life changes

Healing

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

So I guess it’s time to go.
Again.  No, not quite as hard the
second time.  It will get easier.  It’s all in my head. In my heart, I am nothing
but pleased and proud.

And so Forrest has healed from the concussion, has more
character from his broken nose, and has learned to live with those missing and
cracked off teeth.  Though even they will
be replaced before I see him next. Yes. He has healed.

(We laugh at it now, he and I. I
told him to dive in.  He did.  Head first.)

This is what he does. There will be other times. I’ll be
there for him again, hopefully faster next time.  Just as I know he’d be there for me.

Me, I’m starting to day dream about riding horses through a
trail of golden leaves.  There are certain
things I miss.  My dog, my horses, familiar
trails, the resonance of the late season river sounding as if no more than a
gentle brook, evening light spread horizontal across the top of the poles of
Pole Mountain, long shadows through dark timber and blowing yellow leaves like
fairies loose in my wild woods dancing at my heels.  And at the top of the list is, of course, my
honey.

Ha!  Home? We have
work to do.  Always. But different this
time. Time to pack, clean up, clean out, head out, move on. I am ready. Perhaps
I too am healing.

Unadorned

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment


Your peaks were painted with snow yesterday. And for just a moment I stopped my work, stood outside and looked at your white laced mountain tops, and felt the same stirring I have felt each year, a yearning for the excitement of anticipation of the season. Primal and uncontrollable, yet still soft and deep enough no one ever really knows.

For how many years have I worked on our little piece of land here on your big broad mountain side and looked over my shoulder awaiting your leaves to put out your final fiery display and then blow off, taking with them the last of the summer tourists, leaving you here with me, unadorned, as we remain and near the stark white season, that which settles in and consumes, quiet and calms, allowing me to hear my breath in your winter winds.

And yet this winter will find me on a different hillside, a different mountain to cradle my fears and passions. A winter, hushed and sleepy and snowy, awaits me but in a new land, new places to explore, touch and tease me, unfold before me like lacy golden wings, delicately covered with frost in first light of an early winter morning.

But will I find wilds? Will I ever be embraced by the wilds that have surrounded me here for half the year? The solitude and silence have become me. I have identified myself more with the mountain than the people who come and go, and from both I step away. I will find them again, that which matters most, the wild places and spaces, elsewhere. Some of us belong somewhere just a little more wild. Or is it that perhaps we don’t fit in the other places.

Mornings

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments


One morning I wake in the rain forest, surrounded by ferns and cedars and moss covered rocks and undergrowth so think my dog remains on the road with me as we jog in the heavy humid air, thick like syrup, it has texture and substance so unlike the thin clear high mountain skies I am used to. My forehead and cheeks are damp with sweat. Early morning light filters through opaque woods, soft and faint like falling snow from the first storm of the year, somehow with a similar anticipation for what it will bring. Today will be a hot one.

Another morning I wake in the wide open flats of corn and alfalfa and the stench of dairy cows in a muddy lot that was stronger last night so I must be getting used to it after breathing it in all night for I don’t smell it as strong this morning. And there is the magenta of first light coming from what seems like a million miles away, a vibrant red swath on the edge of the horizon where the earth meets the sky, lightening, brightening, as the sun prepares to rise from so far away. Something we never see in the mountains, where morning arrives abruptly after the sun struggles and climbs and finally clears the mountains to the east.

The next morning we are driving through the cradled basin of Salt Lake City in the still dark hour as the mountains to the west capture the first of the sunlight and glows like a sparkling crown in the distance, and those to the east remain a rugged looming black silhouette. In between, a twisting ribbon of on-coming headlights and quickly passing billboards telling me where to go for the best care for a heart attack, eat the finest fast food, or shop for sexy lingerie. Pieces to a puzzle oddly out of place.

And then I am home. A familiar morning. An odd place to be. Betwixt and between. A separation I am setting in motion. And the closer it gets, the more I find myself grasping to hold on to what I had. For fear of having nothing but the unknown.

How uncomfortable a place when we find ourselves standing with nothing beneath our feet to support us?

Where we started and where we will be. Change brings us to a higher place, a step above, if only because we have learned and grown from the experience. (For if we have not, we have not changed, only the circumstances surrounding us have.)

Of course between where we started and where we will be, there is that period down below. A dark place at times. The inevitable flutter of the rollercoaster ride. Fluctuations between fears and excitement. These dramatic ups and downs and little stable ground in between.

“It’s not so much that we’re afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it’s that place in between that we fear . . . . It’s like being between trapezes. It’s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer. There’s nothing to hold on to.” Marilyn Ferguson

For now, I am in between. How much of our lives must we find ourselves there?

An open letter to my son

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

To my dearest Forrest,

And here it ends.
And here it begins.

I leave you in the arms of another mountain. Listen, if I may ask, for a moment to me. And then to the mountains. The rush of her rivers. The hush of her winds. You will never be alone. Let her embrace you.

This mountain, your mountain, a grand mountain indeed. She will always be there for you. She is yours. You chose her. Turn to her when you need to. She will listen. Some days she will shed tears of freezing rain or hail as your heart opens and breaks and mends. Other days she will enwrap you in her bliss with warm lazy sun to allow you a brief repose, or soft deep powder and invite you like a tempting muse to come and play. Enjoy it all; she has so much to give.

You found her. I see who you have chosen as your own for the first time and she has taken my breath away. She dwarfs our dear San Juans and the entire state of Colorado and the most dramatic mountains we have intimately known and lived on to date. And now, she is yours. She has lured you. And she has earned you, you wonderful and true child of the mountains.

You chose her. How brave and mighty! Do you see how you have grown? Perhaps I did not really see until now, until I turned one more curve in the road of these last two weeks driving together to be here, and there she is before us, grand and mighty and eternal, still and calm and old and wise, and my heart beats faster for her beauty is profound and she feels so right.

I am proud of you. Incredibly proud. You are a brave and bold (though quiet) sort. Your wild child side is strong!

You have earned your place here; you are worthy of your next great stage in life, the next opportunities, challenges and adventures. I watch this tall bright fine man standing next to me speaking for himself and I shine with such delight and honor. On one hand, I can say eighteen years of work paid off. This job is complete. And yet, I know parenting is never complete. It only changes and evolves. I guess I’m enjoying our evolving relationship as I am enjoying you as a growing man.

Everything changes. We do all we can to make change positive. This, my bud, is a dream come true. A wonderful, positive, beautiful dream.

To this mountain I now give you. I will leave you here. That is the hardest thing I have ever said.

For four years she will hold, include, support and nurture you. Accept her embrace. Revel in her fresh waters and unending views and powerful presence of jutting slopes, and delicate array of swaying wild grasses with jewels of seed heads ripening to full blossom in their short growing season that you understand so well. Remember to take time to notice the little things, the simple things, the quiet voices of the mountain you’ll hear only when you’re alone with her, quiet and still, touching and listening. Find a new rock to sit on, your place, a place to allow you to look within. Turn to her when you need the comfort that only the mountains can allow, only a mother, our mother, the mother of us all, Mother Earth.

And then I, your mother of this earth, shall turn her back to hide the tears as she steps into the truck and turns back to a home that is no longer hers. One we built together, for each other. I never meant to bring you this far only to leave you in a foreign land two thousand miles away. I shall keep our family together and shall be closer soon.

In the meanwhile, learn, study, grow, live, play, work, and enjoy all the wonder and beauty and richness that life has to offer and still thirst for more.

May her rivers never go dry, and may your thirst never be completely quenched so that you may always be open for more.

I can say no more. This is not good bye. You know I hate good byes.

And so I leave you to this mountain. But I leave you not in heart and soul.

I love you.

Beyond the surface

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Beyond the surface
Dragonflies, big and blue and about the size of hummingbirds
But mute, mysterious, and yet somehow, more real.
There are no red plastic feeders here
Wild and silent and shimmering in the otherwise flat grey light of dawn
Leaving big ripples on the still forest pool
Perfect circles expanding
A bull’s-eye.
It is different here
New and as such, slightly odd.

We are camping beside a large pond with cattails taller than the camper on our truck and lily pads the size of dinner plates skirting the edges. Earlier this morning the largest bull moose I ever saw splashed in through these lilies and swam to the other side, his huge and heavy rack held above the black silk surface in the haze of first light like a burdensome and looming ship crossing a medieval mote.

At our camp site is trash, always an unwelcome site. Local trash. Tell tale signs of broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, shotgun shells and business cards from a shop in the nearest town about a half hour down the mountain. Little pride in their beautiful land. I’ve never understood that. Does it form from a sense of helplessness or ignorance? In any case, I call it a bad sign.

I am looking for signs. Signs that tell me “this is the place.” Home. I’m not finding it and it’s somewhat scary since I am committed to make this move and soon, yet have not figure where this move will take me. And depressing because I keep hoping to find it clear and simple, “Eureka!” there it is, and am disappointed each day as I sit in the back seat of the pickup and look out the side window at the landscape rushing by, hoping something there will call me, tell me I belong here. But I hear nothing beside the rush of the motor and the blaring music of my son and the regular outbursts of silly humor of the three of us telling jokes and stories in our funny and familiar way.

I lose faith in myself and wish I had faith in higher powers. But higher powers haven’t got me where I am. Hard work and a strong sense of daring have. I have no blind faith. My eyes are wide open. I know that will upset some to read. The same few who might admire my life and keep praying to live where and how I have lived. I would like to believe prayers will get you as far as grit but haven’t seen this first hand.

Funny though that I still keep praying, asking for a sign, asking to be put where I belong and do what I can to best serve this beautiful world.

And the truck rumbles on, and another day passes as fast as the view outside the side window, and in a blur I remember the answer but it’s not as clear and comforting as I wish it were.

Make it happen. There is no red carpet laid out for the journey of life. Weave it as you go along. And weave it yourself. All the velvety red ribbon is already inside you. It’s not the place; it is you. All you need to do is get to work and weave the path yourself. Believe in yourself. I’ve heard those words before.

There’s more to it than that. I’m listening for the answers. But I’m learning to listen within.

A familiar place

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Does it matter where I end up, or only that I’m going somewhere?

Somewhere else. Away. Changing. Leaving.

I’m not one to hold onto the past, I say. But letting go is hard.

If only I was a tourist, I say, but I’ve never wanted to be one. I want a real life, solid, working, not a make-believe-for-a-week one. A point and a purpose. Does this make sense? I am rambling. In words. In miles. I might lose you. Leave you behind. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to fill your place. Your space in my life. But I will fill it with new life, novel adventures, fresh views. Can we choose what we carry with us?

Change. Only a blind man does not look back from time to time. I can look, but try not to touch. Sometimes, I’ve learned, we also must let go of that rope. It’s binding. Holding us down when it’s time to fly free.

But, dang, it’s scary flying among thin clouds. I’m scared. Permanence, grounding. These sound so attractive. A friend once told me she was firmly planted with her feet in the clouds. I understand and now feel the same. It’s not a new feeling. I’ve been here before. A familiar place. At once recognizable and so uncertain.

When do we touch down, stay down? Or maybe is there more to life that settling down and staying.

Something about leaving… What is it that draws us onward?

All the same

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Can I still see it new, feel it new, when time and again was it the same rain that fell light and cold on my face, and the same tall grasses that soaked my jeans and leather boots?

I reach for my camera then put it away. I have taken the same before. This is not a child forever changing and growing though I have amassed as many photos of the mountain as I did my child in his early years.

How do we know it is time to move on when the land calls us so strongly, the quiet muses tempting and taunting in the song of the late season trickle of the creek and twinkling light of the plump Aspen leaves. If you listen, you’ll know. She is not calling us. Perhaps, only perhaps, she tells us to leave. She too would rather dance alone.

A tingle like nearby lightening when riding over the Divide. Too close, and exposed. Without protection of the trees.

We could run back for shelter. Where it is safer, it is known.

Or hunker down in the saddle and move on.

Even when we don’t know where “on” may be.

Such a wide and wild world. I wouldn’t want it otherwise.