Standing Still Beneath Blowing Branches (Lessons Learned from Trees)

May 5, 2015 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Standing still beneath blowing branches.

Lessons learned from trees.

These are changing times.

Turmoil around, within. I stand beneath budding branches, the promise of the continual struggle of life, and suddenly it all makes sense, or maybe nothing matters, and everything finds its place. Can I let myself cry, selfishly, foolishly, like an innocent child so wanting comfort in hard times yet not knowing how to ask?

Late spring in the high mountains. I write from home on the edge of the Weminuche Wilderness, high and away in the heart of the Headwaters of the Rio Grande in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. I am flanked by a hundred thousand acres of charred woods and a few hundred thousand acres more of dead standing beetle kill and Aspen fading and falling randomly. A forest full of kindling waiting to ignite. Finding new growth, green needles, sweet sap, life existing, tenaciously holding or ferociously fighting to survive. Life is precious.

In all their simplicity. Trees.

Go through it. Let it out. Tears fall like raindrops. Nourishment to parched lands and thirsty roots. No one to hear them fall but the trees. Allow it. Breathe in, breathe out, standing beside a tree.

These are the wise ones. They carry not a passing fancy but wisdom of the ages. Powerful, deep and rich. They make no loud claims, but hold their ground, tangled in their roots. Powerless to the pretenses of our demands, greed and ignorance. Eternal, I used to think.

Here they have lost ground. We have been hit hard by the changes. A sign of things to come, a premonition, or is this just a warning to heed? Are we too late, and does it matter anyway?

Here our children’s children will never know the old growth through which I used to wander.

Even in their ethereal presence, this graveyard of barren branches, I feel them breathe. I hear them sigh. Down deep if no where else than in their roots, the soil, the earth. That’s where life remains. And life will come again.

Standing on fallen needles and listening to the Wisdom of the trees.

Breathing in, breathing out, seeking the scent of fresh sap and plump needles. I have almost forgotten.

These are the lessons they teach.

Stand with me now, still and silent beneath bare branches of a seemingly lifeless tree. Close your eyes. In the wild spring wind, feel the remaining presence of these great beings. Listen to their wisdom.

This is what we hear:

The earth matters. Give more than you take.

You can’t control the seasons. Learn to let go.

You can’t rush the seasons. Practice patience.

You can’t change the weather. Stand tall in the rain and dance in the wind.

Storms come, storms go, the sun will shine again.

Be still and listen.

Be wordless. (So hard for a writer to do.) That’s where our truths are found. (Write about them later.)

Everything changes.

Seasons come and seasons go.

Leaves fall and blossoms return time and time again.

Life stems where you least expect it.

Last year’s leaves are next year’s fertile soil.

Be willing to shed and grow again.

Be grounded. Grow your roots deep and strong.

We share the same soil. Our roots are connected. We are one.

Stand tall and strong, not hard and rigid.

Be flexible in adverse conditions.

Learn to bend in the wind.

Adapt.

Seeds blow in the wind – new life starts where you least expect.

Be willing to break new ground.

Don’t expect ideal conditions.

Grow where they least expect it.

Know you are never alone. Others will grow beside you, and together, you can create a forest.

Look around at others growing above and below you. Respect differences. We need each other.

Provide shelter to those who need it.

Nurture indiscriminately. Practice non-judgment.

Give what you can, and then give more.

Don’t take it personally, and you can’t change others. All you can do is grow.

Allow the world to come and go around you.

Learn to let go.

Nothing lasts forever.

Movin’ on up.

July 31, 2014July 31, 2014 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

In terms of construction, it’s slow but steady. Stacking big hefty logs, each one peeled and grinded, worm holes revealed, larva and young beetles removed, life and death skinned back with each pull of the blade of my drawknife, sawed and sculpted by Bob’s chainsaw, and lifted with ease by Forrest and the crane. This defines the first floor, with plenty of room for windows exposing an odd view of the changing hillside, now a silent, still wave of red trees.

Each log with a story to share, seemingly old as time, though even in the widest trunk we count back only three hundred years. Before the miners. Before the homesteaders. Before the dam, the fishermen, tourists and so-called old timers. You put it all into perspective. Counting the rings in the base of a tree now used to fashion the rising walls. It’s as if we’re creating a living museum for the trees. The big old ones. The kind my grandchildren and their children may never see live and green in these mountains.

Were they really once this big, perhaps they will ask me?

Oh yes, and bigger still.

That one we called Grandfather Tree.

Forever preserved in my home. I touch the smooth warm skin of wood and wonder. With these changing times, we learn to question: is anything really forever?

Rikki is air born!

So, this morning I’m sitting in the outhouse, door open as usual, looking down at the Rio flowing big and brown from all the wild rains we’ve been having, when suddenly… this goose flies by. Yes, my goose. Up river. Then down river. I don’t see where he lands but run down to the work site and start looking along the cliffs and calling and worrying and then… there he is, popping back up the hill side behind me.

Well, I guess he figured out how those wings work.

He looked so beautiful! Said by the adoptive mother of a Canadian Goose. Me, with my fear of heights.

Nature happens. I didn’t teach him to fly any more than I taught him to swim. I don’t do either one much, so how could I? A little boy staying in one of our guest cabins sees the goose and thinks it’s a duck, and what can I say as I thought he was a duck too when we first found the little fluff ball out on the cliff all alone? He tells me he hears they can swim. He says this with great admiration. I suppose where he comes from in Texas, and likewise for us here in the high mountains, swimming is not something you really do. Yes, I tell the little boy, he swims beautifully. And, I continue, he is learning to fly. The little boy’s eyes get wide and his mouth drops open. Really? He looks down at Rikki with tremendous awe. Flies?! He says. Part question, part astonishment. Wow, this is one impressive being… Watch, I say, and I run down the hill in front of the cabin and the goose gets air born, only a foot or so off the ground for a few paces then resumes to running (because that is what his mama has taught him to do, if one learns by example…). Just enough to leave the little boy basking in the wonderment…

Summer encroaching. Caging me in, the wild beast paces… Ready to bust free and soar…

At times it feels the more I give of me the less I have, rather than being fed by the giving and feeling more whole. There are empty places within me. Do you feel the same sometimes?

In front of me a hillside of dead standing trees. Close enough to be intimate. They are fading, their sprit song paling. There is silence where there once were stories of life, growth and timely death and a natural progression which is not what I see before me now.

The silencing of our collective soul.

Now standing before us stripped, bare, and lifeless.

An emptiness I need to fill.

I don’t get out much. Not down river. Not on the road, towards town, towards what one might call “civilization.” But yesterday found me in the truck, driving down our mountain, through the burn, and back up another rural road to another destination between a couple of tourist towns.

Each car or truck that passes by the other way, I lift my hand and wave. I should. That’s only polite. I might know these people. Or I might not. Which seems to be more the case this time of year when the vast majority of vehicles out there have out of state plates and no, I don’t know them, and probably never will. But is that any excuse to not mind my manners? Pretend I didn’t notice? Sorry, no can do.

I’m losing heart. After a dozen or so waves without a response, I wonder why I’m still lifting my hand?

The warmest mornings we had this year were 45 above. And now the heat is over. The sweltering days, all ten of them, are behind. Today, cooler air. Promise of fall. Longer shadows, shorter days. Already, I swear. Maybe I’m looking for it. Eager anticipation.

Until I look back at the log cabin we’re building and see how much we still have to do before snow fly.

Time flies, the goose flies, snow will fly. And what can I do but all I can do, or nothing at all, and wonder what drives us ever onward?

Cultivate your dreams like seeds thrown into the wind. It is your work to be certain what lays down wind is fertile ground, not hard stone, permafrost, or pavement.

Progress to date.

July 1, 2014July 1, 2014 / Gin Getz / 15 Comments

This post is all about progress on our home. Sharing the details to date. For those who care, are curious, and/or want to learn. Log Cabin Building 101 and then some. Let me start by telling you this. This is no Little Cabin. We’re doing it all to code. It’s solid, seemingly complicated and overkill at times, but it sure as heck is going to out last us all. And boy-oh-boy are we learning along way. Sometime more than I cared to or thought I needed to know. I still have this thing about simple. Funny thing is, elaborate and grande as it seems to us, it’s still so simple to some people’s standards for a high mountain, year-round full-time home for three.

So, here it is. Custom log home building at it’s funnest. A family affair. A home built by us, for us, with love. Evolving…

In the meanwhile, it’s business as usual in the other cabins as the guest ranch is up and running, we’re camping out in the Little Cabin, and life is good. Simple. Well, sort of. Best not get me started…

Where were we last time I shared an update? The ground was dug out, a level spot excavated, footer set and poured, stem walls formed, in-floor heating coils laid out and slab for the shop smoothed out. Then we set the floor joists… All this just to get started and have a helluva crawl space. Then again, I am looking forward to indoor plumbing once again, so whatever it takes, I guess.

Next, the sub-floor is laid out and oiled.

Then it’s time for the logs. First, we have to get them from our stock pile of those beetle kill trees we harvested from our land across the frozen river over winter. Secret weapons include: Lee’s borrowed crane, Bob’s new CAT, Todd and Barbara (seriously, where did you guys come from, and at just the right moment?), and my magnificent work crew (husband and son).

Thanks, Ellen, for sharing the great perspective on that last shot!

Okay, so once the logs are up, then they get moved by (borrowed) crane to (borrowed) mill.

From there, with help of the crane, these solid “logs” are put in place. Each one is milled two, three or four sided as need be. We’re doing custom, traditional “butt and pass” log construction. Base logs average a whopping 16 inches plus wide. We’ll be warm.

And there you have it. The base logs are set. Walls are defined (of the first floor, at least). Time for movin’ on up!

Really, I swear I do more than take pictures (and feed the crew). No comments about the chicken legs, please.

I can’t thank enough those who have shared so much with us already – their mill, their crane, their crane operating expertise (and great company), their support, encouragement and enthusiasm… but I will try: THANK YOU.

Now, onto raising the walls. This is the fun part. It’s all fun. The best part is simply being here together, working with the best work crew in the world. My husband and son.

Not a bad place to work either.

Oh, and one last note, speaking about growth and progress. Rikki… Then and now…

On love and healing.

May 2, 2014 / Gin Getz / 31 Comments

On love and healing and crazy connections from opposite hemispheres with similar souls.

Written by the Two Virginias

Healing is different things to different persons, as matters we seek healing from are different for us all.

Life’s lessons learned in healing from hard times. The power of reaching out. Helping others through care and compassion. Oddly enough, we find wonderful capacity of healing when we turn our attentions from own troubles, be they physical, mental or a combination thereof, towards someone else. In helping others, we do in turn help ourselves. But finding the authenticity in our motives is essential. When our caring becomes complete – fully for the pure good of the other person – magical things happen. Depression may be lifted. And we may walk again.

In the past, we both have found the power of healing from horses and creativity.

The healing power of horses is deeply powerful yet beautifully simple. Perhaps it is our compassion for these mighty and gentle creatures, the nurturing we give to them, the essence they impart with us when we do no more than stand beside them and burrow our noses into their warm musky sides, or sit proudly upon their backs and move in wondrous ways. We are stronger, more complete, more humble, more full.

As for creativity, Ginny is a painter, Gin a writer. The expression of any art is an inner release. Paint and the written word can be forms of bleeding forth, purging ourselves, enriching others. From Ginny’s passionate gesture drawings of horses before her to her painting of a radiant spine after hers was broken, to Gin’s writing of the drama and trauma of family feuds and the loss of foals on the family ranch in her recent memoir, The Color of the Wild, an intimate look at life in an untamed land. (2014 NorLights Press). In our art, we both have learned too that healing it is not just in the creation, but in the sharing. Art is meant to be seen, books made to be read.

A combination of the two stories and two women is passionately shared in the upcoming memoir/biography, Dancing in the Wind, a Tale of Two Virginias. “Two wild women, one debilitating disease, and the adventure of writing in the Patagonia winds. This book is based upon the life of a remarkable woman, Virginia Tice Neary Carrithers, and our time together in the wilds of Patagonia. A tangled web of a tale as seductive as the Argentine mountains in which the story takes place. Intended to be biography of a wonderful, wacky woman who has lived with Multiple Sclerosis for nearly forty years, this tale turns into unique take on telling a story, told by a writer who becomes a part of the world in which she set out to write.”

It is this process of healing and sharing that brought us together and now is bringing the book to fruition.

A third essential element of healing is found in the pure giving of oneself for the benefit of another. This is probably the most powerful of all. And probably the most difficult to learn and practice.

Ginny (Virginia Neary Tice Carrithers)

Currently, I am working on healing myself from the effects of Multiple Sclerosis which I have been living with for nearly forty years. At times, like now, I am wheel chair bound but don’t give up on being up and dancing again. Soon!

In the process of working on the healing of my body, I continue to try to heal others through reaching out, listening, offering inspiration. For many years, I worked to organize and inspire fundraisers and awareness events for the National MS Society, then focusing on my family and my art. Now I continue to do what I can to reach others and help them through the healing process in part through my website CreativityHeals.org. The greatest gift I can give now is my story. Hopefully you will find inspiration in that (as well as some entertainment!).

Gin (Virginia Tone Getz)

My troubles have seemed slight in comparison. For years we struggled with dividing lands and trying to find a place to call home. Now I have claimed a mountain in Colorado as home (though have a part of me waiting in Patagonia) and my struggles go far beyond the personal as I watch the wilds outside my window first turn from green to brown with the mass infestation of the Spruce Beetle, and now suffer the devastation of tremendous fires and floods.

Distracted by the destruction of the natural world around, I found myself in a great depression. It’s pretty amazing how debilitating our own minds can be. And then how brilliant. As the illness was created in my own mind, so there would I find the path for healing. At some point, I realized it was time to “get over it.” I returned to working on the manuscript of The Tale of Two Virginias. Part way through, I came to this section of being on the rocks above the wild river with the blinding sun and twisting winds and after months of searching, finding myself finally on the rock that was Ginny’s intimate place of prayer. I felt her presence there at the time and the resulting feeling was… well, I describe it in great detail in the book. Powerful. That’s it in a nutshell. So here I was back in Colorado and just reading that brought me back there, along that river, and in the presence of Ginny. And suddenly, I felt the warmth of the sun and the passion of the wind and the exhilaration of Ginny’s beautiful energy. And I began to heal. Starting with returning to the power of giving what I can of myself, my writing, to help others.

The fourth essential element for healing, and the greatest of all, we must remember, is love. Love for each other, the land, animals, and our personal spiritual beliefs.

I think Ginny had been trying to tell me this all along.

Among the crying trees.

February 25, 2014 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

I remember the day it burned. I remember the giant plume and we were up here, out of touch with the rest of the world I have never been able to be much of a part of anyway, and together in our awkward silence we watched and worried and wondered what was burning, something big and angry and then we saw the news.

I remember walking up the Box one fall during hunting season with my son when he was still close to my height, maybe even just a little smaller. We had left the old Blazer by the summer homes at River Hill and Bob dropped us at the bottom of the Box and Forrest and I kept to that trail all the way back up, high on the hot hillside above the river, following the one-horned big horn sheep we nick-named Tighty Whitey.

I did not cry going through there yesterday. I did not think. I did not judge. I did not contemplate how I “felt.” I simply observed. I took over five hundred photos. I was with my boys and they made me laugh as they skated down the river on their knees.

It was a good way to see it, starting a little bit distant from the center of the frozen Rio Grande, the hillsides softened still by snow, the air warm and river singing loudly below us as she broke open to her black abyss at times and left you wondering so many others. By afternoon the new days water ran over the old winters ice and the dog learned to trust it would still hold him up.

On one side of us where the fire had raged were a lot of black sticks in white snow and long grey shadows. On the other side, the south facing slope, the snow had mostly melted off exposing places where spot fires had burned and the ground was ash and thick and dull and scratched into by the melting snow. Sometimes a footprint of no more than a single tree. Other times the size of a Walmart parking lot.

I look at the pictures now and want to cry but can’t. I feel I should because I know it is sad and a tremendous loss. But I am over it or distant enough or maybe still in denial. I know I should be concerned still because of the fragile soil, destroyed wildlife terrain, and inevitable years of a blank stare that these hills will remain where we are all so excited to see a new blade of grass and a spouting willow emerge but will never see a spruce forest again in our lifetime.

But there is finality there. An open slate. Ready for rebirth. And in that starkness, there is great hope.

As we drove home, back up the mountain and found ourselves passing by the last of the burn and then into the beetle killed hillsides, then is when the sadness hit. I stared out the smeared window as the trees moved by in blur of paling green and fading brown. These hills are still dying, slow and steady, in their silent way. I was tired. Too tired to shed tears.

Among the crying trees.

Today I walk the trail to Sweetgrass Meadow. The tallest of trees still standing though not a needle remains on their dried branches.

Almost fifty out after lunch and the warmer air gets the sap running.

A new batch of dying trees emerging. A new generation of expiring trees. The next wave of the slow tsunami comes to conquer.

Trees with green needles. Like watching them take their last breath, an extended exhale that will last all spring until the needles fade and fall and so silently they weep, without drama and attention, flames and fanfare, plumes or headline news. No one hears, no one listens.

I stare at a long drip line of sap sparkling in the afternoon sun and let my eyes lose focus in the light and for a moment it is almost beautiful. Watching the life blood leave the tree.

I wrap my arms around one tree and press my nose against the slipping bark and dried sap and breathe deeply and smell very little. How can I describe this odor? It is dry. It no longer smells alive. Yes, you can smell death. With my trees, it smells like nothing at all.

Now I can cry, we shed our tears together, and to them I say farewell.

Into the burn.

February 24, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Yesterday we went into the burn.

Down Box Canyon, along and on top of the Rio Grande, from the River Hill Camp Ground all the way through the Box to the road on the lower side of mountain where the hills are speckled by vacant subdivisions and within sight of a paved road, though we saw no signs of so-called civilized life stirring. That’s not what we were searching for. Though I sincerely thank our dear friends and summer neighbors for helping make this possible by bringing our truck down the mountain so we could get back up. What a welcome site that was to see rattling down the road towards us when we made it through.

Eight hours, about as many miles and it seemed like we each hauled that many pounds of food just to keep us going. My husband, my son, my dog and me.

Today I’ll share only my photos, not my words. I hope the images speak for themselves, each to all in a different way, but words of truth. These images are completely untouched, only reduced in size to share with you.

In search of a living blue.

February 20, 2014February 20, 2014 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Allow me share this with you first, a minute of Book Business since that’s what seems to be consuming the majority of my time right now. And then come with me, back to the mountain…

The Color of the Wild is almost a week old. I still haven’t seen a hard copy. I understand it’s beautiful, and have the publisher, Sammie and her team at Norlights Press, to thank for that.

Again, sincere thanks for all the reviewers. Please keep them coming. They also mean so much to me.

Starting today, GoodReads is having a Giveaway for The Color of the Wild. For those active on GoodReads, you know it’s a great chance to get a free copy. The promotion lasts today through the 23^rd. If you’re a member of GoodReads, give it a try, even if you already have a copy. You could always share one copy if you win another. If you’re not a member, and you love books, it’s a pretty neat sight – I’m new to it, just learning, and definitely enjoying.

A special note to Bookstores, Book Clubs and Libraries. Thanks to those who have expressed interest and inquired. For all of you, and any others interested in carrying The Color of the Wild, please contact Sammie, the publisher, directly at publisher@norlightspress.com ; or give her a call at 1-812-675-8054 .

Everything you read tells you the Amazon numbers are the Big Ones. But the numbers only matter so much to me. What I’d like to see is people reading what I wrote to share, and old fashioned as I may be, I still think a lot of those readers are finding their books at the local library and corner bookstore. As it’s been three months since I left the mountain, I confess, I’m grateful for Amazon.

So, please keep the book in mind when browsing your local shelves, and ask for it if you don’t see it. If y’all hadn’t noticed, I’m not a big name yet. (Gin Who?) So they might not know about it otherwise.

Now, let’s put the Book Business aside and get back to the mountain…

Muddy horses for the first time in months. It’s early for mud season.

Big brown circles of fresh, wet dirt beneath the trees. Odors I have not savored in months. Earth. Rich and raw.

The air is alive with song stronger than the coming of the spring winds. Redwing blackbirds, chickadees, juncos, grosbeaks. The Woodpeckers this winter here have been as plentiful as flies on a bloated carcass Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s an exaggeration .

Lovely birds, but I know what their presence means.

Where there are woodpeckers there are bugs. The more woodpeckers, the more bugs. This winter has been good for both. Not so good for the trees. You can see it coming. Or rather, now you know it’s here. Hidden beneath the bark.

The thermometer reads 47 F (over 8 C) and I don’t know what to wear. It’s warm. It’s snowing.

I strap on snowshoes and hope the snow is too warm to stick.

A walk in the woods. Or rather, a snowshoe. The temperatures are unprecedentedly high and have been all winter up here but for the most part, our world remains white. The blanket it getting thin. The only patches of dirt are on the south side of the cabin and exposed steep slopes. The only dirt I step on still is three, maybe four steps with my snowshoes grating on rock and mud.

Thunder. I’m sure I heard it. A quarter mile later, I hear it again. Ten thousand feet elevation, mid February, it’s almost fifty and still it snows.

In search of a living blue.

I’m on this photo safari looking for a live Blue Spruce for the cover of the next book. I’m inspired. A wild woman on a crazy mission.

At first glance, you’d think there they’re all over the place. A whole bunch of trees with blue green needles. Right. Now take a closer look. You don’t see these things from the airplanes flying over assessing damage nor from your truck window rolled up to the cold.

Yellowing of the needles on the lower branches.

Slipping bark.

New growth of mistletoe.

Pin holes and dripping sap.

Needles on the snow.

And a pile of chipped bark around the base of the big ones.

You get good at it. Seeing through the last of the green to the tell-tale signs behind. You get used to the yellowing color, like a child sick with fever. And the slipping bark. As if the very core of the tree has given all it could to rid itself of the beetle and pushed its own life out in the process. The bark looks loose. I don’t know how to describe it. Like a snake skin preparing to slough off.

You get used to seeing the signs and learn to find them fast.

I try to find a live spruce tree. I’m not so sure I see one.

I hope you’re still with me. I wanted to share this with you.

Calm now, in the soothing comfort of remaining snow and silence. The time of solitude remains with us, allowing us healing, the mountain and me. I rest, she recovers, my pain and fear are comforted. Life goes on. We adapt, adjust. Find the beauty in the beetle kill, in the burn.

I want to walk in the burn.

I have not left the mountain since sometime in the middle of November. I still do not care to leave her, but want to go down to her darker places, below the Dam, in the still long blue shadows and grainy snow that has not and will not set up, and post hole through and be out there, in there, with her.

I think I can handle it now.

The burned face of my beloved.

Progress.

January 25, 2014January 25, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Might look like no more than a pile of logs to you. Looks like my new home to me. I see walls, window frames, floor boards, shelves, a kitchen table.

And on that hillside across river where these trees came from, all I see now are small green trees. No more big brown ones.

I know it won’t last. Those ones will go too. But in the meanwhile, it looks so… alive. I had forgotten what a living forest looks like.

Quick updates, and back to work. Got the weekend off from being Lady Logger. Instead, diving in, finding myself caught up in my words, at times struggling to stay afloat, as the next manuscript emerges like an all consuming wave. So much for moderation.

Stop. Breathe. Sit back in the sun and pop open a cold one. (Actually, I’m not much of a beer drinker, but it sure sounds good, sometimes. Especially since it’s our first batch of home brew.This coming week we’ll be bottling our next batch. I call this one Logger Lager.)

Last I heard from the publisher, the first book is off to the printer for proof copies! Yippee!!!!

And now, I leave you with this.

I finally found it. (Rather, Bob found it first.)

Beauty in the beetle kill.

A natural work of art hiding on the inside of every log. Just peel the bark and there it is, waiting to be revealed…

An intimate view.

January 20, 2014January 21, 2014 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

An intimate view.

Stand here with me on the mountain, exposed to the elements.

Look closely.

A mid winter thaw.

Can you see it? Feel it?

Little secrets softly revealed.

hike 7

A snowshoe breaking trail along the river in among the dying trees. Well, I guess anywhere you go here, you’ve got dying trees now. The New Normal? I look to find the lighter side of… death. Where? How? (See, I’m asking new questions. It’s not just Why?)

Before & after (or still in between)

Some of you are probably way ahead of me and have seen this one before. (Where have I been?)

“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.” A great quote by Aldo Leopold from “A Sand County Almanac.”

I found my community, the neighbors I was seeking, the friends with whom I would belong, among the Blue Spruce. And now I watch them leave me.

For the aspen behave like summer people, shedding their vibrant foliage as the tourist close their shutters and leave for the season. Aspen are a shorter lived tree, averaging perhaps 60 or 70 years (without drought and warming trend). Yet the spruce are harder to start, slower to grow, and once they get going, live one, two, three hundred years or more. Usually. Now I watch the young ones die.

To hell with this damning death! I’m turning my view to something full of life!

For those who read the article in Ranch & Reata and might just be wondering… This is Bayjura today.

Some thoughts on horses. For those who have chosen a life with horses. And for those who wish they would, and maybe someday will.

Insight to the heart of a horse(wo)man.

A horse(wo)man is a different breed.

On one hand, she can move with a simple suggestion, a subtle signal, an animal weighing ten times more than she does. On the other hand, she’ll climb back in the saddle after being bucked off onto hard ground. Once. By the second time, she might be too mad. (A good time to keep your distance or walk away.)

She acts not through force yet the horse finds comfort in her direction, not because she is sticky sweet, but because she is strong enough.

In her consistency, she creates trust; the horse becomes confident in her solid strength, and at the very same time, she becomes stronger because of the horse at her side or beneath her.

She has a sense of responsibility, beyond but not above daily care, continuing through all interactions and communications. She works with a steady course and direction, for the horse chooses chaos no more than the handler. It is an unnatural state for horse and horse(wo)man.

She strives to be the person her horse wants her to be. The gentle leader. She leads with softness, clarity, point and purpose. Calm, consistent, clear communication. Fairness. Firmness. A balance of confidence and compassion. She is learning when to push onward; and when enough is enough.

Reminders for myself as well as those of you who are going through the mid-winter no-can-ride blues.

Don’t let anyone stop you if it’s your dream, but don’t expect it handed to you on any silver platter. It is more than likely going to show up in the form of a manure rake.

Enjoy. It is a wonderful life.

Within.

January 16, 2014 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

For a moment, I look within. Not too long. It can be scary in there.

Not out side, at the trees, the mountain.

For a change, I don’t look around. My eyes are closed. My heart is open instead.

I’m sitting in a perfect circle of exposed dirt at the base of one of my favorite big old spruce trees just a little ways up the Ute Creek trail in the Weminuche Wilderness. My back is pressed against the rough bark and my snowshoes stick up before me boldly on the ends of my outstretched legs. Gunnar is beside me of course, sitting, on the look out. I’m safe.

Forrest’s Throne, we call this tree. Another one with a name. For the many times we stopped here, stared out over the Rio Grande Reservoir in all her seasons, and he rested at the base enwrapped in the bulk of aged roots.

I am sitting there now, thinking deeply about what Amy shared in response to my last post. Wisdom, insight. More welcome when it comes from a friend, a dear friend of the family as she has become, though none of us have met her yet. Perhaps the words she shared would not have rung so true if I was not battling this concern within my mind already. A confirmation. Drilling it in.

On anger.

Answers come.

Less with mind than with heart.

Anger moves, motivates, and must be left behind.

A hot coal under my seat.

I jump up. Put out the flame. Set back and breathe again.

Balance the flame of passion, of anger, of how to draw the line.

Whatever happens, please don’t let me fizzle out and turn lukewarm.

And don’t let me burn too bright I scorch, burn myself, turn you away.

Seek.

Try.

I will make mistakes.

As I will make love, and may make you mad.

Not intentionally, of course.

It’s just part of living life the fullest way I can.

At times, my heart acts stronger than my mind.

How does one find balance?

Anger.

It opens my eyes, but closes my heart.

My eyes are open.

Now, it is time to leave it behind.

Will you see a gentler me?

I’ll try.

Though as a friend visiting the other day said, there’s something about those Jersey girls.

Can I use my “spunk” (his word, not mine) in positive ways?

Yes, I can.

Just watch what I can do.

Anger.

As a form of passion.

Passion can be our greatest motivator and raison d’être.

Or it can eat us alive.

Let it move me forward. But not leave you behind.

This is the message that came to me, Amy, in my walking meditation:

Get on the right path and watch doors fly open.

How do I get from here to there?

Step on board.

It’s that simple.

Move on.

Forward.

Positive.

Partner with the enemy. (Your wise words, Amy, and those of Nelson Mandela.)

Just write and write well.

Show the intimate side of this situation. That’s what I can do.

Yes, leave the “why” behind. I am not a victim.

Turn towards the “what” and the “how” and the “where” and “when.” Share what I see. Be a part of the solution.

Maybe that’s why I’m here.

Stick with my path, share my gift, and perhaps you can use it, perhaps you will hear, perhaps it will help. And maybe it won’t. But at the end of the day, I’ll sleep better for believing at least I had the guts and grit (and spunk) to try.

To try. To stand for what I believe in.

Without burning bridges.

Anger may be what got me started.

I’ve started. Now I can let it go. Of the anger, not the path, not the movement. Anger will no longer bring me forward, only hold me back. Leave those I care about behind. That’s not what I really want, is it?

Let it go and replace it with… sharing my gift. Writing about the intimate view I have, I see, I touch and smell and taste and feel. I am here for a reason. Anger helped me remain here; anger helped me fight to be here. I swear, if it were not for anger, I would be long gone by now. It gave me strength when I needed it. Now I own it. I am here. And it is time to leave that anger behind and move forward.

I don’t need to fight for it; Maybe I just need to listen to it now.

Let me tell you what I hear.

Listen.

I’ll tell you what I hear. I don’t need to say more.

Where? Where will I go? How will I get there?

Start.

Write.

Share what I see. Share what I feel.

Look deeply, write passionately. Bleed, as Hemmingway said and we writers will do. Bleed, I do like the trees with their sap. Bleed to share the life, the beauty, the reality of the world I live in, we both care for. Passionately.

Our weather comes from southern Cal. The rest of Colorado may be watching the Pacific Northwest and the Great Basin, but here in the southern San Juans, we watch what hits Baja and get excited when they get rain this time of year. That means we’ll get snow.

So, the continued California drought concerns us. We’ve been in what some say is a twenty year drought. Call it what you will.

Every year we hope. Every day we watch the weather and look for another Big One. And as is typical for this region, more often than not, it isn’t there. It isn’t coming. Though don’t get me wrong. It’s hard to complain about blue skies and sun.

Back to my snow shoe. Trying to balance that anger, that passion; working with you, not against you and still shaking things up without turning my back or having you turn your back to me.

I return home after feeling I found the answers only to see the news. Fires on the north side of L.A.

So the positive? The answers? The direction that I long for, I lust for?

I’m still working on it… back to square one… something to do with trust in the Earth, and belief in her eternal beauty.

Call me what you will: angry, passionate, or a Jersey girl. But I do have that.

Belief in eternal beauty of our Earth.

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