Inspiration

Bird of prey

/ 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

/ 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

/ 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?

The brass ring

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Spent the better part of today dealing with mice and maggots.  Tomorrow I’m off to the ditch for the week.  Right now I have this to share.

We hear what we want to hear; read what we want to read.

Read between lines.  Really listen.  There’s more to it than you think.  It’s deeper.  Not as shallow.  Not if you take off your blinders and are willing to take in the truth.

Listen to the rain on the roof and dive into the place where you are.  In you car commuting to work.  In your trailer on a week’s adventure.  Home.  Same rain, same sound on all these different metal roofs.  Listen; really listen.  Such a sweet sound, no matter where you’re coming from.  The point is, be where you are.  And if you want to be somewhere else, change it. Do something about it.  Dream, and go for it.  Dreams are for creating reality, not hell.  Figure it out.  If it matters that much to you, risk it.

But don’t whine.  That will bring you nowhere but farther from the dream.

I wrote a reader a letter a few days ago.  A response to her upset, trying to cheer her up.  She took from it what she expected to read, deleted it, and asked me to resend.  Why on earth would I do that when she didn’t really read it the first time?

Don’t ask a question if you don’t want to hear the truth of response.  How many of us are guilty as charged?  My hand has been raised from time to time.

So here’s what it comes down to.

Dreams.

And the excuse of money in place of balls.

Pardon me for being so blunt, but the truth can hurt, and I’m tired of being hurt because you don’t want to hear my truth.  Don’t want to hear it?  Then don’t ask.  Delete my messages and don’t ask me to resend.  Otherwise, here I am, letting it all hang out, with nothing to hide.

Here is my truth.

Money has nothing to with it.  In fact, wake up and smell the coffee (yes, the cheap kind, as even Folgers is a splurge for me).

Those who know me know how important money is to me, what a driving force it is for me, and how much I have had.  And the answer to all is NONE.  Yet I still hear quite regularly, “Gosh, you’re so lucky and live the life I wish I could.”

So I ask you this:  Why don’t you?  You’re the one with a college degree, a stable job, car or truck, health insurance for you and your kids, some sense of financial security and/or at least a plan on paying your way through the next nine months.  Good for you.  I don’t have any of those things.  But that does not stop me.

Those who know me know.  Money has not enabled me to do what I do, be where I am, live the life I have chosen.  Quite the contrary.  It’s my lack of money and my refusal to allow money to hold any level of importance.  Yes, I’m the most impractical person I know when it comes to money.  I have no stability and security.  The bottom line is this:  I have none, never have, and it’s never stopped me from doing/being what I want.

Check out my story.  A condensed version.

So there I was, in New York City, where I wandered around holding down odd jobs from receptionist to bartender sleeping in an odd assortment of slum apartments until I found a way to get a full scholarship to art school in New Mexico.  A crazy move which had nothing to do with luck or talent but far more to do with hard work as I woke up at 3 or 4 am to put together a portfolio of work all winter long before my 9-5 job, and doing a drive-away driving someone else’s sports car from Jersey to San Jose only weeks after getting my driver’s license because I couldn’t figure out any other affordable way to drive cross country.

Worked my way through school earning minimum wage doing simple wood work while living in the parking lot of college in a 25 year old Dodge Dart and later upgraded to an equally old Volkswagen microbus.  I dropped out of college to be a self supporting single mom.  Moved around a dozen times and took more odd jobs to feed and house (including a couple ones self built and without plumbing or power) my self and son.

Finally found (and this part could be called luck) an awesome position being the caretaker of a remote kids camp in some beautiful mountains with horses, cows, chickens and pigs.  I could call it all mine, treated it as such, but none of it was.  Didn’t matter to me.  Stayed there six years, during which time I started to hear that I was one lucky lady and living the life.  I felt I was. I owned nothing but the clothes on my back, not even a vehicle for several years, but gave them my all and got to live in “paradise.” When said paradise turned a bit south, I took a crazy risk and moved to Colorado with only enough money to pay for the trip, a kid, dogs, cats and bunch of baggage stuffed into a room between two creepy guys I was supposed to work for.  I quit, willing to be homeless and hungry instead if need be, but met this guy named Bob who needed a wrangler for the summer.  This part I guess is luck too.  Meeting the “right” person is not easy.  It took me until I was 36; Bob was 45.  It was worth the wait.

The rest is history.  Prince Charming and Cinderella?  Hardly.  Above and beyond dealing with cleaning up after tourists and burying foals and trying to keep hands and house warm through six months of sub zero temps, we’ve had to deal with the most horrible and horrendous family crap you can imagine and legal battles just to keep our home and business, all of which got us hundreds of thousands of dollars deep in debt.

That’s where we are now, only we quit our job which wasn’t paying the interest anyway and we’re figuring out the next dream to start building on.

I’m not complaining.  It’s important you know that.  In fact, I’m pretty darned proud of all this.

What I want to do in telling this story is prove a point.  Figure it out.  It’s never been about money.  Not stopping me.  Not enabling me.  I’m motivated by my dreams and willing to take some crazy risks.

Stop playing it safe. That’s definitely something I have not done.  For better or for worse, I don’t know, but I’m not the one clinging to safety and security and wishing I was somewhere else.  I’m trying it, living it.  Broke, every day deeper in debt in seems, but giving it a shot and enjoy the adventure along the way.

Stop using your lack of money as an excuse.  I bet you have more than me.  I bet you always have.  But you’re there and I’m here.  So, what’s your real excuse?

There is no brass ring waiting for you to grab and get the dream come true.  You gotta get out there, mine the metal, weld the ring, and hang in front of yourself like a carrot before the horse’s nose.  You gotta walk away from the safe and simple and fall on your face time and time and time again.

Remember the advice my vet gave me after I lost another foal?  “Only those who have, lose.”  Be willing to lose.  You’ll never really gain if not willing to let go.  Leap!  And the net appears.  Only some times it doesn’t.  So dust yourself off, and get back to the drawing board.  Only make sure the picture you’re drawing is really, really magnificent.

Yes, I remind myself this too as I sit before the drawing board once again, skinned knees and all.

Down for the day

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

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Otherwise known as Discontentment in Paradise

How can I be anything other than peachy when so many say I’m lucky just to be here (but can’t see all I did to get here)?  As if a pretty face would be enough.  Or in this case, a pretty view.  For better or worse, I’m not that shallow.  And surely, my friend, you’re deeper than that too.  Aren’t you?

Give me a minute.  I’ll try to get my thoughts together, at least in some semblance of order. 

Or just let them spill out randomly.  That will do, too.

Hang in there with me on this one.  I think you might relate.

I’ll start with the “down for the day” part. 

Here it is, a new week, and I’m trying for a new perspective, but not achieving the positive outlook I was hoping for.

Was wondering why I was so down yesterday, and still not quite sure as nothing is wrong, per se, especially when you compare my current state of affairs with the hard times, heart aches and traumas so many others are going through, or troubled times I’ve gone through myself. So what right do I have to whine?

Probably none.  But I’m going to do it anyway.  We all need some time to vent, don’t we?

As my honey reassures me, “You can’t be up all the time.  Not if you’re really living, feeling, observing, soaking in and an active part of the world around you.  Some things will bum you out.  Some days will be worse than others.  Some days you just wanna kick the cat…”  OK, so that last part actually came from a book by Zig Ziglar.  And no, anyone who knows me knows I won’t really kick a cat.  My three kitties can attest to that!

Anyway, sometimes I just don’t think the thing to do is fake it, pretend it is all ok, sunshine and bunnies, hunky dory and picture perfect.  Sometimes we need to get real, get mad, allow ourselves a day of being down in the dirt. 

And this pile of dirt I’m talking about now?  Well, I just realized I am exactly where I was, only with less. And I don’t mean a positive downsizing.  I mean, less to do, less work, less money (though larger debt), less identity, less going on, less direction, less sense of point and purpose, less sense of self and sense of giving and belonging.  Not a good place to be.  I’m not outfitting, not running the guest ranch business full time, not “really” mothering as my kid is grown up, not writing well as the manuscript has not sold yet so it’s hard to keep convincing myself it is all worthwhile.  I’m not really homesteading or even feeling at home as the home I’m living in is for sale, and we’re waiting to build anew. 

Yes, I know.  Look around and you’ll see some wonderful stuff.  Starting with and topping the list of course are Bob and Forrest.  I could go on with a hefty list, no doubt, but that’s not the point. I worked mighty hard and took more risks than most to make what I have possible, and still… I want more. 

Look around me and you might see many things that so many shallowly search for but aren’t willing to walk away from safe and secure to make happen.  As if they were handed to me.  Easy to think it was so simple if you don’t know where I came from.  We all have a story.  Came from somewhere.  And hopefully are going somewhere, too.  Where are you headed?  As long as it’s not the same place you were yesterday, for that place and space no longer exist. 

A friend puts it all into words I wish were mine:   “…Restlessness or discontent is part of the syndrome of our beings. I look for people who have achieved their “perfect” life..and wonder if they have compromised.  If they even know they have. Have they settled for less ?”

The human state of longing.  Is anyone ever fully satisfied, or is it human nature to want more?

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Back in the groove

/ Gin Getz / 10 Comments

(continued from previous post:  Growing Back the Groove)

I wish there was a secret, and you might too, but we both know there is not.

It all comes down to this.

Do it.

Don’t be afraid to do it alone.

And even if you are afraid, do it anyway.

That, my friends, is how I grew back my groove.

And gained back my confidence.

And got back in the saddle again.

Though of course I wasn’t usually really out.  Just out of sorts.  Imagining myself flying out far too many times.  And now, finally, I feel grounded again.  A firm seat in the saddle. That’s where my butt belongs.

Because it’s not about not being afraid.  Because often I am.  It’s about doing it even when you are afraid.  Yes, just like John Wayne once said.

“Courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway.”

And remember this, too. Saddling is the easy part.  Riding is where it gets complicated.  So get on and ride, because if you don’t, you won’t, and you’ll end up right where you started.  Standing there on the ground wishing you could go somewhere.

Get on and go.

(Quote borrowed from fellow horsewoman, Jenn Edwards)

 

So what happened is this.  It started with a love/hate relationship.  And I ended up with the most challenging horse I ever rode. My little Arabian stallion, now gelding, Flying Crow.  For those that care about such things, his registered name is Fadjurz Ideal and I went all the way to the Jack Tone Ranch in California to find him.  What was I thinking?

Was it love at first sight?  Hardly.  He was as afraid of me as I was of him.  For years. Now I can say he’s learned to trust me.  And I’ve learned to trust myself.  For the most part.  I can stay on and get where I need to go.   Pretty well.  No guarantees there won’t be more bumps along the way.

It’s the journey that counts, they say.  I say, it’s the journey that wipes you out some days…

Seven years we’ve been together, Flying Crow and I.  Seven long hard years where if he were a man, we’d be divorced.  And if he were my son, well, I’d seriously consider boarding school.  I’ve wanted to sell him, but how could I?  He’d make a bad name for my training, and for Arabian horses.  He’s, he’s… how do I find ways to describe him, how difficult he’s been (and still is) yet show the crazy deep love I hold fast for him?

Tiring, exhausting, challenging, and the cause of innumerable crying bouts.  And then you look into his warm brown eyes, and all you can do is melt, get back on, and try again.  More patiently this time.  Ask, don’t demand.  Take a deep breath…  Settle in for the long ride.

What he misses in size he makes up in nerves. What takes me three times to show your average horse, took me thirty to teach this guy.  And then, chances are, he’ll still be scared and uncertain.  He’ll spin, spook, bolt and jolt… but eventually, he’ll trust me and go where I need him to go, with his lively little perky stride, which too, I might add, is exhausting after about fifteen minutes of working to keep your butt firmly planted in the bouncing seat. Try that for rides that last two, four, six hours or more.  It has been, he has been difficult.

He is my special child.  He has special needs.  A lot of them. Needs non-stop guidance.  Needs coaxing.  Needs firm direction presented in the softest way, or he’ll get upset and shut down.  And constant attention.  Every minute down the trail.

So he taught me to pay attention, always.  Be present.  Be riding all the time. Hold your seat.  Be ready.  Expect the unexpected.  And handle him lightly because if I over reacted, it wouldn’t be too hard to pull him over on top of me. He’s hyper sensitive.

That said, he’s also sensitive in the lightest of touch.  He misses nothing. (Even when you wish he would.)  And those skinny long legs know how to move.  With the proper guidance and direction, he moves through the trees, up and down slopes, runs across open fields with the grace of a lovely young buck. A beautiful thing to behold.

So for every ride that I make it home in one piece, I am grateful.  Relieved. Tired. And very proud.  I believe he is too.  I can tell by the way he stands there with me after he’s been unsaddled and I brush down his sweaty back, and he’s in no rush to leave me and go back to his herd, but finds a certain peace, finally, standing there in the shade of the tack barn with me.

And as for doing it alone… riding alone.  Well, I do it because I can (no more dudes to take care of), and I have to (horses are my thing, my boys have other interests).  Riding buddies?  Who the heck wants to ride with the crazy mountain mama and the even crazier little Arabian horse?

So, there you go.  No big revelations.  Just time in the saddle.  Sucking up and holding on.  Because that’s the only way I know how to really move on.

Yes, I know I will be hurt again.  I’ll fall off a few more horses, no doubt. That’s horses and that’s life.  There are ups and there are downs. But it’s worth it and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I guess because I can’t, can I?  Just ask my father-in-law, who at 81 fell off a horse just the other day.  And a cliff, I might add, while training that horse.  I can only hope I’m doing the same thirty six years from now.

Right on.

Ride on.

I think I will.

For Kim, who’s got a lot of scary rides ahead of her, but is still able to keep that butt firmly planted and enjoy the ride.