he’d like to share with my husband and me. But mostly what he wanted, and what I’d do is listen. Just listen. Without judgment, and with humor. Yes, there was a lot of laughter.

Just showing up, consistently.

That was enough for him. And enough for me.

When I returned from my Long Quiet Ride, his eyes swelled with tears as he said, “I was afraid I’d never see you again.” He never asked about my trip, or anything about my life except my garden, fruit trees and chickens. That never mattered to me. I was there for him. It was an honor. Just listening. His stories would fill the hours. My favorites were tales of his childhood in the suburbs of Indiana with immigrant parents who worked their way through the Great Depression while raising three boys with a sense of goodness. Goodness. I don’t know if that’s something people care about much these days. But it’s good stuff.

Just showing up.

Being there for someone.

Listening.

This I learned was the greatest gift I could give. The greatest “community service” I could offer. I didn’t need a title or join a group or be a part of any clique or club. After all, I’m not much of a potluck, community center, PTA type of gal. But nor am I a lone wolf. I’m just a quiet sort who has more to give one on one, face to face, than in front of a crowd or enmeshed in a group.

Just be there. For him.

Some folks thanked me for taking the time for him.

But you and I know better. It was still for me. The honor of caring for another – not your kids or your parents, your partner, your dog or best friend – just a person. A human being with no strings attached. No ulterior motives. Someone who just wanted to be heard.

And me, I got the gift of almost endless stories, insightful wisdom, and a lot of ridiculous jokes thrown in there, just because.

Initially, he said he was going to tell me the story of the property my husband and I moved to. Well, after five and a half years, I never did get the whole story, but I got a lot of other great ones. About life. His childhood. Growing, canning, pruning, grafting, building, all these things he did so well. What ever he wanted to share, I gladly received.

The greatest stories and greatest lessons he shared were based upon these three things. I called them The Three C’s.

Care. Connection. Contribution.

He’d lecture me (and the other handful or two of dear friends he had that were a regular part of his life) with this wit and wisdom:

“Take care of your health. Your loved ones. The land.”

“Connect with your people – friends and family and community.”

“Contribute to the community or society in whatever way you can, in whatever work you do.”

That was his formula for a good, long life. When I look around, I’d say he got that right.

And when I stop to think about it further, I see that John’s Three C’s is the formula for finding that sense of belonging I’ve been seeking too.

Belonging is a balance of the Three C’s. The place or state where you care, connect, contribute.

When I moved here 28 years ago as a single mom to serve as caretaker at a kids camp I could never have otherwise afforded to attend, I didn’t feel I belonged (well, sometimes I still don’t). But John accepted me and my son, and embraced us unconditionally. I’ve seen him use that open heart quality with so many folks. Forget your story, your past, what others might say. John would give you a chance.

Back then I had moved here with a couple dogs and a three year old kid but no tangible skills to speak of. I figured I’d figure it out. How hard could it be?

Learning was hard. And slow. And most of what I learned came because of the kindness of a generous community full of folks who knew how to do all those things I was hungry to learn in order to, yes, you got it: live simply. Garden, grow, can, tend to calving, raise chicks, milk goats, make cheese, bake bread, fix pipes, clear ditches, plane boards, skin bears… There’s a lot to it, and a lot to learn. First thing I learned was that it was a lot more work than my romantic notion made it out to be.

The season we first arrived was right before winter, and that full shed of firewood I was promised was empty. I was gifted a chainsaw instead. I looked at the damn thing like it was a feral beast and battled with it just the same. Remember, I was from New York. Chainsaws don’t really exist there. Well, John got news of this and though still a stranger to me, put on his angel wings and got to work. He arranged for me to get a full on lesson in chainsaws. Like taming the wild beast, John set up a friend to take the time to teach me the basics, from sharpening, cleaning, caring for and using – and (most of the time) even starting the damn thing. Then to the woods we went, time to fell my first tree. It was just a little ways up off the road, easy to get to, and easy to see. I’m shy so that wasn’t ideal. Cars stopped along the country road to watch the newbie cut a tree, which really got me scared because this tree (at least in my memory) was HUGE and I’m kind of small. I got this, I thought, and tried to fluff up my feathers and look bigger. I went to work with my new found skills, made my face cut, and then the back cut, and then tapped in a wedge, and there the tree began to fall… slowly… falling… looking pretty impressive… I’m really puffing up now… until… that darned tree got snagged up in another even bigger tree. It stayed stuck there for years, reminding me that this firewood thing, and the simple life, ain’t always easy. And humility is indeed a prerequisite.

Later that winter when I ran out of firewood (so much for my chainsaw skills!), John got wind again. And again, angel John quietly came to the rescue. He asked me if I’d come meet him on this back road because there was a tree that fell in the way and he could use some help with it. Of course I’d be glad to help, but lo and behold, when I got there, that tree was cut, blocked, stacked and ready for me to load to take home.

These kinds of stories happened all the time with John as so many in this community know. It’s what he did. Cared about people. And did something about it.

When I had to move away, John convoyed with me, driving all the way to Colorado to help me get to my new home and start my new life. And when I returned, nearly twenty years later, he made me feel like I was never gone.

He’s not really gone. Parts of him are all over my house and garden, not to mention my heart. From the white daffodils blooming along my garden fence beneath the peach trees started from pits he had saved, to the bird house box in which the swallows are nesting, and the pie tins and bakeware and all these silly little kitchen gadgets that I said I didn’t need but funny, I find myself using them all the time.

The last thing he said to me was something he often said so often to anyone willing to listen:. “Follow your bliss!”

Thank you, John. I am!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Here or there?

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

And wouldn’t you know. The biggest tree that fell in the latest storm crushed a shed we built two years back.

A friend once told me I had the best luck of anyone she knew.

And the worst.

So Bob’s on the road and I’m trying to get stuff done while not tied to the mill (and kitchen) which feels like how my days have been spent the past few weeks.

Good news is he’s hauling this beautiful big load of lumber, a pretty impressive nine thousand plus pounds of beams and boards we milled, to our high-mountain-Colorado-one-day-will-be-home.

Me, I have big plans of my own. Tilling the garden and getting the last of the cover crop seeded before the next rains. Putting in a couple more rows of spring crops. And mowing the waaaaaaaay overgrown grass. With a simple push mower and somewhat steep hill, this kicks butt even when the grass is manageable. The lawn seeks revenge for neglect.

Of course it doesn’t turn out as planned. What does?

See, I was planning on cheating from my “no till” stance by getting the old Troy Build rototiller fired up. It’s about as old and a helluva lot heavier than me, but man is this a beast of burden and it gets the job done. Guess I’m gonna have to get that spading fork out after all (or wait for Bob to return if my ego allows) because after pulling, pulling, pulling only to realize it’s out of fuel, I pour in gas only to watch it pour out some tiny little hole I’d never seen before. After putting a coffee can underneath to catch that spill, I call Bob on the road.

“Turn the tank off,” he wisely advises. Duh. Mechanics are not my thing.

So I do. But then I can’t turn the rusty dial back on when I’m done doing some other procedures Bob talks me through to try an fix the beast. And then that shut off, well, it’s gonna be shut off for a while because the damn thing breaks.

Well, I did manage to get the spring crops in and mow before the rain, but the cover crop will have to wait.

In the meanwhile, I invite you to take a tour of the garden, humbly as it was yesterday without a fresh tilling, is today in the rains, and then bragging on how it was in the bounty of last summer if you care to see one of the reasons why it’s so hard for me to leave this place.

So that thing about place.

I finally figured this out. You probably did long ago. I’m slow. Slow living. Slow learning. Whatever.

Our place is where we belong.

It may be a physical place, person, community, a state to live in, a state of mind.

But here’s the thing:

It all comes down to connection.

Connection, as in joining, being a part, somehow linked, united or bound together.

Connection determines our place.

Connection defines where we belong.

Whatever we feel connected to – close friends, your place in community, the old family farm, a mountain, the sea, the school where you have been teaching for thirty years – these things give us a sense of belonging. Different for us all, and always changing at least a little bit because that’s how life goes, that sense of belonging that connection creates helps us feel stable, secure, grounded. And we all need that.

There’s also that thing about connection being intertwined with commitment, contribution and care. but let’s talk about that another time, because this already threatens to be way too long. That happens. Especially when Bob’s not around, the rains force me indoors, and I find myself talking to the dogs and my self way too much.

Okay, so here’s the interesting twist I’m finally figuring out. Connection with others (the “where ” and “with whom” we belong) begins by connecting with self.

You know. It’s that “home is inside” wisdom my old friend used to say.

No, it’s not selfish. It’s still means giving more than you take, because end of the day, what we do for others is still what matters most and gives us in return some sense of meaning (and yes, belonging). But it’s about making sure you have something to give to begin with. Starting with the basics. The foundation. Figuring where (and with whom) we feel safe, and can be ourselves. Where our soul feels nourished and nurtured. For me, that means my husband, our son, and a strong sense of solitude, spirit, simplicity, and the natural and animal world. It’s time writing, growing food, working with horses, and luckily, yes, even building! Because these things make my inside shine. They may not define me, but they do define that sense of place I’m trying to find.

You know the feeling. It’s that place, space or state where you lose sense of time and feel safe and have trouble leaving. The place you long for, where you long to be. It’s more of a feeling than a physical person or place. It’s that knowing we are where we are meant to be, doing what we’re meant to be doing. That is belonging. We all long to belong. All of us. We are hardwired to want to belong. And when we lack that belonging or feel we don’t, connection is broken, and we somehow feel broken too.

It’s that happy place.

For me, the physical place has changed and may continue to change, as long as it contains an element of rugged and wild. But the essence remains the same. Like my core nature. It’s what feeds me, and in kind, allows me to feed others even more.

With that, I am starting to see it need not be so much “where” we are, but “who” we are that allows us to figure out where we belong. And somewhere in the equation, to notice the difference between “belonging” and “clinging”. Clinging holds us down. Belonging allows us to soar in place. Not to hold on because of fear. But because of freedom.

Maya Angelou famously stated, “You only are free when you realize you belong no place — you belong every place — no place at all. The price is high. The reward is great”. 

It sounds paradoxical, but I believe it’s all true.

Sometimes I wish I had a crystal ball or could read tea leaves or somehow figure out answers to those big pressing questions, the easy way. But life isn’t easy. And easy isn’t always good.

When people ask me, “Where are you from?” it feels like a trick question. I hesitate, look up and off to the left, and try to come up with a clever response. It’s complicated. Might be easier if someone asked, “What do you do?” (That sounds so 80s and 90s. Do people even say that anymore?). Can’t say I know how to answer that one too.

You know that expression about the apple not falling far from the tree, right? But that’s assuming the tree has solid roots. And what if it does not? If I stayed to close to my rootless tree, I’d still be in Jersey. Nothing wrong with that, just not where I was meant to be.

Surely I’m not the only one out there trying to figure this out.

The answers will be different for us all, but maybe the process is the same.

We gotta listen to our heart and soul.

We gotta listen with our heart and soul.

My research is based on life, living and learning to listen to the wisdom of that quiet heart and soul.

I don’t have the privilege of a college degree. I left high school at 16 and learned to make do, make up and do without.

I learned what’s real based on what I saw, heard and felt, NOT what I read or was told.

I am still learning.

As for place, this much I know. Finding my place has been the trip of my life.

I’m still not there.

On one hand, I long to belong to one place, to remain long enough to watch trees I plant grow big and fat and fruitful, to have it all built and done and be able to kick back and watch, tend, and care for lovingly, to sit on the front porch with a cup of coffee and my honey and look around with contentment and know we are finally done building and need to build no more.

On the other hand, I’m not ready to settle down and do the same thing year after year just yet. I’m curious. Adventurous, in a quiet, simple way. I want to experience and try and do more. Not big fancy elaborate things like trips around the world and luxuries that aren’t my thing. I want to know what it feels like to break ground and get to work and feel the pride of creating a family ranch that holds us – my self, my husband, our son, our pets and livestock, with gardens and trees (yes, I’m going to grow at 10,000 feet!). I want to be bundled up and see the expansive sunrise on Winter Solstice from the front deck we will build, or the summer sun rise as the full moon sets from the top of an unnamed mountain behind our ranch.

I know. I want a lot. Simple stuff, but a lot of it.

But most important, I want to be at that place of belonging that is not a place out there, but a space in here. Within me.

It doesn’t matter where I am. It matters who I am.

I am not the land.

There’s more to me than the mud on my boots and under my nails.

Though that is how I chose to live.

Here or there?

California? Colorado?

I won’t be losing either way.

Why can’t I have both?

Maybe I can. For now, that’s what I intend to do.

Here and there.

But of course, there is this. The cold hard reality of affording your dreams. Money. Geez, I hate talking about that. I have always believed I had enough (though my son can tell you stories of the poverty we lived with) and things just work out. Kinda. Sorta. More or less.

It always seems to work out. Not always as we plan. Sometimes even better.

In the meanwhile, as I try to figure out how to make this all work, I’ll work on finding that place inside. The place where I belong.

Sometimes that is hardest place to be.

At home in my own skin, being okay being me.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Here and There.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Sounds of silence.

Oddly loud.

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.

Within me.

Finding Familiar.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

A whirlwind weekend flying from here to there and back again. There’s a lot of folks out there doing a lot of that on a regular basis. I’m not really wanting to be one of them. I’m no jet setter and don’t care to be. I’d rather be home. Wherever home is.

I try to remember that thing about searching for beauty where you are. Every day. It’s a challenge to find satisfaction, fulfillment, beauty and awe with what’s in front of you, rather than chasing rainbows, shiny and new, thrills and the latest greatest. We can run around the world seeking something else, but are we able to appreciate what’s right before us, and find beauty and magic and awe without taking one step?

Yet travel, even a short trip to visit family as this one was, is always a step outside your box, outside your comfort zone, an opening of mind and heart – seeing what is truly there, around you, not just what you expect to see. It’s humbling. You’re no longer king of your castle, or that big fish in a little sea.

For some, the best part of travel is the view, things you see, fun things you do. For others, it’s the food, drink, and apparently shopping is a thing. For me, it’s people I see when I’m out there, and those I meet along the way. It’s an opportunity to taste a small slice of the world with every person I speak with, a flash view of humanity in every story that is shared.

Four days “out there” opened me to the badass beautiful marine who signed up for service to pay for her college degree. The mother of six struggling with homelessness and physical abuse and a blinding sense of faith. A man from Venezuela who moved here twenty five years ago, still feeling like an outsider, sharing his “outsider” perspective on politics. (Yes, I love to ask!) The haggard woman with deep lines and signs of old habits she battled and won, and the raspy cough of the smoking habit she has not been able to shake. And the forty year old born and raised in Trinity County who would rather sit on his front porch and smoke his doobie than worry about such things, comparing pictures of rescue dogs, rivers, gardens and cannabis plants

I kid you not. I can’t make this stuff up. Well maybe I could, but I don’t have to. I just have to be willing to hear.

Learning to see.

Beauty.

In every one, everywhere, everything, even within ourselves.

Every day.

With little progress on all those things I could and should (but didn’t) work on here this week, today’s rambling takes an inner turn.

Spring?

It’s happening here.

So is that mounting pressure that engulfs me this time of year most every year.

Spring is the season of emergence. And at times, along with the awakening, the melting of ice and snow and bursting forth of new life, there is often a sense of emergency. Pressure and stress and the feeling that it all needs to be done all at once.

This year as every year, this time of year. It’s hardwired into the season. All those years of starting seeds, preparing ground, and growing. Of serving as mid-wife for farm babies being born, or grim reaper for the profuse, prolific, infinite and overwhelming wealth of weeds that call my garden home. Of brushing winter’s coats off hot horses backs and amassing mounds of dog hair as they shed. Of spring cleaning tasks that have changed over the years, from preparing a camp for kids or a guest ranch for families.

As we dust of cobwebs after months by the fire, or shake off melting snow and listen for the sound of rushing water as the encasement of deep ice begins to melt, it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement and anticipation of the season.

I want to sit with the season. Feel it. Hear it. Smell and taste it and roll around in it, celebrate it for what it is, not just what I expect it to be, demand from it, and think others want me to make of it.

Today. As every day. Seeing what is before me. Right here, right now.

Wherever here may be.

Here.

Now.

Early morning.

A morning like so many in the nearly six years I have been here.

Familiarity grows like the pear trees planted along the side of the creek, an amaryllis started at Solstice still blooming on the window sill, blackberries and poison oak that promise to sprout and spread even in places you wish they would not.

In the quiet hours with new moon and stars nearly black behind a lavish shroud of fog, I wake with arms and legs around my sleeping man. I am comfortable with his earthy scent and even breath and a little reluctant to rise. I slip on sweats, pull the covers back up around him, then quietly find my way around in the dark.

Stepping over snoozing dogs, lighting the wood stove, filling the coffee pot at the kitchen sink, all as I have done so many mornings before, I feel the ease in knowing where I am and what to expect. What time the sun clears the mountain to the east. When to hope for the last frost late spring and when the first frost of fall will arrive. What bird belongs to the flicker of wings that distracted me from my work or the song that rises each morning around the same time I wake. When to turn the soil, start the seeds, when to water, and when to drain or cover pipes. When to watch for leaves turning gold and brown and blowing down, and when to look for new life at the tip of each naked branch, swollen and slowly unfurling in fertile subtleties.

Familiar. Is it the place or the pattern? For I have done this here. And I have done this so many place I have been, and still will be.

This place, this pattern, has become familiar; intimate and expected as the view out the kitchen window which as the sun comes up and chores are done, awakens to an ever green pasture where horses graze, chickens free range, dogs play, and a brave cat or two may creep cautiously not too far from the house.

Familiar too is the sound, the ever present prevailing sound of the river, which ebbs from summer’s gentle roil over smooth rocks ever shaped by the ever movement of the ever changing flow – to winters rage and roar. A sound so familiar I often forget it is there.

In this semi-silence I am able to hold the world, embrace it like a big bear having found a honey hole, and my heart feels full.

Comfort in the familiar.

The same worn boots left by the back door. Same old truck parked out front. Same cast iron pans beside the wood cook stove. Same table, same chairs, same sofa, same rug. Same silly jokes that still make me laugh every time.

And comfort in accepting change, as the road map of my life unfurls on my face, stories embedded within wrinkles and every graying hair. I can laugh at my own fleeting vanity, because truth is, though I’m not thrilled with how I look now, I can’t say I ever was. Good looks are not what got me where I am. I’m more of a guts and grit sort of gal.

The inner landscape has changed, too. There is a calmer storm blowing within me now. Muddy waters have stilled and settled. Menopause, depression and drinking have been left behind. Hot flashes and explosive emotions have subsided. I sure don’t miss them. Neither does my husband.

Some days I look within and expect those frightening facets to surface again. But they do not. It’s not that I slayed those evil beasts. Rather, they just faded away. (One more good thing that comes with age.)

So it is into this calmer, quieter space that I feel myself finding a new familiar. Settling in. Not that I’m settled down; it’s more like the gradual un-letting of the belt cinched around my jeans. You can only fight it for so long. Then you stop holding in, exhale, let it out a notch, and realize it’s not such a bad place to be.

I am getting there. Closer to that place deep inside that whispers, “Welcome home.”

Connection comes, with land as with people, in time and age and stories. It comes with living through droughts and floods, fires we fend off together and snow storms that keep us apart. It comes with seeing our children grow and our parents age and our dreams emerge and somethings fall and fail while others take root and grow.

Some of us are seekers. You know, always looking. For something. Usually ourselves. That’s what I think I’m finally finding.

And in the meanwhile, I will settle in some days, and move around on other days. I will try and sometimes fail. I will give and sometimes falter. I will work and tire and wake again and get back out there again and again. I will tend and plant and nurture. I will dream. I will love. And I will live. Not like my parents wanted me to. Not like society expected me to. Not like I thought I would have, should have, could have. Probably not like anyone else. But finally in my late fifties, I’m growing my own skin, comfortable with my bones, able to look in the mirror and though I may wince for a moment at what I see, for the woman looking back at me is much older than I thought I’d ever be, I’m learning to feel at home in that skin and bones that is me.

I am growing up.

That does not mean I will suddenly be serious and stern. I will not wash up and get a desk job. I will not be that boring, stuffy, straight, sensible-shoe sort I used to think all grown-ups had to be. I don’t plan on cutting my hair nor keeping my fingernails clean. Chances are I won’t ever become the one to say the right thing at the right time, and certainly won’t ever have all the answers. Nor will I stop making mistakes, dusting myself off, and trying yet again. Maybe I won’t ever settle down.

Okay, so… maybe I’m not there yet.

Maybe we never arrive.

Maybe this has all been growing pains, the changing of the tides through the turbulent sea of having the courage to feel life fully, as I furiously worked my way out of one shell and built a new one around me.

We all have a story. This is mine. Chances are, you have felt this too. It’s a simple tale, old as time. A story of seeking, forever seeking, some sense of belonging. And getting to that place of realizing what we’ve been running after is within us all along.

Finding familiar.

Within.