Finding Familiar.

February 28, 2025 / Gin Getz / Leave a comment

A whirlwind weekend flying from here to there and back again. There’s a lot of folks out there doing a lot of that on a regular basis. I’m not really wanting to be one of them. I’m no jet setter and don’t care to be. I’d rather be home. Wherever home is.

I try to remember that thing about searching for beauty where you are. Every day. It’s a challenge to find satisfaction, fulfillment, beauty and awe with what’s in front of you, rather than chasing rainbows, shiny and new, thrills and the latest greatest. We can run around the world seeking something else, but are we able to appreciate what’s right before us, and find beauty and magic and awe without taking one step?

Yet travel, even a short trip to visit family as this one was, is always a step outside your box, outside your comfort zone, an opening of mind and heart – seeing what is truly there, around you, not just what you expect to see. It’s humbling. You’re no longer king of your castle, or that big fish in a little sea.

For some, the best part of travel is the view, things you see, fun things you do. For others, it’s the food, drink, and apparently shopping is a thing. For me, it’s people I see when I’m out there, and those I meet along the way. It’s an opportunity to taste a small slice of the world with every person I speak with, a flash view of humanity in every story that is shared.

Four days “out there” opened me to the badass beautiful marine who signed up for service to pay for her college degree. The mother of six struggling with homelessness and physical abuse and a blinding sense of faith. A man from Venezuela who moved here twenty five years ago, still feeling like an outsider, sharing his “outsider” perspective on politics. (Yes, I love to ask!) The haggard woman with deep lines and signs of old habits she battled and won, and the raspy cough of the smoking habit she has not been able to shake. And the forty year old born and raised in Trinity County who would rather sit on his front porch and smoke his doobie than worry about such things, comparing pictures of rescue dogs, rivers, gardens and cannabis plants

I kid you not. I can’t make this stuff up. Well maybe I could, but I don’t have to. I just have to be willing to hear.

Learning to see.

Beauty.

In every one, everywhere, everything, even within ourselves.

Every day.

With little progress on all those things I could and should (but didn’t) work on here this week, today’s rambling takes an inner turn.

Spring?

It’s happening here.

So is that mounting pressure that engulfs me this time of year most every year.

Spring is the season of emergence. And at times, along with the awakening, the melting of ice and snow and bursting forth of new life, there is often a sense of emergency. Pressure and stress and the feeling that it all needs to be done all at once.

This year as every year, this time of year. It’s hardwired into the season. All those years of starting seeds, preparing ground, and growing. Of serving as mid-wife for farm babies being born, or grim reaper for the profuse, prolific, infinite and overwhelming wealth of weeds that call my garden home. Of brushing winter’s coats off hot horses backs and amassing mounds of dog hair as they shed. Of spring cleaning tasks that have changed over the years, from preparing a camp for kids or a guest ranch for families.

As we dust of cobwebs after months by the fire, or shake off melting snow and listen for the sound of rushing water as the encasement of deep ice begins to melt, it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement and anticipation of the season.

I want to sit with the season. Feel it. Hear it. Smell and taste it and roll around in it, celebrate it for what it is, not just what I expect it to be, demand from it, and think others want me to make of it.

Today. As every day. Seeing what is before me. Right here, right now.

Wherever here may be.

Here.

Now.

Early morning.

A morning like so many in the nearly six years I have been here.

Familiarity grows like the pear trees planted along the side of the creek, an amaryllis started at Solstice still blooming on the window sill, blackberries and poison oak that promise to sprout and spread even in places you wish they would not.

In the quiet hours with new moon and stars nearly black behind a lavish shroud of fog, I wake with arms and legs around my sleeping man. I am comfortable with his earthy scent and even breath and a little reluctant to rise. I slip on sweats, pull the covers back up around him, then quietly find my way around in the dark.

Stepping over snoozing dogs, lighting the wood stove, filling the coffee pot at the kitchen sink, all as I have done so many mornings before, I feel the ease in knowing where I am and what to expect. What time the sun clears the mountain to the east. When to hope for the last frost late spring and when the first frost of fall will arrive. What bird belongs to the flicker of wings that distracted me from my work or the song that rises each morning around the same time I wake. When to turn the soil, start the seeds, when to water, and when to drain or cover pipes. When to watch for leaves turning gold and brown and blowing down, and when to look for new life at the tip of each naked branch, swollen and slowly unfurling in fertile subtleties.

Familiar. Is it the place or the pattern? For I have done this here. And I have done this so many place I have been, and still will be.

This place, this pattern, has become familiar; intimate and expected as the view out the kitchen window which as the sun comes up and chores are done, awakens to an ever green pasture where horses graze, chickens free range, dogs play, and a brave cat or two may creep cautiously not too far from the house.

Familiar too is the sound, the ever present prevailing sound of the river, which ebbs from summer’s gentle roil over smooth rocks ever shaped by the ever movement of the ever changing flow – to winters rage and roar. A sound so familiar I often forget it is there.

In this semi-silence I am able to hold the world, embrace it like a big bear having found a honey hole, and my heart feels full.

Comfort in the familiar.

The same worn boots left by the back door. Same old truck parked out front. Same cast iron pans beside the wood cook stove. Same table, same chairs, same sofa, same rug. Same silly jokes that still make me laugh every time.

And comfort in accepting change, as the road map of my life unfurls on my face, stories embedded within wrinkles and every graying hair. I can laugh at my own fleeting vanity, because truth is, though I’m not thrilled with how I look now, I can’t say I ever was. Good looks are not what got me where I am. I’m more of a guts and grit sort of gal.

The inner landscape has changed, too. There is a calmer storm blowing within me now. Muddy waters have stilled and settled. Menopause, depression and drinking have been left behind. Hot flashes and explosive emotions have subsided. I sure don’t miss them. Neither does my husband.

Some days I look within and expect those frightening facets to surface again. But they do not. It’s not that I slayed those evil beasts. Rather, they just faded away. (One more good thing that comes with age.)

So it is into this calmer, quieter space that I feel myself finding a new familiar. Settling in. Not that I’m settled down; it’s more like the gradual un-letting of the belt cinched around my jeans. You can only fight it for so long. Then you stop holding in, exhale, let it out a notch, and realize it’s not such a bad place to be.

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 somethings 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 in my late fifties, 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.

Okay, so… maybe 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 having the courage to feel life fully, 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.

Finding familiar.

Within.

Time

February 14, 2025 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winter’s going way too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

So don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever changing.

Some days so slow you feel stuck in stagnant waters.

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

Time changes.

Changing times.

Like seasons.

Take time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

or that sleeping dog’s heavy breath.

The inhale. The exhale.

The pause in between.

Time to rush around.

And time to sit.

Still.

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

Time for solitude and socializing.

Time for reflecting and planning what is next.

Time to let go.

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

Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

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

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

Figure things out.

Things.

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

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

Don’t kid yourself.

You never stop.

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

At least, that is what I tell myself.

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

And how much farther I still have to go.

Thank you for listening.

With love, always love,

Gin

After Equinox.

April 25, 2016July 6, 2024 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

The agitation of the wind creates unrest among naked branches. Beneath an unsettled sky, the monotone of a thawing land broken only by the continual call of the river reverberating against still frozen cliffs, while mud caked boots poke through remaining snow drifts and blistered hands touch sunburned noses and the brown back of the neck – bits of exposed flesh found uncovered from a down jacket that remains adorned though now unzipped.

Another winter sheds her white skin. The peeling of the snake reveals that which is real, raw, delicate in its renewal. The season begins showing herself subtly in sepia tones. Like an old worn photo looked at time and again, we hold to the past in a futile gesture but the present is always new. Look around. See it. Feel it. Hear it. Celebrate it. Join in and dance with it.

Spring is late to unfurl here in the high country and her early song is soft, hard to hear, often hidden beneath late season snow storms and the howl of the changeable winds. In a land where winter claims half a year, the other three seasons come and go quickly in the shared space of the other half. Savored, appreciated; nothing is taken for granted.

Tenderly she reveals the simplicity of the wilds. We see her new breath in the everchanging motion of the unsettled sky, the unrest in the wind, the thawing of the earth, the swelling of the river, the return of wildlife, the luxury of longer days, shorter shadows, an open road, and the tenacity of simple nameless yellow flowers emerging through the snow.

And the silent assumption that within the swiftness of the season stirs the lure and excitement of change… Into what, she whispers? And the wind shares a response I do not yet understand.

Interwoven in the web of life awakens questions more than answers if we listen solely with reason. How else can we hear? With our hearts, not our minds. With our senses, like the wilds that surround us, knowing not because they read it, heard it, were told to believe. Or are we so different we forgot how to feel? Let go of that, she tells us. Her answers are in the soft shades of brown and grey of the newly opened hillsides.

Do we just let it go? What we had last season? The assurance of the assumed. Today, I tell myself here for half the year, it will be cold and white. What will tomorrow bring? Plans? Expectations? Hopes and dreams? What would we be without them? Shed them and be free, she tells me. But I too feel naked without. Such is the time of awakening, allowing the season to bloom means starting with a seemingly barren hillside.

The land calls. I speak to her. With her. She answers with a whisper veiled in translation I try hard to decipher. Words, ideas, passions still remain. From within this tangled tapestry can we see the bigger picture? Can we see the fine lines into which we are tightly woven or the space in between? Perhaps in the early morning when dew catches silken threads and pale pink air is still but for the rousing of the robins unintentionally sharing their sweet song from beneath the leafless trees, and stirring of distant geese down by the expanding open waters of the full to bursting reservoir.

It’s mostly space, I am reminded again. But we choose to see the little bits of matter within the big wide expanse.

Morning’s stillness shares silence of the mountain in a slow gentle outbreath before the awakening of the day, the season, the beginning of change. This is a time of both reflection found in glassy ponds of melting winter, and planning for something we don’t fully understand. Oh but the leaves will unfurl and the grass will green and the summer homes will be lit and the road will be abuzz. And so it goes, no matter what I do and you say.

On Thanks and Giving.

November 30, 2015November 30, 2015 / Gin Getz / Leave a comment

In consideration and reflection of the year long intensive study of midwifery, spirituality and life of which I have been consumed.

I have recently been coming to a very strong and beautiful understanding of the teachings within my own heart. For me, as with most things in life, this did not come without resistance and a little bit of kicking and screaming.Mostly, however, it came through letting go, dropping both veils and armor, and seeing the truth within myself which these studies have forced me to look at.

We are not meant to blindly follow nor be anything we are not meant to become, unless we find contentment as sheep in a flock. Not all of us do. Some will question, some will quest. For us, by diving deep with open mind and open heart, we grow, like an in-breath, and with time are filled with a greater understanding and clarity. How could we not? Or do we resist change and refuse the view before us? Remain closed, comforted within the past, heads safety tucked within the wool.

Inevitably, we are challenged to look at truth, within and around us. The truth may be a little different for each of us, but for all of us, the process of finding the way is not always easy, often somewhat painful, frustrating, and frightening. Such is the process of awakening or becoming. It is expansive, and in the course of expanding, we are often left with uncertain boundaries and in the confusing state of seeing how much we do not know. At some point, the bottom drops out, and we are left to… fall or fly. And then, in that ethereal state, there is where the work is done, when all else has been stripped away, deep down within our souls, in the dark corners we may not have dared to look before.

The more healed, whole and understanding we then work to become, the more healing, wholeness and understanding we can give. This is the greatest gift. For ourselves and in turn for others. Are we becoming better, or are we simply becoming more? If the answer is “more,” we will inevitably find ourselves surrounded by more choice, and more community. As we become, so we belong.

Funny how a solitary path can eventually bring us closer to others. Simple as it sounds, perhaps it is because of more love, starting with ourselves, and then feeling we have more to give to others. In the absence or weakening of ego, we are left with weakening power of fear, defensiveness, judgment and anger. What can replace that void, in time, but love and knowing? And so, we open our hearts, and find them full and connected. Our community, far away as they may be, is revealed. Although we may be drawn together initially as strong, self directed (wo)men, because of our connection, we find ourselves even stronger, though possibly with a more gentle touch. Such teachings, such shared wisdom, and such support in time help us come face to face with our own unique formula (and thus practice and offerings) for care based on truth, compassion, bravery, and love.

Listening to each other’s stories, and being a part of the community, are powerful reminders and confirmations of this understanding, and living proof of this growing feeling. The comfort of community is the staff upon which we must at times lean. For any form of growth for the sake of found truth, not given truth, and then any resulting following of the natural choice of paths to pursue these truths (in my case, this is midwifery) is a political act. Whether we wish it to be or not, all of us following this calling will at times be up against the conforming, controlling majority, and will be labeled the rebel, risk taker, black sheep, and of course, the witch. Almost amusingly when you see the irony, we may be called ignorant and irresponsible, though our knowledge and understanding may be far greater and deeper than those pointing fingers. Most may not have to endure conflict and condemnation, though in time, all of us will have our challenges, our story.

At 49, having lived and continuing to live an untamed and unconventional life, I still feel I am just beginning. To understand, to know, to belong. And the more I learn, the more I am aware of what I still need to know. Likewise, how can we know what we need if we have never see these things before?

And so we must trust. And so must learn to let go, like the essence of the Tao. And that, then, is when truth is revealed.

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ~ Lao Tzu

So thank you, my dearest ones, for extending the community and allowing me to be a part of this sisterhood. I am so honored to be with you on this journey. May we continue graciously joining voices – expanding in our hearts and in our circles – supporting each other in supporting others.

Going Nowhere.

July 20, 2015July 20, 2015 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

As the leaves turn full and fat and green

and wilds swell moist and plump and prolific

and views enshrouded in cool grey veils

and mornings frost and afternoons wash us away

As flowers burst forth and fruit attempts to ripen

and seeds within are scattered without

so far yet from fruition but emerging

coming to a life not yet realized

River voice speaks loudly

monotone and constant

And I vaguely remember the in and out

pulse and surge of waves

But we do not have that here.

Pale silver morning dew

frosted on tall green grass

already turned to seed

that this year may wash away

rather than scatter in the winds

Waving silky laden pregnant with promise

I do not know their names

any more than I know the names of flowers or birds

as they know them not and care not too

Only appreciate my recognition:

the blue one, the dear one,

the silly one that lights atop the outhouse,

the yellow one that blooms beside the door.

Geese grow their young and feathers of flight

and coyotes are wisely silent

and crow sits on the rock watching her mate

feeding her child now the same size as she

And the river barely lowers her voice on this year

that the snow gathers energy to return early

on this lush ephemeral season

which I will watch pass

And through which I will remain

now apart of where I tried to leave

finding roots sinking spreading taking strong hold

through bedrock without my blessings

Ah yes, and now they got me.

And here I am

and shall remain

beside nameless flowers

and familiar songs of birds and wind

and grasses bursting with next year’s life.

The season is short. How long until the winter coat begins to grow again?

Time to get to work.

Got a house to build, a business to run, school to study, bellies to fill, another move to make… and another book to complete and the next one softly raps against the door, waiting for room to come in.

A tremendous time of change.

Time to turn within and focus at the work at hand.

Spilling over, now is the time of bounty.

Expansion in retreat.

And though the writing room is being built and new books are spilling into fruition, for now I am taking a rest from sharing articles for a while.

I’ll touch base from time to time, a way to keep grounded and connected and remind you I care, because I hope you know I do. In the meanwhile, please keep in touch if you’d like – write me directly or via this web site (sorry, I no longer use other social media and prefer to keep it personal instead).

Until the next time we meet…

On Seasons and Enlightenment

May 25, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Spring. The season of letting go.

So begins the natural year. Rebirth. New life. Last years’ leaves enrich this year soil. Last year’s blossoms have become this year’s seeds. Nourish them. Give them room. Allow them to take root. Tend to them wisely and they will grow.

Now is the time to get grounded. We can start with Spring Cleaning.

So it’s Spring. Here in the high country it comes in small doses. Rations. Little tantalizing tastes. And then another snow storm hits and your world is white and you wonder if that bright green grass was just a dream…

Now’s the time of fixing fences, dragging pasture, shoeing horses, getting the stock (and ourselves) in shape for the work of the upcoming season, clearing trail, and up here, always gathering fire wood.

All that fun stuff aside, this is the time of year I’m Cabin Cleaner Extraordinaire. Not really the most romantic part of my position in life, but the true meat-and-potatoes. The part that makes the rest of it not only possible, but worthwhile. The part that’s about giving, sharing, gratitude and humility. Without which, well, what’s the point? Self-indulgence only gets you so far. It gets old fast. At least, one can hope it will.

Anyway, we run a guest ranch. Six rental cabins. All sitting shut down, unused, gathering dust and cob webs and muddy prints and dirt from who-knows-where but there it is, for the past six months. Each one to be transformed into spic and span, and warm and welcoming with the touch of my magic broom.

See? Plenty of practice in the spring cleaning department.

So here I am, with a bucket and mop and wet rag, and I get to thinking…

About enlightenment.

What does cleaning have to do with enlightenment?

A lot!

First, let’s considered this. What is enlightenment? For definition, look around at those you might consider enlightened. Are they in one place and remaining there stagnant? Or are they involved in a process? I think we often look at (are told) enlightenment is one single state rather than a way of being and an ongoing journey, an evolutionary existence. Like the seasons, a continuum of birth, growth, death, transformation, rebirth.

We look to authorities for the answers, when they are within us and around us all along. Learn to listen. Quietly. To the sound of rain on soft spring soil and the rustle of newly emerging leaves.

What do you believe? Not what you were told, given or born into, but deep inside yourself if you dare to take the time to look. Tell me about those truths.

I see enlightenment not as some final product and divine state, but as the simple process of conscious being… which begins with letting go, lightening up.

So, lighten up!

No, it doesn’t end there. It doesn’t end. But that’s where it starts. So let’s start.

Enlightenment need not be something exclusive and elusive. We give it high airs and think it’s out of reach, some unobtainable state reserved for the special few. The term is often misused or over used, as in, “I am,” “He is,” “She is,” and, “You, sorry, are not…”

That’s not true enlightenment. That’s ego. Let that one go too.

Enlightenment is within us all. It is without judgment. Without expectation, assumptions, demands. It is without heirs, pretentions and prejudice. And it is not like a light bulb that once we flick the switch, it’s on for good. It too needs tending. It ebbs and flows like waves and wind. We don’t get somewhere and remain there. It is not one place. It is a never ending process. It is life and beyond life.

It’s all of us, all the time. It’s do-able It’s a state we all are in, any time we change and grow and even try to understand. Any time we make room within us to open up and clearly see and be. It’s not always big stuff. Start small. Start with cleaning. Cleansing. Letting go. Opening up.

This is just the first step. The first season.

Cleaning, cleansing, clearing yourself of what you no longer need. Getting rid of old baggage.

Yes, it’s that simple. And that hard. Because we all know how hard it is sometimes to just let go. We’re quick to cling, to hold on tight, and define ourselves by things we’ve had or happened in the past. We’re slow to see how bound we are until we begin counting and releasing our attachments.

So, we start by letting go, lightening up. Get rid of that stuff. Shed.

Enlighten!

The path to enlightenment is different for us all. I live in and with nature. So for me, it’s easier to see life as a natural process. Here’s how I see it work around me, and thus within me:

Spring: Clean up. Let go. Lighten up. Enlighten.

Spring cleaning of the body, mind and soul… and cabins and land.

Take care of them all.

Everything matters; nothing matters.

Consolidate. Prioritize. Pare down to the basics. Get rid of the baggage.

Clear yourself of judgments, expectations, assumptions, demands, criticism.

Just be.

Be curious about the beautiful world around you.

Be a part of it, not separate and detached.

Fully connect.

Get to know yourself. Unadorned with ones past, possession or pretenses.

Let go of the ego, self definition and social status.

What are you left with?

Fresh soil on a raw spring day.

Summer: Work. Give.

This is the season of plenty.

Expansion.

Of growth and abundance and long days and clear connection with heaven and earth through sun and rain and rich soil and the brilliant colors of wildflowers and soft embrace of the wind.

Now it’s time to replenish, fill your self with positive stuff.

Nourish and nurture. Our body, mind, soul. Those around us, the world we live in.

What matters most?

Whatever works for you, but not just for you:

Pray, meditate, practice, tend to your body, the Earth, give, do and care for others?

We live in the days of choice.

Consider widely.

Choose wisely.

Autumn: Remain. Complete.

Autumn. Settling in, stocking the pantry, storing up for the long winter ahead.

This is the time of completion: fruit ripens, seeds form, leaves are released and branches laid bare.

This is time of bringing the life blood back to the roots where it will remain for the long cold season ahead.

Here’s the one thing often missing. The key to making the equation work.

It’s called commitment.

Sticking with it.

Completion of a task well done.

Commitment is not a four letter word. It won’t bite. Try it.

Commitment is not a popular word these days. Old fashioned.

As in, “Oh, really, you’re still working there?” “You’re still doing that?” “You’re still with him?”

Yes, yes, and yes.

And this what allows us to become really good at something, get stuff done, complete what we start out to accomplish, be true to our word, deepen our relationships, complete one thing so we can move on to the next, and know for sure we can get more done.
Not to say it’s about accomplishment. That is not the goal. But accomplishment as part of the natural process. How can you grow and move beyond without completing and concluding?

Are we as flighty as the wind or as solid as the earth we stand upon?

Are we above this earth or a part of it?

Depending on your beliefs… and respecting others for theirs.
I see the cow elk running through the woods with her calf and the red-tailed hawked soaring above screeching her return to the mountain and the purple heads of the monkshood coyly emerging and hear the song of the Mighty Rio echoing on the cliffs.

This is the world around me.

And I am honored to be of this earth.

My ego does not place me greater than this, but connected to it all.

Winter: Dormancy.

Here in the high country in winter, in the vast whiteness that it is,

Just be.

Nothing more.

This is your time of stillness,

Of being,

Until you must, for you will, because life moves, we move.

We are neither static not stagnant.

This is the secret of the seasons we are not told

But we observe

In winter.

The time to settle in and go deep and in our quiet slumber, find our inner truths.

This is when change happens, we become.

We are constantly evolving, growing. We are not inert beings (read: stick in the mud?)

Change is a certain part of our human existence.

No, this doesn’t mean bag the commitment and try something new at every whim.

It means complete, release, and evolve. Flow with the process.

It means to take the time to consider. Where are you? Where did you come from? Where are you going? Where are you here and now?

Understand the seasons and be a part of them.

Let one blossom fade and fall off while a new bud begins to form, and a blossom opens.

Don’t get stuck in the mud, but know where to grow strong roots.

Are we meant to rise above our human existence, or make the most of it?

Transcend from this beautiful world, or be humble and grateful of the world around us, find our place and understand why we are here?

And so the cycles of the seasons continues.

Are we ever in just one stage? Only for brief moments. Like the seasons, we are ever changing. Because the nature of life is movement and change, and so we flow. This is our evolutionary existence.

Well, back to the beginning.

Spring. Mud. And cleaning.

Enlightening.

So there you have it. Spring cleaning. It’s not just about dust and cobwebs. It can be a first step to enlightenment. But instead of cabins, it’s our heart, mind and soul. Dust of those cob webs. Get rid of the tracks that came in from who or where we don’t even remember. Clean up the old pile of old news in the corner that’s been there since last year. Make room for new stuff. Good stuff. Allow yourself time to breathe, and create a space to expand.

Oh, and speaking about those cobwebs…

I leave you with this story.

Okay, I know a lot of you don’t like spiders and find them really creepy, but for the sake of this story, try to forget that for just a moment and hear me out. Think of them as “natural.” And there I was, out in nature. So, spiders have their place. Believe me, I’m not big on them in my bedroom either…

Out on a walk in the woods yesterday, I came across a spider web tucked gracefully under a tree with speckled light illuminating the fine silks and a small gray spider the color of tree bark poised in the center, resting. I stopped and stared and considered something beautiful from this simple sight.

Think about the correlation. She starts with nothing. Air. Space. And into that, she spins her web,

Perfect, beautiful, intricate, with care, symmetry.

How long did it take her to create this? She gives it everything she can to create it. Now it is.

And when her hard work is done, she sits and waits.

In due time, into that web that she so carefully formed, comes exactly what she needs. She doesn’t plan or act or lure or try any fancy tricks. She just creates, with hard work, commitment and care. And then with patience, she allows and trusts and knows…

Shared today on Conscious Life News.

Seven Poems in Seven Days.

May 22, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Actually there were ten, but some of them aren’t worth sharing.

After feeling “too busy” and having “too much” else going on (right, join the crowd – I’ll share more on this next week)… my heart returns to poetry. Like nature, this is where I find my grounding, my uplifting. The first thing I ever remember writing. I wonder if it will be the last.

The following is the result of a ten-day personal challenge taken on with Carrie of The Shady Tree.

It turned out to be a prolific enlightening to my inner passion.

Perhaps it may just look like lot of words.

With these, I hope you may find something that touches your heart too.

Read a paragraph, a stanza, a poem as you like.

Gratitude for a dear friend, fellow poet, artist, and lover of family, nature and life.

Gratitude for words, creativity, and inspiration – all of which abound in this beautiful world.

(Please stop by Carrie’s site over the next few days, too, to see how the same photo can inspire such different words.)

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

You can only get

Here

by wet foot

Cool and soft and

squishing deep brown

between bare toes

Over slick rocks

The sweet moist scent of earth and

Decay

Last years dreams fermenting in

Never drying soil

Like a festering open wound

Where the branches bend low overhead

Heavy and wet and untouched

By daylight

which in turn is obscured

By an endless

swath of fog

Dampened desires

Laying heavy on moist flesh

Suppressed by sunlessness

Do you remember what

burning feels like

Warm and gold on

Exposed flesh

Instead in this succulence

Each drop a tiny window into the soul

An eternal pool

That will evaporate

and turn to steam

Should the sun burn

through the fog

Photo by Gin

Barren are last year’s

blossoms

now Hard and brittle

Spent and sallow

having been bent over

By the weight of

last season’s snow

Their seeds scattered

in the spring rains

Brown dust

to brown earth

And so it should be

I lean over

as not to disturb

That which managed

against the elements

And marvel

at the simplicity

And complete

complexity and pure beauty

Preserved by the wind like

An embalmed queen

What inner

secrets do you reveal

Spilling forth promises

of eternity

That few may

bend close to hear

Before the bright easy days

of new growth

Consume us

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

On Wednesday

The midwife soars

Grounded

Taking flight

Because she is called

And though it appears

She has no control

And just moves

Out of action or reaction

of spreading her wings

And rising effortlessly

gracefully naturally into the stirring air

This remains

the most self controlled act

she may ever manage

Of leaving a ground

And returning

While remaining where she was.

Photo by Gin

Last year’s leaves

Next year’s soil

Compressed under this morning’s snow

Elk tracks across pasture

Revealing delicate chartreuse

Of spring grass

Seeds

Transforming

A quiet awakening

Beneath the consuming

unassuming white shelter

The robin is silent this morning.

How can I see something new

In the same old landscape

Like looking into the eyes of a lover

You have wrapped your body

around for over a dozen years

And still find beauty and shiver.

now in static essence of early morning

Upon brown damp soil

robin sings in the cold grey light.

Photo by Gin

Boots by the door

coated with clay

Brought in from out there,

Damp coats and wool hats

hang to dry.

What’s the point

You ask me

And I don’t have

a good reply.

We both know

they will only

be wet again.

Somehow starting out

dry

seems like

the thing to do.

The dog comes in

indifferent to wet fur and

Brown tracks behind him

With no boots to

leave by the door.

Out there

Where the bark of aspen

is soaked to green grey.

Silver tips

on bare branches where

water pools in

tiny glass beads,

and brown water

flowing through

brown soil, saturated.

creeks cutting new paths.

old paths.

it will all be washed away

we say

if this keeps up.

Heavy skies

in stratum,

the movement of

silky flowing veils.

What secrets do they reveal

As an entire mountain

Obscured

And does it matter anyway

That the horizon has changed,

Is no longer

Peaks and ridges

But soft simple close

White?

The view, the future, awareness

Lost

In the sound on the metal roof

That comes in waves,

Strong and steady like

deep breathing

As wet as the ocean

And as far away

Above me

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

In my dreams

I am flying

Downward

Into secret places

Of mountain

And mind

Of my soul

Where even in winter

It is lush and green

Places no one else

can touch

Or see

And maybe I won’t share

Not even with you

Unless I feel certain

You need to know

I keep them for

Myself

I become Crow

Seeing from above

A mountain in

parts of a whole

Its steep slopes

And jagged rocks

And soft spring grasses

And the course of

the cutting river

From so high

As if I were

in the wind

blowing

across the open flats

and navigating the

rugged bluffs

in and out of

tall timber

until at last I light

upon the highest snag

above it all

the voyeur of my soul

seeing across the big air

and down into that

hidden oasis

no one else is meant to see

stealing a glimpse

detached

in this vast entirety

absorb my world

open my eyes

and find myself still

flying

Photo by Gin

On the surface

She shines

Simple and radiant

Easy going like

the afternoon breeze

On a good spring day

Idyllic

Tranquility

Stillness of soul

Waiting for

the coming unrest

Stirring.

April 13, 2015 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

There is an intense clarity found in springtime in the high mountains. It is not beautiful, but real and raw. It hides nothing. Like a truth you cannot escape. An inner stirring as the outer winds churn cold and biting from over the Divide.

It is not a stunning time, but one of stark realities. You are left to face yourself, your world, in all its plainness. Earthen tones and unadorned branches that may snap in the strong gusts if not full and plump with awakening life and the memory of remaining flexible. A time to weed out the weak, prepare for the upcoming unfurling. Last year’s brown grass strewn with grey branches like abandoned dreams. I pick them up as I walk by and stack them in burn piles to clean up when the wind dies down and we’re ready for a quiet evening.

There is no draw here for tourists now. Instead this is the time to drag the pasture and fix fences, repair gates and clean up back roads. It is a time for work, not for fun and pretty and light and laughter and languid appreciation of abundant natural beauty though there is always that too no matter. It is quiet at first tired breath, then exhilarating in its wild rapture with roaring river and winds that blend into their own inseparable harmony.

It is not a time to blatantly behold, but rather discretely observe, for what you are witness to now is her nakedness. Soon she shall dress, slowly, in preparation for what will be.

Some days you’re fooled into believing it’s all over or just begun and then you wake to temperatures in the teens and dig into frozen ground and remember where you are in spite of longing for longer days, warmer rays and shorter shadows. Shade cast from the remaining white high hills obscures hopes of lush and green and leaves and blossoms for some time to come.

It’s quieter around here without the goose. I confess I snuck down to Ute Creek to check on him. Only once. There was a big flock newly arrived of geese, ducks and smaller birds enjoying a warm brown open pool in the otherwise still ice covered expanse. And about a hundred yards away on a stretch of frozen mud, was one solitary goose looking back towards the others. What do you think? Yeah, that’s what I thought too.

In the meanwhile, there’s this independent hen… Ever hear of such a thing? In all my years of raising chickens, I never had. But sure enough. We got one here now. One of our free range hens decided she is not in need of flock nor rooster (though he’s quite in need of her and tries often to herd her home). Instead she prefers our porch, picnic table, the wood pile outside our front door. Go figure what’s worth scratching for in there. She’s outside our cabin at any given time of day. Though I’ve never been liberal in giving credit to a chicken’s sensitivities and insight, it’s as if she knows she’s in a bird friendly zone (it is indeed with my very active bird feeder) and a family in need of a feathered friend.

And then.

Yesterday we pass by the lake of open water miles down river below our ranch. Bob drives slowly as I have my head out the window and that wind is cold. I’m looking. Carefully.

No, that’s not him, I say and he drives on.

How do you know, he asks me. I just know.

Stop. Here. No, not that one… but that one there could be… slow down… pull over!

Rikki, I call.

The one with the big head and the low honk flies off to an island a short ways away and fights with another one before landing. Rikki never behaved like that, I note to self, and then I realize this: He is a she!

And there she is, with another female. Swimming this way from the far bank.

Listen, I tell Bob. I can hear her before I see her. I know her voice. My Rikki!

She is calling to me. We holler, back and forth across the cold grey water…

She remains in the water, closer but never too close, talking together all the time, back and forth, as the dog runs along the bank and I wonder which of us Rikki misses more, but I sense that she won’t come clear to us, and she shouldn’t, and she doesn’t. And although I’d love to sit next to her and stare into her warm brown eyes and just chatter as the two of us have done so many times before, her distance feels right. I am happy for her. She has found her place. And it is beautiful.

I am humbled to realize how wild the wilds shall always be, and how domesticated I remain.

I stand to leave in the brown grass along the bank and kick someone’s spent shotgun shells littered along the spring soil.

Movin’ on up.

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

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

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

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

Oh yes, and bigger still.

That one we called Grandfather Tree.

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

Rikki is air born!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silencing of our collective soul.

Now standing before us stripped, bare, and lifeless.

An emptiness I need to fill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Within.

January 16, 2014 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

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

Not out side, at the trees, the mountain.

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

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

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

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

On anger.

Answers come.

Less with mind than with heart.

Anger moves, motivates, and must be left behind.

A hot coal under my seat.

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

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

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

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

Seek.

Try.

I will make mistakes.

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

Not intentionally, of course.

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

At times, my heart acts stronger than my mind.

How does one find balance?

Anger.

It opens my eyes, but closes my heart.

My eyes are open.

Now, it is time to leave it behind.

Will you see a gentler me?

I’ll try.

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

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

Yes, I can.

Just watch what I can do.

Anger.

As a form of passion.

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

Or it can eat us alive.

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

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

Get on the right path and watch doors fly open.

How do I get from here to there?

Step on board.

It’s that simple.

Move on.

Forward.

Positive.

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

Just write and write well.

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

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

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

Maybe that’s why I’m here.

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

To try. To stand for what I believe in.

Without burning bridges.

Anger may be what got me started.

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

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

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

Let me tell you what I hear.

Listen.

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

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

Start.

Write.

Share what I see. Share what I feel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belief in eternal beauty of our Earth.

Gin Getz

On the intimate connection between person and place. Sharing words and images of wilds within and around.

inner reflections

Finding Familiar.

Time

After Equinox.

On Thanks and Giving.

Going Nowhere.

On Seasons and Enlightenment

Seven Poems in Seven Days.

Stirring.

Movin’ on up.

Within.

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