dogs

How to be Happy.

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

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colorado columbine

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Fellow author and blogger, C.M. Mayo, asked me to write a guest post for her blog, Madam Mayo.  I skimmed over her requested requirements, thought to myself, I could never come up with something like that.  What do I know?  And then the answer came to me, and I couldn’t stop writing!

I am no expert at anything. But I am learning a lot, and I’m always game for trying.  What I can’t share are some guaranteed fool proof tried and true methods that I know for certainty and feel the need to teach you, the reader, because I have it all figured out and maybe you don’t.  I don’t either.  So all I can do is share with you what I’m learning.  And maybe we can learn it together. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.  That’s what it’s all about.

Well, after finishing writing this piece, I took a closer look at the requirements and sample posts, and realized I got it all wrong. I mean, totally.  And I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything else to write about since I was so excited by this. Besides, I don’t think she wants to get political or stir waters, and since my second book addresses climate change from a personal perspective, and climate change is still by some considered a political issue, not a reality, I don’t think she’d want my list of Five Ways to Save the Trees or anything like that.  So, I’m sharing this.

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steph and gin

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The five essential habits of positive people (or how to be happy in five easy steps)

Imagine if there were a few secret ingredients to a happy life.  You know, inside information, words of wisdom shared by the happiest people. The tricks of the trade for the happy. What works for those people who smile a lot, seem comfortable with who they are, love their work, like the people around them, are nice to be around and nice to those around them.  And imagine if we could learn from these people. Because who among us does not wish to be happier?

Say there are a few specific “rules” we can follow to find ourselves happier, what would they be?  They would have to be inspirational, happy, humorous, fun, not preachy, not perfect, things to try for with room to grow and plenty of forgiveness, because we’re human and we always have to try.

It would be about choice.  We can choose happier habits.  Ultimately, we can choose our thoughts, rather than have our thoughts (and emotions) choose our direction.   Not to negate these things – It’s just that most of us need to learn to live with them, keep them in line. Not let our emotions rule us and run our lives.

We can start by following the example of people we admire. People who are trying, against odds, to make the world a better place and find a better place within themselves.  I’m not talking about the happy go lucky folks for whom life’s been just fine and they get through just fine – but never do anything great.  I want to be all I can, try it all, experience life to the fullest.  That means ups and downs. Good times and bad times.  Make mistakes.

If we don’t fall on our face, we haven’t tried to run.  Life’s too short to walk through.  So, every once in a while, run!  Flat out. And maybe you’ll fall. Get back up, dust yourself off, and when your wounds have healed (if you really must wait that long) try again.  “Only those who have had, can lose.”  You can go through life playing it safe.  Make it through to the finish line. Slow, steady.  Nothing fancy, no fan fare, no bells and whistles or even a lot of cheers along the way.  Or you can dance your way through life and sometimes stumble.  If you don’t try to dance, you don’t have to worry about making the wrong moves.  Oh come on. Give it a try. Dance!

Sure, you can’t be happy all the time. That would be ridiculous.  But you can be happier more often.  It’s up to you.

 

  1. Start your day on a positive note.  Here’s one we learned from Zig Ziglar.  Before you even get out of bed, clap your hands and say something wonderful about yourself, your world, and the day you’ve got ahead of you.  Then this one from Louise Hay. Tell yourself you love yourself.  Look in a mirror if you have one and say it to yourself that way.  I don’t, and I live in a small one-room cabin.  If I woke up clapping my hands and talking in the mirror, I think my boys would really worry.  At the very least, I’d wake them up, and those who know me know this:  don’t disturb my mornings. So, I keep it quiet, let them sleep, and try to say these things in my head.
  2. Patience.  Learn to slow down. Let go. Boy this is a hard one for me.  For so many in society where we’re often judged on how busy we pretend to be, but how jam packed we fill our days, placing self value on number of hours worked (though do we stop and think how much we actually accomplish?).  The more we can justify being busy, the better people we think we are.  Or so we are told. Things are changing.  That worked great to develop the modern world, create fast food and Wal-marts, capitalism and consumerism. But it didn’t bring us closer to happiness.  Try meditation, walking, yoga, breathing.  Watch a snowflake fall on your hand and melt.  Sit and wait in the early dark to see the moon clear the horizon (or nearest building).  Listen to the wind or the water or the waves.  Find a tree and hear the leaves rustle.  “Learn to let go. That is the key to happiness.”  –  Jack Kornfield, Buddha’s Little Instruction Book.
  3. Life’s short – eat dessert first.  All these excuse for why not.  Think of all the reason why instead.  Just do it.  Learn to do something new every day.  Never say never.  Don’t let yourself (or someone you love) say “I can’t.”  Go ahead, give it a try.  Now. What are you waiting for?  Don’t bother telling me.  I don’t want to hear.  I want to hear what you want to do, and what you’re doing to get there.  Rather, I want to show me.  Do it.  Come on, dream!
  4. Give. Practice – and expand on – compassion.  Do random acts of kindness. Do something for someone without strings attached every single day.  It doesn’t have to cost money.  It doesn’t have to take much time.  Just share the gifts you already have. You have a lot.  As a writer, I like to share my words.  A cook shares food, a photographer images, a mother comfort – these are the gifts we share, not just to make a living or get the job done or for self importance, acceptance, acknowledgement or reward.  Simply to give what we can. Share your gifts. What gifts can you share?  We all have something special. Creativity, prayer, song.  Think beyond the box.  Or look deep inside. There’s lots there.  Open it up and share it.  I bet there’s plenty to go around.
  5. Have fun, smile, dance.  I don’t have TV.  Last month I finally saw the Ellen Show for the first time while staying at my sister’s house.  Apparently she dances every day.   Right on.  Then there is Ginny, the woman who’s life my next book is based upon.  Dancing in the Wind… There she is, even in her wheelchair.  Dancing.  If she can, I can too.  Do it.  Dance.  It feels really good.  And if you dance like no one’s looking, you can’t help but find yourself be smiling like you mean it.  And yes, chances are, you’ll feel happy.

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trin and dogs

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logan

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steph and homer

 

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trin and rikki

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A bunch of pretty pictures and one not so happy poem

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

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calypso orchid

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come back weminuche

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horses on pasture

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last light on dead trees

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pussy willow 2

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pussy willow

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reservoir flats

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rio grande spring

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tresjur and indi

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view from the office

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Thoughts in spring time

And the sun shines

and warms and

tells us it’s all ok

and we smile and

Look around as aspen leaves

open and green the hillsides

that otherwise remind me

of death

And the light is high and flat

and my cheeks burn

and we say, yes, this is how

it should be, but

something deep inside

is nagging and we try

not to listen but

it won’t go

away.  And then

we have another

glass of wine and wonder

if we can wash it

away but all it does is

make it louder and then

We want the rain and

the snow and the clouds and

darkness and want to turn

within and feel instead of

see and then we know we’ll

find what we are looking

for.  Do you know? I wonder

if I ever will.

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Back in Bigness

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

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driving back home

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aspen early spring

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I wanted to be home before the full moon.  I was thinking about riding horseback in moonlight.  I forgot how cold it is here. After dark, I’m happy to be home by the woodstove.  Afternoon siestas in the sand by the river seem very far away right now.  About 5,600 miles away.

Travelling takes over a week. The “goodbyes” take longer.  The “welcome homes” aren’t enough.  Culture shock.  I am learning this.  It’s not as hard leaving when you know you’ll be back.

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rosa and ranquilco

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last light on the rio trocoman

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Between here and there. It starts horseback. Leaving “our” home along the Rio Trocoman.  Between here and there is a long and fast car ride across Argentina, followed by a day of walking the dog through the crowds of downtown Buenos Aires.  There is a beer at an outdoor café. There is mate and malbec in the courtyard.  There is the refresher course in Texas hospitality, and something more about good friends.  There is Wal-Mart.   Biggie size it.  Bigger is better.  Consumerism and convenience.  Channel surfing from the king size bed of the hotel room.   Bombarded with commercials, violence, terrorism, and how to build an assault rifle in your back yard.  Just what I need.  Welcome home.

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pedro and jorge

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jorge ginny and me

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One of these days I’ll share the details.  Recommendations and tips. Where to stay in Buenos Aires, the best way to get across Argentina, and what it’s like to travel with a dog. Boring but necessary.  Cold hard facts. Another time.

For now I want soft and warm.  Home.  I want to stop worrying about paying three times as much for a bottle of bad wine, and wishing there was goat meat hanging in the shade and remembering simple smiles instead of complicated family bullshit.  For now, I want to be in the sun.  This sun.  The here and now sun. The intense sun roasting my cheeks and forehead, the only skin exposed in the still cold wind on the deck of our home at 10,000 feet in the mountains of Southern Colorado. I guess this is the same sun that’s already dried up the run off creeks and parched the pasture and it’s only April.  But it’s my sun.  The same sun, like the same moon.  Seen from a different perspective.

I thought maybe it’s just me.  It’s not.  It’s him too.  Bob spends his evenings on Google Earth, seeing where we have been. Where we will be. He shows me, a digitized image on the computer screen.  It almost hurts to see it now.

Being home.  There is my river.  My horses.  My bed and my bathtub.  There are the familiar sounds of robins, Steller’s Jays and crows out on the field.  The metallic zipping sound announcing the early arrival of a hummingbird. There is the smell of cedar burning and bacon frying and the familiar scent of my favorite mare. There are my trails, trails we found and forged, for us to ride and clear in the softer orange light of early evening when the spring wind slows and the porch door is left open and firewood is brought in and stacked in preparation for the cold night.

Un American?  I had a good excuse.  No electricity.  No internet. No motors.  No town.  Now I’ve got it all.  Too comfortable. I haven’t been on Facebook in how many months.  I have little to say, to share.  I’m sorry.  I am self absorbed.  I know it’s selfish.  I take a quick peak this morning and quickly sign off.  It’s scary.  On my wall is a picture of a mate gourd.  Thank you, Amy.  I should have known how much you would understand.  There is nothing else I need to see.  Nothing I care to share.  I feel somehow lost.  Lost in my own home.  Funny it should be so aptly named.  Lost Trail Ranch.

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mate on the rocks

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thank you jorge for the gift of your mate gourd

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Writing, reflection, soaking.  That’s what I’m doing now.  As I remind Ginny, legend has it that Hemingway had to move to Paris before he could write about Michigan.  Presumptuous to compare myself to him.  If not my self, then my situation.  I need the distance.  I need to be away to see.  I need to look inside now, not just in front of me.  I cannot keep up with the stories that want to be written.  Words flow like blood from a slaughtered goat.

Healing.  Heal myself.  Simple wounds.  We are all built of flesh and blood.  From time to time, we all must bleed.  The earth heals me.  Here, there.  Here, I go for a walk.  To the other side of the bridge we built together. I cannot cross.  Snow on the other side.  The dog falls in to his belly.  Moose droppings and tracks and what looks like a big round spot where he may have lay in the last of the snow, holding fast on the north facing slope along the Rio Grande.

And wasn’t the sun to my north just a few days ago?

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happy to be home

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dogs

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I remind myself there is no place I would rather be.  Here and now.  Yesterday and tomorrow are different stories.  Stories to write about.

Now the dog gets up from his warm place in the middle of the bridge, on guard above me as I sit in the dirt of the little island with my notebook on my lap.  He barks in a non-committal way.  He wants my attention.  We make eye contact.  He looks up the hill.  I know what he is thinking.  It’s time to get up there.  Get back to the horses.  Back to work.  His work.  Guard duty.  He has been wonderful.  Putting up with me dragging him to the other side of the world. Now he’s home.  His home.  His herd.  He is happy.  I should be too.

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cody karen willie

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ginny

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Parting ways

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

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gunnar

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The dog jumps up on the second story window and tries to get out.  I don’t blame him.  I feel like doing the same.  We watch the boys head out on snowmobile, towing a toboggan sled containing houseplants started from cuttings that came from California, Washington, and somewhere back east from before I was born. And cats.  Three of them. Two are 16 years old.  A gift to Forrest when he was three.  Because his mother doesn’t like mice.  I had never had good luck with cats.  None lasted with me for more than a year.  Maybe I was doing something really wrong, but I swear, it was not intentional.  Mostly, I guess, just bad luck.  Like it was for the little black cat that got hit by a car.  Guess my luck (and theirs) changed.  Many a dead mouse later, these two girls aren’t good for much more than a snuggle now.  But you know, there’s still great value in that.

First the horses. Then the chickens.  Then the plants, the cats, and THE BOYS.  This dog knows something is up.

Bob, he’ll be back tomorrow.  Time for us to pack.  Tie up loose ends, close this place down, and get ready to head out.

Forrest, well, we won’t see him until the first of May when he’s done with school for the semester.  College in Canada.

Seven thousand miles away we’ll be.  Geez.  7000 miles.  It looks like less when I write it that way.  Or his way.  Over 11,000 km.  No, that way is bigger. Way bigger.  Let’s not go there.

I was not ready to see him go.  I never am.  I wonder if I ever will be.

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bob gunnar forrest

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Farewell to the Prince (Charming)

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

(a.k.a. So Long, Sucker)

Keep this in mind.  Nothing is complete.  It’s all a work in progress.  A poem.  Our lives.  Society.  The words I’m sharing with you today.  About… Prince Charming?

And if he were a horse?  My little Arabian, Flying Crow, reminds me how much work a relationship is.  The hardest horse I’ve had to train.  And from him, the most I have had to learn.

A dance to the silence of winter

the dog enchanted
by the echo of his bark
against frozen cliffs
across solid water

and when he settles
and his echo and ego
let him go
I am there immersed
surrounded by
winter white sounds

And then there is my dog.  OK, let’s not go there.  He is still a work in progress.  Progressing several times a day and I’m not quite sure we’re getting anywhere.  At least not where I was intending.

But this is not about them.  This is about… men.

A revelation of sorts.

The myth of Cinderella and Snow White and the Walt Disney Princess.  Shattered.

Well, many of us figured that one out already.

But what about…  him?

Seems like the woman is always blamed for holding on, seeking, expecting that myth to be maintained.

But what about the man?

Really, take a good look.  I think you’ll see he can be equally at fault in this fictitious fantasy, holding onto the hope of being and remaining Prince Charming Forever.  Societal teachings started as children.  Based (loosely) on nature, one might say.  And perhaps some men DO want to be the provider, the knight in shining amour, and Prince Charming.

Come on, guys.  How many of you used to believe that’s what a Real Man should be?

Or at least, have you thought maybe it would be nice to be HIM?  There you’d be, with her hanging onto your arm, following you fearlessly through hell and high water because you are brave and strong and will provide for her and love her until death do you part…

Forget partnership.  Forget a real relationship.  A healthy, loving, respectful interaction between two individuals.  That’s hard work. And not always healthy for one’s manly ego.  Instead, let’s hold onto that castle in the sky.

Now hold on. Who am I to lecture on relationships?  I’m about the last person I ever thought would have (or make) a “good” relationship; a “healthy” one; a balance of respect, love, fun and compatibility. Figured I’d always be my solid, solitary self.  (Or not so solid, but that’s another story.) Yet here I am, ten years into one better that I ever imagined, and I’m not falling apart at my independent seams.  In fact, he kinda helps hold them together as they unravel from time to time.  Scary.

But  really, that’s not what I mean to do.  Lecture.  All I wanted to do was share my revelation of the all too present social expectations not only for her, but for him.

Considering this is a biased audience already proving to be Modern Men by reading a Woman’s Blog (that said, fact is half my readers are men)  we may not get a true view of the whole of our society.

Let’s start with this one: Happily Ever After does not exist.

Ah-ha.  But Willing to Work through the Hard Times does.

Look around.  You’ll see the Neanderthal hunter- gather is no longer in high demand in today’s society here in the Western World.  We have Safeways.  And we all know it is actually the same guys out there practicing their primitive skills as stopping by that Safeway for a ripe bell pepper to compliment the meal, a crisp side to go with their fresh kill.

Whatever. OK, think of this. The old macho traits aren’t what are going to get us further in society.  One could say we as society have been there and done that.  And now we have evolved.  Looking back, that Neanderthal dude was not the best thing mankind had to offer.  Sure, you may want to hunt, go ahead and do it for fun or food or what not.  But don’t think it makes you a better man.  A more primal man, maybe, but it’s been a long time since one considered “primal” a truly attractive trait and one that has brought society to its higher state.

Well then, what is he?  Who is he, this Modern Man?

He need not be Prince Charming, a football quarterback, or a Neanderthal hunter/gatherer.  He may not be the blue collar worker home from the mill kicking back on his well worn Lazy Boy with a can of Lite beer in one hand and the remote control in the other.  I rather hope he is not just that, but that’s my personal thing….

He need not be the Metro Sexual donning shiny shoes, carrying  a Murse, and sipping espresso while ready poetry or the sensitive man tearing up watching The Titanic.

But maybe he is.

And that’s the thing about the rise of the Modern Man and the death of Prince Charming.  Today’s man has choices.  As Women’s Lib opened doors for we women, time has opened choices for men too.  Let’s get rid of expectations.  You do not HAVE to be the hunter, warrior, provider or Prince Charming.  And if you can be, guess what?  So can I.  That, my friends, is the best part of the modern man, the modern woman, the evolution of the human species.  We can choose.  We can grow beyond expectations, assumptions and fairytales.  We decide what is right. We can use our brain, not Walt Disney’s.  We can dream.  Our own dreams.  Not some phony one we saw on the big screen in pastel colors.

Pardon the comparison, Modern Man and Women’s Lib, for man is not traditionally suppressed simply by the sex into which he was born as woman worldwide too often are.  I speak from my personal perspective, a narrow view from a most privileged part of the world.

So where was I?  Oh yes. Prince Charming.  Stop waiting for him, gals.  Bet even if you think you found him, chances are pretty good he won’t be what you were hoping for.  He’s a pretty shallow and selfish character. And chances are, if he thinks he’s your Knight in Shining Armor, than you’re just a damsel in distress.  Don’t go there.  Please.  Hope for better. Expect, demand, work for and create better.  Really.  You deserve it.  Believe in the best.  But don’t buy the fairy tale.  Believe in yourself, the power of the modern man, the strength of a healthy relationship, your own ability to build the life you want, balanced with the ability to ask for help when you need it without thinking it’s the knight in shining armour that’s going to come to your rescue, and whisk you away on the white horse so you can be happy ever after.  You won’t be. That’s life.  Enjoy the ups and downs and hard work and heartache and stumbling blocks and growth and all of it.  It’s a package deal. They don’t show you that part in the Disney films.

This rant is inspired by the wonderful, strong, independent woman who (like most of us) once may have fallen for the fairy tale… And when her fairy wings sprouted, she learned to believe in herself.  And fly.

For my daughter, if I had one.  But I have a son.  So for him, a reminder of what he can be, and need not be, too…

Altitude Sickness

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Seventeen degrees when I woke up to a little bit of light and finally silent wind chimes at five a.m.  All those starts my husband brought me home from the nursery over two hours away, which I tenderly planted in the safe new location of the raised beds and covered with a double layer of plastic sheeting for added protection, just in case. Dead. All that promise of a juicy ripe homegrown tomato at ten thousand feet. Gone. Turned to a mushy dark sick liquid green.

I wanted to cry. Really.  May seem silly to be so upset over the death of plants, but I think it was the last straw. First it was a bad morning.  The outhouse down at the Little Cabin blew over in these brazen winds, the power tripped causing us to fire up the generator for the first time since last fall burning that dreaded fossil fuel I do my best to conserve, and there was a dead ground squirrel in the have-a-heart traps that was set to capture the danged pack rat that’s been chewing his way into our storage cabin.

Yet it was the plants, my dearly tended, fragile plants.  That was the hardest.  They represented more.  Hope.  Life, when so many friends were dealing with death.  This week, one friend lost her dog while helping her sister through the diagnosis of cancer, one lost their dear old mare, and another lost her mother.  I was going to grow life.  In the form of juicy ripe tomatoes.

A nasty blow. Enough to bring tears to my eyes.  But not enough to compare with the losses my friends are bearing.  I will sweet talk my husband into dropping another hundred bucks next time he’s in the valley, and I will replant.  Life replaced, as simple as that.  And maybe I’ll get that tomato this summer after all.

I think of my friends dealing with their losses, and I know it is not fair.  Life isn’t.  In fact, sometimes it really sucks.  And then it gets better.  Just like that.  Though maybe it takes a while.  Hours, days, weeks, maybe even years. It’s crazy, isn’t it?  This rollercoaster ride with all the ups and downs.  We heal, we forget or forgive or learn to cope, and still find the guts to buy another ticket and go for another ride.

But for now, I’m still upset.  Walking around all morning in a funk, on the verge of tears.  I let my boys know this is not OK. Such emotional creatures we are.  So affected by the simple things.  If we let it get to us, and I usually do.

So while the rest of the family gathered together to whoop it up for the holiday and partake in the traditional barbeque, I chose to be alone with my dog.  I needed to get high.

Thirteen thousand feet high.

Though my intention was merely twelve. That extra thousand feet was bonus points.  That’s where the addiction part comes in. That, my friend, is altitude sickness.  Not because at that altitude I felt queasy in my head and stomach, though that has happened before. But because somewhere in my heart and soul there was this fluttering.  This crazy, driving, lustful urge that blinds reason and tells you to keep going, like a drug you should keep taking.  Seeing nothing but one foot in front of the other, a slow ascend, and focusing on the sound of my own labored breathing.  That which controls you, guides you, forces you onward beyond reason.  All for the five minutes of sitting on top of the mountain in the blaring winds and blinding light and biting temperatures, sucking in thin air and looking around 360 degrees in absolute awe, next to Gunnar Guy, my never questioning why on earth we spend all this time trudging to the top only to turn around and scramble back down faithful side kick of a dog.

The sickness of addiction.  Mesmerized and seduced by the altitude and elements. For I didn’t mean to go so far.  But I’m glad I did.

 

Mid week in early May

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

By lunch the snow has melted. The grass is a shade greener. The high country remains frosted and the air that comes over the Divide from the West has a strong bite.

I take off on a quick walk to burn energy that might otherwise drive the boys nuts.  I’m not good at not doing much and the morning snow and afternoon mud has slowed me down.  The dog joins me, chasing off two separate bands of elk along the way. They are shocked that this little beast would run straight up the mountain towards them as they side hill into the trees.  He is courageous.  I cannot say fearless, for the dark of night and high waters still frighten him, and for good reason. But he is bolder than any other dog I have known.  Only now, after almost two years together, have I learned to understand and appreciate his big, brave heart.  He is a lot of dog. Not physically, for he is only seventy pounds or so, but his spirit, his soul.  Yes, my friends.  Dogs do have soul, and this one has a big one.

By evening I am finally tired enough to sit. I pour a glass of wine and visit with my boys on our deck, soaking in the last of the sun before it drops behind the far side of Pole Mountain.  Warmth on the back of my head as I gaze forward across our yard ripped up from gardening mayhem, across the pasture with the horses grazing upon the moist spring grasses while two cormorants that just arrived back in the ‘hood mill about the undisturbed, across the hills which ebb and flow down to the swollen banks of the Reservoir, high with waters retained from cutbacks, making the drought conditions appear so plentiful.  How far reaching our view from the front deck can be if we take the time to consider the reaches and impact of the expanses before us.

Today I am at peace.  Home is bliss.  And yet it is not because of the beautiful place. I am not so shallow to be impressed by no more than a pretty face. It is because of what we bring here, have done here, do here, build and grow here, give back rather than just take.  It’s a love affair. A swirling, churning, mixed up romance, at times still or drowning and other times exhilarating like wild white waters.  And like that of my marriage and relationship with growing son, becomes deeper, stronger, richer with time.

Going away and returning has taught me it is not the place.  For this place is also tainted with some of the ugliest I have seen in life.  I cannot bury these burdens but learn to rise above.

Sherie wrote, “You found home.  Hope the feeling stays.”

I know it won’t. I’ve learned that much. For you’re right, it is a feeling, and emotions change with the wind. They have no substance nor permanence, but impact us so strongly if we allow them to, and too often, I do.  This feeling too will fluctuate with the seasons and moods and events that shape us far more than the mountain. It’s not our surroundings that ground us, but our heart and soul, and yes, our loved ones.  I’m not above counting on and relying upon those I love to help me learn to live with not only where I am, but who I am.

On the outside, you might say a place like this is easier to find that peace within.  But you’re looking only on the surface.  And peace is not so shallow.  Look deep, stir the waters, and see more than the reflection in muddy waters.  The trials, tribulations and traumas I’ve been challenged with here have been harder and more painful than any I have been tested with in other places.  Ultimately, they helped (or rather, are helping, for it is forever a fluctuating process) me learn to find and make peace within myself, of myself, not because of my environment.

Likewise, with Don’s comment, and others you may see from Al, for example:  They are not as obvious, those natural, wild beauties found within city boundaries, but they are there, and open and free for the few bold enough to seek them out.  I was raised right outside and then within NYC.  I learned more about natural peace, beauty and serenity there than I did after six years in the barren hills of New Mexico. Because it mattered to me and I took the time to look.  Sitting silent along the Hudson piers to watch the sun set cast golden orange on the gentle ripples of the then foul waters.  Climbing to the rooftop to find the greatest silence and find a pocket view of the night sky sharing a secret moment with the full moon.  Like Sherie noticing all those things that so many might not see, the frogs, the sounds, the squirrels… the magic and beauty.  I cannot tell you how many near to here are surrounded with so much and see so little. It is more than the environment.  It is our heart and soul and ability to see and feel.  Or not.  For there is no doubt that wide open spaces can craft closed minds. It is always our challenge to open up, see, feel, taste and touch the world around us.  Dive in!  Or skim the surface.  The choice is ours.  Me, I’d rather dive in, fight the currents from time to time dragging me in a direction I do not wish to go.  And deal with the frigid waters, stirred up mud, and scratching rocks at the bottom  just for the chance to float calm and serene beneath the clouds reflecting on the glassy surface supporting me when the wind is still and water and mind calm for no more than a brief but beautiful repose.

(A friend and reader wrote yesterday to mention how interesting the conversations and writing in the comments can be.  Mine, yours, the prompt and interaction. I don’t know how many readers take a look at these, but I do know more of you still prefer to write me personally and directly – and that’s fine – however – sometimes there is a response I want to share or continue the conversation with, and I’ll take the risk to include it in a post – just to be sure you read it!)