nature

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

The season of the setting sun.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

This morning heralds the change of season.

Autumnal Equinox.

The season of change. And somehow, of soul. Of letting go. Releasing. And oh yes, of softening. Into the mountain as she shares an ornate display before stripping bare and standing forth unadorned.

A time of exposure, openness, inviting us gently to reveal our true colors, no longer harsh beneath summer’s buoyant light, nor subtle, still and washed over in white as in winter’s frozen air.

The season is one of slowing down, at least it naturally is.  It’s the slow, deep exhale of the earth revealed in longer shadows, shorter days, golden light, and cooler nights.

There is some mysterious call for solitude in autumn air, asking us to wander off alone, if only for a moment. We’re called to turn within, to release summers big and bright, full and loud, left behind like a snake stepping out of her worn out skin, preparing perhaps for regrowth, the natural incline of hibernation that deep winter allows.

Alas, I wonder if I’ll have such a moment today. Feels like there is no time to be still and contemplate the deeper and greater meanings of this change this year. Yet these are the things that make life a little bit fuller, richer and more meaningful. Taking time to take in time. To see, taste, smell and fee the world around you, not only in ways that you touch it, but in how it touches you, or better yet, just is, regardless of you and your presence. It’s that thing bigger than you or me or today or tomorrow or our wants and worries and woes.

And so I will take the time, before the rains, or maybe while it comes down, to stop where the tall grass is brown, untouched and abundant with seeds ready to be kicked out as I walk by. I will stop for a moment and lay down upon the earth, with the pup sitting still beside me, listening to the sound of the creek, and distant wind through tired leaves, and let the rain fall on my weathered face, and I will breathe, and I will smile, and for just a moment in time, I will do nothing more than be.

As for building:

We’re close.

I know. I’ve said that before.

Pushing to complete a crazy challenge.

Almost there. Not to a place, but to a goal.

I’ll let you know when we make it.

And then what? On to the next?

Oh, I’ve got plans; you can be sure.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Together.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Building got the better of me this past week; no time to write, with a huge push to get the roof built.

Seems like all work and no play… yet tomorrow we’re taking off… something special to celebrate…the roof is built (metal comes this next week) and our anniversary is today.

For now, I’m just sharing this, because this is what matters most: LOVE. For those who have stuck it out together through hard knocks and tough times, and found yourself belonging in the shared place and space of long term love – something I never thought I’d be lucky enough to experience – I hope you’ll relate to this:

funny that all it takes

is opening eyes

to see

that you are there

beside me

right where we belong

Twenty-two years ago today, we married. We committed to become the family we chose. And in those  years, we learned what unconditional love, duty and devotion, kindness and forgiveness feels like.  In those years, we learned and grew, we flourished and failed, we longed and lusted and feared and found footing to stand strong, and we moved and built more than I’d like to admit.

It’s been a wild ride. The only stability was our love. Of each other. Our son. And the high wild lands where we choose to live. No matter how hard things got, how lost we felt, how tired we became, at the end of each day (or sometimes it took until the morning after) we knew we were no longer alone. And we knew someone else was counting on us, relying on us, needing us. So you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get back to work beside one another right where you belong.

Now we are here. In person and place and time.

Slowly we have settled in, learning the lay of the land, the feel of dried grass beneath bare feet or mud caked on our boots. Listening to the wind, tasting the water, letting the first sun of morning fall across our rawhide faces, allowing our fingers to find their place in the others hand when we walk. Finding our place, here.  Finding the balance of lust and longing, energy and exhaustion, dirt and discomfort, strain and stress as we kept on keeping on building the dream – our family home and mountain homestead. Something we both wanted, together.

So it went, and so it still goes. Building together. A safe place to bring dreams to life.

Sitting at a different kitchen table, gazing out at a different view, things are different here. The mountain, the river, the elevation and air. Even the bears and birds and colors of the season as it begins to fade and summer browns and sky grays and we start to look up at distant peaks to see if snow has fallen yet.

Our relationship is different now. A little less spark but more warmth from the coals and that is what cooks the stew. And like the stew that has been simmering and been stirred and added to with care and taste and time, together we are each richer within than either of us imagined had we not chosen one another.

Maybe I am different, too. Not in spite of what we went through. But because of it. I am more. I am fuller. I am deeper and wiser. In part because of you. In part because of time. Aging is beautiful thing. At least, most days I think it is.

The wisdom of aging is perhaps best found in the skill of knowing what baggage to leave behind.

You cannot outrun the past. The past is the path that led you to where you are today.

In moving, you leave where you were behind. In a way, you leave who you were behind as well. You become the blank slate. The clay upon the potters’ wheel. You are both the clay and the hands that shape it.

In remaining, however, you face the challenge of your past lingering all around you like last years leaves that still need to be raked, and overgrown underbrush that catches and tangles as you try to walk through the woods. But you know your way through and sometimes there is comfort in knowing  what to expect, what it will feel like, how bad it can be.

And how good.

Together we have done both.

Now is the time for re-writing. Not based upon where you are, but who you are.

The answers are not found out there. They are found in here. Within.

Perhaps where I should have looked all along.

But even inside, the landscape has changed. I wasn’t then who I am now.

It takes making the journey to understand the path.

It takes travelling the path to become the traveler.

Marriage is like that. At least it can be.

A mysterious path beckoning you to come hither.

A safe place in which you both can soften.

A healthy place in which you both can continue to be nourished, nurtured and thrive.

As the simmering stew, or the garden bed, deeper and richer and fuller with time.

So is my love for you.

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin

As for the rest of the story…

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

It’s changing.

Seems like it’s early this year. When the clouds cleared this morning, I looked for snow on the peaks around our valley. Not yet. It’s close though. I feel it.

There’s frost on my boots in the cold gray morning as I let the horses out for the day. Breaking ice upon the water bowl as the chickens remain in the coop until the sun brings promise of golden warmth.

Across the valley, grasses brown. Flowers are fading, turning to seed. The landscape changes to earth tones. Browns and tans, greens and grays. Late blooming gentians and asters and ever blessing yarrow remain. Tips of the willows along the creek and a few patches of aspen start to strut their stuff and we are stirred with the excitement of changing seasons, the promise of vibrant color, and then the ensuing calm that will cover the land when the snows begin to fall.

I long to be a part of the seasons in one place, continuous and connected in the ever changing cycle, a part of the quietness that winter brings with her heavy cloak of white holding us down tight. I want to witness the frozen air of dry brown autumn wind turning pale as grass clings fiercely to its seeds, defiantly refusing to bow under the first snows of fall. And then I will yearn for swollen buds on the tops of aspen to promise new life in spring and await the late greening grasses to fill the horses’ bellies after a long, cold winter sustained on dry hay.

I may not be here to see that, feel that, this year, but I know it will happen some day soon. I am eager, but will wait my turn, will wait for this cabin to be finished, the barn built, and a wood shed stocked plum full.

Now I sit in our little camper, waiting out another rain storm loud on the thin metal roof, staring out of rain streaked windows at the solid cabin calling to be built.

In here with seemingly incessant drumming overhead, having trouble sitting still when what I want to do, what I’m called to do, is get that roof going up… it is a test of patience, when after all the tests of patience I have endured, what is one more? I will not pace the minimal floor space of the tiny camper; instead take a deep breath, inhale, exhale, let it go, and get to work… writing.

After all, I still got some ‘splainin’ to do…

Reminiscing on Riverwind:

               Out on the deck, beneath stars and under branches of old oak trees, I lay in bed, sheets still warm and worn, enwrapped by gentle wind, the song of the river and my husband’s gentle breathing. He lays beside me, already asleep, our limbs still intertwined, back to belly, belly to back. A lullaby of crickets and tree frogs and the honey fragrance of flowering madrone enchant me. I listen to white noise wafting up through night air to where we made our bed, serenaded by sounds of water flowing over smooth rocks, ever moving, ever changing, reverberating with the promise of impermanence.

               It is both time and love that heal all wounds.

As for that bomb we dropped? Yes….It’s true. We have chosen to part with our beloved Riverwind , and be with this high wild land.

You can click HERE to see the listing.

Please may I share the song of Riverwind and boast of an ode to that haven of a homestead tucked away in the mountains along the wild and scenic river? It was a transformation of heart and hearth, healing the land as we healed our souls, creatively toiling to bring the land to life. I will share it all some day. For now, I will let the silence of that peaceful place sing for itself.  

It will not change hands over night, as it was not built nor brought back to life that quickly too. Things take time out here. What’s the rush, you say? And part of me longs for the tranquility of the place that healed our souls as we healed the land.

Yet there is also the part that says, when you are ready to move on, move. Why cling to what you must release?

Sounds easy. It is not.

The hardest part is the people. Leaving people. Leaving community. Leaving the family and friends I have known and loved on and off for nearly thirty years. My closest family (G&S), my sisters (Jan, Cindy, Lori, Christina and more who have opened their heart and soul to include me over all these years as we wove our own stories and shared seeds and recipes, roots and cuttings, and a camaraderie and connection that I will never replace.

But really… I don’t want to write of that now. It’s hard. It hurts. And I’m not gone yet.

So yes, there’s lots more to say and share but for now, I’m changing the subject. It’s not really denial. More like just distraction.

So without further ado, here are some updates on cabin building.

We’ve been at it almost three months. In that time, we got a solid access road built, dirt work/site prepped and foundation dug out, wash water system in, well and pump, concrete footer and stem wall poured, floor joists and subfloor installed, wood beams defining walls, windows and doors roughed out, and most recently, ridge beam and rafters hoisted up and into place.

Next, we’re going to get those roof panels raised, metal on the roof, and close in the windows and walls. And of course, install a wood stove.

I’m thinking it might actually all get done.

Before the snow flies? Well on that, we’ll see.

Here are a few pictures and videos explaining how it works.

I know… Seems like it’s all Bob. Some days it feels that way. I’m just the back up guy. The one with the level and tape, pot and pan, handing him the drill, trying to manhandle the timbers, climbing the ladder, catching the beam, and trying to get it to land just so. Remarkably, it often does. But Bob, he’s the chainsaw guy. Which means, he’s been the one to actually fell all the trees, prep them for milling, and once hauled clear across the west as he’s done, then cut the timbers to length. That means a lot of handling and cutting for each log that goes into place. For Christmas last year, I got him this really cool tool. Not real romantic, I know… It’s called Big Foot, an attachment to a chainsaw that enables you to cut angles really true. Not just 90 degrees, but whatever angle we need. Figure, adjust, set and saw, and there you have it. We make it sound easier than we make it work, but it does work. I mean, look at all the angles he already cut. Most are 90 degrees, but those gable ends end up beautiful (beauty being in the eye of the builder, of course).

It’s going along good. Right on schedule, which is a pretty impressive thing for a couple of older folks who should be wise enough to know better than to start all over again.

               I am getting there. Closer to that place deep inside that whispers, “Welcome home.”

               Connection comes, with land as with people, in time and age and stories. It comes with living through droughts and floods, fires we fend off together and snow storms that keep us apart. It comes with seeing our children grow and our parents age and our dreams emerge and some things fall and fail while others take root and grow.

               Some of us are seekers. You know, always looking. For something. Usually ourselves. That’s what I think I’m finally finding.

               And in the meanwhile, I will settle in some days, and move around on other days. I will try and sometimes fail. I will give and sometimes falter. I will work and tire and wake again and get back out there again and again. I will tend and plant and nurture. I will dream. I will love. And I will live. Not like my parents wanted me to. Not like society expected me to. Not like I thought I would have, should have, could have. Probably not like anyone else. But finally at fifty-eight, I’m growing my own skin, comfortable with my bones, able to look in the mirror and though I may wince for a moment at what I see, for the woman looking back at me is much older than I thought I’d ever be, I’m learning to feel at home in that skin and bones that is me.

               I am growing up.

               That does not mean I will suddenly be serious and stern. I will not wash up and get a desk job. I will not be that boring, stuffy, straight, sensible-shoe sort I used to think all grown-ups had to be. I don’t plan on cutting my hair nor keeping my fingernails clean. Chances are I won’t ever become the one to say the right thing at the right time, and certainly won’t ever have all the answers. Nor will I stop making mistakes, dusting myself off, and trying yet again. Maybe I won’t ever settle down.

               As you see, I’m not there yet.

               Maybe we never arrive.

               Maybe this has all been growing pains, the changing of the tides through the turbulent sea of midlife and menopause and the pursuit for finding the forever place, as I furiously worked my way out of one shell and built a new one around me.

               We all have a story. This is mine. Chances are, you have felt this too. It’s a simple tale, old as time. A story of seeking, forever seeking, some sense of belonging. And getting to that place of realizing what we’ve been running after is within us all along.

This summer was meant to be about more than building. It was a chance to see if I’d fall for the land.

Guess what?

I did.

A part of me woke up here. A feral part, admittedly, but a part all the same.

The wilds. Drive me. Wild.

In wild places, with room to roam, my soul not only stirs, it soars.

This is my temple.

This is my therapist.

This is where I belong.

Until next time,

With love, always love,                                                                                                   

Gin

Up close and personal…

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

… with wild flowers and tame horses.

Two months into it here, this is what my garden looks like:

It’s alive. That’s about it.

But then again… two months into California, this was what my garden looked like:

It wasn’t much alive at all.

After a few years there, however, this is what it looked like:

The moral of the story: Don’t give up. Keep on keeping on. Try, even when others think you’re a little nuts. Because maybe you are. And maybe you have to be if you’re gonna be the one to see what’s not there, and then have the commitment, discipline and determination to bring a dream to life.

A couple of stories I want to share with you today about wild flowers and tame horses.

In starting to learn the wildflowers that bloom on our new land, I’ve had the opportunity to reconnect with many of my favorites like monkshood, yarrow and gentians.

After watching a rare sighting of high country bee relish nectar in what I otherwise would have thought was something to avoid, I even have new found appreciation and maybe even love for the once dreaded  meadow thistle.

There’s one I’m still working on figuring out who it is, what it’s about, what lessons it has to share (besides the mystery and patience required in researching ).  Could be osha, porter’s lovage. Could be poison hemlock. Could be something else. Latest I heard from the best expert I know was: “I wouldn’t eat it if I were you.”  Don’t worry. I won’t.

And then of course there remains my obsession with wild grasses of which there seem to be a dozen varieties or more flourishing together in harmony on this rugged land.

One of my favorite plants both for medicinal and culinary uses is urtica dioica or stinging nettles. She’s in my daily tea year round, and in springtime, she’s the shining star of soups; a cleansing, healing, nourishing tradition. Since we’ve been here, I’ve been looking for her.  Just couldn’t imagine life without her. Figured she might not be present because of the altitude yet there are unexpected surprises, good and bad, that pop up on this land possibly due to invasive range cattle and negligent range fencing. I never once stumbled upon her in the two decades I wildharvested up river, which is just a little lower in elevation and not too far away.

Still I scoured along the road as Bob would  drive along slightly lower grounds, sticking my head out the truck window, sometimes saying  “stop!” then jumping out only to be disappointed as I find some other unwanted weed.

The other day, in a small patch of disturbed dirt between my so-called garden (the tomatoes and greens I grow for mice and squirrels), and our little camper, I was squatted down beside a low growing plant I’d noticed starting there. It was getting ready to flower and I thought I’d pull it out before such a weed spread. (I’m always aware of invasive species, trying to improve the pasture and land).

So I reached out and grabbed, full force fist, pulled and uprooted.

Now, I’m not one of those who can harvest nettles unscathed. And this time, as I grabbed with full fist, was no different.

Ouch.

I’ve never been so pleased to be in pain.

It was my beloved nettles. Careful what you ask for? Or at least… pay attention.

Needless to say, I replanted her right away, with soft soil, a splash of water, and a grateful blessing.

How could I have been so wrong? Well, in my defense, here she grows as a ground cover not much more than a few inches tall. Cultivated in my garden in California, she grows well over my head. As I rode across the west, we met regularly in the woods and along the trail, often in the wild places of Idaho, where, growing to heart or eye level, she blessed me with well needed nourishing greens as I carefully picked a few of her leaves and added them to my soup at night.

I’ll take making mistakes to learn something as pleasing as this.

The other plant I wanted to tell you about today is elephant heads, or pedicularis groenlandica.

It’s easy to see how I could be so enamored by such a flower, yes? But it’s not just because of her cuteness. It’s because of this story.

The second year I worked for Bob outfitting along the upper Rio Grande, we were guiding  a several day trip, leading guests and full packs across a marshy meadow just below treeline in the high country. Suddenly Bob dropped both reigns and lead to his pack string and gracefully jumped off his horse in one swift and smooth motion (as back then, only Bob could do), bent over, picked one flower, then approached me on my horse who  like me was wondering what he might be up to.

“Shhhhh…” Bob whispered as he handed me the flower. “It’s a nursery. Baby elephants are sleeping,” he said as I look in amazement at something I’d never seen before.

See why I wanted to marry this guy?

Though if I’m not mistaken, just a couple days before when we were getting ready to head off on this trip and I was bucked off my horse, landing a little battered and bruised on my back, and he didn’t even help me up or wipe the blood, I was saying something very, very different.

Don’t worry. Twenty something years later, though I can honestly tell you there’s been many more of both kinds of stories than I care to recount, I have never once wished he wasn’t mine.

Finally a few thoughts to share with you on joy, just because, and maybe to think about as you enjoy your weekend, wherever you are, whatever you are doing.

I’ve been thinking a lot about joy. The puppy has been my guru on that one. He’s joyous. Just plain joyous. Life is full of joy for him, and honestly, it’s contagious.

Bayjura is back, and the horses are settling in together, with each other, with us, living side by side, horse and human, in our daily rhythms and rituals and adjustments, like managing the shocks of the morning moose (which has become so regular even the horses are reacting less).

I was expecting more joy from Crow bringing Bayjura home from breeding. It was a mild homecoming, mellow, gradual, almost standoffish or so it appeared to me. It’s as if he noticed something different, and she’s been different, and joy has been more of an “oh, okay, that’s fine” feeling of acceptance rather than the big exciting dramatic display I was expecting.

And maybe that’s okay.

Remember how joy came easily as children, when we’d find joy in the simplest things and in natural states of wonder.

But then we “grew up” and joy became more complicated. Complex, convoluted, tangled in a web of expectations, demands, criticisms and judgments.

I want joy to be abundant again, found in all the simple wonders, all around, every day. It’s all there, just waiting for us to slow down long enough to see, hear and feel that which is already there, just waiting for us to find it.

Look around.

And listen.

There’s joy. Right there, where it’s been all along.

Maybe it’s quiet. Subtle. Even a little shy about it. But check it out. It’s there.

Joy. Just waiting for you to notice.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

And a little joy,

Gin

~

 Slow dancing with the creative muse.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The sky put on a display all day and seduced me back into love for life and this land after a day where she had knocked me out (quite literally) again. It was magic, reviving me, hour after hour, as my stomach settled and my feet found grounding once again. All the photos I share with you today are completely unaltered. God and/or this beautiful world graced me with this show.

As the painter cares not to color a canvas solely for the pleasure of her own eyes, so the writer is called to share words that you might enjoy; be it for entertainment, education, empowerment, and/or to find yourself somehow relating or releasing or escaping within the images the words spawn.

Yet what happens if the words I am called to share are not what I feel you will find pleasing? What if they are dark, as I confess, mine tend to tangle with? Do I harbor and hide them, or have the courage to boldly express and hope that you will not run away? Perhaps you might even shyly step closer, finding yourself still somehow in a similar state from time to time, knowing you are not the only one.

I’m not a sunshine, daisies and bunnies kinda gal. I’m more stormy skies and tempestuous wind and then a subtle glow in gray clouds to the east at dusk. Sometimes that makes for a pretty picture or enticing poem or captivating tale to share. But sometimes I’m afraid it might just scare you away.

And what about social media? Can it be a safe playground to play with words and hone my craft and reach out in the process? It is concerning as I find myself baring my soul as an outlet for both heart and art. This has always been something I have struggled with. I am an introverted introvert, and find my solace in silence and wild places. So what the hell am I doing trying to, if not master than at least muster, the craft of connecting online?

Is the intention to appease the ego or the muse? The ego is a trickster at times, fooling us to feel what we’re doing is “good” and “right” and maybe even for others, when I wonder if it is not more for her insatiable need for stroking. So does she fool me into feeling uncertain, unsettled, and a little absurd.

But the muse – oh my turbulent muse, she has a hold on me that I care not let loose of. I have always said I can’t not write. At times I wonder why. For the sake of the scratching pen, the alluring sound of words, or for the mood it imposes upon self and others when I manage to get those words write?

For when she dances within me, seduces me in her intoxicating embrace, she calls upon my courage to share. Boldly I open the curtains, as if ripping open a pearl snap shirt exposing a healthy breast, and let her fierce radiance flare outward without bounds. For she is stifled like a rained upon fire when I keep her under wraps, as a flower yearning to bloom bright from somewhere under confinement.

Oh, and as for progress… if you’re still with me…

After all those months of felling trees, clearing slash, dragging logs, milling lumber, stacking, loading and hauling across the West… to see the wood we loving harvested finally being put to use… It’s a thing of pride and joy, for sure.

And for those of you back in California. This is how deep you have to dig a water line in the mountains at 10,000 feet. Six to seven feet deep.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

The intimate connection between person and place.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

(viewing this land from the top of Boot Mountain)

Another morning sitting at the table in this tiny trailer to write while my husband leans back in bed less than ten feet away holding his coffee cup in his hands as if in silent prayer, and the dog lays with gentle deep breathing at my feet beneath the little table that serves as kitchen and office, work space and desk, and the first of today’s sun pours in from over the hills to the east, spreading across the table like spilled milk.

So much I want to share with you this morning. My hands are unable to move as fast as my mind, and my mind cannot keep up with the hugeness that is my heart right now. I want to share with you about the dozen mama elk descending from dark timber on our lower pasture whilst we sit by the campfire witnessing the nursery band of their babies held safe to the side by the sentinels while the mothers graze. I want to share with you the haunting sound of a family of coyotes at last light, singing to one another, but stirring us in the process, simply by bearing witness to their wailing, while our pup even sat still in reverie close by, amazed at the mystery of his distant cousins. I want to share with you the intoxication of being high, really high, top of the mountain high, above treeline and dizzy with elevation high in thin air with rubbery legs and a tired euphoric pride from having hiked from our camp to the high peak of these mountain, standing their together, my man and me, in absolute awe of the land we are becoming.

I guess what I want to share is simply the intimate connection between person and place; exposing the sensitive openness of the soul into nature and wilds. This is what I can give you today. This is what I offer to share with you with humble outstretched arms and a very vulnerable heart.

Already we start to see forever. That’s what we do and who we are.

We try to keep ourselves reined in. We’re just committing to today. We’ll see how things go from there.

Only we can’t help ourselves. It’s what we do. Connection with land grows, tight and strong and intense as we toil. So from the get go, we’re planning and plotting where the garden will go, the big hay barn, the calving shed… the three bay garage for our son…

Slow down.

We felt the reality of age in the last couple months – the back and forth of unwanted time on the road,  the physical limitations of our bodies, the unpredictable yet governing weather, the desire to enjoy the magic of whatever mountains we live in and the insatiable need to grow roots.

Can we grow old here? Can we grow old there?

We are not snowbirds. We don’t want two places, two lands, two lives. We are grounded. We work the land. Give more than we take. We become a part of the land, as the land works its way into our veins from open wounds, beneath our fingernails, into our pores, into our bones. The land finds its way into our callouses and sweat, and our blood seeps into the waterways and into the roots of the hungry trees.

I am monogamous with the land as I am with my lover, like my beloved ravens. I have mated for life, but I am not certain where we are meant to build our final nest.

The search for the sense of belonging is not found in the view but in the intimate connection between person and place that comes and grows with time, care, tending the land, committing to the community, good times and bad, hard times and easy, stories and dreams and dramas.

I don’t want advice. If I wanted a life like you, I’d have it. I want a life like me. That’s the wisest thing I can encourage you to do too – find your own way, listen to the song of your heart and have the courage to dance to that tune.

We’ll listen for the wisdom of the land and of our hearts. We’ll see what this summer brings.

Already I know I am not going to want to leave this land come fall. I want to commit. Wherever I am. But here, there is something that stirs me, tempts me, digs into my bones. I will want to see her wither and brown, then grey and white, brittle and frail and frozen. I will want to witness the silence of winter when morning birds head to lower ground and the creeks freeze over and the branches are stripped bare of quaking leaves. I will want to stand out upon her frozen grounds and listen to the distant call of the coyote and the raven, the few hearty enough to remain, and say yes, I am with you, I too not only endure, but find the beauty and awe and wonder and grace in the wide, wild, white open slate that winter will bring.

But for now I want to just be here. Experiencing the wilds. The wilds that hold us, open us with frozen mornings and biting winds, and define us with the challenge of our heart to not only endure, but to burst free.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Held by here and now.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

~

And in that time and space between here and there and somewhere yet to be, there is a place, safe and warm and gentle as a quiet voice or hidden stream. Almost imperceptible, but there if we stand still long enough to hear. Like the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is there. Just waiting for us to sit down and take a breath.

Early morning low sun through massive fir trees on the edge of the forest behind me casts shadows like daggers across the meadow where the dogs romp together in tall grasses still wet with dew.

Today I sit on a simple little bench built of scraps of lumber from this land. Surrounded by soothing sounds, sounds of the familiar – the river, the birds, wind through broad oak leaves. Sounds that hold us in place. 

Held by branches of a sprawling ancient oak.

I lean back into thick bark of the old oak tree. She holds me. Her branches reach around me and I feel like maybe I belong. Right here, right now.

At least for now.

I feel her embrace, like a mother, not a lover, allowing me a safe place to simply sit and be. She asks for nothing in return. The Giving Tree. As if she were only here for me.

Maybe it’s the stillness, the solitude, the simplicity, the natural beauty of this precious moment that every moment could be. Or is it the knowing that I have chosen to leave her let again to fulfill some persistent longing. Whatever it is, it washes over and I find myself for some reason wanting to cry, something that rarely happens (and I’m glad for this) since leaving menopause a safe distance behind.

It’s not that I’m sad or mad. It’s more like some sort of melting, a letting go, a complete release now that the armor is gone. Allowing myself to feel the connection with the tree, the air, the light, the dogs and the world around. All of it. Big stuff. I’m just one grain of sand along an endless shore.

Connected. Belonging. No matter where I am, though for now I find myself here against this solid tree.

I bow my head humbly into my hands and offer a place for tears to land, but really, there is no need to cry. It just feels good to know I can. Knowing I am somewhere safe enough to do so, to express myself with nature, with a natural release, a shared sense of humanity, of all living things.

And that feeling of belonging, to the trees, the grass, my dogs, to all of it, the bigger picture…

Yeah, this is big stuff I’m feeling.

And when you feel like that, what else can a gal do but cry?

And as I prepare to leave, if only for a little while, I wonder:

What holds us in place?

What brings us together?

That is what I want to know.

That is what I’m curious about. This is what I want courage for.

There’s too much separation.

A rift, a void between us all, like a looming black hole and we’re all afraid to step in and see if there’s common ground in there. But I believe there is.

A common thread that holds us together if we dare to feel it. It’s that which connects us, reminds us we’re all in this together. Maybe it’s something shared, like emotion or beauty or awe. These are things we all know. Not only that “beauty in the eye of the beholder.” But beauty in the universal sense. Like looking at the moon from fifteen hundred miles apart. Far apart as we may be, we both stare in wonder.

Please, tell me there is. Solid ground between us. Somehow I need to know this as I find myself leaving something solid, and stepping into the air of unknown.

No more time for baby steps. Now it’s time to leap.

Still, somehow there’s plenty of time to run after baby chicks with my camera and cut a barrage of bouquets just because. But packing? Ha! It’s oddly easy to put that off, waiting until the last minute, then stressing and sweating and running around like a wild hare… But no matter how it gets done, it will get done, and we’ll be on the road. Again.

This time will be different. Every time is.

This time, we’ll be together, and that is a comfort I don’t take for granted. Always harder alone, but sometimes we gotta do that too.

This time too I know where we are heading and the route we’ll take to get there. At least I know this more or less. It’s high and wild, rough and raw and rugged, and I am drawn to all of that as well.

It’s that pioneer spirit.

Or is it gypsy blood?

Maybe I’m just curious.

Curiosity is a curious thing.

How will I know unless I try, taste, touch and see for myself?

For is not curiosity the driving force behind pioneers, travelers, explorers, and even us simple folks with itchy feet?

In any case, curiosity calls. Loud and clear. And as if lured by the Pied Piper, I’m dancing that way.

For now, we are here, and at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.

A morning cacophony of summer bird songs makes me smile before I even get out of bed. From the kitchen table over morning coffee, we watch chicks on pasture and goslings in the river and rose blooms so heavy the bushes bend in abundance. Finally the garden has hit that point of saturation where we’re harvesting more than we can eat each day. There are few things, like a barn full of hay and the firewood shed stacked full, that make me feel like a wealthy woman. Today, my coffee cup runs over.

Now begins the challenge of seeing all over again. The promise of polish in a very rough stone.

Fair thee well for now, my beloved Riverwind, my haven in the hills holding me as if between  generous breasts with your untamed river wrapped around this mild, wild land and entangling my spirited heart along the way.

Colorado, here we come…

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Getting closer…

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Things shifted overnight from, “We got this,” to “Holy crap, are we gonna get this?”

We leave in one week.

So far, the stress hasn’t come from thinking about building a cabin from the ground up in one season (we’ll see how far we get), at an elevation of 10,000 feet, while tending to horses, chickens, dog, and garden (yes, I am bringing a “portable garden”) all the while spending the summer together in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 without running water or electricity but with an outhouse nearby, a bucket to bathe in, and as usual, no where near neighbors, pavement or cell phone service. That said, we are setting up a simple solar system just large enough to charge cordless tools and operate starlink from time to time. Our compromise at modern living.

What has been harder is preparing to leave this place behind.

That’s where our attentions and efforts have been. Mowing, weedwacking, weeding, watering, organizing, tidying, trying to get this place in a space that will safely hold its center in our absence. And still finding time to be with beloved friends and neighbors, the river, the wind, the air and essence and little bit of tended wild that is this wonderful place.

And of course… there is this. The garden. My baby.

For anyone who has ever tended to the land with nearly as much love as we gave to our children, you know what it’s like.

Seems like this baby is always the biggest user of my time. Sucks time away and I don’t even notice it’s disappeared until I wonder where the day has gone and why I am so hungry. But you know, they say it’s those kinds of things, those things that you totally lose yourself in, and lose track of time, that show you where your true passion lies. Gardening is one. Most anything outdoors, I guess. Working the horses, riding, hiking, and writing inspired by the wild…

It wasn’t always that way, and maybe that’s part of what makes it so endearing to me.

Here are a few “before” pictures Bob pulled up of this land, to share the perspective of space where the garden now grows.

This was a baby born in a painful birth of being scraped with a skid steer to clear the open slate.

That was nearly six years ago. Almost six years of watching her grow, spread her wings, and fly, deeply grounded. Six years of hauling a shit load of top soil from the other side of our land, mail ordered earthworms, innumerable bags of steer manure and organic amendments to get her growing, and shoveling manure every single day I was here. Keeping the poop in the loop, and the loop ever growing.

And now, see what a few years can do?

To her, I have given blood, sweat and tears. Lots of tears. I cried a lot when we first broke ground. “It will never work, it will never grow, it will never be beautiful,” I would cry to Bob quite regularly. As usual, he’d just patiently listen and watch as I got back to work. I am glad to say I was wrong.

She has provided for us in kind year round. For a couple with a primarily vegetable based diet, that’s something to be proud of. Yes, it means we eat simply and yes, it gets boring at times. Believe me, by March we’re usually pretty sick of old winter squash and bitter kale while we’re waiting for the new crops to outgrow the slugs after winter’s heavy rains.

I’m sitting there now, flip flops kicked off and toes thick in grass, listening to swallows chatter about their nesting box while swallowtail butterflies and hummingbirds dance around the profusion of brilliant colors just beginning to emerge for the season. And all the while this intoxicating fragrance of rose, oh! all these roses! gracefully bowing as they bend in abundance, most of which were started by sticks I stuck in the ground and trusted they would grow. They did. While meanwhile and always, this space is serenaded by the ever present hum of the river that wraps around this land.

Of all the work we did here, clearing, cleaning, caring, opening dry and dead and overgrown, trash strewn and fire damaged that was this land when we first arrived, the garden has grown to the crown jewel of the land.

Beside the roses, what I’m most enamored by is all the fruit trees we’ve gifted to the land: apples and pears, plum and persimmons, walnut and almond and fig. And most endearing to me are the peach trees started from seed. You see, four years ago, the Old Man gave me five pits. He had saved them ten years and handed them over with reverence. Told me they were the best peaches he ever had, so he planned on planting them some day. I gave it a try. Put those pits in a pot with some soil and set them out in the garden all winter and lo and behold, by spring, shoots shot up and last year, I picked the first peaches. A humble start, but worth it indeed. This year, those trees, though still somewhat small, are laden with fruit and bending to the weight of their juicy promise… which (don’t remind me, please!) I will not be here to enjoy. Funny things is, one of those peach trees looked a little different. Turns out it’s a nectarine. I love these little surprises in life.

One final breath out here in this little bit of paradise, then time to get back to work, loading the last of the lumber into the horse trailer that will carry a lot more than horses on this trip across the West.

A deep breath. With our departure just a week away, yes, it gets scary at times.

Scared? Yes. Change is always scary, isn’t it? Change of pace, change of place.

Change of heart?

Hopefully only a heart growing, expanding, unfurling like the roses surrounding me.

Mine is not a fearless heart.

I would rather it be a courageous heart.

For I would rather a heart that loves and cares and longs deeply enough that it knows what fear feels like, and chooses to love and care and long above that fear. I would rather a heart courageous enough to step forth into fear, like stepping into the stirrup and settling onto the back of a bronc.

So here we go. Again.

Stepping.

Hold onto your hat and enjoy the ride!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin