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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.
Colorado, here we come…
Until next time,
With love, always love,
Gin
Gin Getz 