Deadlines, discipline and days off.

August 1, 2025August 1, 2025 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

An intense lightning storm last night, striking so close and strong it startled me awake before even the crash of thunder, which in the high country, doesn’t end with a clap but rather rolls around the mountains with sound and energy rumbling with reverberations that remind me of a giant singing bowl.

This morning I woke to lingering clouds and puddles and heavy air and even the baby robins out early following their parents’ prompts are soaked, as I watch them with their scruffy feathers scurry around a glistening cinquefoil.

Careful what you ask for. I had missed the intensity of high mountain summer storms with their booming voice, menacing clouds nearly black as coal, and sky-on-fire displays. So far this summer, we have had so much and many, my desire is as saturated as the soil.

Rain has been regular. As with all of nature, it’s got its good points and its bad. But either way is out of my control. Not much I can do but sit in this little camper and wait the latest hail storm out, grateful for these somewhat solid walls within which we can be warm and dry and try not to get too anxious about what I could be doing but am not.

Sometimes you got stay inside and wait it out.

Today rain comes down harder and lasts longer than I ‘d like. I’d like to get back out there at it. We have a deadline to reach. Self imposed no doubt, but you have to have such discipline when you’re working for yourself. And when what you’re working for is your home. We said we’d get the walls roughed out including rough openings for the windows framed out with timbers by the first of August.

We’re close. Though not there, we are so close I can see it. It’s starting to feel like a space and a home and I can almost picture the wood cook stove cranking out heat and bread and cookies while the dogs lay on the rug and the horses are tucked into their nearby stalls, and the chickens in a solid coop (they are, btw, still living in their portable pen we built with our lumber out of the back of the horse trailer… but still laying plenty enough to keep us in eggs!). And the cows, yes, there will be cows, sheltered under their shed beside the hay loft. All of this still in my head, of course, but that is where dreams begin. Is it within our heads or within our hearts? I think maybe a bit of both.

We’re a long ways away from all of that. But we are close to the rough out state, and that deadline was yesterday. Maybe we’ll get it tomorrow, for today is a mess of rain and hail and a few other distractions that are never so bad though of course I’ll grumble just a little bit. And then, we move on to higher ground: plotting, planning and placing roof rafters, trusses and ridge beams .

Bob’s more casual about this forced break that the weather has imposed than I am. He manages to zone out into a nap or getting errands done elsewhere, while I’d be pacing the floor if there was room to do so. Neither way will change the weather or get the work done out there when we can’t be.

Yet even from within the little camper looking out at the (wet) work site, it’s getting pretty exciting to see some dreams slowly come to life.

As for deadlines, oh, I could blame the weather or the lack of skill and knowledge or our age or a hundred other excuses. Or I could just accept that this is how it is, and be pleased and proud of what we’ve accomplished already, and excited by what else we’re about to do.

As for discipline, there is no boss telling us what to do and some days it would be easier if there were. Or maybe employees or fellow workers motivating us to show up on time. Instead I suppose we could stay in bed all day binge watching and eating bon-bons (yes, this is a freak fantasy of mine, something I just want to try once!). There is simply the dream of seeing it all come together. And most days that is enough.

And as for days off… This summer, there have been only a few.

One we planned. (We hiked to the top of the nearest peak. Not really restful, but the view from the top and all along the way nourished me deeply.)

Two I really didn’t want (‘cause I lay sick in bed).

And a few were spent taking time for family and friends. These are things I don’t intentionally plan and often stress about ahead of time (as in: OMG, that means we won’t be working?!?!?!). And yet I know, as you do too, that this is what matters most. People. Connecting. Contributing. Doing something for others even if that something is simply sharing time. The work can wait. It will always will be there. Will the people?

With these few exceptions, that’s not only how our summer has been so far, but that’s how our life has been. Things don’t get done if you don’t do them. Water, power, heat, and food… The so-called simple off grid life means taking care of all those things yourself (and perhaps when we’re even older, having friends and family help a little more).

There is work to do every day. It may be building a wall, or simply chopping wood, carrying water, and keeping the home fires alive.

In the meanwhile, there is no Monday stress here. Likewise, no Friday relief.

Every day is pretty much the same. Get up at dawn and care for the critters. Savor our coffee together. Then get to work. Grind away. Keep going until the sun starts to set and the pup insists it is quitting time. Time to take him for a walk.

Thanks to the pup, those walks have been part of what balances me. Gets me out and away from the work zone. Connects me with the land. Allows me a mindless release and a chance to unwind. And serves as either my walking meditation or time in my wild temple.

All of which is why we’re here. Not just to get that roof up. But to be present. Every day. Where we are. Who we are. With what we’re doing. Together.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

A practical post on power…

June 20, 2025 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

… and a few photos from the past few days, leaning in and stepping back.

About the power.

Bob and I have lived off grid as long as we’ve been together. That’s twenty something years. And twenty something years of relying on solar power.

We’re no pros on solar power but we make do (with help on big stuff, without a doubt). It works. Well.

I thought I’d take a few to share with you what’s working for us here and now. I’m not saying this is “the” way. It’s just our way. And it works for us.

The tiny little camper we’re living in has a tiny little solar panel, battery and inverter that actually works well enough to keep us in a few tiny little lights. Good thing to note is that the batteries are sealed, which means safer in a small space, and if left for the season well charged, don’t freeze. We don’t use this much and I’m not big on lights anyway. I’m more a candle, oil lamp and solar twinkle lights kinda gal.

But we do have needs. And the tiny little system in this tiny little camper wasn’t going to cut it.

Back in California, I did some research into a portable solar system that would satisfy our simple needs. We’d need to charge devices, power tools and (yup) Starlink. The regular household Starlink, not the portable one designed for on-the-go. I decided on the Ecoflow Delta 3 Plus. This is the system we purchased on Amazon at about a thousand dollars: EF ECOFLOW Solar Generator Delta 3 Plus with 220W Bifacial Solar Panel.

So far, we’re glad we went with it. It felt like a pretty big drop in the bucket at the time, but we’ve had no regrets what so ever. Super simple, straightforward and reliable. It’s been more than enough power for us. Could have gone a little smaller, perhaps, to accommodate our minimal needs, but maybe we’ll get something else to plug in – like a portable cooler or something to keep groceries cold. Right now, we just make do. Refrigeration is great, but it’s over rated and not necessary. We go to town once a week and only get enough perishables to last that week. Cheese, butter, yogurt do fine. Likewise do most veggies. We don’t eat much meat but a pre-cooked roast chicken from our little local market, between meals made with the chicken and then soup made with the bones, lasts the better part of a week.

For emergency back up of charging devices, or for charging when we’re out in the field, I still love to use my Goal Zero Venture 35 mini battery/inverter and the Goal Zero Nomad 20 portable folding solar panel. I got this set up for my Long Quiet Ride, and rode with the little solar panel strapped on the back of the pack horse charging one unit, and a second small battery pack in my horn bag to get me through the day. I stressed about losing power a lot, but made it through. Now it just serves as a back up, and a seriously sweet stress reducer.

Of course, today is Summer Solstice. A beautiful blessings indeed. Solar power is having it’s heyday and the need for lights is just about nil, with the sun so early to rise and late to set, pretty much coinciding with our needs.

As for these photos…

Here’s an assortment from the past few days. Some are leaning in. Getting up close and intimate. (I finally unpacked my big camera, so that’s been a pleasure for me to work on in well needed breaks from the dirt pit – more on that next time!). Others are stepping back. Seeing the bigger picture. All of them, for me, are about finding beauty and awe with what is right there before you. It’s easy here. Looking closely. Feeling what you see. Quietly. Deeply. Intimately. Mine is not a view big and bright and shiny enough to attract a big fuss and crowds. But it is more than enough for me.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

On plans and places.

March 21, 2025 / Gin Getz / Leave a comment

(looking back at the healthy forest surrounding our little bit of paradise – that little clearing in the center – here in the far north of California)

Contemplating slow living and the complexities of the simple life.

So much of that is based on making the most of what you have, and doing it yourself.

As in, if you want lumber for building…

You fall trees, skid them, clean the slash, load logs on the mill, saw them to size, stack them.

And then in this case… haul them from here to there.

California to Colorado.

Simple living, sounding somewhat complicated.

I’ll explain.

This is my first attempt at sharing a video on this blog. I want to show you what milling is like. However, it’s hard to hold a device in one hand AND crank the mill with the other. So I may have some figuring out to do. In the meanwhile, go ahead and say it: Cinematography is not my strong point.

Bob did a lot better. This is the video he took after I whined about how bad mine was.

So about the mill.

It’s slow, old, free and ours.

It was left behind at another “high and wild” property we once owned, just for a little while. Another fixer upper. That place was a little TOO high. At an elevation of 11,400 feet, turned out to be too much even for Bob and me. We got headaches, bloody noses, had trouble sleeping, got battered by the elements… but we did fix the place up nicely and flipped it.

And, bonus: we got this mill out of the deal.

Yeah, I know, it’s old. Go ahead and say it (Bob does all the time): too old! It’s crazy slow. You gotta crank the wheel for several minutes just to raise or lower the carriage that holds the blade, then crank some more to move the carriage as the blade inches it way through the wood. Crank again to raise it, crank it back to the beginning, then lather, rinse, repeat. It’s a lot of cranking and a helluva a test of patience. Apparently I have a lot, because even as the one doing all that cranking, every time Bob shows me pictures or starts talking about a new mill, I’m quick to shut him down.

“This is what we have,” I remind him (and myself). And though it’s slow, check it out: it works. We’ve used more modern mills. You know, those fancy ones with bells and whistles, flashing lights, keyboards, electronics or at least hydraulics that cost about as much as a mortgage. This one is gear and chain and crank drive, do your own measuring and your own math, and it was free. Simple. Slow living, slow milling, see what I mean?

Slow as it is, I love it. Yes, I love milling. I love the smell of the wood, and working out in the elements (most times). I love watching dead trees turn into valuable lumber. And I love working with my husband, which after twenty something years building together has brought us to that place of operating in relative wordlessness and this flow that feels almost like a dance. We know what needs to be done, move in unison, use hand signals, nods and knowing glances (and probably a few grunts) to converse. Slow and steady, it works for us.

Despite clothes, hair, and all parts of exposed (and somehow even covered) skin getting enrobed in sawdust every afternoon, the pride in making our own lumber from our own trees is a thrill for me. Maybe I’m an odd sort, but I’m in the right place.

And slow as the mill and the process is, it does work. Beautifully. We milled all the dimensional lumber for that “high and wild” remodel with this mill. There, a buddy milled all the logs for an entire cabin from the beetle kill trees on that land. When we moved from Colorado to California, we brought the mill with us and processed all the lumber for this remodel we’re living in now (you can see some of it HERE.). And maybe when we’re done milling here this spring, chances are we’ll move it back.

Here and now, because of that mill and the beetle killed timber on this land, the majority of materials for our upcoming build are free. (Oh and a big shout out of thanks to my sis and her man for the incredible windows we scored as they replaced theirs!) Beat that. Makes slow somehow okay that way.

The process starts with Bob doing most of the work you forget needs to be done before you even get to mill: falling trees, delimbing and clearing slash, skidding logs, loading them onto the mill. Then I get to do my magic.

I’m the (not necessarily) smooth operator of this old roaring beast, which entails a lot of cranking as I said: cranking her up and down and back and forth, moving the blade through the log with each pass. Sloooooowly. Like everything about this process. Yet… beautifully! At least it’s beautiful to me.

We’ve used it so long, done it so much, by now it’s muscle memory for me. I’m so used to the sound and feel I can do it with my eyes closed. And often I have to. Because when the wind blows my way, which often times it does, so does the sawdust.

And after almost every pass, there’s the joint effort of rolling the log on the mill, which involves a bunch of prying with peaveys and few grunts and groans, then carrying each board off to be sorted and stacked.

Board by board, beam by beam, slowly we’re amassing what we need to build a new home.

It’s exciting. Rewarding in so many ways. Not the least of which is that in the process of taking down trees to mill, we’re cleaning up our land. See, a lot of the doug fir is dying. Beetle kill. Not even close to devastating and depressing as it was back fifteen years or so ago in southern Colorado when we witnessed the demise of 90% of the blue spruce trees there. Year after year, mile after mile, mountain after mountain, a giant wave, gradual and all consuming, turned the hills from green to gray. All those trees, killed by a tiny beetle no bigger than a grain of rice.

Pine beetles, bark beetles, call them what you will. They’re in California too. Only here in Trinity County, at least on our land and the hills surrounding us here, it doesn’t feel devastating. It isn’t. See, here, when one tree dies, another spreads it wings and seems to take flight in the newfound open space. So as some of our doug fir die, the black oak, white oak, live oak, oregon ash, alder, dogwood and madrone already in place, open with the added air space and water that the crowding conifers otherwise devour. It feels somehow natural, normal, beautiful to witness this change over the past nearly six years we’ve been here, as parts of the land unfurls like a giant exhale, revealing the sky and a sense of spaciousness, and we watch as part of our land shifts from a conifer forest to a healthy oak grove. The diversity of species here is remarkable. You barely notice the loss of evergreens were it not for the low stumps left behind.

Thanks to these beetles, we have plenty of trees to build with.

Damn. After the devastation our Colorado mountains endured due to those little buggers, I never, ever thought I say something nice about them.

And so it goes: if you want lumber, fall trees, clear slash, etc. and then… haul to Colorado.

So about that part about hauling to Colorado…

Really?

Yes, really.

See, even after milling off the rotted two to three inches that many of these big trees often have around their girth, what we’re left with is a lot of lumber. Good lumber. Really good, and better than what we’d mill in Colorado. These dead doug fir have heavier, heartier wood than beetle kill blue spruce. Wood strong enough for framing, thick enough to stack for walls, and dense enough to hold heat inside the cabin they’ll one day be.

That’s what this work is all about now. Like mining for gold. Getting down to the good stuff. And this wood is good.

And here’s the thing. Time is of the essence. Sure it would be great to take our time and log and skid and peel and notch and slowly stack logs from our Colorado land where this house will be. And for our next project, that’s what we plan to do. (Yes, knowing us…)

But for now, for starters, for just getting a cabin built, quick and simple and safe and sound, lets be real. We won’t have that time this year. The only chance we have of getting this project done and having a roof over our head and solid structure to winter in (which in the high wild mountains of Colorado is a serious thing) is to do it this way – mill the lumber now, while we can, before the crunch of summer building begins. Or spend a lot of money we don’t have and hire some crew to do it all, wham bam.

Tempting as that sounds some times, that is not what we’ll do.

Slow and steady, we’ll get it done, by making the most of what we have. A lot of beetle killed trees and one old mill. And we’ll work around what we don’t have: time! Building a house from the ground up in the short season between the ground thawing (May) and the ground freezing again (October) – and building something solid and secure enough to winter in – is already a daunting project for a couple that some say have a few too many years behind them to be taking such a project on. Oh yeah, and in addition to the cabin… there’s getting the solar, septic, greenhouse, horse shelter, chicken coop and wood shed (full) done during that time frame as well.

Geez, when I think of all that, I wonder how the hell we’re going to get it done. I probably shouldn’t be sharing our plans as it’s not going to help with our mounting stress.

Just get to work and get it done and stop whining.

And all the while, try to have fun, find the magic and joy and awe all around, be good to each other, each and every day, no matter how slow it goes.

And really, that’s what we do.

So that was the part about “plans.” Haven’t even started sharing the part about “place.”

Guess I’ll save those deep thoughts for another day.

Until then.

With love, always love,

Gin

A cooler kind of fire.

February 21, 2025 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Snow melts.

The rain forest returns. Warm, wet, heavy air held suspended in undulating gray skies. Electric green moss wraps around rugged oak limbs. The roar of the river through open window where we sleep at night drowns out the cadence of heavy rain on hard metal roof.

Here in the far north of California, spring makes her first intimation with the return of the robins dappling the meadow, Canada geese flying in formation low along the river, Pacific bluebirds and several other songbirds I have yet to spot even in the nakedness of leafless giant oaks, all gracing us with joyous chatter. I imagine them happy to be home. Discernible leaves of shooting stars emerge on damp soil, new life awakens on the gooseberry bush, and the first daffodils of the season promise to burst open in what may be a matter of days.

I’m not ready for winter to end. Yet. Yet…

It’s hard to figure what to do next when I don’t know, like drawing straws, it all needs to be done and soon. Some days it feels like there’s no way we’ll get it done. Other days we remind one another: we’ve done this before. We can do it again. Yes, yes, please remind me that again and again and again.

Some days I get scared.

Can we do this? Again?

Not yet old, but already, I feel it. We’re older now. I don’t have the energy I had in my twenties when I built my first two hippy houses in the desert south of Santa Fe, stacking and stuccoing straw with a baby on my back.

Nor do I have the energy of my thirties when building the first of several Colorado cabins while guiding horse rides in the morning, peeling logs in the afternoon, and evenings spent cooking for the crew. All the while trying to impress my new lover and somehow sort-of home-school our son. I guess I did okay with that lover because he’s still by my side. As for home-schooling, God knows how he learned so brilliantly because it wasn’t my doing.

Nor do I have the energy found in my forties when we built what was meant to be the forever house, from the ground up. Falling trees in deep winter, deep snow, hauling logs across frozen river by snowmobile, and again pulling on the old draw knife day after day after day as my husband and son raised the walls.

Now I’m nearing sixty and though I sure feel far from old, I no longer feel that infinite fire and limitless energy I felt in younger days. Maybe that’s not all bad to let it simmer.

But the reality of facing the formidable task of building a cabin tight enough to winter in, putting in off-grid systems, setting up shelter for the horses, a coop for the chickens and something to keep plants alive… all this (and more) at an elevation of 10,000 feet which means high, harsh and wild…

It’s a lot.

I could use that infinite fire right about now.

Some days the stress of what is not getting done weighs heavy.

Some days the grief of what I’m leaving nearly paralyzes me.

Some days the excitement of what we’re starting electrifies me and takes my breath away.

Time

February 14, 2025 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Things change. I changed. I shall continue to change.

Yet as stand here with my hip against the kitchen sink, holding a warm cup of coffee between hands weathered and worn by time and place, darkened by sun and soil and years, something within me feels this sense of peace of the familiar, something I need, we all need. That need feels pressing right now, that knowing no matter where we find ourselves, even when the world seems upside down, inside out and backwards, so much still remains the same. Solid. Grounded. Sturdy. There is comfort in that knowing, soothing as the hot black liquid I am slowly sipping.

At this very moment, as I gaze up from dirty dishes I’m pretty good at ignoring, my attention scans outward, across pasture. Horses head down, chickens underfoot, bare branches of sprawling oak with tips not yet swelling, last years leaves still scattered across the patchwork quilt of ever green grass and tenacious wet snow.

What I am looking for is not yet there. It’s still early. Wait. It won’t be long. The 18th of February. That’s the date marked on my calendar. It is not only my mother’s birthday, but the date I begin to listen for his call. Then, or soon after, like some primordial clockwork that does magic of seasons and cycles of the moon, I will hear his song. I listen, for I may hear him long before catching the sight of his orange flash in the otherwise still winter scene, a landscape drawn in shades of gray.

It’s often later. A few days. A few weeks. But my stirring starts early and builds, always excited by these little harbingers of changing seasons. Sure, I can wait. I have waited before. Here, there, other places I have been, have lived, have looked and listened. He always comes. As the bluebirds when aspen or oak buds begin to swell. The pair of ravens that gather the shedding horse hair just in time to build their nest. The geese at river’s edge, hoping for a place safe from rising spring waters. These things come.

And so too will the unassuming Redwing Blackbird come, sharing his shrill whistle as I lean closer to the window to hear. Perchance he’ll rest on a branch of the sprawling oak that in summer shades the house from midday sun but now stands still with bare branches extended like fingers of an ancient witch; or perch on the stalks of willow that bend and sway with lessons in learning to give.

And even while I wait, anticipating what will come, the song bird, the change of seasons, the change of view from a change of kitchen window over a change of sink, for now at least, I am here. And right here, right now, there is no place I’d rather be.

Winter’s going way too fast.

The greenhouse is alive with spring starts of broccoli, cabbage, kale and chard, keeping company with overwintered geraniums and that sprawling avocado tree because I swore I wouldn’t buy the fruit, but man, I do love them. Seedlings spouting on the kitchen counter: tomatoes, peppers, basil, snapdragons, marigolds, all leggy from lack of sun.

(“How can you garden,” you may ask,”when you said you were moving on?” And my response, just as you’d expect: “How can I not?”)

Ten inches of rain one week, snow the next, then a clear spell long enough to dry our boots, but not those logs waiting to be milled before the next storm arrives.

You know that feeling of having to be indoors but so dying to be out there? Yeah, that one. Me, I can keep myself occupied indoors between writing and drawing out plans for the new house. And there’s always cooking, cleaning, baking, herbal crafts, little inside things I love to do, like happy sappy 70’s songs remembered from my childhood, distracting me from the longing of wanting to dig my hands deep in dirt, which right now, is not happening. The soil is either to wet to walk on or hard from freezing temperatures.

It won’t last. Nothing ever does. Give it time. It will change. And before you know it, I’ll be back out there longing for these languid days, which likely I won’t get again until next winter rolls around. And geez… hard to imagine what next winter will be like.

So don’t.

As for Bob, he’s making the most of it his own way, as he does. Indoor arts and crafts are not his thing. His way of having his boots dry out is hauling the first load of milled lumber to our new place. California to Colorado and back again. Three days driving, each way, taking the loneliest road, or four when you run into truck troubles and weather, both of which he did. Then back to me just in time for Valentine’s Day. At least I hope, as another winter storm has settled in.

Why mill and haul from here when there’s plenty of logs to build with in the mountains of southern Colorado? A seemingly endless supply of dead standing blue spruce killed by the beetle infestation that washed over those hills like a tsunami. Enough of those trees will hopefully still be good enough for using as full logs, but they have not the integrity, heft nor girth, we want for posts, beams and dimensional lumber, counter tops, shelves, ceiling and floors.

Meanwhile, here in northern California, the beetles hit too, but not as hard, fast and heavy. At this point, the damage is just the right amount for giving us dead trees to clear from our property; and all the lumber the Old Mill, my old man and I, can crank out. Beautiful lumber. Doug fir. Still hard and strong and perfect for what we need.

So, we do it here, bring it there. It may seem inconvenient at best. And yes, Home Depot is an easier option. But that’s not ours. Or us. Making the most of what we have.

Which right now is a forced break indoors, while the “wintry mix” outdoors keeps coming down.

We’re pretty hearty, but we have our limitations. Milling in these conditions is a big NOPE. It’s a nasty, sticky, soggy mess. I’d rather get covered with sawdust on clear afternoons when the wind blows my way. That time will come.

You know how it goes. One thing waits, while another happens.

Ever changing.

Some days so slow you feel stuck in stagnant waters.

Other days, hold on to your hat and brace yourself for the wild ride.

Time changes.

Changing times.

Like seasons.

Take time.

Time to stare at flames in the fire pit, or falling snow.

Time to slip on your boots and run out in warm rain.

Or slip off your shorts and immerse yourself in the river.

Time to smell orange peel, chocolate, the warm dry pup.

A new baby, damp rich earth after a summer rain.

Time to feel the sensation of that summer rain wetting brown skin burned by yesterday’s sun

or winter sun like a gentle hand on red cheeks, the only flesh brave enough to be exposed.

Time to celebrate last years leaves fragile as fresh eggshells crumbling beneath your boots

or cheer for melting snow if you drum up the courage to step out in hot bare feet.

Time to hear that river, that endless river, the never ending background sound of this land

or that sleeping dog’s heavy breath.

The inhale. The exhale.

The pause in between.

Time to rush around.

And time to sit.

Still.

Put the damned devise aside and see the magic you would have missed.

Time for solitude and socializing.

Time for reflecting and planning what is next.

Time to let go.

And how about, “time to get your ducks in a row?”

Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

You know, ducks will do that. It’s what they do.

And in a way, that’s a good cliche for what I’m trying to do.

Figure things out.

Things.

I dunno. Writing. This blog. Where we’re going. How to hold onto here. And there. How to afford it all. Life. That sort of stuff. Big stuff.

Right, at my age, shouldn’t I have that figured out, my ducks all nicely lined out?

Don’t kid yourself.

You never stop.

As long as you’re living, you’re learning.

At least, that is what I tell myself.

Makes me feel a little better when I realize how far I’ve come.

And how much farther I still have to go.

Thank you for listening.

With love, always love,

Gin

Good stuff.

May 12, 2014 / Gin Getz / 22 Comments

Good Stuff.

Breaking Ground

This is big news. Yes, you got it. Ground breaking news. Progress on our new home. We started with the logs, harvesting the beetle kill from our land across river in winter. Dragging dead trees across the frozen waters for their next life of becoming a part of our future home.

Now the foundation begins.

Down on the exposed bluff above the Rio Grande, the bulldozer breaks ground. Earth is moved to make way for what will be our home. A hard, harsh cut gouged deep into fragile soil. I stand in the pit and place my hands upon the layers of soil that took maybe millions of years to amass and here we are moving them all in one day. I find myself crying. I think these are happy tears. We have waited a long time for this. There are many, many dreams tied into this one pile of dirt.

On one hand, I ask forgiveness for the land for such disturbance. We try to live simply, modestly, carefully. On the other hand, I see how we will be even more connected, grounded, a part of each other, with our home a part of the land, in the earth, partially buried and within these millions of years of creation.

I’ll need to keep that in mind when it seems some days like progress is going slowly.

All in all, it’s been a wonderful, crazy, busy week and looks like many more not only in the future, but here and now. Better get used to it. Coffee is good. Sleep is over rated. Jogging takes less time than walking. We’re running around finishing up projects on the guest cabins before the season opens, and Bob points to the plastic lawn chair next to the one he’s sitting in.

“Too busy to sit and enjoy the day?” he asks me.

I know. He’s right. I sit. A full minute, shifting my focus and tapping my leg and completely missing out on the view before me of the full creek, greening pasture, and horses lying about lazily. I know I’m not supposed to do that. I’m supposed to be here and now. But here and now, I’ve got things to do. Things I want to do. Good things. Okay?

“Can I go now?” I get up. I’m ready to get back to work.

Announcing a new book.

Over the weekend, I signed the publishing contract for my next book, The Last of the Living Blue, to be release June 30th by NorLights Press. I feel very, very blessed.

I think what makes me as happy, maybe happier, than having my publisher believe in me (when now that I’m revamping and working on the final draft, I’m wondering why and how she did when I see how much work it needs! Thank you, Sammie, for trusting me, and may I not let you down.) is the incredible support and warm reception I received from so many of you upon sharing the good news. Thank you!

I’ll keep you all posted on progress as we countdown to the release date.

Just when you thought the ground was drying out. Just when you thought “watering the lawn” sounded like a good idea but you don’t have sprinklers or a lawn, just a sub irrigated pasture that needs surface moisture from time to time to grow good grass for the horses. Just when you started to worry about fires and drought and all those things we DO need to worry about here surrounded by half a million acres of dead and dying trees due to bark beetles.

Suddenly, more snow!

No, it won’t kill the beetles. It won’t bring our trees back to life. But it does help the grass grow and gives us a great excuse to catch up on indoor work today.

Alas, I find a reason to go out there, in it. It’s beautiful. It’s fun. Anything’s better than sitting around staring at a screen! However, that does bring me to this:

Apologies, friends, family, readers, those who reach out and write to me, for being so slow to respond this past week. It has been a crazy, wonderful, busy week. Please know you matter so much to me. As I wrote to fellow blogger and friend, Carrie of The Shady Tree, I may be the world’s worst “blogger” and that’s okay because you know I never liked that word or title anyway. Blogger. Yuck. Anyway, you know the last thing I want is more time in front of the computer. Writing already takes up so much time. And when I’m done, I’m outta here! The last thing I want to do is spend more time sitting in front the back lit screen when I could be out there… There is so much out there!

How do you get it all done? I don’t want to settle for “good enough.”

“Trust,” Ginny tells me. And I trust it all happens in the right time, and in the meanwhile, do all I can to make it happen.

(“Dance,” she says too, as she raises her arms wide with a wonderful smile on her face like she hears the music and all the while she’s sitting in the wheelchair but you’re pretty sure any minute now she’ll burst out dancing. Yes, I definitely should dance more!)

And speaking of Ginny. Dancing in the Wind, a tale of two Virginias, will be put on “back burner” until after the finishing touches of Living Blue are complete. Then we’ll give it all we got, and we got a lot. Can’t wait to share this one with you all.

That novel too may take longer than I expected. And, I wonder, when will I find time to fit in the poetry project? I’m not sure, but somehow I feel certain it all will come together. It is all coming together!

On a side note.

A new long-distance friend is starting up a most interesting business, and I think her idea is so fun, so fantastic, I wanted to share this with you. Jill is combining the opportunity to make new friends, enjoy the great outdoors, and talk books. Sorry, guys, this one’s not for you. Ladies, please check out Outdoor Book Club.

And Stuff

The ethics involved in consumerism. Otherwise known as: A confession.

Last week found me in the big city. Denver. Smaller and warmer and friendlier than what I used to call “The Big City,” though lacking the unmistakable diversity, culture, chaos and intense vibe of New York. Which was fun back then, and still I crave in small (very small) doses from time to time.

I had not left the mountain since last November at which time I went to Lake City and had lunch with a friend in the only restaurant opened “off season.” This means, nearly six months of missing (as in not having been there, not as in longing for) town, telephone, traffic and putting on clean boots. This also means I had not touched cold, hard cash in a good long while. In fact, I had not even opened my wallet, which is why it came as a big surprise when I finally did and saw that my driver’s license had expired. Whoops.

I realize how spoiled, lucky (or dare I say… smart – ha ha!) I am to have built such a simple, quiet life. I’m busy, I get a lot done, there’s more than enough work, but I’m here. And the rest, I can do without. Maybe I might miss out on fun stuff like nights out on the town, talking on the phone, Starbucks coffee and travel, but this is what keeps me sane. And even then…

Love kids as I do, I would have made a really cruddy soccer mom.

Downsizing, simplifying… These things matter to me. I actually try to have less. I don’t want to be a part of the Fattening of Society. I don’t just mean the waist lines of the people. I mean the wallets, the debts, the amassed good, the expanding feeling of needing more, or deserving more. I want less. Of “things.” Stuff. Consumerism. Spending. I want more time in nature, with my boys, writing, taking pictures, dreaming. Yes, I want time to dream. I want slighter debt, fewer possession, less stuff, a smaller house to clean and fewer clothes to wash. A basic diet, nothing fancy, simple food is just fine, and, crazy as it sounds, comfortable shoes. Being in the city reminds me of this every time.

My escapades took me of course to the thrift shop, where I was able to find my new summer wardrobe and a few things for my son for less than the cost of a pair of new jeans.

And then, yes, the big confession. I found myself at Wal-Mart. Shopping. No one to blame but myself. It was my idea. Here’s why. It’s cheap. I justify my horrid behavior by knowing I’m saving myself money. Saving myself while messing up the world? It’s hypocritical. It’s wrong. Believe me, I know. Supporting maybe slave labor in China or something totally terrible. Tell me how do they do this when a new pillow case cost less at Wal-Mart than it did at the thrift shop? How to they grow the cotton, harvest, process, dye, mill, sew and ship it all the way from China to Colorado for a buck fifty and make a profit? Who, I should ask, makes a profit, and who is losing out? This is crazy. And here I am supporting it. Feeling guilty, but secretly grateful for the prices. What’s a person to do?

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…

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