Colorado

May 13, 2013May 14, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

You wake to the smell of the familiar lover you find yourself next to in the blinding sun of early morning spreading across the pillows like spilled milk and you wonder how on earth you got your self in this position again.

Place in parts. The individual intimate parts of the land you know. Some say “like the back of my hand” but I liken it more to knowing the back of your lover’s hand. Or back of his neck, the soft spot under his arm, the muscles, the moles, the curls of hair and prick of untrimmed toe nails. Knowing the land as you know the lover, a shared intimacy that comes with time and touch and silence and lying down together waiting for something or nothing to happen. And is it these private insights that change your relationship from lust to love. From sightseeing, to being at home. From being an observer, to being a part, blending, belonging.

At first it is the big picture that pleases the eye, draws you in as the sultry dancer seduces with waving silks and swaying hips, and you stand there mesmerized but too afraid to touch. Time passes. You begin to see closer. Flaws, imperfections, rolls and wrinkles. Beauty when the veils are dropped and the land remains raw and real and exposed as the leafless trees of early spring and attraction is not as bright but must be felt perhaps more than seen. This has happened here. I wonder if it will happen there.

Another beautiful day in paradise. Another beautiful place. From one to another. Here, there, No, it is not all the same.

Paradise lost and found. There if you’re looking but if you look too hard, say, for something specific, the big picture or the sudden change or the answer to all your problems, you may only find disappointment. Who knows what you’ll find?

A river of tears

cutting

through a crying land

I had forgotten the tremendous loss of life that spreads around me here, a skeleton’s cold embrace, and am told to see only the green but half my world is turning brown. And sadness, loss, despair are no less part of life. The part we too often feel or are told “it is best” to brush under the carpet. Until we begin to see the carpet bulge. The hillsides turning brown. Dare we lift and look in earnest or do we prefer to wear those blinders and see only what we want to, what we are told to see?

Every day this week rain, hail, snow and sun. A year in a day. Every day. Here is Colorado. Where we’ve had snow every month but July, and even then have dodged snow banks or crossed drifts lingering from the season before while horseback in the high country. The world above tree line where air is as thin as skimmed milk and the sun as intense as wild fire.

Colorado.

Where our pasture is shared with an equal number of working horses and wild elk and they graze comfortably together.

Where moose droppings are left outside the outhouse.

Where warmth is rare. Mid day for maybe a month and still those nights will bring a chill.

This morning the smell of damp earth. Familiar earth. Earth on which I have birthed and buried, laughed and cried. Land on which I’ve built a home, raised a child, fallen in love, and seen seasons come and go and familiar faces do the same and where I’ve felt unwelcome in my own home for far too long and stories swell like stormy waters I never meant to navigate and I am still just looking for a place to belong.

Seeing signs. I suppose we see what we want to see. Sometimes we look for confirmations. At least I do. I take a pen and little notebook in my jacket pocket every day when I hike or ride. You never know when inspiration strikes, and I’ve found it’s quite likely when out clearing my mind. I’m hiking along the trail across river where the snow banks still remain hidden from the sun. I’ve gone far enough for today. I’m supposed to meet the boys back at the bridge for a mate. I’m already late. You know how it is once you get going. Sometimes you go too far. At least, that’s known to happen to me. So, I’m maybe a third of the way back, back tracking. Inspiration strikes. I reach for my pen and find only a new hole in my old pocket. Damn it, that pen could be anywhere. Think about it. It could be back up the trail, or anywhere between here and home. I take maybe a half dozen steps and there, no more than ten feet from where I noticed it missing, is my pen in the middle of the trail, waiting for me to write the words I did not want to forget.

Another sign. I tell myself what I have so many times before. Leap and the net appears. Only this time it is scary. I guess it usually is, but more often than not we can only see the situation directly before us and forget about the challenges we tackled six months ago, the last time we leaped. Anyway, this time it involves my career. Writing, representation, selling myself, or not, and I hate this part and had been hoping it was taken care of at least for now, only I sort of knew that wasn’t really the case because I was going against my personal beliefs by working with someone I didn’t like working with because I was pretty sure he didn’t like working with me. My ego is too fragile for that.

Stay safe and don’t risk change and remain exactly where you are even though you know where you are is not where you belong. Or… leap.

Well, what do you think I did? I wrote my agent and told him it was time to change. So once again I tell myself, leap and the net will appear. Only instead, on this afternoon’s hike, I’m thinking about this, a little bit scared and a lot bummed out, and a feather appears in the middle of the trail where I happen to be walking. And not just any feather, but a hawk feather. And I’m guessing “my” hawk who came back to visit us so late in the season last year after the ground had been covered with white and the other such birds had long since left.

This was the sign I needed.

Leap, and maybe the answer will be even better than falling into a net. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll spread your wings and learn to fly.

A brief greeting from the Rio Trocoman

February 12, 2013February 12, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

A brief greeting and I return to silence.

My words are engaged elsewhere. Being used to write the story for which I came here. There will be time later to share this all with you, and so much there is to share! For now, communication is challenging. It is easy to do without, and easier still to forget I have a life beyond the here and now. Except for a sadness I feel when I think of my son, so many miles away.

For now, the occasional trip will suffice, computer packed into saddle bag, and a horse ride across river. From here where I write, with the river to my south and sun to my north, far enough away from electricity and internet, wood for making matέ and meals, candle light and stars, a sandy beach for our bath, and the only trail in is by horses. I could stay here longer than I know I should.

Please trust when I tell you this much. The story is emerging. Coming to life. Birthing slow and steady in the heat of mid day with note books and binder, pens and tea cup spread out before me on Ginny’s antique drawing table surrounded by her painting and ponchos, antiques and photo albums. Not always in the direction I thought it would lead. Like a river cutting into soft gravel in a sudden downpour and changing course. Yet to where the water leads remains the same.

Until next time. I send love and light from here where both are so bountiful.

Deeper into the dragonfly’s den

January 30, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

(I am trying to capture the rich essence of this beautiful woman… a work in progress)

We are packing up once again, and beginning the next stage of this journey. Away from the Chakra on the edge of town, the noise, distractions, visitors, Ginny’s Embassy, Gin’s hosteleria and café. Tomorrow we all head to the higher country. Farewell to the song of a hundred roosters and a thousand barking dogs. An exaggeration, no doubt, but I swear that’s what it sounds like at six in the morning. And by seven, the sound of hammers, saws, tractors, local music, flocks of parrots, and horses outside my window nickering for me to feed. The latter is the only sound I am used to.

I have forgotten the ability to filter noise. Back in the day, long ago, when last did I live in a town? And then have lived where the sound of a passing plane twenty thousand feet overhead is enough to pull me from the table and out the front door to see who is here.

Now again, we return to quieter days, simpler ways, and that is where my creativity blooms. Time to allow the writing to flow at the river we will now reside beside. Not, for now, our Mighty Rio Grande, so many miles away and tucked safely and silently under a growing blanket of winter snow. No, here, I shall begin to know the rio Trocoman, and feel the land of which my dear Ginny is a part.

We go without great expectations, only desires to connect with this river, this land, and to focus on the work that has drawn us here.

I will keep you posted. In the meanwhile, for more information (and for those with the desire for peace, tranquility and life on a private and pristine stretch of a Patagonia river… the place is available for rent!) please see www.horsespatagonia.com.

Until then… admittedly I know not when “then” will be though I do know we will be without internet and electricity… I share love and light from the upside down side of the world from which I came. And from where I stand, here and now, it feels very much right side up.

A turning point

January 18, 2013January 20, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

(photo of me taking photos of this beautiful land, by Golde Wallingford)

A shift in the winds. Perhaps it is the smell of horses. The grounding ritual, if I may be so bold to give it that name, of shoveling manure. The smell of a horse’s neck and soft touch of the silky spot under the mane. Doesn’t matter where you are. That side of the equator or this one. The smell remains the same. It does not bring me back there. But lands me here more solidly. Funny such a simple thing like smell or shoveling can complete you.

Arrived. Adjusting. Settling in. A beautiful world. Beautiful people. Overwhelmed with love and light, tears and laughter, constant noise from early morning roosters to the late night barking of dogs, people buzz about like harmless flies, music, crickets, birds sounding like a pond full of frogs, the pounding of horses feet on packed gravel, and a language I am trying so hard to understand.

At times I am a window, looking out, quietly absorbing, soaking it all in. Let it shine.

And then the gift of rain. Smelling of a different earth. Patagonian soils. Old and rich and proud. Arid mountains, expanding views. Here at the casca, so safely tucked into the trees as a home in winds should be, shading arms enwrapping. Sweet, sweet rain. Cleanse me of the past and pour me into the future as I float on the languid waves of here and now, these rolling hills as big and wide and open as the sea.

Rain, the song as sweet as the smell. Fat, swollen, heavy drops falling by the bucket full, each one dancing to its own wild rhythm upon the metal roof, rolling together to the puddle on the sandy earth just before my dusty boots, kicked out before me as I sit on the stump of wood under the eve just outside my new front door.

How funny to finally check in on the computer and remember back “home” there would be snow. It would be cold. How funny to consider how little time I have looked back. My apologies to those I love. Change is both overwhelming and self absorbing.

If it were easier to post, I would share more with you. The trip, tips on travelling with a dog, beautiful new friends beginning with Barbara in Buenos Aires, and here our dear Ginny, like the sister so many ask if we are, and Golde and Jorge and little Milton who is happy to play with my dog, the horses, the air, the culture, the language, drinking mate and taking siestas (I have learned are the best time for finding a rare moment quiet enough to write). The hardest part is losing my solitude. That is hard indeed for the intentionally lonely soul.

I am not big on looking back, though I want to share stories and details and parts of this story that I think you might enjoy reading. Where does each day go, as we sit down for dinner at the hour I used to turn in to bed?

It will come in time. Patience is the greatest lesson here. At least the most obvious. There are others. There will be more. More important? I try not to judge, only to learn and do.

The internet may or may not be working, and the power outs regularly. A reminder of my adoration of living off grid, and gratitude that we can connect over the internet at all, in Colorado and here in Patagonia.

This is what MS can look like.

To watch Ginny up on the horse today. Exhilarating to see. And to imagine the joy, the cup overflowing within her, being in a place she belongs, comfortably, confidently. Seeing her energy rise. Her posture resume. One could say a queen upon her throne, but without the airs and pretention, and in fact, a most earthy act indeed. The Phoenix with wings which the horse has given to us. Beautiful indeed. An awakening. A slow and gentle healing, if for no longer than the time in a place this woman feels a home, her self. In the saddle. And yet, I feel it is longer lasting than that. There is more. She is brighter, more alive. I see an improvement already in her, and I wonder how far she will progress in this positive directions. I am pushing her. Doing less for her on one hand. Standing up to her (I say with a smile, for we are two strong women that at times will butt heads in the most graceful way, with power and words, as we women are known to do). Forcing her to find more strength within, for I know there is plenty. Challenging her creativity. Encouraging her to walk more. To focus more (how like changing winds she can be). To keep direction and keep it positive and get things done. There is so much to do. I am thinking she should draw. Where is that peach with the leaves? She wanted to draw that. Creativity heals, she says, and she knows.

Enough. For now I sleep. I cannot absorb it all. Sleep allows time and space to soak it in. So here I am, typing away as my sweetie breathes deep and warm in the early stages of the deepest of sleep beside me, and I prepare to close down this fantastic tool called computer, and return to the most primal state I can. Sleep, wrapped around my sweetie.

The introduction

January 6, 2013January 7, 2013 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Three months ago we met, though still not face to face. A strange coincidence. Those seem to be the best kind of meetings, have you noticed? Something about the things we cannot explain. She told me there are no coincidences. I don’t know what I believe, but I do believe getting to know Ginny has been somehow magical. I wonder how much more so when we finally meet. In a way she’s turned my world upside down already. Because of her, Bob, Gunnar and I are heading to the other side of the world. Patagonia.

Let me tell you a little bit about Ginny. Oddly enough, I know a lot. I have spent these three months pouring through notes, writings and information on websites that she compiled over the past several years covering her life stories, from birth to present. What a life it is!

Gin and Ginny. You might just get confused. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it if you stick around a while.

I am Gin, and just the writer. Working to put the pieces of the puzzle together into hopefully one beautiful picture. A memoir manuscript with consistency, interest and intrigue, capturing the essence of this remarkable woman.

The story is Ginny’s.

The adventure, well, that’s all of ours. Even yours if you’re ready to go for the ride.

Tomorrow, we leave our mountain and begin the journey south.

The fun begins.

And so, now.

Finally, an introduction.

For those who have been wondering where I am going and why.

For those who would like to “meet” a truly remarkable woman.

Tonight, I share this treat. An introduction to Ginny Carrithers.

Following is a rough draft, a condensed bio of Ginny Carrithers, and an introduction to her memoirs.

For now, we shall call this “Dancing in the Winds of Patagonia”

One remarkable woman’s inspiring adventures of living life fully with MS.

Welcome to the world of Virginia Tice Neary Carrithers. Welcome to a world that covers two hemispheres and spreads wide across the worlds of the Aspen art scene, Thoroughbred horseracing, jet setting and a fairy tale world where Prince Charming still sits at the head of the table. This is the story of life as wild as the land she chose to settle in, and as fast the winds that now embrace her. Ginny’s is story of extremes and challenges. Beginning with a childhood laced with trauma, Ginny has confronted, overcome and learned to live with physical and emotional obstacles throughout her life, and managed to come out laughing. Her drive and passion led her to the highs that are hard to keep up with, and lows that would be devastating to so many of us. Hers is a story of living the high life and ultimately choosing the simple life.

On the surface, this is a fun, fast and racy story of one woman’s wild journey generated by her own strength, positive outlook, and brilliant, shining character. It is a story of the power of creativity and nature. Deeper down, this story is one of personal growth, healing, and inspiration that the reader (viewer) will want to cheer, cry, scream and ultimately hug and rejoice for the celebration of character that Ginny Carrithers is.

Her story begins in 1949 in New Orleans, Louisiana. From the beginning, her strength and resolve are challenged with life threatening bouts of the croup. Hers was an odd and lonely childhood on private island with a psychiatrist father, and mother that had her first nervous breakdown and was institutionalized when Ginny was only nine. From her earliest days, art, horses, and nature where her consolation and inspiration.

Life begins to bloom at age 15 as her body blossoms. Her world widens and begins to speed up with boys, cars, and wild rides to Aspen with her best friend, Janice. Yet again, Ginny’s world is severely shaken by her brother’s car crash which left him forever in a wheelchair, her father’s suicide, and her mother again institutionalized.

With her great resolve and joy of living, Ginny continues to create her place in the brilliant world filled with wealthy and powerful men, painting, and horse racing in New Orleans where she lived the young beautiful life. Her notable accomplishments include becoming the first licensed woman in Louisiana to train Thoroughbred racehorses, commissions for her equestrian art, modeling and acting and being a body double/stunt woman in a James bond movie. This woman was indeed living the “racy” life, with a whirlwind of travel, power, passion, and fame.

In 1976 at the age of 27, Ginny has become paralyzed and is given the diagnosis of MS. A chronic, progressive, disabling disease. And still this woman is not slowed down, does not back down. For Ginny, it opened new doors. After a year and half of paralysis, Ginny goes into remission and begins her work for the National MS Society, becoming a world-wide spokes person, creating and donating her own artwork, raising millions of dollars over the years, creating promotion and awareness with her talents of horse racing and art, and inspiring so many, not only those affected by the disease, but so many touched by and finding themselves in the embrace of this exciting woman.

It is during this time that Ginny meets Ashley Carrithers. The year is 1986. Another one charmed by this lovely and vivacious woman! It is because of this connection that two new worlds are opened up for Ginny. The first is Patagonia. The second is motherhood. Ultimately, it is the combination of these two that transform Ginny to the next stage of her life.

As their relationship begins, Ginny is living the Princess Dream come true, continuing the jet set lifestyle though now between hemispheres. There she is on the Estancia, riding her white Arabian, continuing to evolve with her artistic endeavors. playing polo, flying out on their private airstrip. She is on one hand the wealthy Patrona, juggling baby, paintbrush, estancias, a challenging marriage, building airstrips, buying land, travel, travel, travel… Yet all the while the darkness of MS follows her about like an uncomfortable shadow. A shadow that at times can be fierce and cruel and painful and all consuming. And somewhere between those two extremes, she is learning about healing. She sleeps outside alone on the ground. Builds her fire, drinks her mate. She finds a deeper, stronger place of visions and medicine cards and animal guides.

After the divorce, Ginny continues the back and forth between North and South America, and ultimately chooses to remain in Patagonia. She is drawn to remain because of her daughter. Because of the simpler life. The grounding. Nature. What matters most. She finds her own strength, learning to live without the Prince Charming fairytale and become her own woman. Still the artist. The artist of life. She is continually challenged as she deals with the progression of her disease, her broken back, her independence and loneliness, her desire to continue to give and reach out to and share with others, her connection to the earth, her creativity, her horses, her limitations, and her broad and beautiful spirit shining possibly stronger than ever.

This brings us to The Present. This brings us to Ginny, today, dealing with a debilitating disease while living in the dramatic setting of Patagonia. And still finding ways to give, motivate, inspire. New ways to share beauty and life. This is her spirit. Brilliant and warm as we all have seen or are seeing.

This is Ginny Carrithers.

On the surface one sees a beautiful woman and talented artist living a dream come true complete with fairytale lifestyle, world travel, wild adventures, fast horses, and elite connections. The high life. Look again and see the lows of trauma, drama, loss, and the side of the same passionate, vivacious, driven woman learning to live with MS. Multiple Sclerosis for some. Messenger of Sprit for Ginny. MS became her call for transformation and inner growth, for waking up and living her life real, strong, self guided, empowered.

The greatest element of this story is still just beyond my reach. It is within Ginny. Her true essence, her spirit if you will, which you can read so much about on paper or the computer, but no doubt will change me and complete this story. After months of becoming relatively obsessed with the life of this remarkable woman, we will finally be meeting. And there, my friends, lies the missing link to this story.

And so it is that the rest of the story, in fact the part we will begin with, starts there. Next week in Patagonia.

In the meanwhile, I can promise you this. Ginny’s story is a wild ride. Hold onto your hats, sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride. Ginny’s story will take you first to places you’ve only dreamed of, and then to a place and space within that you secretly long to be.

(for more information, please see Ginny’s web site at CreativityHeals.org)

Well, sorry to leave you hanging. You’ll have to read the book to find out all the juicy details. In the meanwhile, stick around and enjoy the adventure as Gin meets Ginny, the Mountain Man leaves his mountain again because of his woman’s crazy whims, and the Pup heads to Patagonia.

Follow the flow

December 3, 2012December 3, 2012 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Something about expectation. They made this one up to be so profound. I was hoping, of course.

They said it was life changing. Those were their words. What they told us when they came back from “the elusive waterfall.” So we went looking for it. Twice. The three of us. Bob, Gunnar and me. It used to be four. And every day like yesterday, I still wish to share these special places on the mountain, our mountain, his mountain, with Forrest.

I’m going through yesterday’s pictures, sharing a few but wish you could see them all though you might get as bored as Bob and think maybe a few hundred is more than enough.

I’ll start with this. I’m no cinematographer, but Bob suggested I try to capture the sound of water flowing beneath frozen surface of the creek in a hidden draw along the mountain. An intimate sound. Not very “visual” but I think you might get the point: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClLSFqAdN0E&feature=youtu.be

Seeking the obscure destination, the life changing waterfall. Not the words I came up with, but ones I held onto. Ready to have my life changed. Maybe I say it wasn’t a big deal after all. Yet take a few minutes to reflect and maybe you’ll see it was. That’s how it happens sometimes. Not all at once. Not obvious. Slow like water cutting rock.

maybe not
life changing

that was their
thing not mine

though I confess I
looked for
a change

and what I found was
beauty

natural
and the love

of my husband
and dog
and humour

of getting my partner
off a mountain
with a blown out

knee and funny if you
knew this was not
the first time

the dog and
I scrambling this precarious
incline on all fours

and I was scared as
we slipped down a slope which
doesn’t seem like
much unless you were there

sliding

because we had to see
more and it was

perfect

I guess I was expecting something else. I thought we’d get there and be bowled over and everything would be new and different and wonderful. My manuscript sold, my dog behaving perfectly, my son finding his chosen path, my grey hair turned brown and my wrinkles smoothed over, our property sold, our debt gone and all these ideas for the next book I’m working on just flowing like water from my mind onto paper…

After getting over the initial shock that this was cool, but that’s about it, I started to see.

Life changing experiences. Are what we make them. Do we allow ourselves to be affected, and grow and change or do we hold on to what we were yesterday and think we want tomorrow without seeing what is in front of us today?

My life is the same today as it was yesterday, only my legs are more sore, and nose a bit sunburned, both of which are fairly regular. But me, I am different. Not just today, but every day. Some things in life I don’t want to change. That’s a tough one. Figuring out what we can carry with us into tomorrow. For starters, I’ll carry my husband, if need be. Especially if those knees quit him again.

Withdraw

October 8, 2012 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Stripped stark

Barren trees

Allow more light to penetrate

An insatiable hunger for the withering warmth

Mid day light diffused by the soft sky overcast

It is only a matter of time before the snow settles in for the season

White world we know here for half our days

Until then longer shadows leave a vague pattern

As if something man made like an endless cattle guard

On the edge of the dying meadow

The thermometer has risen to twenty. I postpone a longer walk and return quickly from feeding the horses, the dog from chasing off the magpies. I am not yet used to the cold, too soft, still holding on tight to summer ways of forgoing long johns and tall boots. The cold has barely begun.

Horses at the water trough pawing through the ice.

The doves are down to four. I see them now settled on the fence by the one big Blue Spruce that provides protection. There is literally a pile of assorted small birds behind the house, all having been run into the windows. Even the cats can’t claim responsibility. The falcon flies by and creates another fury and another bang on the window. A feather and dusty impression of wings remain before me. A clear, hard wall one can barely see. The crystals I hung in every window have not helped.

The little dark mare turns from the water and snorts. I see water dribbling from her muzzle like a silver spray of shining beads, as she stand tight , tall, alert, neck and tail high and ears forward. The language of the horse. The moose is again in the willows. Or at least, that is what she fears.

The wind rouses, rips up the remaining thin brown leaves of the bush. No lurking sent is stirred. The little mare lowers her head, relaxes her back and slowly returns to the herd.

A great horseman once told me that to learn to be a great horsewoman, all I needed to do was listen to the horse. They have all the answers I seek, he said. His wife reminded us both that this theory only works AFTER one has learned the language of the horse, and not all of us were “lucky” enough to be born into a world of great horsemen as our parents and peers to pass on such information. A disadvantage on one hand. I had to learn it all from scratch. An advantage on the other, for we learn to speak ourselves, with our own voice and manners. After the magnitude of mistakes levels out, we are left with an understanding that is ours, between the horse and me, built from the ground up like a stone castle. This is more solid, strong and real than if it was handed to me. That is at least what I tell myself. Might as well. I cannot change how nor where I was born and raised.

Not everyone is lucky enough to be born where they belong later in life. I say that on one hand yet I have heard to those that say there is a great burden that comes with “being born into…” Or are we the lucky who have the blank canvas before us and paint the picture as we will?

No matter. We can choose who, what and where we are. And we can change it all too.

Can’t we?

Bird of prey

October 4, 2012 / Gin Getz / 23 Comments

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

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

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

Now is the season of birds of prey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where to begin?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Haus

September 6, 2012 / Gin Getz / 17 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Be yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Under a rainy spell

August 24, 2012 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Rain. And somehow we know it will soon be snow. I take great comfort in that, awaiting the days, yet savoring the mild meanwhile. The long cold winter peaks coyly around the corner. Lures me with promise and intrigue, a sweet melody drawing me in to the dance. I am unable to resist.

Our season. Our half of the year. Farewell to the fair weather folks. Then it is our time, our place, our mountain, and we learn to breathe again. We flourish like winter blossoms, brilliant of color and rich of fragrance. The dormant season in which we awaken, spread our petals to the glaring sun and soak in her soft white wash of snow.

How comforting to say it is finally mine. My home. The place where I belong. How many have told us that this summer. So glad to see us back. Their map of the world somehow more complete knowing we are here to stay. I am jarred by their comments, flattered and frightened at the same time. Accepting of the truth.

It often takes walking away to realize what matters most, leaving to find your place. If we had never left, if we had not had to fight for what is ours before then, if all the drama and trauma had never happened, the deep binds that I now feel clamping tight to my toes while roots grow deep each day from heels, bare feet becoming the soil, allowing the dirt to become me, between my toes, whilst I can still adorn naked feet in the field.

This is my home. Not what I had expected it would be. Where are the gentle brook and shade trees and hot summer nights and cow pasture I used to dream of? This dream evolved. Still evolving. As if every day I rub my eyes and see the world before me more clearly.

And still I am confused. I don’t fully let go, give in, accept. Perhaps one should not. One should always put up a bit of fight, keep the claws sharp, though let the tongue soften. For you never know when you might need to charge into battle again. I have proven this if nothing else. I am willing to fight for what matters most.

Though now I see. It is because of the battle we defined our space. We became this land. We found our home. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be mine.

I’m ready for a little easier.

Scattered thoughts like early autumn seeds. Does any of this make sense to you, dear reader?

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