literary blog

On rain and writing.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

If the two were together, black ink would be smeared across the page, some Rorschach picture divulging my secret psyche. Not, of course, to determine what the image reveals, but rather what I choose to see.

Alas, they remain apart.

And this is what I see.

Out there, outside fragile weather worn glass separating me from the elements and allowing continual comfort from the wood stove as long as I remember to stoke it, rain continues.

Everything is drenched – beyond saturation – running off in drips, smears, pools and rivulets. Streams pour around fence posts and tree stumps; puddles amass in deep imprints left behind by horse hooves; the meadow is a marsh.

Pounding rain on metal roof deadens the roar of the river. Puddles gather on the deck, the driveway, the pasture.

The chickens seek refuge in the dog house while dogs do the same by the wood stove, soggy obstacles to overcome on the living room rug.

Inside rain gear hangs dripping by the back door; boots still damp when you slip your sock feet into them. Towels used on soggy dogs never seem to dry, while splatters from their shaking fur leaves white cupboards speckled brown.

The horses are pissy, flinging their heads, telling me to turn it off and I wish I could. Days like this I wish they could come lay by the woodstove, too. Instead, mid day they stand under the roof where they spent the night, wishing they were somewhere else. We never stop wishing. Because, you know, we never forget what it feels like to lay in soft lush grass while the sun enwraps us in its ethereal embrace

In the garden, roses finally quit trying to bloom. What a run they had this year, clear through to the last of the year. And yet as I walked through the rows earlier today, trying to be gentle in my bulky muck boots in search of some collards or kale for tonight’s stew, the humble, hearty calendula stood brightly defiant, refusing to succumb to battering rains, continuing to share her sunny smile. The yellow and orange seem out of place, adding to her gentle resistance.

For now, I sit at the table in front of the window that looks over the ghostly glow of the computer screen and scribbled open notebook, down toward the swollen river, through saturated moss and lichen growing like eerie bedclothes on every leaf-bare branch of gnarly oaks sprawling the distance between the river and me.

The stillness of the keyboard counters the constant motion of the river.

Some days my fingers do not dance. As if they wonder why, what’s the point, when what I want to do is give. But I look at the blue screen between the window and me, and wonder if it’s worthy.

Sharing the story of something in the past takes me there. Sometimes I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to be there. It was hard, scary, lonely. It was also big, bright, and beautiful; expansive in view and of soul. It brought me back to life. Maybe to the point of living more than I ever had before.

There was so much I didn’t share. There was so much I couldn’t share.

I am struggling to share that story now. The intensity, the wildness, the hugeness I experienced out there. The wild side I could not, would not share as I was riding (or walking or being shuttled) through it. Some things need time to ripen, to age, to roll around in the mouth to find their full, rich flavor. Or to sit on the shelf and collect dust for a while, which doesn’t hurt a thing.

My attention easily drifts out the window. I get dizzy watching the river rage.

Stop it. Get up. Away from the table where I sit for too long. Get on the ever damp rain gear and muck boots and get out. Out. Out there, in it.

Let the moist air plump and swell me and get the dogs dense coats soaked clear through to their skin again as we laugh at our folly and splash through puddles the size of ponds and marvel at the beauty of watching bountiful drops of water fall from overhanging branches and do their circle dance on the surface.

A moment later, the dogs stir up a heron from the salt pond, rising silent, arching upward as a graceful, majestic bow. Somehow primitive, ancient, blue-gray against tan-brown winter woods. I hold my breath and feel goose bumps rising beneath all these impermeable layers separating me from the elements.

In the blatant and natural simplicity surrounding me, I choose to watch herons rise and rain fall and puddles shimmer as a waving mirror. I choose to listen to ravens calling and the river roaring and rain beating down on the roof overhead. I choose these simple things over and above more complex things like news feeds and programs, with AI masking the mystery and magic that is really there, right in front of us, if only we take the time to look, to listen, to feel.

I would rather stand defiant like unpretentious calendula.

I would rather rise up, lighten up, and shine.

Even through this leaden sky that might otherwise try to hold me down.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Closing.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

An inward pause.

Standing still. Taking a slow, deep breath.

Silently witnessing as one year withers and a new one unfurls.

The annual undulation; time and space between thoughts, between plans and projects, between seasons, between years.

A reflective time, quiet and dark and moody. Open or closed, the eyes refrain from looking out there, and are instead drawn within. Somehow sightless, you soundlessly feel your way through heavy fog, sensing your place along your inner journey, as the cold dark river rages through your veins, intuitively and instinctually, as is the nature of things this time of year.

In winter she sleeps

Fragrant bright and wild.

Where have you been?

Where are you going?

And most pressing and pertinent of all:

Where are you right now?

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Solstice Rising

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Rain falls; fog rises.

Between the two

We shine.

                             

Yesterday the river rose to the occasion, busting beyond the confinement of her bank, roaring loud and heaving with brown waves, spreading to a rumble in the saturated ground beneath my feet as I stand there amazed at humbling might while even the dogs and horses watch in wonder.

Sacred water.

Sacred time.

Solstice is a natural celebration of the pause between the darkening and lightening, between states of wonder and beauty and awe, simple as watching the river rage and a candle flicker and rain fall into swollen puddles alive with shimmering reflections.

This morning I woke to stars spilled across the sky, sparkling behind black branches of the sprawling oak. And then from out of the earth, or is it more magic from the sky, fog formed, shrouding the stars with a silent embrace.

Yet I know the magic about the fog, the mystery beneath the earth, the wonder of planting a seed and knowing maybe, just maybe it could emerge into fruition.

Somewhere I’m certain the sun rose a moment earlier and the cycle of new light, new life, is celebrated anew.

As I await the sky to lighten, in this deep still silent space of new light I have yet to see or feel but somehow know, I stir with the wonder of a candle. Of planting seeds, which here happens on my kitchen counter on Solstice every year, and now sit over my propane fridge awaiting the moment of emergence. Of darkness out there, which shall be shorter each day. Of light within – not to protect and preserve, but to shine and share.

What are you waiting for?

What are you here for?

~

Our community has a beautiful gathering to celebrate Solstice. I had never had the guts to attend. Groups don’t tend to be my thing. Basically, social gatherings scare me shitless.

It’s easy to use the excuse of Solstice being a sacred time to turn within. Because, yes, it is. It is also the pause before the waxing of light and new life. It is that space in between. If one has the courage to open to it, there’s a time and place to be alone, to reflect on what you want to release from the last dance around the sun, and contemplate your intentions for the next cycle. And… a time and place to unfurl like seeds, be vulnerable, be brave, get out of your shell and connect.

Thanks to the honesty of and love for some dear friends who reminded me I’m not the only one… I went.

Thank you for encouraging the courage in me to step beyond my comfort zone, and get off my side of the mountain for just a little while. It was beautiful.

Now more than ever…

Come together.

Partake. Participate. Life is too short and sweet to miss out on this stuff.

Have the courage to care more.

The gusto to give more

The grit to do more.

The guts to be more.

It’s not that you are not enough.

It might just be that the world needs more of who you are and what you do.

Thinking of those who give and do and care so much, like hidden stars in that dazzling day sky.

Bowing with grace and gratitude to and for you.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Waiting for the moon to rise.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Tonight I sit out on the deck wrapped in the well worn poncho as I have found myself held in this heavy wool so many times before this night. My feet are on the railing; my head tilts back. Behind the now leafless old oak that shades the deck in summer appears the waning moon. She glows silver across the night pasture where fog spreads thick as sea foam. I can hear the gentle shifting of the horses in the barn, and the ever present hum of the inky river just a stone’s throw below. The dogs are beside me. Silent and attentive, staring out into the black beyond, waiting. The bears have been keeping them busy with the warm weather and bright moon.

Overhead, through lace of slender branches of this sprawling tree, few stars glint like Christmas ornaments hanging in the sky.

The ever present sound of the river blends into the darkness and becomes a noise you forget you’re hearing.

There is only a simple silence.

Time and space to breathe.

We settle into the season of long shadows, long nights.

Like the bear. That’s what this season of slowing and settling calls for.

Here in the far north of California in the land of big trees, big rain, big swaths of blackberries and poison oak, the bear does not necessarily hibernate so much as simply slow down. From the recent barking of the dogs, I don’t know how much they’ve even done that. It’s been a mild season so far. Garden roses still bloom. Stores remain plentiful after a bountiful season of lush grass, mushrooms, madrone berries and acorns. It’s easy to see what they’ve been eating by the scat they plainly leave randomly along our quiet dirt road.

With two big dogs, I don’t get to see those bears much. Usually just a big blob of a bear butt running up a hill. Sometimes up a tree.

Still, I feel it, and I’m sure the bears do too. Now is not the season of plenty, but of holing up. Slowing down. And turning within.

The rooster does not crow until some time past six in the morning and the horses come in for the night around five. That makes for long evenings, time for baking, reading, writing, board games, enjoying long lingering dinners lit by candles and twinkle lights, snuggling on the sofa with a couple of cats, reading aloud together, soaking in hot baths… these are winter pleasures.

In spite of the mild weather we’ve been having, we heed the call of the natural exhale after spring/summer/harvest/fall running around full speed in what feels like endless daylight. For those of us who work outside as long as the sun shines, winter is the time to transform into an indoor cat, at least during those long nights. Winter is a reprieve. A blessing. I long for it by the end of summer every year. Time to breathe. To let out a long, full, deep exhale. Before the anxious inhale of spring begins anew.

Garden roses still abloom…
… in December.

Seasons, like emotions, these ever flowing, passing states, one folding into the next like whipped eggs whites or cream.

When what I want sometimes is to hold onto forever. Something solid. Never changing.

As futile as clinging to ocean waves.

Rather than accept and appreciate the inevitable.

Ebbs and flows, tides and moons, the occasional passing storm.

Tonight the tide is low. I feel melancholy.

I want a drink. Come on, you say. Go ahead. Just one.

Alas, for some of us, it doesn’t work that way. Maybe this time it would. This time I could. I’d be okay. Holding the firm stem in my fingers as I swirl the familiar luring fragrance emanating from the liquid red velvet lit from the glow of the kitchen lamp behind me. And then let it roll across my lips and linger on my tongue like nectar – silky, rich and smoky.  

No.

It’s nearly seven years since I went sober, yet some days (usually nights) I can imagine drinking so vividly as if it were just yesterday. Some days it feels like it’s not getting easier. Tonight is one of those nights.

I’ll get over it. There’s power in reminding myself I made it this far. I can keep on keeping on.

Use your grit, gal.

And grit, well, that much I got.

Things change.

Today, tomorrow, yesterday.

Every day is different. Even on those days when what I feel is so familiar. When what I feel is that “ground hog day” replaying over and over and over again.

Wake in the dark. Tuck the blankets back around Bob. Pet (and step over) the still sleeping pups. Get the fire going, the coffee on, roll out the yoga mat and get down on it, stretch, meditate, light a candle to write, then as gray daylight waxes across the meadow of chalky fog, head out to let the chickens out, feed the horses, walk the dogs.  Return…

Grounding in the familiar. This simple life. A life though maybe a little different than yours, so similar in so far as both of us probably turn in each night thinking we didn’t get half as much done as we planned to do.

There are books and poems to write, horses to teach and dogs to train, bread to bake, wood to split, roses to prune and a compost pile to turn, a barn wall to rebuild and basement walls to trim out, rocks to stack and dirt to move and the damn floor needs to be swept again.

I want more time. Or maybe more energy. But that to-do list never seems to go away, just flows from one set of priorities to the next. It’s that ebb and flow thing once again. And at the end of each day, we hope we made a little headway, though how often do we feel we’re drowning.

Today.

Grounded, not because of the place, the view before me, but because of the feeling within me.

And under me. Crow, my old faithful horse. Beside me, Bob and the dogs and the last of autumn’s sweet air that allows us to feel the sun on ungloved hands and my graying hair still free from the confinement of a winter cap.

Sometimes you find yourself…. Exactly where you belong. It’s not a place, but a feeling, something inside.

For me, it’s a wild place, sounded by wind through leafless trees and the cadence of hard hooves on soft dirt.

It’s finding myself on the back of my dear horse where I’ve found myself for thousands of miles before this one.

And time stops, or no longer matters.

And I’m just there, the bones of my pelvis padded by Crow’s warm winter coat.

The sound of my breath, his breath, the rhythm of his footfall.

It’s watching my horse’s mane shift and sway as he walks, like ripples in the river into which my open hand reaches, sinks in, and already knows the softness it will touch as my fingers intertwine with his black mane.  So familiar, the feel of bare hands in soft hair, deep into the comfort of the back of his neck. The familiar fragrance of freshly cut fir trees and wild mint as the horses cross the creek, mingling with their sweet musky sweat in the oddly mild air where my legs are wrapped around a familiar warm back, without a saddle between us to sever the connection.

It’s turning to see Bob in his own world beside me, comfortable and content on the back of the new horse, Jesse. He’s perched in a place where he’s been holding space since long before I was born, and I smile. He may not see it. I’m riding in front. But he knows it. He always knows it. If he wants me to just let go, to relax, to forget about all the should-woulda-couldas, to just be, and to smile, get the gal on her horse.

This feels like home. On the back of the horse. With my husband and dogs close by and the soft sun and leafless trees and the smell of those leaves, now grounded, brown and brittle, through which the horses walk. Today there’s no need to train or work or get somewhere or get something done, just be with the horses, the land, one another. Where we belong.

It is a return to center.

Coming back home, within.

Until next time,

With love,

Always love,

Gin

Stripped. Bare.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Lit from a window with dark and drama as if a Vermeer farm house woman painted on old canvas, weathered and worn with time. Where is my pitcher, my cup, a book held just so, or an open letter draped in my perfectly poised hand?

Instead, I loom mighty over a laptop, screen cold blue and buzzing, surreal, unimaginable back in baroque days. Both the computer and me.

The window is open. Damp air thick, smelling of wood smoke wafting from another clean up fire Bob is burning. And the sound of roosters competing in a crowing match, one on the river side, one by the garden. Diligent guards, knowing the hawks are close by. Allowing their ladies to peck and scratch through the fresh layer of damp decay.

And always, over and through it all, here has an ever present thrum of river. The sound a ubiquitous murmur, something that’s always there though so familiar you don’t always hear. Similar to that of traffic I was once used to in other days and feeling far away lands. This is what I hear, here and now.

A gray day. Ancient oaks with spindly outstretched arms like old woman’s fingers, gnarled and swollen from too many years gripping the shovel, the hoe, the broom, the wooden spoon; stand silent over ground matted with leaves still a robust brown covering ever green grass and rich black earth.

The writing desk, before which I’m perched, and upon which my lap top resides, this week brings me out beyond this familiar view to strange places on the open road where I once was. It’s that vibrant green and lush of late spring. The sound is of horses walking in unison, clip clop on some unnamed logging road or alongside a foreboding highway where cars and trucks zip by without meeting eyes or noticing the oddity of a woman riding along miles and miles of barbed wire fences, locked gates and “no trespassing” signs, still somewhere in the north of California.

A Long Quiet Ride, coming back to life in words. It’s not always easy to share. Of course it was harder to do. How does one share what happened out there? How do I bring you with me?

Conserving my words as I sit and stare out the window above my desk.

Wanting them to flow forth for the work at hand.

The book that’s stirring, simmering and working its way out of me now.

Yet poems are what mess around in my mind.

And what can a gal do but play with them, with a mischievous smile and twinkling, rolling gray eyes?

Evening now, leaning back with bent knees.

The familiar feel of warm worn leather holding the bones of my back.

I’m on one side of the sofa.

You are on the other.

Your feet are bare, broad, firm and warm.

While mine look half your size, wrapped in striped wool socks, holes in the toes worn through from wet leather boots left by the door beneath a dripping slicker.

Feet entangled, intertwined. An easy touch. Mindless and comforting as toes play with one another, finding familiar places to be.

While rain pounds down outside onto saturated deck shiny with water coating each old wood board, shimmering alive with pounding rain. And inside the old wood cook stove crackles and casts an amber glow into the half lit room smelling of the last of this seasons roses, rubbed down dogs drying by the fire, and chicken soup simmering on the stove.

We’re quiet.

You are softly spoken.

Teaching me to conserve my words.

A challenge for this rambling mind.

Lost in thought as silent phrases spill across pages of the notebook pressed against my thighs.

As I look up to meet your eyes, looking into, through you and back into me.

Entangled.

With words.

Sitting alone with my muse.

This weekend was rich with poems, poets and a coffee buzz. It’s hard not to succumb to the words that dance in my mind and twirl along my tongue as I read them aloud.

But now is time for story-telling.

So back to work I go.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

And where am I going?

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

The last of running waters. They say winter will be here tonight. The water and I await… this inevitable change.

 

Leaving what I love.

Driving home.  Headlights in the snow.  Owl and elk, coyote tracks and a snowshoe hare.  Only a dusting.  Perhaps it will be gone tomorrow.

We leave town.  Down past Airport Corner.  I will see no vehicle from here on up to home.  Even Freemon’s Ranch is still and silent for the season.

As if eyes almost closed.  We squint through snow shooting towards the windshield, whipping up and over at just the last minute.  A blinding tunnel vision.

It will not last.  We know.  By the time we reach the Reservoir, the sky is an even white, like a bed sheet draped over my head, tucking me in for the season.

This year is different. Every year is.  I cling to the early winter because it is all I have now.  Mid winter will take us south.  Far south.  South of the Equator.  South America.  Where the sun will shine north of us.

I never thought we would be “Endless Summer” season travelers when Winter is what we’ve lived for.  But who can resist an adventure?  And a big one lies ahead.  I can not say no.  We will go.  Four months in Patagonia.  It is summer there.  We will leave deep winter, dressed in long johns and parkas and heavy boots and riding on the back of my husband’s snowmobile with our dog balanced between us.   Somewhere on the drive to the airport perhaps we’ll slowly strip.  Leave the layers behind.  Go lightweight. Hawaiian shirts and flip flops.  Not really my style.  I think I’ll keep the Levi’s and cowboy boots and sweat it out if need be.

I will say farewell to my mountain for winter.  Close up our home, farm out the house plants, dig my nose deep into the hair of my horses as we bring them to lower ground.  One last whiff of their sweet smell, each one of which I am so familiar I could identify him or her blindfolded by scent alone.

And the twist to this story:  it’s all for the sake of writing.  Part of becoming a writer, or rather, expanding, evolving…  A chance to complete another story.  A good one at that.  I’ll save the details for another time.

There’s more to it than that.  There always is to every tale, isn’t there?  And this one won’t end otherwise.  In this case, there is, “For the sake of adventure.”

Because life is too short for Woulda, Coulda and Shoulda.  I’d rather stick with, “Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

 

Water and light. Perhaps for the last time this season.

Slowly snow

/ Gin Getz / 12 Comments

 

Snow

Dusting the deck as we finish dinner

Steak au poive under candle light

All that remain is my sweetie and me

Our four leggeds

The silly little coyote that refuses to run away

And snow

Illuminated by swelling moon

Diffused by slender clouds

Soft grayish whitish powder silky sprinkle

Clouds softer and lighter than those of summer

Without the depth and weight and drama of rain

Carried within them like a swollen mothers breast

But holding instead the sparkle and light and crystal air of

Snow

A silent promise

Little more than a whisper

That holds all the mystery of today tomorrow yesterday

Ten degrees to start to-day

The height of afternoon remained right at freezing

Ice begins to form upon the mighty Rio

Slowing her flow thick like ink of

Black pens I use to scratch out a poem in my weathered journal

There on the river in the dark of the trees still holding needles

Ice spans from bank to bank

Fragile as the thin shell of an egg

Only looming growing expanding each day

No longer chased away by mid day warmth

Portending as the melodious clouds above

Frozen ground hard beneath my boots

Steel on the horses hooves pound like thunder

As they run to me

Hungry

Frost beneath the blue spruce on the north slope

Growing like mold on moist bread

The loaf that will be left out all winter to flourish

She settles, the season, slowly oozing into to her ice age

Of hoar frost and solid creeks

And still silent white wintriness

And taking me with her into her ashen solace

But here I will not remain

When even here is not far enough away

 

So for the friends and family and those who read this who know and care, this weekend I head up to British Columbia to visit Forrest.

 

And this winter, well this winter…

I am here, now, and tell you only of that for now, for here is where I am.

For now.

And tomorrow, well…

 

Adalante!

 

 

Unleashed

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Photo by Tomek, shared by Pia  (My hands)

“There is so much I have wanted to take the time to share with you, but simple as my life seems, sometimes ‘time’ is the hardest thing to find…

We just spent the last week down at the Little Cabin, a one room cabin without indoor plumbing on this side of the river just across from the seemingly endless wilds of the Weminuche Wilderness.

We rented our house out – funny the things one does for money – but really it was a good excuse to have a retreat. It was wonderful, though I’m now very behind in things like correspondence… and laundry!

Twice in one week I have heard ‘there is no coincidence,’ though I always thought there was. It’s been an eye opening week for me. And door opening. Those that have seemed locked for so long.  Swinging open with the autumn winds and the last of the fallen leaves stirring in this thin air before the snow presses them tight to the earth.”

Finding answers in a never ending question.  Listen as the Earth speaks.

We close up the Little Cabin, a bit reluctantly, and return to Big Haus.  Return to running water.  Laying in a hot tub at night, sitting on a warm toilet seat in the morning. Simple pleasures. Already missing the show of the Milky Way overhead each night as I step out with a little tin cup and my toothbrush to spit under a willow bush.  The Grande Universe spread above like your plastered ceiling or city lights.  Deeper, farther, infinite.  Silent but for the soothing song of the Rio Grande whispering below me in the quiet of the drought.

Slow settling of the season, mild temperatures and abundant sunshine.  Winter is not harried to be here.

Another long day horseback while we can. This time saving the cows.  A few strays from the open range herd here in summer.  Somehow stuck above treeline, on frozen ground, sparse dried grass and only wind blow snow for moisture.   They chose a “barn” in the last of the timber where from the tell tale signs of their manure, they planned to remain.  If the hunters had not seen them, I imagine there would be nothing more than a pile of bones found there next summer. How they got there, and why they stayed, we’ll never know.  I don’t read the minds of cows, and wonder in cases like this, how much to their minds there really is.  Yet the depth of their understanding and appreciation after we pushed them off the mountain top down to a familiar trail (and running creek water)… I could see it in their eyes.  Perhaps it is just the sympathy within me, but I swear they were loving us, and will look at a German Shepherd from here on in as their savior (for Gunnar of course was there with us, up front, moving the cows to lower ground).

In spite of the mild season, winter comes.  Easing down the mountain.  A measured, slow freezing.  We know better than to be fooled.  It can slam and settle any day now.  We are ready.

And within me, a deep stirring in open waters as a pot boils with a new recipe, and new plan. Where did this come from?  The wildest dreams. As unexpected as the sudden shock of red on the throat of the hummingbird.  At the same time as calm and powerful as destiny, as the Red Tail rises overhead, without a beat of his wings.

(Pardon the quality of these photos – I’m still resorting to my little old camera when horseback; haven’t figured out how to handle a little horse and the big camera at the same time yet.)

Changing views

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Rain turns to hail turns to snow

Winter’s white line blending with brown

A slow sad march down the mountain

Covering the last of summers stories

Faded like a sepia portrait of an old cowboy

 

Yesterday today tomorrow

You may say bad things comes in threes

I’d rather think of body, mind and soul

Nothing is not connected

Though too often we find ourselves alone

Seemingly old words shared with a new friend:

“As I write, I am down at the Little Cabin, our one room cabin built of old round logs, set out on the bluff above the river. Big Haus, our main home for now, is being used for the last big event of the season, so we’ve chosen to hide away down here, and I love it. A small satellite dish and solar panel which charges a battery which in turn is inverted to household power allows me the use of the computer and internet, though we have the old wood cook stove giving us heat, and candles and kerosene lamps at night by which we work. There is an outhouse nearby and when the rain and hail (and soon to be snow) are not as loud on the metal roof as they are right now, I can hear the song of the Rio Grande just below us.”

Get away, far away…

I wonder at times if I am running away?  Or running to something just out of reach?

A new view, looking out of these old weathered eight-pane windows.   Snow beneath the beetle killed spruce trees.  Rolling waves of light and dark, subtle shades and repeated variation, hillside after hillside fading from green to grey.  It’s only a matter of time.

Are we better off not looking?

Yet even blindfolded, would you feel the tears of the trees dropping their needles upon you as we stumble through the last of the shade?

Defining 45 and Feminism

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

Photo of Flying Crow and me, on the Divide. By Kate Seely.

 

Following is an essay I wrote earlier in the year.  It’s long winded as I tend to be and of a different subject matter than I tend to cover. But thought I’d share it with you while I’m still 45…

 

I feel so far from what I thought a feminist should be. In any case, surely I am not your average feminist (if ever there was such a thing). I simply do not look the part.

Now isn’t that a funny thought?  What does a feminist look like? So you think you know?

Some of us have a preconceived notion based on our own experiences.  My experiences started early and started strong.  It was the late 60’s or early 70’s.  I was a young child.  My mother had meetings in the house; women’s meetings, League of Women’s Voters and ERA and PTA and what else I don’t know if I ever knew or asked.  But there were powerful memories of powerful women walking with such confidence through my front door with broad smiles, clear eyes, always I remember their eyes, looking down at me with a twinkle and a wink as wonderful as Peter Pan only real and quite large.

I was on the worn and faded Persian rug that defined the dark wood entrance, rolling back like a dog on scratchy wool and dark jewel colors, looking up at these women, my goddesses. I did not believe in Cinderella or want to be a fairy princess. (Peter Pan? Perhaps.) Although I have no idea what they were there to meet about, I was certain then that these women defined power, strength, wisdom, and goodness.  They were my role models and heroes.  They defined what I would strive to be.

They were women, all women, sturdy and tall and old and wise, or so they seemed from my little-girl-on-the-rug point of view.  And I remember looking up at these solid women with those clear eyes that would look me back directly, their short trimmed hair framing broad faces devoid of most makeup except the true red lipstick which was so common back then. They wore thick wool skirts to the middle of the knee, or at least that is what it looked like from down there on the rug.  Pantyhose, medium tan nylon that felt smooth and rubbery when I’d reach out to touch them.  And sensible shoes.  Always sensible shoes. Black or brown and low heels so you knew if you tried to run, they could still catch you. A fact that instilled both fear and safety to the observer.

They were giants from my horizontal perception and at once I felt secure and wanted to be like them.

Funny the things we remember.

That is how my feminist roots were formed.

But look at me now. I am not like they were. I am married and bake bread and am helping to get my son ready for college. Tell me, why do you suppose I thought they did not?

Somehow I still feel so different from them. I do not go to meetings. I run my own small business from home. I have long hair and wear a size one and cowboy boots…. Does this make me less of a feminist than they were?

Of course it is not in my appearance, but in my thoughts. That’s where the problem lays, the problem of uncertainty of the state of my feminism.

Here I am at almost 45 (doesn’t that sound more definitive that 44?) trying to call myself a feminist, but doubting myself.  Why? Well, what have I done to prove I am? I don’t have to organize, work together and fight for our rights as they did.  Or do I?

I seek to define a feminist so that I can find my own place and hopefully clarify who I am.  Don’t we all need to do that to some degree? Of course what I am hoping to find is that I am indeed a feminist.  I can be defined.  I belong.

To begin with, I ask myself, and I suppose you should ask yourself too, what is the average feminist?  I suppose she is something different for each of us, as long as it includes a strong woman with a sense of self. A good deal of which is based upon the impressions we formed as a child, and throughout our lives.  Many of us painted a picture of what a feminist looks like, acts like, is.

What is she?  Who is she?

I say again:  a strong woman with a sense of self. Wavering at times, or so I am learning, as we still are human, and I have yet to meet one who can stand up against it all.  But she has the ability to stand tall when need be, when she really needs to, when it really matters.  For her children, her partner, her work, her beliefs, her choices, her country, her self.

Is that enough to define what a feminist is?  I can define her how I choose, I suppose, since I don’t see many from my generation telling me otherwise.  Us forty-somethingers.  We are a quiet group. We consider ourselves feminists and benefit from the work of others and reach out just a little bit to pave new roads for those who come after, but the formula is ever changing, as is the definition.  Rather than staying focused on the single goal ahead, be it equal rights, equal pay, or opened doors, we simply slide into place at the board or kitchen table (or both) and assume we are welcome, and wonder why we may get sideways glances from the men – and women – seated beside us.

Without those meetings I remember as I child to clarify the image in my own thoughts, I wonder what happened to feminism?  Where is it now? It spread out.  It became mainstream. That’s good and that’s bad.  Good because maybe it means it is everywhere and so common we don’t even notice it is there any more.  Bad because we take it for granted now and no longer fight for it.  We risk letting it slip away.

So I find myself grasping to ensure I don’t lose what others fought so hard to give me, and wonder if I am doing enough for those who come after. What can I do? Start by thinking, as I am doing here and now. Considering my place. Defining feminism and my place, my role.  Start by understanding who I am as a woman and what am I willing to do to retain my rights, my choices, my place.

Now is the time for me to consider this as I approach losing my definition of “mother” next year when my only child heads off for college.  Where does that leave me? I seek self definitions.  I feel lost without. What words will suit me? Forty-five.  Middle aged.  Married.  I need more.  How do I define myself now?

I begin by defining where I am.  I am softly settling into my middle years.

Next year I’ll turn forty five.  I’m in the middle, I guess.  The middle of my life, of the world around me, of the family I’ve raised and the grandchildren I await.  My middle years.

I define myself as “in my forties.”  Can I say “mid life?”  I can, but do not.  I’m still too young for that, I think.  So where am I?

In between my friends who have grandchildren, great grandchildren and back pain and contemplate or enjoy retirement and are tired of the cold – and those who have little ones or no children at all, no career or land or marriages under their belt to feel the discomfort of the tightness a little bit of age brings.  Just a little bit.  I still feel as fit as when I was twenty.  Maybe more so. But I no longer want to wear the tight jeans and short skirts.  I’m learning to dress like a woman.  More simple.  More refined.  Classier, my mother says.  Finally…

Who teaches us these things?  Do we have role models that show us how to define “growing up” and “middle aged?” And if so, who would our role models be? Believe me, I don’t strive to look like those ladies who came to meetings in my mother’s house back in 1972.

And yet at times I am left feeling lost. I imagine I am not the only one. I’m starting to think I am part of or the product of a lost generation, or perhaps a mere sub generation. It is hard to define.  I do not feel we are defining ourselves.

We are in between the baby boomers now in their fifties and sixties, and the slackers or millennium generation in their twenties and thirties. They have definitions.  They can fit in and belong. Stereotypes, I’m sure, but such are generational classifications. They still provide us comfort with an all-purpose understanding, a simplicity of what might otherwise be left constantly ambiguous. Such labels allow us a solid sense for belonging or separating, depending on which we choose.

What defines us in our forties?  What is our pigeonhole?  We had no wide spread childhood traumas, connecting wars or colliding rebellion.  We were neither dirt poor nor spoiled rotten.  We listened to southern rock or disco and the five o’clock news and nothing was very radical or exciting but nor did we complain.  We were rather quiet.  What did we stand for, and what did we fight for? What have we given up as we approach and settle into our middle years?

And where are we now? Betwixt and between.  Somewhat solid though I wonder if maybe we are led to believe we never will be.

Interesting to consider.

And as women in this sub generation, we are even more difficult to define.  We do not have boundaries, do not share boundaries, are scattered and separate and do not have our center hold.  We never thought we needed strength in numbers so we spread ourselves thin.  Thin relationships, thin memories, thin ambitions and dreams.

Those before us fought for their place.  Those after us assumed their place was solid.  We saw both sides and know what both feel like just a little bit – the insecurity and confrontation and the expectations and assumptions.

My sub generation didn’t have to fight for it.  We were handed it, fresh and new and exciting.  We took it for granted. Sat back and enjoyed it. We were allowed to choose what we wanted to do with it.  Most of us, the daughters of the women who fought to give us the choice, chose to be mothers and wives and maybe take a career or leave it when our children or husbands needed us. And I still don’t know if this is not perhaps the stronger choice a woman can make, or the weakest.

I am lost.  I seek to find my place.  In desperation, I softly moan and hope to be heard.  Heaven forbid I stand up and scream out.  But what I say is the same.  It is a cry to my feminist roots.

Are we still sisters?

Is feminism still alive and well or is my generation letting it slip away?

What about those that follow me/us?  The young ones.  It is done for them.  The women are equal, aren’t they?  Or are they?  It appears they have nothing left to fight for, and so they don’t.  Perhaps their struggles now are not based on the male/female rift, but on the economy, work ethic, education, a continually expanding urban and global work force.

I suppose we all have our challenges.  What I once felt I would have to fight for perhaps has already been fought.  That battle won. Now I have others to fight, if I dare be so bold. And now I should pay my due respects.

So here’s to that giant of a woman when I was a little girl on the rug.  That one with the sensible shoes and cropped hair and very bold, bright Peter Pan eyes.  Thank you.  I may not look like you, but today, I feel like you.

 

A portrait of a feminist today. This one wearing cowboy boots instead of sensible shoes. Photo by Bob Getz.