Two different sides of wild.

March 16, 2016March 20, 2016 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Stand still.

Listen.

A primordial heartbeat, deep and low, buried inside the great expanse of the thawing lake…

Felt within like a slow, steady drum, the Earth pulses back to life.

Ice moans, the river swells, snow is consumed, and red wind roars from the west. The redwing blackbird, blue bird and robin return.

Solstice nears again.

After the dormant season of natural withdrawal, now I too stir to life, sharing words upon awakening.

Today I share a rather unusual post.

First, an article on birth. The wild side of birth. Or perhaps, a little bit about the wilds within us all. If you’re interested, you can take a look here: www.cordmama.com.

Second, a follow up to a previous post for which many of you have asked me for a follow up. So, following is just that. (Got all that?)

An Update on the Elusive Lynx Relocation Efforts along the Upper Rio Grande

The lynx release program into the southern San Juans has been ongoing in our area for nearly twenty years by the CPW, formally the CDOW. Today this project is co-managed and funded by the USDA Forest Service. We love to look at this as a “wildlife success story,” but sadly, we see a very different side to this story, and the biggest loser is the lynx.

The lynx are not listed as an Endangered Species. Nor were the lynx ever considered native this far south. From the US Fish and Wildlife Service website: “Historically, the lynx ranged across the vast northern boreal forests from Alaska to eastern Canada, including the northernmost U.S., and extending in an increasingly patchy distribution along the coniferous forests of the Rocky Mountains as far south as Colorado. For reasons that are not completely understood, the lynx is believed to have disappeared from Colorado by 1973.”

“…There is little evidence that the original lynx population ever lived as far south as the San Juan Mountains (‘Lynx Reintroduction . . .’). According to Byrne, in Colorado’s history there have only been eighteen confirmed records of the species living in the state, and only four of those occurred after 1935, with the southern most being near Breckenridge and the last near Vail in 1973 (‘Lynx Release . . .’)… Nobody knows what caused the species to disappear from this area the first time. Before the animals completely disappeared, their numbers had dramatically dropped for no apparent reason.” From <http://www.123HelpMe.com/view.asp?id=10148>

No evidence has indicated that these mountains were natural lynx territory, nor do we understand what actually caused their initial decline, but the propaganda and press have incorrectly been using the term “re-introduction” and the public has blindly agreed. And in this day and age of changing climate, global warming, whatever you want to call “the new normal,” trapping an animal in the north east of Canada, and bringing them to the “high and dry” southern Rockies… one can question the reasoning behind this program, see why this program has been struggling against all odds, and sadly understand why so many lives (the lynx) were lost in this human-induced effort.

But still, this animal has tugged at our hearts, received our support, and captured our interest with the regular use of stock photos of the precious kittens. But do we really know what is happening, what has been done, and at what price?

It is our understanding that other species released in this state eventually bring income to justify the human led venture via hunting, or rather, being hunted. Almost twenty years after the initial introduction, and how many millions of dollars later, and at the loss of how many re-located animals from their native Canada, these animals are not hunted, bring no income, and the program continues to spend.

We have lived here full time for nearly 15 years. We have seen more than many wished we would. We live gently upon the land and with the wilds (I am known for running with the wilds, not after them). So as much as I was enamored with the initial idea of having another small game predator on my mountain, we quickly turned from supporting to speaking out against the nature of this program when it became clear this was not for the success of the wilds, wildlife, or those out here connecting with the wilds, but for the success of the humans running the program from some far away desk. If the lynx survive, it will not be because of the efforts of these humans, but in spite of them. Nature is beautifully resilient.

It is reported that our county agreed to this introduction years ago, when those counties further north and more close to the natural lands the lynx once roamed refused. But has our county, or the residents, been involved, concerned, or in any way benefitted from this ongoing effort which cost the taxpayers millions of dollars? Do they even know what is going on?

For many local residents in both Creede and Lake City this project was considered a closed case and a lost cause years ago and most are unaware of any continued efforts, actions and funding. This operation has not been a part of the local community or economy, not supporting nor involving local residents. Furthermore, it is our understanding that the USDA Forest Service on a local level may also be unaware of the continued efforts and the oversight of the contract workers operating within the Forest. Who then is responsible? Who is making these decisions for which there is a great amount of money being poured out, and where is this funding coming from? And who is concerned with the comprehensive well being of the land and the wilds of the forest, and the public interest, which is intrinsically linked into the responsibilities of the Forest Service plans and actions?

Without taking the time now to site the years of noted and notable concerns with this program, the point here is to simply open your eyes to the current situations. The efforts are continuing, and at a rather large scale. Even from our limited observation base, we are aware of a crew of six trackers, and the daily back and forth by both trucks and then snowmobiles in attempt to collar a few healthy lynx. This is important to note as not all animals trapped are of course lynx, and not all lynx are in fact healthy, and thus not appropriate to collar.

This also brings up the point that we were informed by the CPW that this was a one year only effort in order that the Forest Service could trap, collar and observe the potential long term impact of the dying forest on the lynx. We know already that this so-called one-year program was in operation last year as well, though the trapping efforts were apparently not successful. And with at least one trap left behind and in place from this year’s efforts – do they intend to continue when the road becomes more travelled and the camp ground more used by fishermen, or leave the trap in a public campground and resume again next winter?

Just last week, I was finally able to walk up the road with my dog and without fear of running into the lynx trapping crew. Between the fact that a coyote had been killed for disturbing their operations, and the concerns that my dogs have been known to get in their traps for free goodies, I felt it would be best to stay away from their operations and avoid potential conflict or worse.

I walked to the well known and used campground beside the river at the far end of Brewster. It is an easy afternoon walk along the road, there and back, from my house. This is where I had camped alone in peace for two weeks at the end of hunting season last year and likely the most popular camping spot in Brewster and this far up USFS Road 520. This is also the historical location where the outpost used to be that once rented horses to help travelers get their wagons up Timber Hill. All in all, perhaps the most well know and well used location for recreation on this part of the Upper Rio Grande.

What I found in many locations around that campsite were green aspen trees and green spruce boughs cut and scattered under and around trees. One can presume this is where traps had been set all winter long. One trap still remains in the campground. It is covered by cut live spruce boughs. Cutting green trees, whole or branches, is against the policy of the USDA Forest Service. We have been told the CPW may operate “above the law,” yet leaving evidence of such activity in and around a public campground may not be of the best interests of forest users. This also goes against common sense when up to 90% of our spruce trees and a still uncertain percentage of our aspen have been lost in recent years. Look around up here – how much green do you see remaining?

This is just the latest degradation to land and wildlife observed this winter. Within the lynx program, this winter we’ve put up with dead deer hanging from trees as bait (though lynx are not known to eat dead deer – coyotes are), traps set alongside road with dead wildlife within, and of course, the infamous killing the coyote that was feeding on said bait that became a so-called nuisance to the trapping operations.

Trapping continued well into kitting season. This is the time of year mother cats are so desperate for food they once tried to follow my housecats through the cat door, and chewed on a tarp where we accidently spilled eggs another year. Furthermore, on the chance that a mama cat did fall for their bait and become stuck in a trap for 24 hours, what would happen to her newborns that need to nurse every 2 – 4 hours? One can only hope this was not the case.

…And what for? For the latest efforts, we were told trapping was for collaring and in turn for observing over the next five to ten years to see what impact the dying trees have on the lynx. Our trees have died and continue to die. Snowshoe hare eat the fresh branches of live spruce in the winter. And snowshoe hare are the mainstay of the lynx diet. You do the math. Will these collars tell us otherwise?

The saving grace here is that nature is adaptable. The survival of the lynx in their new territory will not be because of what we did, but in spite of what we do. And still, man (or woman) will take the credit.

The Still, Silent Rousing of Solstice

December 21, 2015 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Mid morning after a pale sun rises over the silvery snow of pasture. The last herd of elk on the mountain, a few cows led by a young spike bull, nervously jump the fence, one at a time, each one hesitating, stepping back, moving forward, a slowly progressing wave. They are working their way down river, down mountain. The horses watch. Curious, not disturbed. They see this coming and going every six months, as they remain. Now colder, now warmer, now working hard, now not much more to do than paw through the snow just for something to keep busy with while waiting for the next flake of hay. Now is their wild time. As it is for me too.

Mid day I sit by the river. An open patch where the creek comes in. Most of the river and creeks have frozen over by now, ice covered with snow, insulation. The mountain is quiet.

The other day on a snowshoe, a warm hillside, a dead standing aspen having held onto its leaves. The updraft air moves through the dried and brown leaves. A rustle like walking through the big piles of dead leaves we raked and jumped into as children. The sound stirs me. Remembering seasons past, yet to come, the great cycle to which we are but witness. Or are we a part?

Now I am here to listen. The song of moving water. Rising from seemingly fathomless black depths only a few inches deep.

This soft sound, the little space of open river.

I gaze with soft eyes, unfocused, a peripheral view, and it is like I remember as a kid staring into deep waters and waves of the infinite space of the sea. Daydreaming then. Daydreaming now. Taken away by the water.

Now she shows me her veins. A small spot open to the elements, of the elements. The life blood of the mountain. Exposed.

For a moment I sit with her, her song, her movement, her flow, the primordial pulse, the connection of life and blood, movement and eternal migration. The low sun dazzling on the tips of the currents, tiny white caps that have yet to freeze. I too know they soon will. Winter has only begun.

Today I return to the mountain. Away from my desk. Both of which I am a part. In which we find balance, ever shifting. We adjust our stance and move on.

Somehow fitting that yesterday my final work of last season was submitted. Today a celebration of completion found in the quiet wisdom of Solstice, one that is only heard if we listen closely, only seen if we are still and wait and watch.

Deep within a primal stirring.

In this time of deep dormancy, dark days and internal energy, it all comes together, at peace in its center, like the center of the earth, guarding its molten core, the slow gentle breathing of the sleeping beast exposed in an unexpected gust of warm air.

I hear him sleep, his gentle breath, and deep down into myself I follow.

Nature, the nature of our beings, of life, the nature of my soul.

Now is the time sap gathers in the roots and the bark remains dry. Out there it appears nothing moves. Day after day of still and white.

Now is an awakening, and a transformation, and though it may be a while before we can hold the well earned throne of crone, before then there is the Matriarch calling, and so to her I am shifting, opening, serving, and finding how to become what is unfolding into the most powerful stage of life.

The wings began to unfurl only months ago. They are still damp, drying, learning to catch air and lift me. And when they do, I have found myself higher than I have ever been. It’s not a giddy stage, but a solid one. As if the ground beneath me too has risen.

And though I wonder if I will ever fall back down again, the inner wisdom in me tells me not to fear. We find our truth in those dark corners and hiding under places others dare not peak. And so we overcome as we become.

A sharing of reflection, evidence, found buried beneath the snow.

Solstice as a time of contemplation, withdrawing, looking within. Followed by The Gathering. Of resources, wisdom, strength, direction. Followed in turn by A Time of Giving. The natural evolution of things, the way the wilds work.

We learn from the seasons, the cycles of life. Now with our blindly outstretch hands in winters early darkness. Our fingers reaching, touching, exploring. We see with eyes closed that which is most essential to observe.

I may not have time to share words with you for a while. In the meanwhile, I leave you with a long one to take in as you like. This is on the notion of Natural Resilience. Inspired by a group meeting I was honored to be a part of here at our ranch recently.

This was written almost two months ago, on my retreat, scratching out the birth of ideas with pen on paper as the first snows fell and the river only began to freeze and I was upriver alone and so fulfilled and the great shift began.

This is not polished, it is not meant to be. It is a natural outpouring, and nothing more.

All it is. All it needs to be. A drifting thought no more permanent or important as stick floating down river. A quiet reflection on Natural Resilience.

It is hard to see in the plush season of summer or the stark covered winter. But now, in her season of exposure, of abandoned quiet grace, we begin to see again. This time of year is so clean. An open view. Bare branches, with leaves freshly shed. Upon the unadorned mountain, clarity surrounds us. Now is the season of exhaling, letting go. A natural allowance in the cycle preparing for the well needed dormancy that is descending. Balance. The eternal cycles of life. With every death, be it the fresh needles fallen and crushed beneath my gentle steps as I run through the woods, or burned hillsides standing cold before you… from this loss comes rich fertility, new life, new growth. A new cycle begins, or rather, continues. As with us, each trauma, each challenge, each new experience a lesson and a chance for natural expansion. The eternal rise and fall, death and rebirth. We are reborn every day, every moment. We humans have a tendency to hold onto the past, perhaps out of fear, comfort or laziness. We remain attached to the way it was as we are attached to identities and desires. Like the standing tree that refuses to shed its leaves, or the fallen tree than refrains from rotting.

Is this natural resilience?

Just down river from my camp beside a large beaver dam, past a swath of mixed live and dead blue spruce and vigorous willow bushes making walking through a challenge as in a labyrinth, I stumble upon a group of healthy, fat old aspen trees, all fallen down into what appeared a senseless jumble. The beavers had done this work which at first looks like vandalism, irrational human doing. Silly me – for nature rarely works in ridiculous ways, things coming and going for a reason, with a cause and effect, a part of some bigger picture that we may never understand. Unlike our man made ways, the rest is interconnected, parts of the wave, now rising, now falling, one moving and in motion with the other.

They, the beavers, as so much of wildlife we’ve noticed around here this year, are preparing for a big winter. They see signs we miss. Further, as we have observed numerous times, the felling of large old aspen springs forth a mass re-growth the following year of new shoots. A common biological reoccurrence creating natural sustainability. Upon further observation, I note there are few “middle aged” aspen. After t he so-called drought in this area lasting ten or more years, followed this year by the incredible rains, what I do note is a field of brand new shoots, healthy and prolific, having arisen from this especially moist year. The cutting of the old trees will allow these light to grow, and new life will be initiated in the process. This seems random and pointless at first to us, but when we look closer, longer, and do not interfere but simply, silently watch, we see. Natural resilience in action.

Sitting on cool damp sand surrounded by the silent calm of dead standing spruce trees, in small intimate opening down by the autumn river, I meditate. Ice begins to form along the banks and on the north sides of large boulders. The flow is lower now, more tranquil, serene, as the upper mountain springs begin the big freeze for the season. As if even the water prepares for hibernation, quieting the pulse of the mountain.

Here, by the river, with no further distraction than the occasional passing bird, and my dog patiently sitting on guard behind me, it is easy to become mesmerized by the water flowing over rocks in the river. The sound, the motion, the light. The continual movement, and the shift of attention from the fluid water above to the steady rocks below. I consider if we, as human beings, are more like the water, always changing, moving, following the path, and eventually ending up a part of the great ocean? Or are we the rocks, calm and unwavering and worn to a smooth grace by each passing molecule of water, like all the events of our lifetime, our lifetimes.

Starting from where, I wonder, what sweet seeping spring high up on the mountain has this water come? Endlessly, the water gathers, grows, flows and finds its way around each rock on a calling forever moving, together. And the rocks, each holding firm but worn so soft and smooth to the touch, as the waters continually flows by, taking a piece of the rock with it and leaving the essence of the rock behind to tumble, reset or remain in the ever changing waters.

And as the water would not be contained if not for the strength and direction of the rocks, and the stones would not be exposed if not for the gentle force of the water, I am reminded there is no separation.

And so it goes, the continual movement. As a drop of water flows, merges, stills, evaporates, and returns to the river once again in the delicate yield of a flake of snow.

And so it goes, the wearing, smoothing, settling of the stones. As the undying breath of the river continually brings forth and leaves, inhale, exhale, the eternal balance of that which will be, that which was, and the stone sitting solid in the here and now.

Now in my hand I hold one of those stones. And another. Each soft and round and smooth. A bit unusual and oblong. Each unique. With my open palm I smooth a small patch of sand beside me. Slowly, I balance and stack, a small shrine, and do nothing more than stare at this pile of rocks.

Perfection found in the harmony and balance of so much imperfection.

Is this not the key to natural resilience, this understanding, acceptance, and respect?

Here, by the river. That began as clouds, and will return as clouds, and back again, and so continuing as long before and far after me, in this one body, this one incarnation, this one chance at understanding more.

Yesterday morning. I wake to the silence of the river. Snow enwrapping my world. The simplicity of the monotone environment, washed in white. All inclusive. Without judgment or preference. Spruce branches, both living and dead, bow gracefully, and delicate limbs of the aspen humbly hold what they can. It is so much. And this intimate connection which becomes our shroud reminds us of the grace coming from above, sparing none. I step out and stand within the open air temple. I hear the song of falling snow. I stand beside the trees and too am covered, my lashes full and white, bow first, then my snow covered cap and shoulders. Snow embraces me. I shed tears which become a part of this eternal movement.

I can study the beauty and mystery of one individual snowflake. Each so remarkable and fleeting as they melt in my palm. And then see the whole forest turning white, covered, included, embraced. Can we see both the magnificence of one tree and the majesty of the whole forest with the same eyes and heart? And then look inside ourselves. One cell, and one whole body. The interplay, the interconnectedness, the interdependence, the unique beauty in all its perfect imperfections.

How connected we all are!

Why then do we keep ourselves so separate?

This, I believe, is natural resilience. And I am a part of it.

We all are.

And here is the secret the earth shares with me in our silence together. I know you know this too. In spite of human greed, fear, anger and lust, in spite of what we do to the earth, the water still flows. The seasons still come and go. The waves ebb and flow. The sun rises and sets. Places burn, epidemics spread, and new trees, new life, like new babies are born.

Nature is resilient. Are we?

Life. Life happens. When we open our eyes and our hearts to see the incredible eternal power and beauty of the natural way, how can we not be in awe and be humbled?

We are in a time of great change. In change, there is great hope. For what? Open our eyes. Behold! Open our hearts. Breathe in deeply. I need not say more for the answers are all there before us and within us. This beautiful, resilient nature. Of which we are a part.

~ ~ ~

With grace and gratitude.

For my beloved mountain, river and Earth.

For those with whom the fierce love of land, all land, all waters, and the deepest reverence for the Earth drew us closer.

For those with whom my spiritual quest and questions have blessed me with our connection.

For the new life and exciting changes being breathed into our guest ranch, Lost Trail Ranch.

For my dear teacher and friend of The Matrona from whom I have learned as much about life as I have about birth.

For my next book now birthing.

And mostly for my family, my boys, my two best friends, my team. Together on this mountain.

On Thanks and Giving.

November 30, 2015November 30, 2015 / Gin Getz / Leave a comment

In consideration and reflection of the year long intensive study of midwifery, spirituality and life of which I have been consumed.

I have recently been coming to a very strong and beautiful understanding of the teachings within my own heart. For me, as with most things in life, this did not come without resistance and a little bit of kicking and screaming.Mostly, however, it came through letting go, dropping both veils and armor, and seeing the truth within myself which these studies have forced me to look at.

We are not meant to blindly follow nor be anything we are not meant to become, unless we find contentment as sheep in a flock. Not all of us do. Some will question, some will quest. For us, by diving deep with open mind and open heart, we grow, like an in-breath, and with time are filled with a greater understanding and clarity. How could we not? Or do we resist change and refuse the view before us? Remain closed, comforted within the past, heads safety tucked within the wool.

Inevitably, we are challenged to look at truth, within and around us. The truth may be a little different for each of us, but for all of us, the process of finding the way is not always easy, often somewhat painful, frustrating, and frightening. Such is the process of awakening or becoming. It is expansive, and in the course of expanding, we are often left with uncertain boundaries and in the confusing state of seeing how much we do not know. At some point, the bottom drops out, and we are left to… fall or fly. And then, in that ethereal state, there is where the work is done, when all else has been stripped away, deep down within our souls, in the dark corners we may not have dared to look before.

The more healed, whole and understanding we then work to become, the more healing, wholeness and understanding we can give. This is the greatest gift. For ourselves and in turn for others. Are we becoming better, or are we simply becoming more? If the answer is “more,” we will inevitably find ourselves surrounded by more choice, and more community. As we become, so we belong.

Funny how a solitary path can eventually bring us closer to others. Simple as it sounds, perhaps it is because of more love, starting with ourselves, and then feeling we have more to give to others. In the absence or weakening of ego, we are left with weakening power of fear, defensiveness, judgment and anger. What can replace that void, in time, but love and knowing? And so, we open our hearts, and find them full and connected. Our community, far away as they may be, is revealed. Although we may be drawn together initially as strong, self directed (wo)men, because of our connection, we find ourselves even stronger, though possibly with a more gentle touch. Such teachings, such shared wisdom, and such support in time help us come face to face with our own unique formula (and thus practice and offerings) for care based on truth, compassion, bravery, and love.

Listening to each other’s stories, and being a part of the community, are powerful reminders and confirmations of this understanding, and living proof of this growing feeling. The comfort of community is the staff upon which we must at times lean. For any form of growth for the sake of found truth, not given truth, and then any resulting following of the natural choice of paths to pursue these truths (in my case, this is midwifery) is a political act. Whether we wish it to be or not, all of us following this calling will at times be up against the conforming, controlling majority, and will be labeled the rebel, risk taker, black sheep, and of course, the witch. Almost amusingly when you see the irony, we may be called ignorant and irresponsible, though our knowledge and understanding may be far greater and deeper than those pointing fingers. Most may not have to endure conflict and condemnation, though in time, all of us will have our challenges, our story.

At 49, having lived and continuing to live an untamed and unconventional life, I still feel I am just beginning. To understand, to know, to belong. And the more I learn, the more I am aware of what I still need to know. Likewise, how can we know what we need if we have never see these things before?

And so we must trust. And so must learn to let go, like the essence of the Tao. And that, then, is when truth is revealed.

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ~ Lao Tzu

So thank you, my dearest ones, for extending the community and allowing me to be a part of this sisterhood. I am so honored to be with you on this journey. May we continue graciously joining voices – expanding in our hearts and in our circles – supporting each other in supporting others.

Rapture of the wild.

November 14, 2015November 14, 2015 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Since I was a child, I have spent hours at a time sitting with her, on her, connecting, as intimate as making love though quiet and without fanfare or explosion of emotion. Sinking, entering, merging, becoming. Finding selflessness and oneness. Connection. I have slept upon, wept upon, bled into her, fed her and she feeds me, tended to her, loved her like a child, a mother, a sister, a friend, an old wise woman. When in greatest need of answers, I turn to her. In my hardest times, I leave and commune with her. For me, she alone has the power to heal, connect, give, love, and allow. And teach us to find the wisdom and truth within our selves. It is there. There, here, it’s all the same. Because of the ultimate connection. We are of this earth.

Recently I returned after fifteen days alone by the river, with my dog, allowing the Artemis in me to run wild. In the cold and snow and darkness and solitude, it is easy to find peace and quiet, easier to look within, look around, connect, feel, understand. In undisturbed practice, we have the opportunity to fully open and receive, tune out and tune in, merge and become the teaching. Then the integration…

The lesson now is in bringing this peace and understanding which grew and thrived in solitude and nature with me back into the “real” world. It’s one thing to find peace in retreat. But what good does this do if we cannot bring it back with us, integrate and implement our greater awareness and understanding in our day to day life.

Already I live in and with and of the mountains, and still at times I am disconnected with the powers, wisdom and love of the Earth. Summer does this to me, with the tourists and distractions and noise. Motors and mouths and everything we do seems to be for them, our way of maintaining us, our life here. Like the Buddha, learning to practice, to find peace within reality is enlightenment – for me the challenge is in learning to find peace and connection during the tourist season, when humans are surrounding, around, a part of my otherwise wild life.

Still, after a long hard season with so many people (yes, relatively speaking…though I find I am one who gives so much, and do not establish and honor my own limitations well, a common trait among the female souls), the time alone in nature rejuvenates. Were I a rich and able man concerned primarily with my own enlightenment first and foremost, turning my back on my wife and child and having others feed and care for me, I too perhaps would sit for months until the answers came. Yes, we know he then spent decades after this sharing and teaching, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. I can’t just go off and sit under a tree for months on end. I’d starve. I’d freeze. My husband and son and all my animals would starve and freeze! But I am not. My path is different. I am a woman. As such, I give, I nurture, I care, and I love. I sense and I feel and I nourish. And as I am these things, the answers and wisdom and understanding come through these things. Through my service of being daughter, sister, mother, wife, midwife.

Buddha tells us we all have the wisdom within, and within us too we have the path to the way if we are willing to walk it, to sit it, to contemplate it. And the way is different for us all. It is work. It is time. It is obtainable by each of us. If we are willing to commit. I am. I waver. I return.

And it is closer every time.

She is my healer. My guru. The teacher I seek when I need guidance and answers most. The community I yearn for, in soil and rocks and trees and fallen leaves, in wind and rain and snow and blazing burning elements found high above treeline in the thin air and intense sunlight. In the hawk flying by in curiosity, and then away, far away, a pin prick, and then nothing but blue sky.

I meditate with softly closed eyes, face towards the low autumn sun, and the light and warmth and radiance enters me, fills me, overflows, and we become one, all of us, everything, everything on this beautiful planet. And yes, everyone.

It is the everyone that is harder for me to connect with and understand and even love than the everything. How interesting then that I should be called to midwifery, to serve my sisters. Indeed we are given the lessons we need to learn. The earth knew. My sisters know. All I can do is trust, and serve, and love.

Home.

September 29, 2015 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Going Nowhere.

July 20, 2015July 20, 2015 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

As the leaves turn full and fat and green

and wilds swell moist and plump and prolific

and views enshrouded in cool grey veils

and mornings frost and afternoons wash us away

As flowers burst forth and fruit attempts to ripen

and seeds within are scattered without

so far yet from fruition but emerging

coming to a life not yet realized

River voice speaks loudly

monotone and constant

And I vaguely remember the in and out

pulse and surge of waves

But we do not have that here.

Pale silver morning dew

frosted on tall green grass

already turned to seed

that this year may wash away

rather than scatter in the winds

Waving silky laden pregnant with promise

I do not know their names

any more than I know the names of flowers or birds

as they know them not and care not too

Only appreciate my recognition:

the blue one, the dear one,

the silly one that lights atop the outhouse,

the yellow one that blooms beside the door.

Geese grow their young and feathers of flight

and coyotes are wisely silent

and crow sits on the rock watching her mate

feeding her child now the same size as she

And the river barely lowers her voice on this year

that the snow gathers energy to return early

on this lush ephemeral season

which I will watch pass

And through which I will remain

now apart of where I tried to leave

finding roots sinking spreading taking strong hold

through bedrock without my blessings

Ah yes, and now they got me.

And here I am

and shall remain

beside nameless flowers

and familiar songs of birds and wind

and grasses bursting with next year’s life.

The season is short. How long until the winter coat begins to grow again?

Time to get to work.

Got a house to build, a business to run, school to study, bellies to fill, another move to make… and another book to complete and the next one softly raps against the door, waiting for room to come in.

A tremendous time of change.

Time to turn within and focus at the work at hand.

Spilling over, now is the time of bounty.

Expansion in retreat.

And though the writing room is being built and new books are spilling into fruition, for now I am taking a rest from sharing articles for a while.

I’ll touch base from time to time, a way to keep grounded and connected and remind you I care, because I hope you know I do. In the meanwhile, please keep in touch if you’d like – write me directly or via this web site (sorry, I no longer use other social media and prefer to keep it personal instead).

Until the next time we meet…

Creating Connection: Finding Balance Between Nature and Man.

June 8, 2015 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Random thoughts on awakening where we are.

We are all connected.

Then why too often do we feel so alone?

Within us all is a universal need to find our sense of community, of belonging within this big beautiful world; to find the special place where we belong, the special few to whom we belong.

I want to belong.

(Don’t we all?)

And yet, here I am.

Hiding in the trees.

Is not, then, here

where I belong?

Here, it is all around.
Surrounding, encompassing, embracing.

My community, where I belong, where I find myself, allow myself to be.

Nature and the wilds.

For half of the year, a white, still, silence shared between the trees and me.

Now, a passing motion, stirred by the heavy rains on raw spring soil. Rocks shifting in loose dirt, river roaring brown. Trees holding vigil as the seasons come and go and come again.

Slowly the mountain livens not with her accord but for the elk, deer, hummingbirds and humans that begin to migrate upwards.

And still, I reach for more.

The challenge of finding our place and space.

Becoming or creating a community to which we can be apart.

Expansive and inclusive.

Challenging and creative.

When it’s too easy to fall for same, similar, safe, close, closed.

Community can be that which awakens us, or that which suppresses us.

The choice is ours.

Community can be the pillow of protection, surrounding us with assurance.

Or it can be a matter of contention, rebellion.

The comfort of connection, or the battle to define one’s self.

Seal ones position or deny one’s place.

Surrounded by like minds, or contrary minds.

Absorbed in a similar reality, or forced to defend your views, define your truths.

What are your challenges in finding where we are meant to be?

Being a part, or being apart.

As we can not be all places at all times, or all things to all people, how do we realize the Self and place of Self within our world?

Here in the high country, spring is late to come. The leaves are only now opening and will remain attached for merely four months, at which point the trees release and we begin the big slumber that remains here for half the year, while the other three season share the other half.

Spring is a time of adjustments when I go from being the happy hermit to becoming the social misfit.

It is happening now.

Some days

I feel

closed in

Today

People in four directions

When what I reach for is

air earth water trees

Naked branches suddenly

thickening with leaves

views enclosed and narrowing

Silenced is the rushing river

Tonight in moist and mild spring air

I see lights in strange cabins

Brighter than the big spring moon

Dancing silver on winding river

I lose touch

With her

With me

Now is the time

I hole up

Withdraw

Turtle retreats to his shell

Is that where he belongs?

So, we’re coming out of the Wilderness. My dog and me. I am armed with my camera. Nothing more. Perhaps a half eaten granola bar in one pocket, a bandana in another, and chapstick in the third. What more do I need for a day hike?

What should I really fear our here that I cannot handle? What are we told? Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Yes, we have those. But it’s not them I have learned to look out for.

We’ve been hiking for how many hours, how many miles, on a trail that has not been used since the hunters were run off the mountain in last November’s snows. Tracks of elk, moose, deer, coyote. And my dog and me.

We’re almost back to the trailhead, and it feels like returning to civilization. This is often a strange and bittersweet place to find myself. My dog is ahead of me. I see movement just past the trees, so quite calmly I say, “Gunnar, wait.” He stops in his tracks and waits. Good boy.

Two more steps reveal a woman in day-glow colors and day pack, and odder to me still, a man with a big stick in both hands, held over his head, shaking it at my dog, who reads people well enough to know not to get close to this one.

Maybe it was Bear Phobia. Here he is, going into the Wilderness, and you know what he thinks he’ll see. Not some little wild woman and her friendly dog.

Is he friendly, the man asks, still shaking the big stick. Yes, I reply, he is. I call my pup and continue on, growling beneath my breath something about how I’m the one he should watch out for, not my dog…

See, it’s not the bears I’m afraid of up here. It’s the people.

This was my first chance encounter with the human race on this mountain this year.

Is it any wonder why I long for the return of winter?

Take a deep breath.

Don’t go there, I remind myself.

Open up.

What matters more than connection?

We are all connected.

Then why do I feel so detached?

Here I watch people come, people go. At times my heart sings when they leave; other times it aches as they vanish like a passing storm that left the soil soft and ripe.

With each chance encounter, we have the opportunity to learn, laugh, love.

Upon fertile grounds of compassion, we open, expose our souls, and though we risk being left empty when they take what they want or need and leave, we also chance a great awakening, or a simple story, or something beautiful shared.

Passing though, they come and go, unlike the certainty of the seasons, but with the season.

For years I fought to leave

Time and again, she pulled me back

(kicking and screaming at times)

And tied me down

Only now do I see here is where I belong

Not because I have given up, but because I have opened up.

My community, I found in the trees.

Here we learn the natural adjustment to the seasons.

The cycle of life

To which we are a part

Neither above nor beyond.

As the leaves emerge bright and shiny and as suddenly the size of squirrels’ ears, only to fill out and wash the hills in a lush green wave, until the brilliant gold of late September in long shadows lays the land back to rest, and under the white we remain.

Expand into this world

Like breathing…

There is neither right nor wrong

There just is.

Along with our need to find our place

Within some precast mold to which we may not fit.

And when we learn to let go

And be

We may find ourselves

Way out here.

And still

Fully connected

A part of it all.

Still…

I sit with the evening sun on my face

Bound by the lull of a rushing stream

Dandelions aglow on the moist hill on which we rest

Leaning on and into each other, wordless now, my husband and I

The dog on vigil behind us

And…

For one beautiful moment

This is exactly where I belong.

Where I want to be, without wanting more

It feels so right to say that, to know that, to feel that,

to finally believe that,

until the wind reminds us to leave.

The adventure of standing still.

Am I wrong to say this is where I belong

This is my community

And find connection, wisdom, soul

In wind, water, bark and branches?

Do trees have soul?

The collective soul.

These are the old wise ones.

A walk deep in the woods with a small glass jar in one hand, sticky fingers in the other, gathering pitch from my beloved once blue spruce. The old ones, the big ones, are now long gone; their sap dried and brushed into the earth by elements and time. Now it is the smaller ones putting out their last liquid essence in a vain attempt to hold life, when what they are doing is dying. I am collecting the blood and tears of their wounds to create a healing salve. To honor my neighbors, my friends.

As I reach into the dried bare branches once green and lush and flexible, snapping them off with no more than the weight of my extended arm, stretching towards the last of their golden, glowing life oozing through their wounds, my flesh is scored by a broken branch. My tears and blood blend with theirs. Different colors, mine warm and red, and yet all the same, is it not?

Their souls remain after the needles fall. Perhaps a secret stillness remaining in their roots for a year or more in the silent soil.

And then they are silent.

Where do their souls move onto?

In winter

I bloom

Fragrant and bright and wild

Where am I going,

you ask

And I tell you

I do not know.

On Seasons and Enlightenment

May 25, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Spring. The season of letting go.

So begins the natural year. Rebirth. New life. Last years’ leaves enrich this year soil. Last year’s blossoms have become this year’s seeds. Nourish them. Give them room. Allow them to take root. Tend to them wisely and they will grow.

Now is the time to get grounded. We can start with Spring Cleaning.

So it’s Spring. Here in the high country it comes in small doses. Rations. Little tantalizing tastes. And then another snow storm hits and your world is white and you wonder if that bright green grass was just a dream…

Now’s the time of fixing fences, dragging pasture, shoeing horses, getting the stock (and ourselves) in shape for the work of the upcoming season, clearing trail, and up here, always gathering fire wood.

All that fun stuff aside, this is the time of year I’m Cabin Cleaner Extraordinaire. Not really the most romantic part of my position in life, but the true meat-and-potatoes. The part that makes the rest of it not only possible, but worthwhile. The part that’s about giving, sharing, gratitude and humility. Without which, well, what’s the point? Self-indulgence only gets you so far. It gets old fast. At least, one can hope it will.

Anyway, we run a guest ranch. Six rental cabins. All sitting shut down, unused, gathering dust and cob webs and muddy prints and dirt from who-knows-where but there it is, for the past six months. Each one to be transformed into spic and span, and warm and welcoming with the touch of my magic broom.

See? Plenty of practice in the spring cleaning department.

So here I am, with a bucket and mop and wet rag, and I get to thinking…

About enlightenment.

What does cleaning have to do with enlightenment?

A lot!

First, let’s considered this. What is enlightenment? For definition, look around at those you might consider enlightened. Are they in one place and remaining there stagnant? Or are they involved in a process? I think we often look at (are told) enlightenment is one single state rather than a way of being and an ongoing journey, an evolutionary existence. Like the seasons, a continuum of birth, growth, death, transformation, rebirth.

We look to authorities for the answers, when they are within us and around us all along. Learn to listen. Quietly. To the sound of rain on soft spring soil and the rustle of newly emerging leaves.

What do you believe? Not what you were told, given or born into, but deep inside yourself if you dare to take the time to look. Tell me about those truths.

I see enlightenment not as some final product and divine state, but as the simple process of conscious being… which begins with letting go, lightening up.

So, lighten up!

No, it doesn’t end there. It doesn’t end. But that’s where it starts. So let’s start.

Enlightenment need not be something exclusive and elusive. We give it high airs and think it’s out of reach, some unobtainable state reserved for the special few. The term is often misused or over used, as in, “I am,” “He is,” “She is,” and, “You, sorry, are not…”

That’s not true enlightenment. That’s ego. Let that one go too.

Enlightenment is within us all. It is without judgment. Without expectation, assumptions, demands. It is without heirs, pretentions and prejudice. And it is not like a light bulb that once we flick the switch, it’s on for good. It too needs tending. It ebbs and flows like waves and wind. We don’t get somewhere and remain there. It is not one place. It is a never ending process. It is life and beyond life.

It’s all of us, all the time. It’s do-able It’s a state we all are in, any time we change and grow and even try to understand. Any time we make room within us to open up and clearly see and be. It’s not always big stuff. Start small. Start with cleaning. Cleansing. Letting go. Opening up.

This is just the first step. The first season.

Cleaning, cleansing, clearing yourself of what you no longer need. Getting rid of old baggage.

Yes, it’s that simple. And that hard. Because we all know how hard it is sometimes to just let go. We’re quick to cling, to hold on tight, and define ourselves by things we’ve had or happened in the past. We’re slow to see how bound we are until we begin counting and releasing our attachments.

So, we start by letting go, lightening up. Get rid of that stuff. Shed.

Enlighten!

The path to enlightenment is different for us all. I live in and with nature. So for me, it’s easier to see life as a natural process. Here’s how I see it work around me, and thus within me:

Spring: Clean up. Let go. Lighten up. Enlighten.

Spring cleaning of the body, mind and soul… and cabins and land.

Take care of them all.

Everything matters; nothing matters.

Consolidate. Prioritize. Pare down to the basics. Get rid of the baggage.

Clear yourself of judgments, expectations, assumptions, demands, criticism.

Just be.

Be curious about the beautiful world around you.

Be a part of it, not separate and detached.

Fully connect.

Get to know yourself. Unadorned with ones past, possession or pretenses.

Let go of the ego, self definition and social status.

What are you left with?

Fresh soil on a raw spring day.

Summer: Work. Give.

This is the season of plenty.

Expansion.

Of growth and abundance and long days and clear connection with heaven and earth through sun and rain and rich soil and the brilliant colors of wildflowers and soft embrace of the wind.

Now it’s time to replenish, fill your self with positive stuff.

Nourish and nurture. Our body, mind, soul. Those around us, the world we live in.

What matters most?

Whatever works for you, but not just for you:

Pray, meditate, practice, tend to your body, the Earth, give, do and care for others?

We live in the days of choice.

Consider widely.

Choose wisely.

Autumn: Remain. Complete.

Autumn. Settling in, stocking the pantry, storing up for the long winter ahead.

This is the time of completion: fruit ripens, seeds form, leaves are released and branches laid bare.

This is time of bringing the life blood back to the roots where it will remain for the long cold season ahead.

Here’s the one thing often missing. The key to making the equation work.

It’s called commitment.

Sticking with it.

Completion of a task well done.

Commitment is not a four letter word. It won’t bite. Try it.

Commitment is not a popular word these days. Old fashioned.

As in, “Oh, really, you’re still working there?” “You’re still doing that?” “You’re still with him?”

Yes, yes, and yes.

And this what allows us to become really good at something, get stuff done, complete what we start out to accomplish, be true to our word, deepen our relationships, complete one thing so we can move on to the next, and know for sure we can get more done.
Not to say it’s about accomplishment. That is not the goal. But accomplishment as part of the natural process. How can you grow and move beyond without completing and concluding?

Are we as flighty as the wind or as solid as the earth we stand upon?

Are we above this earth or a part of it?

Depending on your beliefs… and respecting others for theirs.
I see the cow elk running through the woods with her calf and the red-tailed hawked soaring above screeching her return to the mountain and the purple heads of the monkshood coyly emerging and hear the song of the Mighty Rio echoing on the cliffs.

This is the world around me.

And I am honored to be of this earth.

My ego does not place me greater than this, but connected to it all.

Winter: Dormancy.

Here in the high country in winter, in the vast whiteness that it is,

Just be.

Nothing more.

This is your time of stillness,

Of being,

Until you must, for you will, because life moves, we move.

We are neither static not stagnant.

This is the secret of the seasons we are not told

But we observe

In winter.

The time to settle in and go deep and in our quiet slumber, find our inner truths.

This is when change happens, we become.

We are constantly evolving, growing. We are not inert beings (read: stick in the mud?)

Change is a certain part of our human existence.

No, this doesn’t mean bag the commitment and try something new at every whim.

It means complete, release, and evolve. Flow with the process.

It means to take the time to consider. Where are you? Where did you come from? Where are you going? Where are you here and now?

Understand the seasons and be a part of them.

Let one blossom fade and fall off while a new bud begins to form, and a blossom opens.

Don’t get stuck in the mud, but know where to grow strong roots.

Are we meant to rise above our human existence, or make the most of it?

Transcend from this beautiful world, or be humble and grateful of the world around us, find our place and understand why we are here?

And so the cycles of the seasons continues.

Are we ever in just one stage? Only for brief moments. Like the seasons, we are ever changing. Because the nature of life is movement and change, and so we flow. This is our evolutionary existence.

Well, back to the beginning.

Spring. Mud. And cleaning.

Enlightening.

So there you have it. Spring cleaning. It’s not just about dust and cobwebs. It can be a first step to enlightenment. But instead of cabins, it’s our heart, mind and soul. Dust of those cob webs. Get rid of the tracks that came in from who or where we don’t even remember. Clean up the old pile of old news in the corner that’s been there since last year. Make room for new stuff. Good stuff. Allow yourself time to breathe, and create a space to expand.

Oh, and speaking about those cobwebs…

I leave you with this story.

Okay, I know a lot of you don’t like spiders and find them really creepy, but for the sake of this story, try to forget that for just a moment and hear me out. Think of them as “natural.” And there I was, out in nature. So, spiders have their place. Believe me, I’m not big on them in my bedroom either…

Out on a walk in the woods yesterday, I came across a spider web tucked gracefully under a tree with speckled light illuminating the fine silks and a small gray spider the color of tree bark poised in the center, resting. I stopped and stared and considered something beautiful from this simple sight.

Think about the correlation. She starts with nothing. Air. Space. And into that, she spins her web,

Perfect, beautiful, intricate, with care, symmetry.

How long did it take her to create this? She gives it everything she can to create it. Now it is.

And when her hard work is done, she sits and waits.

In due time, into that web that she so carefully formed, comes exactly what she needs. She doesn’t plan or act or lure or try any fancy tricks. She just creates, with hard work, commitment and care. And then with patience, she allows and trusts and knows…

Shared today on Conscious Life News.

Seven Poems in Seven Days.

May 22, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Actually there were ten, but some of them aren’t worth sharing.

After feeling “too busy” and having “too much” else going on (right, join the crowd – I’ll share more on this next week)… my heart returns to poetry. Like nature, this is where I find my grounding, my uplifting. The first thing I ever remember writing. I wonder if it will be the last.

The following is the result of a ten-day personal challenge taken on with Carrie of The Shady Tree.

It turned out to be a prolific enlightening to my inner passion.

Perhaps it may just look like lot of words.

With these, I hope you may find something that touches your heart too.

Read a paragraph, a stanza, a poem as you like.

Gratitude for a dear friend, fellow poet, artist, and lover of family, nature and life.

Gratitude for words, creativity, and inspiration – all of which abound in this beautiful world.

(Please stop by Carrie’s site over the next few days, too, to see how the same photo can inspire such different words.)

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

You can only get

Here

by wet foot

Cool and soft and

squishing deep brown

between bare toes

Over slick rocks

The sweet moist scent of earth and

Decay

Last years dreams fermenting in

Never drying soil

Like a festering open wound

Where the branches bend low overhead

Heavy and wet and untouched

By daylight

which in turn is obscured

By an endless

swath of fog

Dampened desires

Laying heavy on moist flesh

Suppressed by sunlessness

Do you remember what

burning feels like

Warm and gold on

Exposed flesh

Instead in this succulence

Each drop a tiny window into the soul

An eternal pool

That will evaporate

and turn to steam

Should the sun burn

through the fog

Photo by Gin

Barren are last year’s

blossoms

now Hard and brittle

Spent and sallow

having been bent over

By the weight of

last season’s snow

Their seeds scattered

in the spring rains

Brown dust

to brown earth

And so it should be

I lean over

as not to disturb

That which managed

against the elements

And marvel

at the simplicity

And complete

complexity and pure beauty

Preserved by the wind like

An embalmed queen

What inner

secrets do you reveal

Spilling forth promises

of eternity

That few may

bend close to hear

Before the bright easy days

of new growth

Consume us

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

On Wednesday

The midwife soars

Grounded

Taking flight

Because she is called

And though it appears

She has no control

And just moves

Out of action or reaction

of spreading her wings

And rising effortlessly

gracefully naturally into the stirring air

This remains

the most self controlled act

she may ever manage

Of leaving a ground

And returning

While remaining where she was.

Photo by Gin

Last year’s leaves

Next year’s soil

Compressed under this morning’s snow

Elk tracks across pasture

Revealing delicate chartreuse

Of spring grass

Seeds

Transforming

A quiet awakening

Beneath the consuming

unassuming white shelter

The robin is silent this morning.

How can I see something new

In the same old landscape

Like looking into the eyes of a lover

You have wrapped your body

around for over a dozen years

And still find beauty and shiver.

now in static essence of early morning

Upon brown damp soil

robin sings in the cold grey light.

Photo by Gin

Boots by the door

coated with clay

Brought in from out there,

Damp coats and wool hats

hang to dry.

What’s the point

You ask me

And I don’t have

a good reply.

We both know

they will only

be wet again.

Somehow starting out

dry

seems like

the thing to do.

The dog comes in

indifferent to wet fur and

Brown tracks behind him

With no boots to

leave by the door.

Out there

Where the bark of aspen

is soaked to green grey.

Silver tips

on bare branches where

water pools in

tiny glass beads,

and brown water

flowing through

brown soil, saturated.

creeks cutting new paths.

old paths.

it will all be washed away

we say

if this keeps up.

Heavy skies

in stratum,

the movement of

silky flowing veils.

What secrets do they reveal

As an entire mountain

Obscured

And does it matter anyway

That the horizon has changed,

Is no longer

Peaks and ridges

But soft simple close

White?

The view, the future, awareness

Lost

In the sound on the metal roof

That comes in waves,

Strong and steady like

deep breathing

As wet as the ocean

And as far away

Above me

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

In my dreams

I am flying

Downward

Into secret places

Of mountain

And mind

Of my soul

Where even in winter

It is lush and green

Places no one else

can touch

Or see

And maybe I won’t share

Not even with you

Unless I feel certain

You need to know

I keep them for

Myself

I become Crow

Seeing from above

A mountain in

parts of a whole

Its steep slopes

And jagged rocks

And soft spring grasses

And the course of

the cutting river

From so high

As if I were

in the wind

blowing

across the open flats

and navigating the

rugged bluffs

in and out of

tall timber

until at last I light

upon the highest snag

above it all

the voyeur of my soul

seeing across the big air

and down into that

hidden oasis

no one else is meant to see

stealing a glimpse

detached

in this vast entirety

absorb my world

open my eyes

and find myself still

flying

Photo by Gin

On the surface

She shines

Simple and radiant

Easy going like

the afternoon breeze

On a good spring day

Idyllic

Tranquility

Stillness of soul

Waiting for

the coming unrest

Standing Still Beneath Blowing Branches (Lessons Learned from Trees)

May 5, 2015 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Standing still beneath blowing branches.

Lessons learned from trees.

These are changing times.

Turmoil around, within. I stand beneath budding branches, the promise of the continual struggle of life, and suddenly it all makes sense, or maybe nothing matters, and everything finds its place. Can I let myself cry, selfishly, foolishly, like an innocent child so wanting comfort in hard times yet not knowing how to ask?

Late spring in the high mountains. I write from home on the edge of the Weminuche Wilderness, high and away in the heart of the Headwaters of the Rio Grande in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. I am flanked by a hundred thousand acres of charred woods and a few hundred thousand acres more of dead standing beetle kill and Aspen fading and falling randomly. A forest full of kindling waiting to ignite. Finding new growth, green needles, sweet sap, life existing, tenaciously holding or ferociously fighting to survive. Life is precious.

In all their simplicity. Trees.

Go through it. Let it out. Tears fall like raindrops. Nourishment to parched lands and thirsty roots. No one to hear them fall but the trees. Allow it. Breathe in, breathe out, standing beside a tree.

These are the wise ones. They carry not a passing fancy but wisdom of the ages. Powerful, deep and rich. They make no loud claims, but hold their ground, tangled in their roots. Powerless to the pretenses of our demands, greed and ignorance. Eternal, I used to think.

Here they have lost ground. We have been hit hard by the changes. A sign of things to come, a premonition, or is this just a warning to heed? Are we too late, and does it matter anyway?

Here our children’s children will never know the old growth through which I used to wander.

Even in their ethereal presence, this graveyard of barren branches, I feel them breathe. I hear them sigh. Down deep if no where else than in their roots, the soil, the earth. That’s where life remains. And life will come again.

Standing on fallen needles and listening to the Wisdom of the trees.

Breathing in, breathing out, seeking the scent of fresh sap and plump needles. I have almost forgotten.

These are the lessons they teach.

Stand with me now, still and silent beneath bare branches of a seemingly lifeless tree. Close your eyes. In the wild spring wind, feel the remaining presence of these great beings. Listen to their wisdom.

This is what we hear:

The earth matters. Give more than you take.

You can’t control the seasons. Learn to let go.

You can’t rush the seasons. Practice patience.

You can’t change the weather. Stand tall in the rain and dance in the wind.

Storms come, storms go, the sun will shine again.

Be still and listen.

Be wordless. (So hard for a writer to do.) That’s where our truths are found. (Write about them later.)

Everything changes.

Seasons come and seasons go.

Leaves fall and blossoms return time and time again.

Life stems where you least expect it.

Last year’s leaves are next year’s fertile soil.

Be willing to shed and grow again.

Be grounded. Grow your roots deep and strong.

We share the same soil. Our roots are connected. We are one.

Stand tall and strong, not hard and rigid.

Be flexible in adverse conditions.

Learn to bend in the wind.

Adapt.

Seeds blow in the wind – new life starts where you least expect.

Be willing to break new ground.

Don’t expect ideal conditions.

Grow where they least expect it.

Know you are never alone. Others will grow beside you, and together, you can create a forest.

Look around at others growing above and below you. Respect differences. We need each other.

Provide shelter to those who need it.

Nurture indiscriminately. Practice non-judgment.

Give what you can, and then give more.

Don’t take it personally, and you can’t change others. All you can do is grow.

Allow the world to come and go around you.

Learn to let go.

Nothing lasts forever.

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