Done.

November 14, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Done!

That’s all she wrote. At least, that’s it for this year.

Enough for now. Time for a change.

This morning we wake to a thick cover of snow. Winter has come to the high country. Right on time.

Ten and a half months ago…

We felled our first tree from across the frozen river. Dead standing. Beetle kill. Dragged it across the Rio Grande in the dark depths of winter.

Each one dragged, stockpiled, lifted, stacked, lifted again, milled, peeled, grinded, measured, cut, fit and fine tuned. Each a work of art. A living museum. A tribute to the trees. Our trees. Our home.

Now there’s a house. Built of love. Not much blood, sweat and tears. How about that. Rather, this one’s made from good stuff. Dang, it feels good.

There’s a lot of love built into them there walls.

We did it. Reached the goal of getting the new house closed in by winter.

The metal roof is on. Bring on the snow. It’s coming in plentitude. Fine by me. Now, we’re outa here for a while. Forrest is back at the South Pole. And Bob and I are flying south as well. We’re migrating again.

My goose, however, will be remaining here.

So much good stuff. So many good things. So many good people. All I need is some time to reflect. Time to appreciate it all.

Time. Something we’ve not had enough of. Maybe free time is over rated. Love, gratitude, progress… these things remain plentiful. Well then – how lucky indeed I am.

Passing the reins on here to a couple of good friends willing and able to take on the adventure that winter is here alone on the snowy mountain at 10,000 feet.

Us, well, we’re heading back into summer. We’re done up here, at least for now, ready to take a break, take on a new challenge, head off for a new adventure. We’re ready to welcome a new life… with open arms and a heart so full and still growing bigger… this is indeed a wonderful life!

I held my breath

As around me wind

Roared though

my silence could not hide

me and I found myself

captured enwrapped and

seduced once again by

the elements

lifting heaving and embracing

dancing in the wind

You can take the dog away from one wild mountain, but you better find another to put him in. Some of us belong where the pavement ends. Far beyond.

And for those of you worried about the goose.. Rikki did not fly south, and we can’t take him (though Gunnar gets to go). After months of wondering what best to do for him, I received this from a fellow goose lover:

“…Rikki is imprinted on you as his mom …He seems happy where’s he’s at. Geese are incredibly hardy. … I definitely feel that he should remain…”

It felt I finally heard the right words. I listen to those feelings.

So, he’ll remain here with the cats, horses, hens and a caretaker who is going to have to see what works best for taking care of a semi-wild Canada goose in the high snowed in mountains through winter.

If you have any advice, please let me know. I want to do the right thing. It’s been an interesting trip just having this bird a part of our lives.

On one hand, I’m exhausted, sore, splintered and sawdust covered. On the other I’m bursting with joy and love and gratitude for all the good stuff and all the good people and new friends and new connections with old ones and love, dang it, so much love. (Yes, I’m feeling sappy. Surely from all those trees…) Especially for my boys, my team. We built this house, this life, together.

And now my trees sit safely stacked into what is now our forever home. Maybe we’ll stay here lots; maybe not so much; but it will always be ours. Always be home. Always be the nest we can return to. Comfort. House. Home.

That’s all she wrote. For this chapter. Onto the next. Less than a year ago, these trees were still standing dead. Now they take the stories they shared of the silence, wild and wind and pass them onto me, my family, a new lifetime, generations lasting less than it took these trees to grow.

Starting new stories of our own.

Together with the trees.

In the last eleven months, we built a house, starting with harvesting the raw materials on up, the three of us (and a few remarkable helpers from time to time, and I must say, at just the right time every time!). I published two books and edited and started pitching a third, and writing a fourth. I moved my family twice. I dove in head first to learn the art and science of midwifery, the miracle of birthing, and the power of the woman. I ran a little business (our guest ranch) and still had time to make sure we ate fresh bread and watched the sunset and listened to each others silly stories and same old jokes. And we smiled. And every morning I woke up excited to see what the day would bring, though a few mornings I was happy to have that day begin a little later.

My hands are sore and swollen; my eyes bloodshot from the sun, wind, sawdust; my muscles longing for a tub I don’t yet have. The only day off I’ve had in months was the horse ride with Ellen in autumn color, and I’ve regretted none of it. Once again I say: if it wasn’t me living like this, I would wish it was.

May not see you for a while. But I’ll be thinking of you. Hoping for the best. Talk to you when we’re back, sometime before the snow melts.

And now, the page is turning. I’m putting this book down for a while and picking up the next. Where will this one bring me? Where am I off to next?

The wind is calling…

I’m going dancing in the wind!

Fall rising.

September 22, 2014September 22, 2014 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

If nothing else, a slide show for you, sharing progress on the house, fall color, and this beautiful world we live in with you.

Only you know me. There will be more. I’ll get to writing, to words, to sharing, rambling… and then I’ll be here longer than I planned, when really, you know, what I should be doing is getting back to work…

(please click on individual photos to see them larger if you’d like)

On building our home together.

Some days I’m tired. I think we can’t do it. We’ll never get it closed in by serious snow fly. We’re in over our head. What were we thinking and when will it be over. Not another day of getting covered in sawdust and wood chips and beetle shells.

Most days, though I think this. We’re doing it. Ourselves. This incredible, beautiful home on the cheapest budget you can imagine. Yes, I’m actually very proud of that part. I’m a cheapskate at heart, it’s true, but it’s more than that. I’m proud that we harvested the main materials from our own land, used salvaged and surplus when we could, and are doing the work ourselves. The three of us. By us, for us. The only paid labor was help with the foundation, a worthy start to this project. Yes, the borrowed equipment and expert advice and occasional helping hand from good friends is always appreciated, a tremendous help, and at times, just what we need.

It’s an odd work site. Sure, there’s a dog, usually a cat, and always a goose hanging around so watch your step and check under your truck before you drive away. Lots of visitors, which although they bring much distraction, usually bring much encouragement and support and appreciation for what we’re doing too. (And groceries, seriously, which are a blessing as we haven’t taken much time to get to town to stock up!) And I come to realize realize that it is not in spite of these kind and caring visitors and distractions, but because of them at times, that we are inspired, fueled and lightened.

I tell one that this will be the first permanent home Forrest ever had. He’s twenty one. That’s a lot of years of fluctuation. Twelve moves in his first three years; then he lived at a kids camp, then a guest ranch. Finally, his own place. He’ll just have to share it with us. After all, for me, there were ten years before Forrest came into my life that I too had my fair share of stories of being homeless or a vagabond and moving around at least once a year… so I must say, having a solid foundation that we can call ours is a thrill for me too. Interesting to note that these roots do not tie one down, but give one greater to strength to fly. But that too is another story.

Will we make it? Get the roof on, windows in, sealed up by serious snow fly?

Wait and see. We’re only a month away…

(Hey Al – That beautiful bottle of champagne your brought us is already on ice!)

Autumn falls heavy. Shorter days, cooler air, longer shadows, crisper light. Wool sweaters and warm work gloves and hot coffee at lunch break. For this fleeting season our world turns so brief but fiercely to contrasting shades of vibrant gold with earthen browns and grays.

I’m ready to move on. We’ve been camped out since the end of May. Down by the work site in a one room cabin without plumbing or power for a light, and finally I’m ready for running water, an indoor toilet and hot shower, a kitchen sink, an electric light that all you have to do is flick a switch to get results. Sure, I love my candles, oil lamps, outhouse with a view, the sound of rain on the uninsulated tin roof of the Little Cabin, and song of the ever present Rio Grande, but it’s time. Almost. Soon, I start to hope. Maybe I’ll miss standing under the stars and the brilliant swath of the Milky Way to brush my teeth, but I won’t miss having to run out into the rain in the middle of the night to squat in the cold wet grass.

As you walk down the dirt drive to the cabin, the silence of the mountain embraces you, hills rise on all side like a visual symphony glowing in the autumn glory of turning aspen blending with the browning beetle killed trees, rising to the golden grasses of the late season high country above tree line and the sharp contrast before steel grey sky portending another storm.

Suddenly you are there, and you hear it. You have arrived. The Rio Grande. You are swallowed and consumed and it’s not with fear or loathing but clarity and purity and a sense of old wild ways knowing this river has been cutting its path so long before you were there, so long after you leave. And still you are seduced by the song of the river and absorbed by the eternal hum of autumn’s swollen course painted with dirt from higher grounds, blending our world with that of some place I have never been, so many places, down river, eight miles away, a hundred, or down to the Gulf of Mexico.

This is not the angry roar of spring melt out you hear but heavy rich milky waters bringing a melancholy song of primordial longings as the geese fly over head in formation in the early morning, and my meant to be wild one but oh-so-tame Rikki remains firmly planted in my front yard.

Heavy rains in an early fall storm. Finally some time to sit and catch up on correspondence and business and never enough time to write before heading back out there in between storms, grateful it’s only rain. Winter is coming…

Between early mornings and those blessed rain storms, I managed time to reach my personal goal/deadline of finishing a revised copy of my third manuscript. I am pleased. Now onto the next!

Meanwhile, the guest cabins are full, main camp is bustling, some wonderful folks around enjoying the fall color, to be followed by the camaraderie and excitement of hunting season, followed by the late season calm for the select few tourist game enough to give it a go before our world turns white… And then… Oh, don’t ask. Not now. One thing at a time. Today presents plenty. More than enough. Better yet, just right!

As for book business…

I just received the good news that Barnes and Nobles has accepted The Last of the Living Blue. This is a thrill and honor. From what I understand, unlike Amazon who accepts all books (and sells the most too), B&N carefully review all books and watch progress of sales and interest before taking you on. So this is great news for me, and I hope you might help by checking to see if your local B&N might be one of the select stores to carry my books – and if they do not, perhaps with your request, they will!

Much gratitude for the wonderful review of The Last of the Living Blue shared on Amazon and Goodreads by acclaimed author Gwendolyn Plano.

Finally, special thanks to friend and fellow horseman and blogger, Julian of White Horse Pilgrim, for actually coming (over the ocean and through one enlightening journey across this country) to visit us and our wild mountain. As you can imagine, the world seemed a little smaller, closer and more comfortable when shared with good friends, good horses, and good food together! Here are some of the photos Julian took of our work and shared. Thank you, my friend!

Good stuff.

May 12, 2014 / Gin Getz / 22 Comments

Good Stuff.

Breaking Ground

This is big news. Yes, you got it. Ground breaking news. Progress on our new home. We started with the logs, harvesting the beetle kill from our land across river in winter. Dragging dead trees across the frozen waters for their next life of becoming a part of our future home.

Now the foundation begins.

Down on the exposed bluff above the Rio Grande, the bulldozer breaks ground. Earth is moved to make way for what will be our home. A hard, harsh cut gouged deep into fragile soil. I stand in the pit and place my hands upon the layers of soil that took maybe millions of years to amass and here we are moving them all in one day. I find myself crying. I think these are happy tears. We have waited a long time for this. There are many, many dreams tied into this one pile of dirt.

On one hand, I ask forgiveness for the land for such disturbance. We try to live simply, modestly, carefully. On the other hand, I see how we will be even more connected, grounded, a part of each other, with our home a part of the land, in the earth, partially buried and within these millions of years of creation.

I’ll need to keep that in mind when it seems some days like progress is going slowly.

All in all, it’s been a wonderful, crazy, busy week and looks like many more not only in the future, but here and now. Better get used to it. Coffee is good. Sleep is over rated. Jogging takes less time than walking. We’re running around finishing up projects on the guest cabins before the season opens, and Bob points to the plastic lawn chair next to the one he’s sitting in.

“Too busy to sit and enjoy the day?” he asks me.

I know. He’s right. I sit. A full minute, shifting my focus and tapping my leg and completely missing out on the view before me of the full creek, greening pasture, and horses lying about lazily. I know I’m not supposed to do that. I’m supposed to be here and now. But here and now, I’ve got things to do. Things I want to do. Good things. Okay?

“Can I go now?” I get up. I’m ready to get back to work.

Announcing a new book.

Over the weekend, I signed the publishing contract for my next book, The Last of the Living Blue, to be release June 30th by NorLights Press. I feel very, very blessed.

I think what makes me as happy, maybe happier, than having my publisher believe in me (when now that I’m revamping and working on the final draft, I’m wondering why and how she did when I see how much work it needs! Thank you, Sammie, for trusting me, and may I not let you down.) is the incredible support and warm reception I received from so many of you upon sharing the good news. Thank you!

I’ll keep you all posted on progress as we countdown to the release date.

Just when you thought the ground was drying out. Just when you thought “watering the lawn” sounded like a good idea but you don’t have sprinklers or a lawn, just a sub irrigated pasture that needs surface moisture from time to time to grow good grass for the horses. Just when you started to worry about fires and drought and all those things we DO need to worry about here surrounded by half a million acres of dead and dying trees due to bark beetles.

Suddenly, more snow!

No, it won’t kill the beetles. It won’t bring our trees back to life. But it does help the grass grow and gives us a great excuse to catch up on indoor work today.

Alas, I find a reason to go out there, in it. It’s beautiful. It’s fun. Anything’s better than sitting around staring at a screen! However, that does bring me to this:

Apologies, friends, family, readers, those who reach out and write to me, for being so slow to respond this past week. It has been a crazy, wonderful, busy week. Please know you matter so much to me. As I wrote to fellow blogger and friend, Carrie of The Shady Tree, I may be the world’s worst “blogger” and that’s okay because you know I never liked that word or title anyway. Blogger. Yuck. Anyway, you know the last thing I want is more time in front of the computer. Writing already takes up so much time. And when I’m done, I’m outta here! The last thing I want to do is spend more time sitting in front the back lit screen when I could be out there… There is so much out there!

How do you get it all done? I don’t want to settle for “good enough.”

“Trust,” Ginny tells me. And I trust it all happens in the right time, and in the meanwhile, do all I can to make it happen.

(“Dance,” she says too, as she raises her arms wide with a wonderful smile on her face like she hears the music and all the while she’s sitting in the wheelchair but you’re pretty sure any minute now she’ll burst out dancing. Yes, I definitely should dance more!)

And speaking of Ginny. Dancing in the Wind, a tale of two Virginias, will be put on “back burner” until after the finishing touches of Living Blue are complete. Then we’ll give it all we got, and we got a lot. Can’t wait to share this one with you all.

That novel too may take longer than I expected. And, I wonder, when will I find time to fit in the poetry project? I’m not sure, but somehow I feel certain it all will come together. It is all coming together!

On a side note.

A new long-distance friend is starting up a most interesting business, and I think her idea is so fun, so fantastic, I wanted to share this with you. Jill is combining the opportunity to make new friends, enjoy the great outdoors, and talk books. Sorry, guys, this one’s not for you. Ladies, please check out Outdoor Book Club.

And Stuff

The ethics involved in consumerism. Otherwise known as: A confession.

Last week found me in the big city. Denver. Smaller and warmer and friendlier than what I used to call “The Big City,” though lacking the unmistakable diversity, culture, chaos and intense vibe of New York. Which was fun back then, and still I crave in small (very small) doses from time to time.

I had not left the mountain since last November at which time I went to Lake City and had lunch with a friend in the only restaurant opened “off season.” This means, nearly six months of missing (as in not having been there, not as in longing for) town, telephone, traffic and putting on clean boots. This also means I had not touched cold, hard cash in a good long while. In fact, I had not even opened my wallet, which is why it came as a big surprise when I finally did and saw that my driver’s license had expired. Whoops.

I realize how spoiled, lucky (or dare I say… smart – ha ha!) I am to have built such a simple, quiet life. I’m busy, I get a lot done, there’s more than enough work, but I’m here. And the rest, I can do without. Maybe I might miss out on fun stuff like nights out on the town, talking on the phone, Starbucks coffee and travel, but this is what keeps me sane. And even then…

Love kids as I do, I would have made a really cruddy soccer mom.

Downsizing, simplifying… These things matter to me. I actually try to have less. I don’t want to be a part of the Fattening of Society. I don’t just mean the waist lines of the people. I mean the wallets, the debts, the amassed good, the expanding feeling of needing more, or deserving more. I want less. Of “things.” Stuff. Consumerism. Spending. I want more time in nature, with my boys, writing, taking pictures, dreaming. Yes, I want time to dream. I want slighter debt, fewer possession, less stuff, a smaller house to clean and fewer clothes to wash. A basic diet, nothing fancy, simple food is just fine, and, crazy as it sounds, comfortable shoes. Being in the city reminds me of this every time.

My escapades took me of course to the thrift shop, where I was able to find my new summer wardrobe and a few things for my son for less than the cost of a pair of new jeans.

And then, yes, the big confession. I found myself at Wal-Mart. Shopping. No one to blame but myself. It was my idea. Here’s why. It’s cheap. I justify my horrid behavior by knowing I’m saving myself money. Saving myself while messing up the world? It’s hypocritical. It’s wrong. Believe me, I know. Supporting maybe slave labor in China or something totally terrible. Tell me how do they do this when a new pillow case cost less at Wal-Mart than it did at the thrift shop? How to they grow the cotton, harvest, process, dye, mill, sew and ship it all the way from China to Colorado for a buck fifty and make a profit? Who, I should ask, makes a profit, and who is losing out? This is crazy. And here I am supporting it. Feeling guilty, but secretly grateful for the prices. What’s a person to do?

Paring of the soul.

May 5, 2014 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

paring of the soul

in simple season

of waxing moon and warming flesh

mornings hardly frozen

and air loud with crow and Steller’s Jay

and the shrill whistle of Redwing blackbird

and down by the river

standing on the bluff

where our home one day will be

dreaming

of foundation and roots and solid walls

containing confining comforting

and so many years of stories to patina the blued wood

a solitary goose flies low

below us

above the river

he follows the course to who knows

where or why

or what he seeks only to move to

someplace else as the sun takes its turn

lower in the sky

and I wonder what impels him on

when all I do is look for a place to remain

Spring air crossing snow covered Divide whips cold across our pasture freshly open promising moist and green at least for a little while. Out there, bitten by the wind I swear I smell the sweetness of flowers. I am certain. From where does this fragrance come? I picture lands lush and rose bushes and lilacs and hollyhocks and marigold flourishing. Here I find pleasure in dandelions and wild iris and the delicate petals and defiant stalks of the wild rose, each short lived as every season but winter is. Little more can grow though who would I be if I didn’t try so every year I do. Last year the tomato plants I bought with fruit already set produced two fruit and the zucchini plants gifted us with eight tiny fingerlings of the most precious bounty I sliced and sautéed in butter and served alongside fresh bread and was wanting for nothing more that night. Such a treat we had not tasted in so long because they birthed before the frost that turned the big broad leaves to mush.

We prepare the Little Cabin for another season there beside the river. The one-room cabin dragged away from the guest cabins to a part of the mountain without history, herstories, tales or roots, ready for us to grow our own. Our lives pending another move. And from the humble front door of the little log cabin we’ll call home once again, we shall watch mud transform and sprout new life.

Our new home.

News for now…

Just out this weekend, A unique take on an interview and article I had the pleasure to write on the wonderful, charming, handsome, and very talented Texas bit & spur maker Daylan Nixon featured in the newest issue (4.1) of Ranch & Reata magazine.

The interview with Indie House Books posted this weekend was fun. You can still read that here.

A bunch of visitors this weekend, so nice to see those who took the time to visit – but no one willing to pose for a portrait. Thus, these. (I will learn not to give up on the people so easily next time…)

From a conversation on Womanhood…

Deep felt thanks to a friend who opened up with me a conversation on womanhood. No, I should write that with a capital: Womanhood. That’s better.

Who was born intimately understanding their feminine side and comfortable with what they found? The few I thought who did, what did they do with what they had and what more did they find? Those that took time to deny or be denied, dive into the depths and ask questions… they found very interesting answers…

Years ago in art school, I did a piece I called “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” A large flowery clay most feminine of female body parts decorated in gaudy rhinestones and set into a deep box like a casket with a glass lid. It won first place so at the award ceremony a picture went up in the auditorium on the big projector screen and I swear the whole room started to blush. Few are comfortable with the feminine side.

There are few leaders, women to follow, women willing and able to show us how. If there are many, I’m missing something, for I have found their presence and reaching out/responding rare. I’m obsessed with the concept of mentoring – I don’t feel qualified yet – I’m too young (funny thing to say at 47, some of you will may say), not experienced enough and just don’t feel ripe – I’m still looking for mentors for me. Stop looking. Start being. Most of us don’t have the role models we need. So we must become them. We need to re-group and find our paths, and hold each other’s hands in the process. Encourage, urge, push, and protect when need be. More than just listen. We need someone to talk to us and tell us WE CAN. We can dream, we can write, we can fall in love, we can live through a broken heart and rejection letter and all the crud life brings because in the wave of mud is just one place of crystal clear, and that’s all we need.

There are no right answers, only a wonderful adventure. Womanhood is not a destination, but a process. Enjoy the journey. Dive in, swim, splash, splutter from time to time, and let go and float on top staring up at the billowy clouds. It is exhilarating.

Let it happen, as we become the women we want to be. Emerging… Ever changing…. And so, so beautiful, as the heart of every women can be.

playing with a love poem

because I have spent so many years

in praise of the broken heart

and why would I not when that’s what I had

now that I can have

or cannot separate

a life that more than parallels my own

rather wraps around and breaks borders

in waves of twisting over lapping lines

like arms and legs entwined in bed

until one day we become no more

than rotting bodies in straight lines

side by side in the ground

This is not what I was looking for

I said sort of but no one listened only laughed

as I fell not head over heals

but solidly planted

and now some days it seems so simple

too simple, him, our conversations, being loved

the assumption that he’ll be there

that I can wake early in the morning before light

and ask him and know he would never say no

some things maybe I miss

pain and insecurities and blinding desires

and wondering if he’s The One

there are days I want to be without him

as if I’d be better on my own

think of the things I could do if I didn’t have to

care worry encourage push and pick up the pieces

love?

instead could take care of only me

if only I remember how

and maybe I don’t want to anymore

then I think how lost I would be

how incomplete I would find myself

if you take away half my air

and just as much of my foundation

would I still remember how to breathe?

So it’s spring.

March 24, 2014 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

On the first day of Spring, Forrest atop the mountain behind our ranch, looking down our valley and beyond.

So it’s spring. Yes, here too. In spite of the single digit mornings and a pasture of unbroken white.

I remember what the season should bring, could bring. Rich soil turned up in garden beds, fresh linens from the line on our bed. Sweet sap running in the trees. Foals romping outside my window. I don’t have that here and now. None of it. Only memories. So strong I can smell the earth and the sweet sap and the new born baby’s breath.

It’s different here. Still spring, the emerging of warm earth from her frozen slumber, but here and now with a new set of definitions. Like the sighting of the rufous sided towhee scratching at the seeds I toss out beneath our picnic table, and awaiting the song of the frogs. Thinning snow that turns to slush in the afternoons and light so intense on the spring glazed surface even cloudy days seem blinding.

We learn to adjust. Human beings are remarkably adaptable, no matter how stubborn we may seem. No place is perfect. Thing about this place, with all the trials and tribulations to get here and stay here: it’s ours. That means something to me. More so with each passing year, growing connection, memories embedded in the soil. A glance around and I can point to what fence we built, cabin remodeled, road or trail constructed, which mountain I climbed with which dog in what sort of weather. A board on the old bedroom door frame records Forrest’s growth in faded pencil marks, and generations of horses – mother, daughter, grandmother – await me at feeding time.

Out on a snowshoe alone with the dog. Gratitude. It’s easy to find it here. Ten things a day, a friend and I prompt each other when we find ourselves forgetting. Yes, I do forget. The space, the light, the beauty, thin air, a mountain that looks as fancy as a wedding cake, solitude, silence but for spring winds and the opening river and birds. Yes, spring brings such song in the early mornings before the wind picks up and late in the afternoon as the shadows are tossed long and indigo upon sugary snow.

Living. Dying. This season. Every season.

I remember the dread that came with the risk of the open road bringing conflict and chaos along with cars. Now I await the open road as the open pasture when we can begin building our place on our land that we have fought for and won.

Bob takes the Cat down there in the afternoon slush and cuts through the open white. The first step towards breaking ground. Frost just below surface. We are early still.

And I remember the fear that hung heavy in the spring storms back then with each birth. I would rather not remember. I turn my attention to the mob of chicks scampering about in the giant dog crate between the planters of newly spread lettuce seed and the grass for the cats and dog. Their happy chirps blending with the melody from the various birds feeding at the picnic table right outside the window.

And now I know

the loss of none

As if I could remember

a babe crying to be nursed

And the sound of children’s laughter

The gentle nicker of the mare to foal

The song of two blue birds

on the top of a spruce tree still green

Where they first arrive here

every year.

The sap won’t run this year.

At times emptiness is a relief.

Now I know what is beneath the slipping bark.

I take out the draw knife for the first time this season. Peeling a small log needed for a remodel project on a neighbor’s bathroom. With every pull of the knife, tiny white life revealed. Ten, twenty, maybe more. Slicing through life. Larva.

I know it’s crazy but still I feel sadness. I am taking life. Can I look at them as the enemy? Who is to blame? I daresay, not the beetles.

Will every log I peel for our house reveal the same?

I need a shower. Rid myself of their remains which has stuck onto my skin, in my hair, my jeans after working out in the wind.

Author’s Update.

With regards to The Color of the Wild, much thanks to all of you readers who posted reviews – what a wonderful help you have been – and for those writers who took the time to share reviews and interviews on their web sites and blogs, especially:

Amy of SoulDipper

Carrie of The Shady Tree

Ray from New Book Journal

Kat from Indies Unlimited

More big news this week is that I just got the word that a select number of Barnes and Nobles bookstores will be stocking The Color of the Wild on their shelves. Please take a look at your local store and let me know if you see it there!

As for what’s next… Patience (I tell myself). It’s in the works. Two so close to completion, but we’re not there yet. And I’m not ready to be there. No, it’s not fear. Crazy? Maybe.

This is where my attention should be – getting the next one finished up and ready to go – and yet I find myself shunning the process, intentionally. I’m not ready. Isn’t that strange? It is not lack of words, as you, dear reader, can see. It is something else. I need more time. I need to find a balance between pushing myself, and holding back. With distance comes understanding. It’s not reading the same thing over and over. It allows me to see it all anew. To pick up the manuscript with a fresh perspective and a bright, eager mind. Editing need not be a chore. It can be a pleasure – if you love what you wrote. And if you don’t , here’s your chance to fix it, and fall in love all over again.

I don’t know how it is for other writers, but for me, I am learning it has to do with trust in timing. Trust and timing. And knowing when to take a break. To step back before diving in head first… Then take a deep breath and go for it!

For now, I let it go. Brew like the beer. Though I’m starting to get thirsty.

Waiting for words to ripen.

It won’t be long before I open the pages up again, and maybe turn them into fine wine.

Revealing.

March 19, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Another big moon comes

and goes as

the season of life

and death that is

spring unfolds

somewhere, maybe

here, maybe

tomorrow today

as the cat lays in

the grass planted

last fall inside

the kitchen window

and waits.

And I wait impatiently for the horses to begin shedding their shaggy coats just so I can have reason to spend more time with them as they bustle about on dry dirt and vie for the attention of my curry comb and close breath.

A mourning dove shows up early, lured by warmer air only to find no more than small patches of open ground, not ideal for a ground feeder, and the seeds I throw out daily are of no interest.

Down at one of the few open places where the Rio Grande runs clear and black like licorice beneath her otherwise still white ribbon, a pair of Mallards swims from one end of the open place to another and fly off as the dog and I cross river, me on snow shoes, he on broad feet with long fur between his pads that have only rarely touched bare earth in so many months.

Spring approaches the high country like a chrysalis revealing.

After weeks of crunching more numbers that I have since… ever… and straining my eyes where by my reading glasses no longer seem strong enough, I’m done playing architect, done with our house plans. We await the opening of white pasture and the cutting into ground, and in how long, too long, not soon enough, we will be in there living, breathing, walking around,, parking muddy boots by the door, sitting at the kitchen table with burning candles and full plates, watering house plants, baking bread, making love, kicking back in my claw foot tub and writing while the sun comes up in my nook.

So much for the simplicity of a little log cabin. These drawings, ten pages from the bottom of the concrete footer to the top of my writing nook, seem so complex. Does it help or hinder to have plans drawn up by those who have built, not just those who have planned it on paper? I do not know, but I’m ready to put down my pencil and pick up my draw knife. I’m ready to build, to break ground and pour cement and peel and stack logs and with tired muscles and sore hands sit back at the Little Cabin and watch the new one come to life.

Yesterday.

February 17, 2014 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Yesterday.

The river begins to open.

The release of the season starts.

Our frozen white highway over which we dragged nearly ninety logs bares elusive glimpses into the dark face of the Rio.

She laughs loudly now beneath our feet.

Her waters rise, ice thins, snow loses its strength. And we stand upon her remaining hard surface and what else can we do but hope she’ll hold?

We light the last of the slash piles upon the ice and listen. Open water beneath the flame. Floating fire.

Our tools are gathered, brought back to this side of the river. If the warm weather continues with daytime temperatures climbing steady into the 40s and 50s every afternoon as they have been, the Rio will no longer be passable. At least, not on her surface and I’m not big on swimming up here.

The timing is just right. Our work across river is done.

We’ve harvested what we need to build our home and shop. Should we need more for the barn, well, it’s safe to say there will be a new round of dead trees to harvest next year.

So now, the work on this side begins.

This is progress. We are pleased. Still there is a little bit of sadness too, for we have loved our time together by the river, silent as she had been, knowing she is there with us in the long blue shadows and heavy hoar frost and steaming breath and laughter and bloody noses and fat lips which were our only injuries and many a hot dog roasted over our slash piles over what in summer would be the middle of the river and our intimate involvement with our dying trees.

An update on the birth of the book.

Thanks to so many for so much. For your support, encouragement and kindness.

For those who have been waiting, it is my understanding that the Kindle version will be available on Amazon later today.

For all those that did write and leave reviews, I can not thank you enough.

To so many, I send such sincere thanks, love and gratitude.

So, yeah… everything is going great… you’d think I’d be just floating on cloud nine with the wonderful reception and reviews that the launch of the book brought us.

But I’m not.

They warn you to expect bad review. It’s going to happen. Not everyone is going to like what you write. Some folks in particular will really not like it because they don’t like you, or they don’t like the fact that you did it and they did not or whatever goes through someone’s mind to justify saying mean things.

But what about no response at all? Brings back memories of all those years sending out my manuscript. I was lucky to get the rejection letter.

So yes, to hear from those who enjoy my writing… that means a lot.

You know what they say is true: If you dare to put yourself out there, you better be prepared to be burned. Even if what burns is hearing nothing at all.

That’s the downside. And it’s down. It’s the pits, and it hurts. Some folks manage to bounce it all off their hard shell. Not me. It gets me. I’m softer than I care to admit.

Don’t be so sensitive, some say. Be stronger. Care less.

If I followed that advice, my writing would not be what it is, would it?

And for better or worse, I would not be either.

Those who have been through this before, the big first book deal, compare the process to giving birth, with a longer gestation, (in my case, would you believe, five years in the making?) and a little less physical pain. That’s not too far off, having been through childbirth too. Hey, Mom and Dad, you were there when I did that. Remember all my screaming and cussing? Guess what – I did the same over these past five years and then some “birthing” my first book. My one hope is that each subsequent book will be a little easier. Dang, I hope so.

Some even say if you knew back then how hard it would be, I bet you wouldn’t have done it.

But for those of us who do write, I think we can’t not write. I am incomplete with out. Be it my gift or the part of my private self I can share.

It’s not just words. It’s a part of me.

And at these times of introspection, we’re forced to ask ourselves this questions:

Who do I write for?

Family?

No.

My brothers both forgot. The lack of support (even acknowledgement) from most of my husband’s family on this accomplishment should not have surprised me but still did.

Thank goodness for good friends and new readers. And a few wonderful surprises along the way, including some close family and distant friends.

Who do I write for?

Not for myself, for although that is the advice of some successful writers, it is not what I care to do.

I guess I write for you. For the few still here with me reading whilst the rest have run off to other things, pressing issues, important matters, and something shiny and new.

Just another day.

February 11, 2014February 11, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Logging continues. Now it’s the three of us and the dog. Sure he helps. Supervising. He lies in the deep snow of the river bed, head up, alert, and every time you look over at him, he’s looking over at you. When that gets old, he’s off barking something we never see. It must be working, all that howling, because nothing got us yet.

It’s forty degrees and snowing and we’re standing on top of the Rio Grande roasting hot dogs on long willow branches over the burning pile of slash. You can hear the river louder now, a little angry and thus a little frightening. A few places you see the black void broken through the solid white. The great unknown. You wonder how deep it is, how thick the ice upon which you stand.

More snow. Heavy, wet snow. Coming in waves. Too warm even to stick to my snowshoes.

And in the middle of it all, the red-wing blackbird arrives. A week early. Always seems like they choose stormy weather to herald their arrival, and I feel justified in leaving out seeds each morning on the picnic table outside our kitchen window so, selfishly, I can see them. There is comfort in attracting what little life remains on the mountain around us.

If the silent land

Would learn to scream

Then would we finally

Listen?

Progress.

January 25, 2014January 25, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Might look like no more than a pile of logs to you. Looks like my new home to me. I see walls, window frames, floor boards, shelves, a kitchen table.

And on that hillside across river where these trees came from, all I see now are small green trees. No more big brown ones.

I know it won’t last. Those ones will go too. But in the meanwhile, it looks so… alive. I had forgotten what a living forest looks like.

Quick updates, and back to work. Got the weekend off from being Lady Logger. Instead, diving in, finding myself caught up in my words, at times struggling to stay afloat, as the next manuscript emerges like an all consuming wave. So much for moderation.

Stop. Breathe. Sit back in the sun and pop open a cold one. (Actually, I’m not much of a beer drinker, but it sure sounds good, sometimes. Especially since it’s our first batch of home brew.This coming week we’ll be bottling our next batch. I call this one Logger Lager.)

Last I heard from the publisher, the first book is off to the printer for proof copies! Yippee!!!!

And now, I leave you with this.

I finally found it. (Rather, Bob found it first.)

Beauty in the beetle kill.

A natural work of art hiding on the inside of every log. Just peel the bark and there it is, waiting to be revealed…

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