Confessions of a mountain mama

December 29, 2012December 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

So yes, travel… But first, life. The big picture.

Don’t forget what matters most, and what I’m all about. I’m not asking you, though if you know, please tell me. I just have to remind myself. Or trying to figure it out in the first place. Because this travel thing sure takes a lot of work, and time, and money, and we’re not even there yet. Remember, we scratch out a living providing vacations. We don’t take them. So what am I doing? Questioning myself.

Lessons learning, and will be learned on staying grounded. On one hand, I leave my world for a new one. On the other, I carefully pack parts of my world to bring with me. For example, obviously I care not to leave my relationship with my son behind. This is the hardest part – the sheer distance that will separate us. Or my business. Odd to consider I will begin taking reservations for this little bit of paradise from another one over six thousand miles away. I embrace my responsibilities, and have no intention (quite the contrary!) of tossing them to the side as I leap onto a limb. My shoulders are strong and I intend to carry these with me. Otherwise, I would not go. I’m really not interested in such frivolity. Leaving it all behind was fun when I was young. I had nothing else I cared about. Now I love what I have. But still want to experience more. Thus, the added weight, but added fullness of life and character. Embrace it all.

All these darned details of getting there from here (did I mention: with an eighty pound dog?). Complicated by a different country, a different hemisphere, a different language, trying communications, emotions and relationships. Going where you’ve never been before. Minor details. Get over it. None of that matters, just makes things hard, and I never said easy was good. What I’m going for remains the same.

And still it’s all just a small part of the big picture for me. For you, dear reader, might I guess, the more interesting part? The rest might seem like boring details in comparison. They are not for me. Helping my son with course load and career choice decision, setting up a reservation system and advertising for next summer’s bookings, juggling numbers and balancing the books (this never really happens but I go through the motions every year), arrangements for critter care and shutting down our guest ranch for almost four months… Do you really want to read about these things? (The few of our faithful cabin renters who read the part about cabin bookings are smiling wide and shaking their head saying, “Yes!”)

Do you know that feeling of arriving at a place you have never been to before? You know that dream state you find yourself in at first, so odd and a little eerie, of not being sure if you’re really there, or just watching life pass by like a movie until you finally find yourself in there and participating and then it slowly soaks in that it’s real? Nothing (except perhaps, hands-on positive parenting) brings you more face to face with your inner self.

Did you ever think what you were all about? Really, take a minute and think about it. Maybe write it down so it’s clear. Or tell someone. Then it’s somehow more real. You shared it. Tell me, if you’d like. I’m glad to listen. It’s interesting what you learn.

Me, first and foremost, I’m a mother. Nothing has created me more. I am a wife. I’m one part of a team of three, my boys and me. (And dang, we are one helluva great team, if I do say so myself.) I’m a dog mama, a horse mama, and the mama of whatever other animals I’m blessed enough to have and care for. I’m about nature, solitude, creativity and passion. I’m not always stable, a little too sensitive and filled with compassion. I strive for grace, and have so much to learn.

And what about artist, writer? The encore career. Or some may note, back to where I was going before. After the mothering and housewife part of the job has, well… I can’t say I’ve retired, but that part has turned into more of a hobby, shall we say. We’re three equals now. There is less for me to do. Now there is room for more. More of another side of me.

Somehow this matters. Defining yourself from the start. For travel will change you. Not tourism, but travel. Going to be, not just to see.

My fingers hover above the keyboard but make no contact. Slowly they settle, but no letter is pressed. I am waiting. Waiting for a way to explain all this and nothing reasonable is coming. Maybe this isn’t the time. Make the time.

Writing. Sharing. We all have gifts. I believe this is mine. I’m too shy to give of myself when we’re together. Some of you have seen that, or figured that out. This is my thing. Sharing stories. Maybe just images. Images painted in words. Bringing you out there with me. Or inside, deep within.

This makes no sense, I know. This is no explanation for where I am going. Though maybe it is. In a round-about way. I’m not big on straight lines.

I need to go outside. Everything makes more sense out there. The crisp morning air. Breathe… Yes! It’s six below zero (-21C) without a cloud in the sky and the new sun that just peaked the back side of Finger Mesa to the east has stretched long blue shadows across a rolling, waved hill like a frozen sea of pale golden snow, broken only by a meandering line of tall trees that define the river’s winding path, and then ending abruptly at the jagged wall of black timber on the other side.

After what seems like five minutes of pulling on, piling, layering and zipping up, I’m out there with the dog running way ahead, clearing my path from unforeseen dangers. And my big fat boots, loud. Each step crunching in the dried, sugary snow. White noise if ever I heard one! Music to my otherwise wildly racing mind. Relax now, there is nothing to think about except the next noisy step and grasping the next deep breath of this frigid morning air.

Fine tuning point and purpose

December 27, 2012December 27, 2012 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

when I wake I
remember what
is outside I love
but in my head
is not where
I want to be

You know I never meant for this to be a travel log. Quite the contrary. It was always meant to be about home. Building home, making home, home making. Homesteading. But it’s not, is it? Though I think it was four years ago when High Mountain Muse first began. Seems long ago and far away now. Though the view outside the window looks just about the same as it did back then. Maybe less snow this year. That’s a problem. But I don’t want to discuss that today.

Maybe I’ve lost my way. Maybe I’ve changed direction. But look! Here I go. I’m changing again.

After our adventure last winter battling the Empty Nest syndrome by flying my own coop to Northern Washington, I was pretty sure I was ready to return, settle down, stay a while. But it seems I am not done. I can’t blame the Empty Nest syndrome any more. I should be over that. (Or does one ever really recover?) Maybe it’s just Itchy Feet.

But I think it’s more. It is about life. About passion. About a wild desire to experience life, full and rich. About tasting life, not just reading the recipe. And diving in. Not just touching your toe to cold water and being afraid to dive in.

I’m diving in.

Time to think about packing now. We’re two weeks away from launching. I hope you’ll join me. Sit back, tighten your seatbelts, and enjoy the ride.

But first, I’m here. Now. And that’s still the best place to be. (Especially with our son here with us!)

hold steady the camera
to the mountain
my muse
and breathe in another shot

ingrained

chiseled somewhere in
there where I am
reminded of
the smell
of crumbled aspen leaves
and pine sap
spruce bark
and the odor of the bull elk
who left his bed of melted snow
to silently blend
into pale trees
and wood smoke wafting from
the cookstove chimney
lingering out on pasture
where the horses should be

ingrained

Trying not to write is like morning without coffee. Very incomplete, but without the headaches.

No real cowgirl sings the blues

December 13, 2012December 13, 2012 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

So plug your ears, or you might just hear me cry.

`
(Picture of me and Flying Crow in the High Country in warmer days. Photo taken by Kate Seely)

`
Decisions are not random here. More often than not, they are based on nature. The high country, the rainy season, dropping temperatures, wind, drought, glaring sun, the road closed by snow. Things like that. Pretty simple, except we tend to complicate things with… emotion.
Our attempts at living where no one has before. A balancing act between human needs and nature. Complicated more by our decisions than what the weather does. Why can’t things be simple? As they are for the family of coyotes, loving the late-to-come winter, still out there pouncing voles in the dried brown grasses just out of Gunnar’s radar. Or the four elk still up high on Pole Mountain, grazing at an elevation of 13,000 feet. They say the Big One is rolling in tonight. These guys have not followed the forecast as intently as I have. I can only hope as the snows begin, they will turn to the timber and find their way to lower ground.

Now I’m looking through old photos. Warmer days. Sunshine, green grass, leaves on trees, solid ground to walk on, run on, kick up your heels on.

`
As I lay in bed last night, I cried. My husband unable to comfort me. And I am sorry I refused to let him try, for try he did. I know his warm touch would have soothed me, his gentle words a peaceful balm. Instead, I pushed him away, turned my back and cried myself to sleep.
I think you should know this. I don’t know why I share it any more than why I feel it. Sometimes I am tired of feeling and would rather find the perfect pill that washes it all away. Only not really, because I want to feel it all. I don’t want an unnatural solace, a potion that would make living less. I guess you have to take the good with the bad and there is always at least a bit of both if you’re really living.
This is ridiculous. I need to be stronger.

What do I really want?

Home. One. Seems pretty simple but it’s a constant theme. Here I have a love/hate relationship with the land. Yes, more love than hate. The best of relationships are that way. So why am I leaving again?
This is the last time I look elsewhere. If I find it there, I will move there. If I don’t, my search ends. That’s it. This place is not perfect, but it is mine, it is home. Complete with horses, chickens, cats and dog, a little family and a big mountain, and a healthy dose of normal problems to keep us all in line.
And there I am, loading the last four of my horses into the trailer to send them down to lower ground. Winter pasture. Before the road is closed. I wait until the last day. The last safe chance. My husband allows this of me. He knows how much it matters. He understands.
The hawk flies above me in the clear blue sky as my tears fall down into the snow. He is mine. There for me now when I am losing so much else. By choice. Damn it, what is wrong with me?

`
Winter will hit hard. Stinging against your cheeks like small stones as horizontal snow feels in the sub zero temperatures of early morning.
I won’t have to go out as early now. Tres will not be on back porch pulling down the snowshoes and ski poles to get my attention. I can wait for the sun to scale the mountain to the east and flood this little valley with sun on snow. But I won’t. I have been up early for years caring for those who need me, and really, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I will find something. The Steller’s Jays in the blue spruce, the pair of raven in the naked aspen, maybe even the magpie that shy from the coyote fence as I take the slop bucket down to the chicken coop each morning.
These will remain, a part of my morning ritual.
I frighten myself with my own decisions. Repercussions of creating life. It is not meant to be smooth, but we long for those still moments. They do not last.

`
And sometimes they die. A sorrow I care not touch on today.
The losses we have shared. Five foals in as many years. The scars are deep within me. I have carried each loss in my arms, bathed him or her with tears as he or she poured forth life that could not be contained.

`
No. Now I would rather focus on joy.
It is not always easy. But it is there if we look deep enough.
Horses have become me. A part of me. Chosen. Created. Not given, assumed or taken. I’m no lucky horsey girl grown up. I’m a horse woman, self made. An adult decision I like to say. Painted my own picture. And now I watch the last of them drive away…

Only for a few months. I remind myself and hold onto these words. Only words. But I can close my eyes and picture this. Some time in spring, long before leaves on the trees, streaks of snow patch cleared from pasture, brown waters in the Rio Grande, and tourists considering this a destination, we’ll be driving back with them in tow. And I know the feeling I will have, almost uncontained, bursting, just to have them again out of every window, following us about like bored children as we work about the ranch, the point and purpose to first light of day, ready to allow me at any given whim to wrap my arms about their neck and bury my nose in their warm hair.

`
It’s hard enough bringing Gunnar to Patagonia. I cannot bring all of them too.
How redundant to say “I will miss them.” These words are already assumed. You already know.
It’s not just about riding, is it? Maybe it was. Maybe that is how it started. But the deeper you go, the more there is.
They are now partners. We work with them, live with them, depend on them as they on us. Unlike pleasure horses, lawn ornaments, hobby horses, or toys. We are out there together and you hear me reading at night to the boys in our tent, while I hear you shuffling and stomping in the nearby trees. And some days we are both grouchy and other times both tired and short of patience, but you remind me to breathe deep and I do, and I smell you, your sweet musky sweat. And we get over it and get to work, and it’s not so bad, you know and I know so we get through it together. And then sometimes, just for the fun of it, we ride off to who knows where. Just because we can. We did more of that this year. And I thank you for trusting me to go where most wouldn’t dare and some places maybe that no horse has been before. You trust me. I tell you you can. And then I see your confidence grow stronger with each wild ride, like my child evolving into his own person. Maybe with a little bit of my help, but mostly because of you. Or maybe it’s a team. You grow, and I trust you more because of it, and really, it’s a very beautiful relationship changing all the time. It does not stop with what we did yesterday. Tomorrow will bring something new. Maybe subtle, like eye contact, little signals with a flick of my wrist, body language that we humans usually don’t quite get. We can learn to dance together. Not for ribbons or sport, not for some game or to show off. Just for each other.
And in that very moment, you grow and I grow. Perhaps not together. But maybe side by side.

(Here, Norman pulling a big rock and about as proud of himself as I am of him. This photo from “The Ditch Diaries”)

Yes, this is about home. It always is for me. The love of place and space. Balancing my love of home, mountain, horses, dog, husband and son. May be simple. But this is what matters most. To me.
And words. Though more than words. The spirit that words represent. The sharing of it all.
Now, something deeper than the pleasure of company which I will have again. Get over it. Be strong. Look what awaits me!
This is what is meant to be. Call me hokey but I believe that. I believe in the openings that presented themselves. The choices I have made. I will not let her down, let myself down, my husband down, who has believed in me through all the crazy stuff I have got him into.
At the end of the day this is my choice, what I want to do. This is what I wish I’d be the one doing if I heard someone else was doing this. Really, this is beyond a dream come true. I never could have dreamed this one up. This is no vacation. I wouldn’t want that, you know. “Vacation” is not my thing. Because even though I’ve made a living providing vacations, I have no interest in taking one myself. It’s got to have that point and purpose thing. And this does. See?
So, what I will take is this. Life. As full and rich as I can live it. And try to understand it’s just not always easy.
And then again remember this. I never ever would have dreamed up a place like this. Right here, right now. And this wonderful life we built here together.
But can I not want more?
How can something so simple become so complex?
Would I change this sadness and stay safe and warm in yesterday?

`
(The beautiful life of Bayjura)

Rhythm and Voice; finding something solid in the wind

November 16, 2012November 16, 2012 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

A seashell sliver of the new moon set low to the south, early over west side of Ute Ridge. You’d think by now I know her pattern, can predict where she will choose to settle. Yet she remains an enigma. And part of me likes it that way. I don’t want all the answers. Why can’t we appreciate mystery for no more reward than the observation of outward beauty, and the stirring of inward intrigue? Give me all the answers and maybe that is gone.

Under the sparkling throw of a deep black sky. I stand. Silent. Dog at my side. It is warmer tonight. But not too warm. The snow is becoming. Permanence of winter becomes. I say I allow it but have no choice. I accept it. It is what I want.

This morning was a “balmy” fourteen degrees Fahrenheit. Tonight I open the window after my tub so it will be cooler when we return inside and retire. We remain out there another moment. Gunnar, looking ahead into the void for something scary because that’s his job, or at least, the one he claims and works so hard to perfect. His title. Me, staring up at dizzy diamonds in coal. No title. Just one very small person in a very large universe.

The pair of owls speak. To one another. Only by chance do I hear. It matters not to them. They are there in the abyss, somewhere by the east fence line, somewhere in the deeper darkness of the tall spruce trees. Gunnar gives them a quick “woof” and senses they are no threat. He listens with me. I think they are guarding us. From what, I do not know. But their presence is somehow huge and deep like the whale in ocean and bring with them a wisdom I wish to understand.

So, Amy, you ask about rhythm, and I got it. No, not really. I’m working on it. I can’t say I get it yet. It is harder than I thought.

This part isn’t coming easy, but I like it… reading it, hearing it… sound and motion… if I can make it work. If I can write it! I share with you what Harold shared with me. Using my words, but changing their rhythm. As he mentioned, it becomes a little more “universal.” I find it a little less preachy. It is no longer my lecture, but a poem I share with you. Adds interest, motion, without (borrowing the metaphor Harold suggested) the regular footstep of horse down a trail.

Feedback would be most welcome and appreciated.

a love poem a
first for me words
we just assume and
so I tell you what
I should have
said and maybe
I will not for
I think you already
know without
saying with feeling
something in trust
completion pride and
assumptions
I am more
whole with you
I am more of
me because of
you you let it
be all me when I
need it to be which
really is far too often
I say and you say
nothing at all and let me
rattle on which I
will do no matter

today was one of those
days I’m really
up and
down I have

always thought
the curse of
the creative mind
passion puts one
out of balance
it comes in
waves swelling and
curling and pounding
and drawing back
to low tide

then again
maybe it is
just me
probably I’m sorry
poise is nothing I
have known
stability does not
come easy that is
one of the reasons
I need
you so much you
are the rock to my
rushing waters

today was a tide
drawn out day
leaving
the stench of
the barren beach
in the wake
tomorrow
I will be better
and this much I
do believe
tomorrow I will
love you still
though I may
only say so in
the darkness as
our sweat cools
and we are there
tired front by
side which is
exactly where
I want to be
more complete
because of you

funny how I am
not afraid
when I always
thought I should
be less
of me and more
of you

Unworthy of a title yet

November 14, 2012 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

I am learning how much I have to learn and it’s often rather frustrating.

Harold, I am trying. I have a ways to go. Please don’t give up just yet. Here, imagine the format like a waltz as I tried to type it, one-two-three, as I saw it done by William Carlos Williams. But somehow it is lost. I won’t fight it. Accept it. Hope this works, though not quite the same. Of course it would not be. Perhaps it wouldn’t work the way I indended either.

For Bob who thinks it’s always “nice” and is learning to say more.

Unworthy of a title yet

a love poem
a first for me
words we just assume
and so I tell you what I should have said
and maybe I will not
for I think you already know
without saying
with feeling
something in trust
completion
pride and assumptions
I am more whole with you
I am more of me
because of you
you let it be all me
when I need it to be
which really is far too often I say
and you say nothing at all
and let me rattle on
which I will do no matter
today was one of those days
I’m really up and down
I have always thought
the curse of the creative mind
passion puts one
out of balance
it comes in waves
swelling and curling and pounding
and drawing back to low tide
then again
maybe it’s just me
probably
I’m sorry
poise is nothing I have known
stability does not come easy
that’s one of the reasons I need you
you are the rock to my rushing waters
today was a tide drawn out day
leaving the stench of the barren beach in the wake
tomorrow I will be better
and this much I do believe
tomorrow I will love you still
though I may only say so
in the darkness as our sweat cools together
and we are there tired front by side
which is exactly where I want to be
more complete because of you
funny how I am not afraid
when I always thought I should be
less of me and more of you

Re-working old poems

November 12, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Because I can.

Because I am indeed feeling bold.

Because the opportunity presents itself

And I would be a fool to let it pass.

Because I have always written

Will always write

But don’t always learn.

Because friends, feedback, teachers and editors

Don’t appear every day.

And so I begin.

Re-working old poems.

In hopes of seeing words anew.

Or rather

New uses for old words?

Succumbing

The water lures me

As she has so many times before

Now emerging

Discreet

As a delicate muse in the woods

Her hollow voice tempting

In a distant primordial song

Of silver coins tossed from teasing fingers

Her sweet smell and silky sway and wave

Taunting down the mountainside

Am I no more than a voyeur

Standing safely out of reach

Dry on her precarious banks

Enthralled

While she takes no heed of me

I am but a hunched form

A leaning tree

Casting shade across her face

As her struggle to keep fluid

Ebbs and flows

In thickening waters below

And if I stand here long enough

Will I see her freeze

Watch her facade relinquish

To the static state of

Solid water

Bird of prey

October 4, 2012 / Gin Getz / 23 Comments

Wind strips away the last of the leaves and sucks the heat of the woodstove out from between cracks in the log walls before warming the room. The wind chimes rattle ceaselessly on the back porch. Bare branches wave wildly as if saying their final farewell.

I sit in the cabin and stare outside at the browning hillside. Flocks of geese on the Reservoir flats joining up to prepare their journey southward as the tourists already have done. Those of us that remain prepare for departure or hibernation. I will do the latter.

“The feast before the famine…” Or so the saying goes. But this feast is bittersweet.

Now is the season of birds of prey.

In the sharp shadows of early morning, from the kitchen window I watch a falcon fly through the flock of mourning doves. They are slow. He is agile. A fascinating combination, confrontation, obvious he will be victorious, and of little surprise when after I count one less dove scratching at the seed by the hay shed.

Late afternoon looking out the same window. High above the field the Red Tail hawk dances in the middle of a whirlwind of what appears to be golden birds, whirling, swirling, fluttering, flickering in the lowering light. At first I think he flies among tiny birds, a flock larger than I’ve ever seen here and strain my eyes to identify. But it is only freshly fallen leaves caught up in the twisting air, a wild dance of nature, the bird of prey participates in what seems like a joyous display of fervor and wind.

So the season blows away, leaving the last of the orange leaves to glow like rare pale sentinels in the high hills, while the rest of the mountain fades to grey, silent and peaceful as a monk under a heavy hood. At once comforted and burdened by the weight.

It is time for me to withdraw. To give in to the brown and grey and barren wind. To write. I begin with letters I have put off for months.

From a letter written earlier this week to a friend who probably wished he never asked:

This will more than likely be way too long and rambling, or way too short and say only a fraction of what I want to say.

I’ve been going through an odd adjustment with Bob working in town a few days a week, Forrest off to college and trying to figure what his future holds, and myself trying to find more of my own self through work and business or lack there of. Not a big deal, just little life changes. And too much time to think. At this stage in the game, I should be doing more than thinking. Giving more than taking. I’ll figure it out. Just an adjustment period.

Where to begin?

I’d like to begin with the financial matters we first discussed back in August, I believe it was. Crazy the power money holds over us, even when we try to live so simply. I appreciate you sharing a bit of your story. Your honesty and openness have always been refreshing, though a harsh reality at times. You are right about the burden debt holds over us. Walking away (though of course I know, walking away still brings a tangled thread dragging behind) for us is not an option at this point. We are oddly in a state of having to wait it out. Let me explain.

Our debt is created by having to fight for ownership of part of this land, the part with the cabins and business my husband built, separating him from the “Evil In-Laws,” the part of the family that fought all the rest of us for no better reason than because they could, to stir the waters, or because conflict and confrontation are a way of life for them. Fighting to own what we have worked for was worth it on principle alone, though a hard fight, and a personal struggle, as family matters, you know, often are.

Fighting for ones land does one of two things. It can turn you off and chase you away, or draw you closer like a mother and child. For us, it has been the latter. Only at times I know not if I am the mother to or child of this beautiful land. I have only learned it does not matter. We are connected now by blood, the blood I have shed upon this land, as sweet and rich, wet and warm as my tears.

But alas, “moving on” is this odd carrot before my nose. I grab but can never reach. I know it will happen. At least, most days, I know. Other days, I wonder.

And what does “moving on” entail? For moving on does not always mean a physical move. What it can mean is staying right where you are… only you are changed.

Here is everything my husband ever worked for, and what I have helped build and gave all I could for the past eleven years. It is not a miserable place to be, just rather “status quo.” I prefer change, growth, adventure. My insatiable curiosity for what lies over the next peak of the mountain drives me. I just want to live life as full as I can, in my own quiet way.

But what can I do? What skills do I have now besides running a little business, raising animals (and a child), cooking, cleaning, riding, training, gardening… nothing of value in today’s world. I am lost.

We’re not operating the guest ranch in the same capacity we were, and we’re not outfitting any more. This is hard because I so love horses and riding and even sharing the knowledge and experiences. And both Bob and I have considered working with horses as such an integral part of our identity. We are still relying on our horses for work at the ditch, which involves riding and packing into Wilderness, back and forth, for 20 – 30 days per summer; and using the horse for dirt work. But it’s not the same, and not quite enough for me. So I’ve been compensating by doing these big, extreme, crazy rides trying to fulfill my horse time, miles, and unsaturated soul. It’s almost addictive. How hard/far/long/challenging a ride can I do today? And then return home grateful to have survived.

Horse time is almost over here. As soon as the snow begins to fly, and the north sides of the slopes and in the trees begin to ice up, it’s over. It will be soon.

And still, fun as it is, it is not enough. One can only “play” so much, enjoy ones down time so much. That point and purpose, direction, meaning I’m longing for is still so far away. I am no closer today than I was yesterday. Or is this a path I cannot see, and shall I wake one day and find myself… there?

Once again, you see I have foregone short and sweet and tended towards long and drawn out. Stay with me if you’d like. I will be here, and I will share. Though the season of withdrawing and crawling deep inside the cave is coming. And I intend to use that time well and wisely…

Grounded

September 27, 2012September 27, 2012 / Gin Getz / 51 Comments

Grounded. And still so far away from where I want to be.

Forever longing. Is this the state of human nature?

Touching down on solid ground. Become a part of the elements. Return to soil.

Autumn. Falling into place. As if I intended it this way.

Dealing with the empty nest by filling it with six laying hens and a rooster just learning to crow.

The scratch and clang of yet another pack rat captured in the have-a-heart trap set under the front deck. The season of rodents is winding down. They all want to come in. How plentiful this year has been. Attracting the added bonus of hawks that have come to heed the call of this bountiful crop, fed full by the warmest, driest longest summer we remember. Or are our memories always painted more lush than reality was?

And now the coyote, mother and two pups, crossing out on pasture, undisturbed by the running horses. Mother drops below the horizon, while children linger, distracted by a tall patch of dried grass and the stirring within. They stop, arch, spring load, and pounce. Then scamper off to catch up with mother.

Mother, mentor, magician or priest. Someone show me the way when I am a little lost.

I write a friend and look for answers and only find more questions: I tell her there is some darkness that comes over me every fall. Perhaps the change of light. Not a real sadness for the loss of summer, for with that means the arrival of winter and the departure of many things I could do without, and that’s all good stuff. I don’t understand what it could be.

Except… human nature… reflective… wanting more…

Falling. Down. Chilling, clearing, washing away…

I do my best to fill the emptiness inside, lighten the inevitable darkening. I keep busy. There are always things to do. Laundry, bake, feed the horses, walk the dog, split wood, paper work. I want more.

Falling leaves. How quickly the trees let loose of their brilliant display, the grande finale, the dramatic completion.

To be replaced by what? Barren trees. Still hillside and silent winds. Dormancy and hibernation. The season of turning within.

I find myself sitting here doing nothing. There is nothing I have to do. I have never thought that was a healthy state. I prefer to keep busy, have a full plate, have things that have to be done, deadlines, a little bit of pressure, point and purpose, you know?

How lucky I am to be able to have nothing, you might say. But those are foolish words. For who is lucky who is not employed, not doing enough, not with direction and meaning to each day. I have never wanted ennui, abhor sloth, and fight them and the ensuing poverty that they carry with them as an added burden.

Get out and enjoy it, you say. The rain holds me back. I’ll find other excuses. One can’t keep going out “enjoying.” At some point, responsibilities and realities ruin the fun. I want to be productive, do something positive. Yes, even make the world a better place. Why not?

“I do not have a mansion,

I haven’t any land,

Not one paper dollar

To crinkle in my hand

But I can show you morning

From a thousand hills

And kiss you

And give you seven daffodils…”

(from an old folk song I once heard beautifully sung around a campfire I never was brave enough to sit near enough to warm my soul)

How simple can we be

Forever needing point and purpose

In this ever changing world

When some days change does not come when and where we look for it

The gears are stuck

We are left waiting

The jolt, release, exhilaration of letting go

Now what? We’ve fulfilled our calling in life of providing vacations, searching for something deeper, more meaningful.

Where is the yellow brick road hiding, or how far am I from finding the way?

Big Haus

September 6, 2012 / Gin Getz / 17 Comments

(a rare photo of the three of us, thanks to Tomek, in honor of our anniversary, today…)

We sit before the campfire, just my honey and me, the big cabin behind us empty but for three old cats. The house looms large. Unused. Wasted. Too big.

I’m calling it Big Haus, for big is how it feels. Approximately 2,200 square feet. The Census Bureau reported the average size of a U.S. house in 2011 to be 2,480 square feet, a slight increase from the 2,392 square feet in 2010. Looks like we’re pretty close to average. Funny. I’ve never considered myself much a part of the norm. This fact somewhat frightens me. So much for being different, breaking barriers, stepping outside the box.

2,480 square feet, and still I hear a heck of lot of complaints. The same old stuff. Things like the price of gas being too high. A fact for which I hold little sympathy. Seems to me you don’t HAVE to drive around alone in that big fancy truck or SUV. Your God Given Right, you tell me. Whatever… What on earth matters most? Cheap gas? Get a life.

Bigger is better, or so I hear. I’m not biggie size person. I like small, simple, old-fashioned and conservative of natural materials. What a concept.

Just last week there were two other people with whom we shared the house and the size seemed just right. But today, the upstairs is looming, the downstairs seems hollow, and the space in between is too much.

I think about heating it this winter, trying to keep it clean, wasted firewood and a full morning twice a week to keep the dog and cat hair in check. I should have better things to do.

Is this the empty nest syndrome, grumbling about too much space to heat and clean and collect clutter? I thought “empty nest” referred more to the sadness one feels when the children fly the coop. This year I feel no sadness or loss, only excitement for the positive current and future life of my son. Dang, I’m happy for him, proud of him. And sure, I won’t deny, a bit of excitement already for Christmas break when he’ll be back home.

Lessons I send a young man off with this year. Same as last year. Same stuff every year. This is what matters to me.

1. Live life fully. Live each day with passion and purpose.

2. Be involved. Take a stand. Stand up for what you believe in, who you believe in.

3. Be yourself.

How dull a life if lived without passion. How shallow a world if we stand for nothing. How boring a person if not unique.

What else is there? Half Life. Living life without meaning, integrity, point and purpose. Direction and belief.

To live without a backbone along the backbone of our continent. Spineless, drifting slowly to grave.

We are surrounded at times with a leisure class that cares more about cocktails than kids, more about gossip and rumors than building, growing, giving, sharing. And heaven forbid, caring.

Like jellyfish, turning to mush in my hands as I squeeze my fingers to a fist.

The more they hold back, the more I want to push forward. Suppression in the air stirs a strong desire to bust free.

Ah, yes. So there we are, out by the fire, our backs to the house that seems so big, so empty, so underutilized and perhaps even unnecessary. And we start planning. For the next house, you know. Of course. The one by the river. Because although we’ve got the Little Cabin there for now, there will be THE house, our house. Not a big house, not too little. Just right.

Because life is not about yesterday. Holding onto the past won’t build your dreams. Take a chance. Make a change. Step out and stand up. Participate in life. Build it better.

And in the meanwhile, I’m here. Big Haus. Stocking up a lot of wood for winter.

Horse matters

July 20, 2012 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

(photos by Forrest)

Yesterday was spent working with the horses in a different sort of way. Starting with grooming far better than is normally needed for a mountain mount. Currying off the mud along the back and girth usually suffices. But we were gearing up for a photo shoot with Forrest of three of our best horses. Later in the day, when the monsoons did there thing, I edited, deleted and organized the nearly five hundred photos he took. The end result will be up later today on our ranch website (www.lost-trail.com) on the new page “Sale Barn.”

Why the fuss over our four leggeds? It’s time to sell a few more. Downsizing. Life is full of changes. This one is harder than most. Deciding who stays, who goes. How do you decide which of your children to sacrifice? Oh come now, it’s not going to be that bad. (I have to remind myself.) I will find the best of homes, new partners, and these horses will receive the care and attention they deserve – which will hopefully be even better than that which I give them.

Downsizing. It’s a down side of change. Some plans get hurt in the process of building your dreams. You can’t have everything, can you? Somethings gotta give. So, sometimes you gotta decide what matters most. How on earth do I do that with my horses? Except to look for truly wonderful new homes and partners… and trust….

Why can’t I keep them all, and find time (and money) to give them all I want to give?

On the practical level, there is the reality of us passing on our outfitting business and simply needing fewer horses around to complete the work we are continuing, like the ditch job. In addition, the horse market is changing. There seem to be more horses than horsepeople around. The cost of keeping horses and available land to keep them on is out of balance. Add that to the aging market and the change in our society as a whole, which is becoming increasingly less rural, more centralized. As a result, we see the horse market nationwide becoming more elite. I’m not big on elite.

But really, there is more to it than all that. Something deeper. Consider the change of going from a small time breeder where every colt born was a celebration of life, and had a future on our ranch… to wondering if and how long he or she would live. With the death of the first foal, everything changed. And continued to change as foals continued to die. Suddenly, birth was not the blessing I once considered it to be. Life, or even the prospect there of, became tainted with a dreaded fear. Birth became a time of trepidation, not elation.

“Only those who have can lose,” our vet told us in sympathy after one more loss a couple of years ago. I intend to have. But along the way, I know I’ll lose a few. In the case of those I’ve chosen to sell, I comfort myself with the hope that I can and will find a perfect partnership for each horse. Something I am unable to provide here for a dozen horses.

Practicality does have its downside…

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post