change

Waiting for the moon to rise.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Tonight I sit out on the deck wrapped in the well worn poncho as I have found myself held in this heavy wool so many times before this night. My feet are on the railing; my head tilts back. Behind the now leafless old oak that shades the deck in summer appears the waning moon. She glows silver across the night pasture where fog spreads thick as sea foam. I can hear the gentle shifting of the horses in the barn, and the ever present hum of the inky river just a stone’s throw below. The dogs are beside me. Silent and attentive, staring out into the black beyond, waiting. The bears have been keeping them busy with the warm weather and bright moon.

Overhead, through lace of slender branches of this sprawling tree, few stars glint like Christmas ornaments hanging in the sky.

The ever present sound of the river blends into the darkness and becomes a noise you forget you’re hearing.

There is only a simple silence.

Time and space to breathe.

We settle into the season of long shadows, long nights.

Like the bear. That’s what this season of slowing and settling calls for.

Here in the far north of California in the land of big trees, big rain, big swaths of blackberries and poison oak, the bear does not necessarily hibernate so much as simply slow down. From the recent barking of the dogs, I don’t know how much they’ve even done that. It’s been a mild season so far. Garden roses still bloom. Stores remain plentiful after a bountiful season of lush grass, mushrooms, madrone berries and acorns. It’s easy to see what they’ve been eating by the scat they plainly leave randomly along our quiet dirt road.

With two big dogs, I don’t get to see those bears much. Usually just a big blob of a bear butt running up a hill. Sometimes up a tree.

Still, I feel it, and I’m sure the bears do too. Now is not the season of plenty, but of holing up. Slowing down. And turning within.

The rooster does not crow until some time past six in the morning and the horses come in for the night around five. That makes for long evenings, time for baking, reading, writing, board games, enjoying long lingering dinners lit by candles and twinkle lights, snuggling on the sofa with a couple of cats, reading aloud together, soaking in hot baths… these are winter pleasures.

In spite of the mild weather we’ve been having, we heed the call of the natural exhale after spring/summer/harvest/fall running around full speed in what feels like endless daylight. For those of us who work outside as long as the sun shines, winter is the time to transform into an indoor cat, at least during those long nights. Winter is a reprieve. A blessing. I long for it by the end of summer every year. Time to breathe. To let out a long, full, deep exhale. Before the anxious inhale of spring begins anew.

Garden roses still abloom…
… in December.

Seasons, like emotions, these ever flowing, passing states, one folding into the next like whipped eggs whites or cream.

When what I want sometimes is to hold onto forever. Something solid. Never changing.

As futile as clinging to ocean waves.

Rather than accept and appreciate the inevitable.

Ebbs and flows, tides and moons, the occasional passing storm.

Tonight the tide is low. I feel melancholy.

I want a drink. Come on, you say. Go ahead. Just one.

Alas, for some of us, it doesn’t work that way. Maybe this time it would. This time I could. I’d be okay. Holding the firm stem in my fingers as I swirl the familiar luring fragrance emanating from the liquid red velvet lit from the glow of the kitchen lamp behind me. And then let it roll across my lips and linger on my tongue like nectar – silky, rich and smoky.  

No.

It’s nearly seven years since I went sober, yet some days (usually nights) I can imagine drinking so vividly as if it were just yesterday. Some days it feels like it’s not getting easier. Tonight is one of those nights.

I’ll get over it. There’s power in reminding myself I made it this far. I can keep on keeping on.

Use your grit, gal.

And grit, well, that much I got.

Things change.

Today, tomorrow, yesterday.

Every day is different. Even on those days when what I feel is so familiar. When what I feel is that “ground hog day” replaying over and over and over again.

Wake in the dark. Tuck the blankets back around Bob. Pet (and step over) the still sleeping pups. Get the fire going, the coffee on, roll out the yoga mat and get down on it, stretch, meditate, light a candle to write, then as gray daylight waxes across the meadow of chalky fog, head out to let the chickens out, feed the horses, walk the dogs.  Return…

Grounding in the familiar. This simple life. A life though maybe a little different than yours, so similar in so far as both of us probably turn in each night thinking we didn’t get half as much done as we planned to do.

There are books and poems to write, horses to teach and dogs to train, bread to bake, wood to split, roses to prune and a compost pile to turn, a barn wall to rebuild and basement walls to trim out, rocks to stack and dirt to move and the damn floor needs to be swept again.

I want more time. Or maybe more energy. But that to-do list never seems to go away, just flows from one set of priorities to the next. It’s that ebb and flow thing once again. And at the end of each day, we hope we made a little headway, though how often do we feel we’re drowning.

Today.

Grounded, not because of the place, the view before me, but because of the feeling within me.

And under me. Crow, my old faithful horse. Beside me, Bob and the dogs and the last of autumn’s sweet air that allows us to feel the sun on ungloved hands and my graying hair still free from the confinement of a winter cap.

Sometimes you find yourself…. Exactly where you belong. It’s not a place, but a feeling, something inside.

For me, it’s a wild place, sounded by wind through leafless trees and the cadence of hard hooves on soft dirt.

It’s finding myself on the back of my dear horse where I’ve found myself for thousands of miles before this one.

And time stops, or no longer matters.

And I’m just there, the bones of my pelvis padded by Crow’s warm winter coat.

The sound of my breath, his breath, the rhythm of his footfall.

It’s watching my horse’s mane shift and sway as he walks, like ripples in the river into which my open hand reaches, sinks in, and already knows the softness it will touch as my fingers intertwine with his black mane.  So familiar, the feel of bare hands in soft hair, deep into the comfort of the back of his neck. The familiar fragrance of freshly cut fir trees and wild mint as the horses cross the creek, mingling with their sweet musky sweat in the oddly mild air where my legs are wrapped around a familiar warm back, without a saddle between us to sever the connection.

It’s turning to see Bob in his own world beside me, comfortable and content on the back of the new horse, Jesse. He’s perched in a place where he’s been holding space since long before I was born, and I smile. He may not see it. I’m riding in front. But he knows it. He always knows it. If he wants me to just let go, to relax, to forget about all the should-woulda-couldas, to just be, and to smile, get the gal on her horse.

This feels like home. On the back of the horse. With my husband and dogs close by and the soft sun and leafless trees and the smell of those leaves, now grounded, brown and brittle, through which the horses walk. Today there’s no need to train or work or get somewhere or get something done, just be with the horses, the land, one another. Where we belong.

It is a return to center.

Coming back home, within.

Until next time,

With love,

Always love,

Gin

Stripped. Bare.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Lit from a window with dark and drama as if a Vermeer farm house woman painted on old canvas, weathered and worn with time. Where is my pitcher, my cup, a book held just so, or an open letter draped in my perfectly poised hand?

Instead, I loom mighty over a laptop, screen cold blue and buzzing, surreal, unimaginable back in baroque days. Both the computer and me.

The window is open. Damp air thick, smelling of wood smoke wafting from another clean up fire Bob is burning. And the sound of roosters competing in a crowing match, one on the river side, one by the garden. Diligent guards, knowing the hawks are close by. Allowing their ladies to peck and scratch through the fresh layer of damp decay.

And always, over and through it all, here has an ever present thrum of river. The sound a ubiquitous murmur, something that’s always there though so familiar you don’t always hear. Similar to that of traffic I was once used to in other days and feeling far away lands. This is what I hear, here and now.

A gray day. Ancient oaks with spindly outstretched arms like old woman’s fingers, gnarled and swollen from too many years gripping the shovel, the hoe, the broom, the wooden spoon; stand silent over ground matted with leaves still a robust brown covering ever green grass and rich black earth.

The writing desk, before which I’m perched, and upon which my lap top resides, this week brings me out beyond this familiar view to strange places on the open road where I once was. It’s that vibrant green and lush of late spring. The sound is of horses walking in unison, clip clop on some unnamed logging road or alongside a foreboding highway where cars and trucks zip by without meeting eyes or noticing the oddity of a woman riding along miles and miles of barbed wire fences, locked gates and “no trespassing” signs, still somewhere in the north of California.

A Long Quiet Ride, coming back to life in words. It’s not always easy to share. Of course it was harder to do. How does one share what happened out there? How do I bring you with me?

Conserving my words as I sit and stare out the window above my desk.

Wanting them to flow forth for the work at hand.

The book that’s stirring, simmering and working its way out of me now.

Yet poems are what mess around in my mind.

And what can a gal do but play with them, with a mischievous smile and twinkling, rolling gray eyes?

Evening now, leaning back with bent knees.

The familiar feel of warm worn leather holding the bones of my back.

I’m on one side of the sofa.

You are on the other.

Your feet are bare, broad, firm and warm.

While mine look half your size, wrapped in striped wool socks, holes in the toes worn through from wet leather boots left by the door beneath a dripping slicker.

Feet entangled, intertwined. An easy touch. Mindless and comforting as toes play with one another, finding familiar places to be.

While rain pounds down outside onto saturated deck shiny with water coating each old wood board, shimmering alive with pounding rain. And inside the old wood cook stove crackles and casts an amber glow into the half lit room smelling of the last of this seasons roses, rubbed down dogs drying by the fire, and chicken soup simmering on the stove.

We’re quiet.

You are softly spoken.

Teaching me to conserve my words.

A challenge for this rambling mind.

Lost in thought as silent phrases spill across pages of the notebook pressed against my thighs.

As I look up to meet your eyes, looking into, through you and back into me.

Entangled.

With words.

Sitting alone with my muse.

This weekend was rich with poems, poets and a coffee buzz. It’s hard not to succumb to the words that dance in my mind and twirl along my tongue as I read them aloud.

But now is time for story-telling.

So back to work I go.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Awaiting Beaver Moon.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Tonight I watch the waxing moon rise as I lean back into the damp bark and moist moss of my favorite ancient oak. The air is soothing with the sound of crickets in thick woods, now low as if played on tired wings, and the ever present sound of the river, as steady and familiar as my lovers warm breath.

They say a big storm approaches. Be it rain or snow, I am ready. The wood shed and pantry are full. And like the bear still finding plenty on these moon filled nights, we are prepared  to settle into the season of dark days.

With stiff shoulders and hands swollen and sore, I am as tired as the leaves that fall, and long for the season of rest. Of turning within.  Life, death, pause and rebirth.

Acceptance of the seasons. Of change.

What else can we do?

But for now, right now, the moon and me and the dogs close by, the haunting call of an owl not too far away, all of it, a part of the season, of the land.

A  spider’s silk, twinkling from moist air that rises as soon as the sun goes down, is moved by the evening breeze pushing up from the river, and gracefully wraps its silver thread upon my lap.

I take it as a sign. I do that a lot.

Considering the eternal connection, separate as it feels at times.

Wondering how my life has become.

And imagining where it will lead me next.

For now, it feels to be a story more beautiful than I ever imagined life could be.

Here now, the air is gentle, laced with gold as amber leaves fall in the light of bright moon, and the earthy  scent of fallen leaves becoming a part of warm wet ground, a salve for the unsettled soul.  

Time to return home. I take leave of the substantial oak, signal to the dogs and head towards the glow of the kitchen window. Mushrooms break ground beneath dark timber, and I find myself watching my step as I wander the forest floor in waning light.

The land has yet to freeze and the garden, always a place of solace, lingers, sharing vibrant bounty and beauty surrounded by a golden halo of autumn trees.

This is our first year to harvest zucchini into November, and as we were away for the main season, no, we’re not sick of it yet.

Leaves of tobacco, the sacred bold noble of the garden, are still harvested, ready to be cured and dried.

And roses, the beloved wise women of the grounds, still bloom, fragrant, rich and a little wild.

Yet I feel the natural close of season and have begun to cut back flowers and herbs and am eager to prune the fruit trees, though the flowers still bloom, herbs still aromatic, and fruit is still producing.

The quiet season unfurls. All we can do is settle back into it as if slipping into a warm tub and letting yourself go.

 It begins by allowing time. Time to rest.  To recover. Time to reflect and plot and plan.

And time to write. Something I still don’t know why I do it except it’s one of those things I can’t not do. I am incomplete without it. Perhaps it is creative passion, an expression of the feral soul, and/or the one thing I have always somehow felt I had that was worthy to give to others.

Lost at my desk, I’m found diving in to words, stories, places, time… some deeply moving, some simply hard, just as was the story I am starting to put into words.

For now, it’s still called, A Long Quiet Ride, because that is what I called it then. Though I’m open to suggestions, and hope you may share some ideas. The title, they say, is one of the hardest parts to write. And yet, possibly the most important words a reader may ever see.

And so it is that mornings are at my desk going places perhaps I should never have gone.

Maybe writing will help make it something you (and I) might finally understand.

Likely not fully, for every good adventure, every good story, should hold an element of inexplicable magic and mystery than can never be fully shared.

“What are you looking for?” I was asked time and again.

“Myself,” was the first thing that came to mind.

“A reason to live,” was the second.

And the third, was something beautiful.

I leave you today with this thought, something that followed me on that journey like a mysterious fragrance from a flower I could never see:

Remember to find magic, everywhere, everyday, in everyone.

It is there, waiting for us to find it, if only we take the time to see, to listen, to feel.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

PS from this morning, garden in the mist.

and from the kitchen table.

Lost in transition

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

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.

The never-ending journey of growing up.

Why did I ever think it would be easy?

And why did I ever think it would be done?

And in that time and space between here and there or maybe somewhere yet to be, there is a pause. It may be an almost imperceptible lingering that lasts no longer that the gap between the inhale and the exhale. Or perhaps it lasts longer, much longer, so long it starts to feel uncomfortable, you can’t help but notice it like awkward silence that you wish to fill or be done with and move on.

It is a state of emptiness. Hollow. You can see right through it, if you know where to look.

I look at my hands and see I am holding nothing but air. Full of the space that is plentiful in between those things we grab onto. Clinging in hopes of finding who and what we are, and where we belong.

When all along, we are that space, that nothing and everything in between, as much as we are solid ground.

Sometimes I find myself… lost. In that space in between. In transition, with feet firmly planted in the wind, and head spinning in the clouds.

Yet my heart remains grounded, no matter where those feet find themselves, reminding me what I’ve been looking for all along.

I need not remain in one place. While I’m with you, I am where I belong. While I’m here, I am home. Where ever here and my heart may find me.

Things change.

I love when it all goes smoothly, effortless, assuring me I’m heading the right way. One door easily opens before you while the one behind gently closes.

That rarely happens for me.

More often than not, there are slamming doors and some strong suction that whips me off my feet and lands me through a door I never even saw before me. Or else this: I find myself stuck in that place in between. In that gray area without black and white lines. In limbo.

Maybe like training horses, I too need time to soak. To process. Where the hell am I and how did I get here? That sort of stuff. Life puts me on pause until I figure these things out.

Guess I’m no rubber ball. You can’t throw me around and expect me to bounce right back with a smile on my face ready for the next round.

Boing! Here I am!

Boing again! Now I’m somewhere else!

Aren’t you happy to be back?

No. I don’t know who or what or where I am.

Give me a moment to catch my breath.

I don’t know about you, but I sure wish transition between things – be it homes, jobs, relationships, stages of our lives, loss or gain, even seasons, time and age, was easy. Instant. Leave the past behind and the future should be fine and dandy. Put the summer shorts in the box in the basement and you’ll be wearing wool for the next six months.

It never works that way, does it? It’s never quite that simple. Edges are blurred and boundaries unclear, and who and what or where we were and where we’re going blend together like red wine spilled over a crisp white linen tablecloth. And there you are; left with an empty glass and big mess to clean up.

Transition is a mysterious state. It’s awkward. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. We notice the past is missing, and may find ourselves mourning, longing for what was. And then more often than we’d like to admit, we fear what is yet to be.

Not knowing is a scary place to be.

Right now I just need to slow down and process. Let it all soak in. At least part of it. There’s a lot.

We did it. We said we’d do it before snowfly, and we did. Got the house closed in, windows and doors and woodstove and all.

And yes, we celebrated. A slow, quiet dance, holding one another for just a moment. And though it was not much, for me it was enough.

And then we packed up and moved on.

Packed up the horses and chickens and dog and tools and hit the road. Three days, 1250 miles, and boom there you are, back where you started, to assess the damage, clean up the pieces and figure out what projects need to be done next after leaving your home and land for four months.

~

Slow down!

Look around and see where your feet are beneath you, what land you stand upon. Connect with that here and now. Take your time; give it time.

Let one thing simmer. Put it on the back burner. And pull the other pot to the forefront, lift the lid, give it a stir, and bask in the rich, savory aroma.

I’ll explain another day. Maybe when I figure it out. If I do.

Today I am savoring the silence. The stillness. The calm and comfort and warmth and gentleness of another place. A familiar place.

Riverwind.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

~

The season of the setting sun.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

This morning heralds the change of season.

Autumnal Equinox.

The season of change. And somehow, of soul. Of letting go. Releasing. And oh yes, of softening. Into the mountain as she shares an ornate display before stripping bare and standing forth unadorned.

A time of exposure, openness, inviting us gently to reveal our true colors, no longer harsh beneath summer’s buoyant light, nor subtle, still and washed over in white as in winter’s frozen air.

The season is one of slowing down, at least it naturally is.  It’s the slow, deep exhale of the earth revealed in longer shadows, shorter days, golden light, and cooler nights.

There is some mysterious call for solitude in autumn air, asking us to wander off alone, if only for a moment. We’re called to turn within, to release summers big and bright, full and loud, left behind like a snake stepping out of her worn out skin, preparing perhaps for regrowth, the natural incline of hibernation that deep winter allows.

Alas, I wonder if I’ll have such a moment today. Feels like there is no time to be still and contemplate the deeper and greater meanings of this change this year. Yet these are the things that make life a little bit fuller, richer and more meaningful. Taking time to take in time. To see, taste, smell and fee the world around you, not only in ways that you touch it, but in how it touches you, or better yet, just is, regardless of you and your presence. It’s that thing bigger than you or me or today or tomorrow or our wants and worries and woes.

And so I will take the time, before the rains, or maybe while it comes down, to stop where the tall grass is brown, untouched and abundant with seeds ready to be kicked out as I walk by. I will stop for a moment and lay down upon the earth, with the pup sitting still beside me, listening to the sound of the creek, and distant wind through tired leaves, and let the rain fall on my weathered face, and I will breathe, and I will smile, and for just a moment in time, I will do nothing more than be.

As for building:

We’re close.

I know. I’ve said that before.

Pushing to complete a crazy challenge.

Almost there. Not to a place, but to a goal.

I’ll let you know when we make it.

And then what? On to the next?

Oh, I’ve got plans; you can be sure.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

As for the rest of the story…

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

It’s changing.

Seems like it’s early this year. When the clouds cleared this morning, I looked for snow on the peaks around our valley. Not yet. It’s close though. I feel it.

There’s frost on my boots in the cold gray morning as I let the horses out for the day. Breaking ice upon the water bowl as the chickens remain in the coop until the sun brings promise of golden warmth.

Across the valley, grasses brown. Flowers are fading, turning to seed. The landscape changes to earth tones. Browns and tans, greens and grays. Late blooming gentians and asters and ever blessing yarrow remain. Tips of the willows along the creek and a few patches of aspen start to strut their stuff and we are stirred with the excitement of changing seasons, the promise of vibrant color, and then the ensuing calm that will cover the land when the snows begin to fall.

I long to be a part of the seasons in one place, continuous and connected in the ever changing cycle, a part of the quietness that winter brings with her heavy cloak of white holding us down tight. I want to witness the frozen air of dry brown autumn wind turning pale as grass clings fiercely to its seeds, defiantly refusing to bow under the first snows of fall. And then I will yearn for swollen buds on the tops of aspen to promise new life in spring and await the late greening grasses to fill the horses’ bellies after a long, cold winter sustained on dry hay.

I may not be here to see that, feel that, this year, but I know it will happen some day soon. I am eager, but will wait my turn, will wait for this cabin to be finished, the barn built, and a wood shed stocked plum full.

Now I sit in our little camper, waiting out another rain storm loud on the thin metal roof, staring out of rain streaked windows at the solid cabin calling to be built.

In here with seemingly incessant drumming overhead, having trouble sitting still when what I want to do, what I’m called to do, is get that roof going up… it is a test of patience, when after all the tests of patience I have endured, what is one more? I will not pace the minimal floor space of the tiny camper; instead take a deep breath, inhale, exhale, let it go, and get to work… writing.

After all, I still got some ‘splainin’ to do…

Reminiscing on Riverwind:

               Out on the deck, beneath stars and under branches of old oak trees, I lay in bed, sheets still warm and worn, enwrapped by gentle wind, the song of the river and my husband’s gentle breathing. He lays beside me, already asleep, our limbs still intertwined, back to belly, belly to back. A lullaby of crickets and tree frogs and the honey fragrance of flowering madrone enchant me. I listen to white noise wafting up through night air to where we made our bed, serenaded by sounds of water flowing over smooth rocks, ever moving, ever changing, reverberating with the promise of impermanence.

               It is both time and love that heal all wounds.

As for that bomb we dropped? Yes….It’s true. We have chosen to part with our beloved Riverwind , and be with this high wild land.

You can click HERE to see the listing.

Please may I share the song of Riverwind and boast of an ode to that haven of a homestead tucked away in the mountains along the wild and scenic river? It was a transformation of heart and hearth, healing the land as we healed our souls, creatively toiling to bring the land to life. I will share it all some day. For now, I will let the silence of that peaceful place sing for itself.  

It will not change hands over night, as it was not built nor brought back to life that quickly too. Things take time out here. What’s the rush, you say? And part of me longs for the tranquility of the place that healed our souls as we healed the land.

Yet there is also the part that says, when you are ready to move on, move. Why cling to what you must release?

Sounds easy. It is not.

The hardest part is the people. Leaving people. Leaving community. Leaving the family and friends I have known and loved on and off for nearly thirty years. My closest family (G&S), my sisters (Jan, Cindy, Lori, Christina and more who have opened their heart and soul to include me over all these years as we wove our own stories and shared seeds and recipes, roots and cuttings, and a camaraderie and connection that I will never replace.

But really… I don’t want to write of that now. It’s hard. It hurts. And I’m not gone yet.

So yes, there’s lots more to say and share but for now, I’m changing the subject. It’s not really denial. More like just distraction.

So without further ado, here are some updates on cabin building.

We’ve been at it almost three months. In that time, we got a solid access road built, dirt work/site prepped and foundation dug out, wash water system in, well and pump, concrete footer and stem wall poured, floor joists and subfloor installed, wood beams defining walls, windows and doors roughed out, and most recently, ridge beam and rafters hoisted up and into place.

Next, we’re going to get those roof panels raised, metal on the roof, and close in the windows and walls. And of course, install a wood stove.

I’m thinking it might actually all get done.

Before the snow flies? Well on that, we’ll see.

Here are a few pictures and videos explaining how it works.

I know… Seems like it’s all Bob. Some days it feels that way. I’m just the back up guy. The one with the level and tape, pot and pan, handing him the drill, trying to manhandle the timbers, climbing the ladder, catching the beam, and trying to get it to land just so. Remarkably, it often does. But Bob, he’s the chainsaw guy. Which means, he’s been the one to actually fell all the trees, prep them for milling, and once hauled clear across the west as he’s done, then cut the timbers to length. That means a lot of handling and cutting for each log that goes into place. For Christmas last year, I got him this really cool tool. Not real romantic, I know… It’s called Big Foot, an attachment to a chainsaw that enables you to cut angles really true. Not just 90 degrees, but whatever angle we need. Figure, adjust, set and saw, and there you have it. We make it sound easier than we make it work, but it does work. I mean, look at all the angles he already cut. Most are 90 degrees, but those gable ends end up beautiful (beauty being in the eye of the builder, of course).

It’s going along good. Right on schedule, which is a pretty impressive thing for a couple of older folks who should be wise enough to know better than to start all over again.

               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 some things 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 at fifty-eight, 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.

               As you see, 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 midlife and menopause and the pursuit for finding the forever place, 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.

This summer was meant to be about more than building. It was a chance to see if I’d fall for the land.

Guess what?

I did.

A part of me woke up here. A feral part, admittedly, but a part all the same.

The wilds. Drive me. Wild.

In wild places, with room to roam, my soul not only stirs, it soars.

This is my temple.

This is my therapist.

This is where I belong.

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin

Held by here and now.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

~

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

Getting closer…

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Things shifted overnight from, “We got this,” to “Holy crap, are we gonna get this?”

We leave in one week.

So far, the stress hasn’t come from thinking about building a cabin from the ground up in one season (we’ll see how far we get), at an elevation of 10,000 feet, while tending to horses, chickens, dog, and garden (yes, I am bringing a “portable garden”) all the while spending the summer together in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 without running water or electricity but with an outhouse nearby, a bucket to bathe in, and as usual, no where near neighbors, pavement or cell phone service. That said, we are setting up a simple solar system just large enough to charge cordless tools and operate starlink from time to time. Our compromise at modern living.

What has been harder is preparing to leave this place behind.

That’s where our attentions and efforts have been. Mowing, weedwacking, weeding, watering, organizing, tidying, trying to get this place in a space that will safely hold its center in our absence. And still finding time to be with beloved friends and neighbors, the river, the wind, the air and essence and little bit of tended wild that is this wonderful place.

And of course… there is this. The garden. My baby.

For anyone who has ever tended to the land with nearly as much love as we gave to our children, you know what it’s like.

Seems like this baby is always the biggest user of my time. Sucks time away and I don’t even notice it’s disappeared until I wonder where the day has gone and why I am so hungry. But you know, they say it’s those kinds of things, those things that you totally lose yourself in, and lose track of time, that show you where your true passion lies. Gardening is one. Most anything outdoors, I guess. Working the horses, riding, hiking, and writing inspired by the wild…

It wasn’t always that way, and maybe that’s part of what makes it so endearing to me.

Here are a few “before” pictures Bob pulled up of this land, to share the perspective of space where the garden now grows.

This was a baby born in a painful birth of being scraped with a skid steer to clear the open slate.

That was nearly six years ago. Almost six years of watching her grow, spread her wings, and fly, deeply grounded. Six years of hauling a shit load of top soil from the other side of our land, mail ordered earthworms, innumerable bags of steer manure and organic amendments to get her growing, and shoveling manure every single day I was here. Keeping the poop in the loop, and the loop ever growing.

And now, see what a few years can do?

To her, I have given blood, sweat and tears. Lots of tears. I cried a lot when we first broke ground. “It will never work, it will never grow, it will never be beautiful,” I would cry to Bob quite regularly. As usual, he’d just patiently listen and watch as I got back to work. I am glad to say I was wrong.

She has provided for us in kind year round. For a couple with a primarily vegetable based diet, that’s something to be proud of. Yes, it means we eat simply and yes, it gets boring at times. Believe me, by March we’re usually pretty sick of old winter squash and bitter kale while we’re waiting for the new crops to outgrow the slugs after winter’s heavy rains.

I’m sitting there now, flip flops kicked off and toes thick in grass, listening to swallows chatter about their nesting box while swallowtail butterflies and hummingbirds dance around the profusion of brilliant colors just beginning to emerge for the season. And all the while this intoxicating fragrance of rose, oh! all these roses! gracefully bowing as they bend in abundance, most of which were started by sticks I stuck in the ground and trusted they would grow. They did. While meanwhile and always, this space is serenaded by the ever present hum of the river that wraps around this land.

Of all the work we did here, clearing, cleaning, caring, opening dry and dead and overgrown, trash strewn and fire damaged that was this land when we first arrived, the garden has grown to the crown jewel of the land.

Beside the roses, what I’m most enamored by is all the fruit trees we’ve gifted to the land: apples and pears, plum and persimmons, walnut and almond and fig. And most endearing to me are the peach trees started from seed. You see, four years ago, the Old Man gave me five pits. He had saved them ten years and handed them over with reverence. Told me they were the best peaches he ever had, so he planned on planting them some day. I gave it a try. Put those pits in a pot with some soil and set them out in the garden all winter and lo and behold, by spring, shoots shot up and last year, I picked the first peaches. A humble start, but worth it indeed. This year, those trees, though still somewhat small, are laden with fruit and bending to the weight of their juicy promise… which (don’t remind me, please!) I will not be here to enjoy. Funny things is, one of those peach trees looked a little different. Turns out it’s a nectarine. I love these little surprises in life.

One final breath out here in this little bit of paradise, then time to get back to work, loading the last of the lumber into the horse trailer that will carry a lot more than horses on this trip across the West.

A deep breath. With our departure just a week away, yes, it gets scary at times.

Scared? Yes. Change is always scary, isn’t it? Change of pace, change of place.

Change of heart?

Hopefully only a heart growing, expanding, unfurling like the roses surrounding me.

Mine is not a fearless heart.

I would rather it be a courageous heart.

For I would rather a heart that loves and cares and longs deeply enough that it knows what fear feels like, and chooses to love and care and long above that fear. I would rather a heart courageous enough to step forth into fear, like stepping into the stirrup and settling onto the back of a bronc.

So here we go. Again.

Stepping.

Hold onto your hat and enjoy the ride!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Hear. Now.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Last night just past midnight I woke expecting the full moon to guide my way through the otherwise dark cabin. It did not. The lunar eclipse! Amazing how magical these things are, and note to self to never stop finding magic well taken.

Stumbling over sleeping dogs, I stepped out onto the front porch. There was a cold, light rain, somewhat soft and it felt good against my bare feet and naked skin. I wanted to see if I could see the eclipse. Hard to see what’s dark, and even harder when it’s hidden behind clouds.

I returned to the warm bed in awe none the less, for the reminder of the magic this little event stirred in me.

Later I woke again and listened. The gentle patter of rain on metal roof turned silent. I know what this means. More magic. The rain had turned to snow.

Right now I’m sitting here writing to you by candle light inside while the snow continues out there. Yes, I could flick a switch. We have solar power (though it’s true, not an abundance, and certainly not in this weather). But the simple life comforts me. The peace of stillness and silence soothes me. It’s easy to find here. And sometimes easy is good: a lot less wires and bells and whistles and high tech stuff that’s inevitably going to break down. Yet at times, it’s harder, too. If we want food (and of course we do), we grow it, at least the majority of it. If we want heat, buck and split wood, stoke a fire. If we want shelter, build it. If we want light, we strike a match and light a candle or oil lamp.

Yes, this “simple life” is work, and a lot of it, but it’s a direct life. If we want something, we work for it. Want a home, build it. Food, plant it and tend to it for hours each to day to allow it grow with abundance. Want water, bury lines from the spring to the house. Rather than working for money to pay for these things, we work for them directly. See? Simple. And yet those of us that live this way so often hear, “What do you all day? Don’t you get bored?” Smile sweetly, say nothing. It’s one of those things. If you know, you know.

It’s getting light out now, though the snow is coming down harder than ever. Time for me to bundle up and head out to do chores. Feed the chickens that lay the eggs. Let out the horses that make manure that enable the garden to grow… that sort of thing. Simple, yes?

But before I go out, I just wanted to say this. Since I started writing here again, the words have been flooding. I’m drowning in incomplete ideas. This, today, will be no different.

See, what I wanted to share was about belonging. How maybe it’s more about care, connection and contribution – what we do for others – that defines the place where we belong. At least that’s my latest idea to mull over. And I wanted to share about courage – the courage it takes as a writer (as any artist) to open your soul and pour, then put it out there for the world to see (alas, mine is but a little world). And I wanted to write about passion for place, the intimate connection between person and place, comparing land to lover.

But I’m not going to write any of that today. I’m going to go out in the snow with my dogs and take care of what needs to be done to make this simple life worth living.

~

I wrote this yesterday. Maybe it’s still relevant. Maybe it’s old news. But to prove my point to myself, this thing about care, commitment and contribution… things that really matters, that I’m trying to work out, trying to write about, but I haven’t figured out “how” just yet, I’m going to muster up the courage to share this (and hope I don’t wince at my foolishness afterwards).

Rain. Snow. A little sun.

Today in the far north of California it’s a southern Colorado spring day. A little bit of everything. Wait five minutes, and it will change.

Hats on and off, zippers up and down.

Speeding up the season.

Slowing down progress.

When what we need to be doing is falling trees and milling timber, we’re inside keeping the wood cook stove going to keep the cabin warm. Go ahead and bake another loaf of bread and more cookies we don’t really need ’cause when what we need we can’t have, might as well make the most of where you are and what you got. Right now, that means time inside to chill, and a wood cook stove that’s hot.

Truth is, it’s been a good excuse to stay indoor and to work on plans. Floor plans. Spread across the kitchen table like breadcrumbs and a splash of black coffee. It’s all part of the process. Last time we built from scratch involved submitting fourteen pages of detailed plans, hand drawn on graph paper yet still technical and precise, for a log cabin inspected and built to code. That’s a big deal for us hillbilly cowboy sorts than didn’t go to school for this stuff, just figured it out as we went along. This time ’round, hopefully a clear idea of what we’re building should suffice.

With drawing close to complete, it’s time to get back out there and at it. Falling, hauling, milling, stacking…

We are ready. The weather? Not so much..

No matter the weather, spring comes. In spite of fresh snow on the hills behind us, the almond blossoms open and peach trees are close behind. A few brave asparagus have burst through moist ground, and last season’s kale is going to seed.

The first bed of spring crops is in, new kale, spinach, broccoli and chard, carefully tucked under row covers to protect the small plants from the still cold elements – and the dogs.

With a break in the rain, we go to the garden. Milling can wait. Growing our food cannot.

The dogs lay in freshly turned soil. My husband lays on the grass. Me, I lean into the shovel, and smile.

Meanwhile and always, water flows.

Here, now, as before and will be, a river calls us to sit beside and listen.

Listen.

A shrill whistle cuts through the air.

The call is simple. Familiar. Stirring me someplace deep within.

Emanating from branches of dark timber, the song of the Redwing, piercing through the dun of hard rain on metal roof and an ever swelling river.

Listen.

Hear.

Here.

Now.

You cannot outrun the past. The past is the path that led you to where you are today.

Yet in moving, you leave where you were behind. In a way, you leave a piece of who you were behind as well. A part of you left in the soil you fed with countless wheelbarrow loads of manure gathered each day from the horses. A part in the fruit trees that may feed only bear and deer when we are gone. A part in the people.

That can be the hardest thing to leave.

And in that void between what you have left behind and what you are crafting anew, you become the blank slate. The clay upon the potters’ wheel. You are both the clay and the hands that shape it.

We are not moving back nor backwards. We are moving forward towards a place that feels familiar with the clear crisp air and intense light and breathtaking endless horizons. A place where we’ll recognize the flash of mountain bluebirds and the bloom of showy cinquefoil. the fragrance of fallen aspen leaves and the soothing balm of winter snow. We’ll leave parts of that past behind. Time has healed trauma. Stories carry weight only if force fed as a mother still fattening a grown child. There are better things to nurture now.

Now is the time for re-writing. Not based upon where you are, but who you are.

The answers are not found out there. They are found in here. Within.

Where I should have looked all along.

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.