How to Begin – An Intimate Look Inside a Beginner’s Mind

April 22, 2015 / Gin Getz / 15 Comments

From the Beginning.

This essay launches a new series I’m honored to be sharing with Conscious Life News entitled From the Beginner’s Mind. Though my writing is usually centered around land and life intimately intertwined, this series shares the story of a mid-life awakening. Mind you, this is no mid-life crisis. Things are going great. I’m not turning toward a spiritual enlightenment to escape or out of desperation, but because something is still missing. This is about the exploration of that ‘something.’

This is not a how-to manual for I don’t have the answers. I am learning just like you. And though I might like to be, I’m the first to admit I’m no expert. I cannot tell you how-to for I too am figuring it out. All I can do is share with you my journey, and hope you might be interested, inspired, encouraged, or even amused along the way.

With an open heart and mind, we can learn from every person we meet, every encounter we have, every article or book we read. With an open heart and mind we can find the answers we are looking for. That is the beginner’s mind. Where I find myself. Where perhaps you are too.

This is a journey. Let’s enjoy it together.

From the Beginner’s Mind.

Some say they have found enlightenment, and guard their discovery as an exclusive, elusive secret.

Others make no claims, but somehow you feel they are the wiser ones. These are the few who exude the pure essence of the beginner’s mind; that of clarity, equanimity, detachment, and compassion. There is something in the softness of their gaze when speaking with (not to) you; and a grace and ease in their movements. They observe their world with curiosity, remain humble to share what they have learned, and generously offer encouragement. They give you hope for what you can learn, what you can be, and the point and purpose of enlightenment as well as living – if you need those things (I do).

And then there are those who are happy where they’re at, found what they need, or aren’t interested in seeing beyond.

I’m none of those. You too?

Then this too might be you: One of those still looking, seeking, questioning. We don’t accept a truth unless we can prove it, and yes, sometimes that just means “feeling” the right answer. But, we haven’t always had the time. Basic survival (raising a family, holding down a job and getting food on the table) came first. We wanted more (energy and time included), knew there was more, and felt an emptiness for that something more. But finding time for teachers, lessons, practice and quiet meditation … well, those things seem out of reach, for the elite without the struggles and responsibilities we claimed, and thus not easily available for us everyday folks with basic needs.

That sure is me. We all have our thing, our distractions, temptations, obstacles to overcome. Or not. It’s all a matter of choice. I am choosing to take the time now.

Sound familiar?

So now I’m finding myself here. At the beginning. A true beginner’s mind.

It’s not out of wisdom, comprehension and compassion that I call mine a beginner’s mind. It’s simply the cold, hard, fact. No pretentions. No claims of clarity and openness, self knowledge, deep understanding, expertise and valuable insights. Just a beginner’s mind. The real deal.

This is a simple story of a midlife awakening. Maybe you’ll relate, maybe you’ll learn from or along with me, maybe you’ll laugh at my discoveries, maybe you’ll roll your eyes and chuckle, “What took you so long?”

Well, things like raising a family, making a marriage, paying the bills, establishing a business, keeping a house and hopefully my sanity in the process, though there was little time for more and some days not enough for all. I called it “basic survival.” Now my child is raised, my marriage is strong, my calling is fulfilling, my health is awesome, my home is beautiful, and I’m out of debt. I’m not turning towards spirituality as an escape, but rather for an enhancement. I still want more. Something is missing. I’m looking for a life of soul, as well as health, happiness and love. What does that entail? Well, this is what I’m trying to figure out!

In retrospect I see I’ve always been somewhere on this winding, twisted route – from practicing yoga on the beaches of Greece, to searching for the elusive magic mushroom on the hills over Santa Fe, to driving cross country time and again in my ’66 split windshield VW microbus with paisley walls and burning incense. All of it matters, or doesn’t, but is somehow a part of the whole. Then, twenty years of being a mom centered me, kept me in line, turned my focus from me to we. I can look at that time as a good excuse for not being somewhere else, or accept it as the opportunity to open me to just the right lessons I needed to learn and bring me to where I am today, ideally with experience, understanding, insight and compassion. At least in theory. Because we all know wisdom doesn’t automatically come with age or experience. It takes reflection, compassion, detachment and true understanding. It also takes time, commitment and energy. Some of you may get these things worked out early on. It took me a while. I think I’ve got it together now. (Is the act of knocking on wood considered too “beginner?”)

In any case, now I allow myself to dive deep. At times I feel selfish and spoiled – guilty in a way – am I wrong to take time for this stuff? Aren’t there “better” things I could be working on? More important? More productive? Couldn’t I keep busier? Make more money? Take on more responsibility? Be more impressive, aggressive, and accomplished?

I don’t know.

I know I’m supposed to practice non judgment. Starting with myself. After a half a lifetime seemly tainted by assumptions, stereotypes, prejudices, jumping to conclusions, taking it too personally, caring what others think, trying to please, trying to impress, do the right thing, belong, be accepted, be responsible, be loved… learning how to just be is a lot more work than I thought it would be.

So that’s where I’m at now. At the beginning.

You probably know this one. Suzuki wrote: “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, in the expert’s mind there are few.” Of course he’s referring to the beginner’s mind, not just the beginner, but he encourages us to consider this: the two are not so dissimilar. At least, it gives me hope to think so.

As you too may have found, for those really beginning, there are a zillion choices. Too many. It’s overwhelming. How do you know which is right for you? There are so many paths and practices, each acclaimed to be the best. So many choices; all leading to the same place, more or less. It’s like going into a cereal isle and trying to pick one. Or two. Or three. So you take one box, taste, and maybe next time you’ll try something else. Keep trying until you find your favorite. What works best for you? What feels right? What’s your path? What’s right for you may not be right for me.

Sometimes, too, you just have to trust. The right opportunities present themselves at the right time. Or not, and then you get the lessons of patience and perseverance. Are you going to stick with it or not? So you learn to balance commitment with choice. Without commitment, I think I’d just keep trying it all, be one more spiritual junkie on the path to the next latest greatest promise to quick and easy enlightenment, never getting good at anything, and probably never getting to where I want to go, which may be the case no matter how focused I try to remain, for maybe where I want to go isn’t where I need to be.

I am grateful it’s never too late to learn.

And I am grateful for those willing to teach. Don’t you know what your wisdom and experience mean to those seeking? The sharing of gems. Wealth and shining beauty in the form of a few words or lessons. This is amazing stuff. Stuff we have to remember to pass on some day, some how. The time will come. Sure, some will tell you “I’m enlightened; you are not,” and won’t have time (or the mind/heart set) to share how they got to where you are not. There’s plenty of that around. There’s also plenty of humility and compassion. Big, wide, generous hearts. Learn from them in whatever way you can. It never hurts to ask, reach out, try. Perhaps with simple observation, perhaps with direct lessons. Learn from those that practice what they preach, and exude the essence you are working toward. No, you’ll never be someone else. We’re all beautiful and unique in our own way, with our own style and gifts, calling and path. But choose your teachers wisely, I tell myself. On the other hand, with an open mind and heart, I can learn from anyone.

I am humbled by knowing how little I know, how much I can learn.

What have I learned so far? Well, I confess often I haven’t learned by proficiency, but out of frustration.

These are the hard ones for me, the ones I have to work on every day, and still don’t have mastered. And because they are so hard, and require so much attention and effort, I’m pretty sure these are the biggies:

Patience. I still want it all now. The answers, enlightenment, that feeling of bliss or “getting it” I get for fleeting moments during meditation. I also know it’s not supposed to work that way. If it were easy… we’d all be there already and miss the journey. It requires practice. Meditation. Sitting. Focus. No focus. Learning to be still. Wait. Receive. All in due time. “Don’t work too hard, just let it come,” one teacher tells me. Easier said than done. How to erase 40-something years of thinking I need to work my butt off to get what I want. Funny because even when I did work my butt off, I didn’t always get what I wanted. Or maybe it was that what I thought I wanted wasn’t that which I needed, so obtaining it was unfulfilling… grab it and go, onto the next.

Gratitude. For those who have shared, are willing to share, with such humility and grace. Gratitude… for those who treat me gently (or harsh when I need that, and I do sometimes) and try to teach me what they have learned without making me feel like a fool (or at least, not trying to… because sometimes I do anyway). Have you noticed that those who know the most say they know the least? Give them time (back to that patience thing…) and they’ll reveal what you need to know, when you need to know it… if you stick with it, and ask. I treasure the time, care, insight, wisdom, and the gems they have shared with me. Gratitude… for all those opening the doors, calling me over, laughing at my enthusiasm as I come eagerly running like a happy puppy.

Forgiveness. This may sound selfish, but I’m trying to start with myself on this one. I’m not talking therapy here, just understanding, acceptance, and love. At least that’s what I’ve read. The theory being it’s hard to move forward without a good grasp of the past. And once you start taking a quick look, you start seeing how much you hold against yourself. Geez. Let it go! Right. Easier said than done, but I’m trying. And at the same time, working on forgiving others, because really, what’s the point? Anger and resentment eat away at me only; the other person has no idea I’ve got a vex on them. So the point is…? Get over it. Move onto better things. At least, that’s what this beginner is trying to do.

Understanding. Clarity or seeing clearly. When I was little with my big strong mind (or so I swore it to be back then) my mother would say to me, “We agree to disagree.” I didn’t agree at all. I knew that was a way of saying, “I won’t even bother trying to understand.” I wanted to be understood. Now I want to understand. “Everything on the planet,” another teacher tells me. No, you don’t have to agree. But try to truly understand. It feels amazing, expansive, inclusive just to give it a try…

Non judgment. Why did it take me so long to figure this out? (Though is “Why?” a question laced with judgment or simply curiosity?) So yeah, I got a long ways to go on this one. And once again, who do we judge most but ourselves? How do we learn to let go of self expectations and demands and fears ? I wish I knew. I’m starting by (trying…) switching my focus to calm, clear, centered… and sometimes nothing at all, just breathing in and breathing out. It’s a start. Tell you what: seems like it’s easier to find fault than accept praise. Who said it was meant to be easy?

Service. I keep finding myself going back to the old Jackie Robinson quote: “A life is not important except for the impact it has on other lives.” I don’t think we’re ever fully fulfilled unless we see that what we’re doing is not just for ourselves. The bigger picture matters. Sure, we all want to be included and accepted, but it’s more than that. We need a point and purpose, and I think that point and purpose has to involve the well being of others to be sincerely satisfying. So, is service a selfish act? I don’t know – maybe we can twist it around to be – but I think the big thing is this: we need to do stuff for others. If it doesn’t feel like enough, maybe it’s not. Do more. If I’m lucky, I’m only half way through life. I spent what felt like the first half taking care of me and my family. Now it is my time to start reaching beyond.

Love. Surely this is the most important. It is so simple, really, and yet so crazy complex. In all its wild ways. Sexual, spiritual, motherly, earthy, passionate, compassionate love. Love… for the understanding I am slowing seeing, feeling, breathing in, becoming. Very slowly. Love… for my husband, who not only lets me, but actually joins me. Love… for the earth I tread softly on and spring winds and bird songs and the howling coyote at first light. Love… for the words I weave into poetry, if no where else then in my mind, for it makes me smile and love the world around me I write about that much more. And here’s something cool I’m finding. Why not love? Everyone. Everything. I’m sick of anger. I’m trying to catch myself. When I feel like smacking someone in the face (no, I’ve actually never did this, but between you and me, I confess I have fantasized…), turn my feelings to love. Plain and simple. It’s easier than I thought. Try it if you don’t believe me. Just change your thoughts. Stop one. Replace with another. No excuses. Just do it. Really. Sincerely. Tell you what – it feels amazing. Love. Because the more you send out, the more is out there, and the more you feel, and that’s just good stuff, no matter how you look at it.

Compassion. My take on this, coming from my true beginner’s mind, is that compassion sums up all these lessons. Patience, understanding, non judgment, service, love. And then you have to practice what you preach. This is the hard part. Put your lessons to the test, and into action. Not just words, readings, teaching, but actual doings. How I treat myself. How I treat others. How I treat the Earth. And that’s where the hard part comes in. Being the person you want to be. Now. But that’s where you really start feeling like you’re getting somewhere. Start by trying. That’s all it takes to begin.

So, here I am. On the path to awakening. At least, that’s where I hope this road is going.

Where ever I am, it’s beautiful. It feels good. It feels right. Some days I’m elated and high and it feels so awesome and for fleeting moments I shiver with bliss and feel enwrapped with light and I’m sure I’m doing it right, and even get a glimpse of what “right” might be. And then the next day I slip back into my selfish, short sighted, wounded child whining. It doesn’t last long any more. At least, I try not to let it. I’m slowly learning to see right through that game. Finally. And see into something so much better.

“Try” is my mantra. Try to get over it. Try to forgive myself when I don’t. Try to change the bad thoughts to good. Try to feel love when I’m burning with rage. Try to feel at ease when I’m convinced I was just slighted, dissed, or rejected (this one happens plenty as a writer).Try to find calm when my mind is moving like a racehorse, busted free from the track , and is heading off, fast, in a direction to god knows where… Come back to center, breath, smile, and try again…

I’ve got a long ways to go. I’m starting to understand if done correctly, I’ll be doing this forever. Learning, growing, expanding, adjusting, refining. I’m also starting to understand this: once you get on the path, sure you’ll get lost and lose the way from time to time, but I don’t think the journey ends. Something inside keeps us going, brings us back to center, and leads us onward. A deep yearning for the truth, peace, presence and understanding. Have you found this to be so?

Have you noticed this one too? Once you begin to open your eyes, suddenly you start seeing so much. It’s beautiful. It’s almost blinding, almost overwhelming, but you can’t turn your head away…

Word of warning – when you begin to open, with gratitude, humility and clarity, the Universe rejoices. It celebrates joyously by throwing doors open for you. You might have to run to keep up and get through them all. You can do it!

I’m opening them all for now, jumping in and finding my way around. I’m trusting, and believing and following, rather than controlling, and this is new for me. I’m rejoicing too – I know I’ll get exhausted, and settle in soon enough and find my new expanding space. But for now, I’m having fun learning. Everything is new today.

No doubt, many of you are further along on the path than me. Please be patient with us late bloomers or slow movers. No need to wait on us, but be gentle when you see us swerving along the rocky road. Be gracious, knowing one more human being is beginning the unfurling.

I’m just happy I’m here now.

And though I don’t get all the right answers or clearly see the way yet, I’m sure enjoying the journey.

Stirring.

April 13, 2015 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

There is an intense clarity found in springtime in the high mountains. It is not beautiful, but real and raw. It hides nothing. Like a truth you cannot escape. An inner stirring as the outer winds churn cold and biting from over the Divide.

It is not a stunning time, but one of stark realities. You are left to face yourself, your world, in all its plainness. Earthen tones and unadorned branches that may snap in the strong gusts if not full and plump with awakening life and the memory of remaining flexible. A time to weed out the weak, prepare for the upcoming unfurling. Last year’s brown grass strewn with grey branches like abandoned dreams. I pick them up as I walk by and stack them in burn piles to clean up when the wind dies down and we’re ready for a quiet evening.

There is no draw here for tourists now. Instead this is the time to drag the pasture and fix fences, repair gates and clean up back roads. It is a time for work, not for fun and pretty and light and laughter and languid appreciation of abundant natural beauty though there is always that too no matter. It is quiet at first tired breath, then exhilarating in its wild rapture with roaring river and winds that blend into their own inseparable harmony.

It is not a time to blatantly behold, but rather discretely observe, for what you are witness to now is her nakedness. Soon she shall dress, slowly, in preparation for what will be.

Some days you’re fooled into believing it’s all over or just begun and then you wake to temperatures in the teens and dig into frozen ground and remember where you are in spite of longing for longer days, warmer rays and shorter shadows. Shade cast from the remaining white high hills obscures hopes of lush and green and leaves and blossoms for some time to come.

It’s quieter around here without the goose. I confess I snuck down to Ute Creek to check on him. Only once. There was a big flock newly arrived of geese, ducks and smaller birds enjoying a warm brown open pool in the otherwise still ice covered expanse. And about a hundred yards away on a stretch of frozen mud, was one solitary goose looking back towards the others. What do you think? Yeah, that’s what I thought too.

In the meanwhile, there’s this independent hen… Ever hear of such a thing? In all my years of raising chickens, I never had. But sure enough. We got one here now. One of our free range hens decided she is not in need of flock nor rooster (though he’s quite in need of her and tries often to herd her home). Instead she prefers our porch, picnic table, the wood pile outside our front door. Go figure what’s worth scratching for in there. She’s outside our cabin at any given time of day. Though I’ve never been liberal in giving credit to a chicken’s sensitivities and insight, it’s as if she knows she’s in a bird friendly zone (it is indeed with my very active bird feeder) and a family in need of a feathered friend.

And then.

Yesterday we pass by the lake of open water miles down river below our ranch. Bob drives slowly as I have my head out the window and that wind is cold. I’m looking. Carefully.

No, that’s not him, I say and he drives on.

How do you know, he asks me. I just know.

Stop. Here. No, not that one… but that one there could be… slow down… pull over!

Rikki, I call.

The one with the big head and the low honk flies off to an island a short ways away and fights with another one before landing. Rikki never behaved like that, I note to self, and then I realize this: He is a she!

And there she is, with another female. Swimming this way from the far bank.

Listen, I tell Bob. I can hear her before I see her. I know her voice. My Rikki!

She is calling to me. We holler, back and forth across the cold grey water…

She remains in the water, closer but never too close, talking together all the time, back and forth, as the dog runs along the bank and I wonder which of us Rikki misses more, but I sense that she won’t come clear to us, and she shouldn’t, and she doesn’t. And although I’d love to sit next to her and stare into her warm brown eyes and just chatter as the two of us have done so many times before, her distance feels right. I am happy for her. She has found her place. And it is beautiful.

I am humbled to realize how wild the wilds shall always be, and how domesticated I remain.

I stand to leave in the brown grass along the bank and kick someone’s spent shotgun shells littered along the spring soil.

Thaw.

March 26, 2015March 26, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Crack open like a fragile white shell

Exposing

churning waters

pumped and swollen in the warm early

spring day

chewed the solid river free

ravage the lingering white surface

like an eager lover

Grey waters, grey sky and a land of ashen hillsides

fading

to patches of brown

a random quilt torn and worn with age

drown out the calls of the newly arrived

bluebird

And the beloved trees stand a silent cold still vigil

Of brown branches and pale needles

fallen

And eternal roots entangled roots

rising

Powerful in their ethereal presence

That can not be erased by tiny beetles

nor chased by a changing climate

entangled with those roots within me

Expanding

the breath of a new season

So… about the goose.

A wildlife success story.

Consider this.

The pursuit of happiness is hardly limited to the human mind. I have looked deep into his warm brown eyes enough to know. He has been lonely, longing, wondering. I hope he is happy now though we may question both the importance we place on the state of happiness and the impermanence of an emotional state. In any case…

Rikki flew the coop. Or rather, the ranch. He’s down at Ute Creek with… geese!

I want to ride down there now to call him, have him fly to me, look deep into my cold grey eyes and remind me that yes, he loves me, he is grateful for my having raised him with love, kindness, care. But these things I already know.

When we returned from Argentina, we watched the poor guy endure big snowstorms and fend off the fox (after nights of trying to wake in time to “eliminate” the fox problem, I actually saw the bushy red fellow run right by that goose, both uninterested in the other, so I suppose they worked their thing out). We watched him do his best to follow his two and four legged family everywhere (you should see how well he now climbs cliffs and hikes through the trees). And still looking out the window from the warmth of my cabin out to the little feathered football in the snow, I felt a sadness and loneliness in him. Yes, in a Canada goose. Go ahead and laugh, but it’s true.

A few evenings ago, we’re out cooking dinner in the fire pit and I hear geese flying by. The first of the season. There’s just this tiny sliver of a moon and they’re following the river. Rikki remained by the fire with us, seemingly unaffected. Then the next day, I hear them mid day. Bob hears them while working down by the new cabin. Rikki was out on pasture grazing with the horses. Decoy, Bob has called him there. That’s the last we’ve seen of him. No feathers. No chance of a predator with my big beast of a barking dog out there with him. In my heart, I understand.

I’m happy but sad at the same time. I’m tempted to go check on him but know I should not. I should let him be. He is where he belongs.

And so am I.

Some things to consider.

My Ted Talk to Self for the Season.

Growing up I wanted to change the world. Didn’t you?

The two of us did. Said we would. Different ways.

Both wanted to change the shape of the box. Or perhaps it was the contents.

You said from within. I said from without.

Inside, outside.

You told me you’d work with the system.

Me, I wanted to free those trapped inside.

Neither of us were wrong or right.

It takes both kinds. All kinds.

But have we changed it yet?

I’m still trying.

Are you?

I told you working within was Old School. The box is bigger now. Different. Everything changes. There should be no boundaries. Autonomy and liberation and expansive ideas. Silly me, you said. Maybe you are right. Maybe not.

Remember when I studied art? I’m remembering how it wasn’t until the 15^th Century that we figured out perspective. We played with it, mastered it, and moved on. Beyond perspective; beyond Realism; beyond painting only that which we can see though the art form is something we look at. From Classic to Impressionism, Abstraction to Minimalism, Modern and post Modern. Where are we now? Evolving, always evolving…

As human beings we are constantly evolving – as a society, as individuals.

Those that don’t get stuck in the mud.

Boring…

Try something new.

Look at those who have changed the world.

Those you admire most.

Are they within the box or without?

Chances are you’ll most admire those standing on the side you do.

How do we change the world?

Change ourselves.

You can.

I can.

Take charge, take responsibility.

Here’s a quick three step program to get you going.

I’ll let you know how it works – I’m on it.

Let me know how it works for you too.

Step one.

Question the box and its contents.

Take a good hard look at what’s in there.

Clarity is powerful stuff.

Don’t accept mediocrity. Is good enough good enough?

Don’t accept the truths you were given unless they feel right, down to your very core.

Don’t accept the way that was if you think there can be better. Is the way it was the way you want it to be?

Don’t demand it in others until you can do it yourself.

Step two.

Figure out where you want it to go.

And since you’re just working on yourself here, where do you want to go?

Who do you want to be? Now.

Not certain? Join the crowd.

Then be willing to step out of it.

Look around. Who do you admire most?

Be that person. Now.

Admiration – yes, even envy – is a call to action.
It’s not a green monster, but a great motivator.

What is it about that person that you want more of?

Rather than hate them for having it, figure out how to have it too.

Don’t take it from them either; that’s bad Karma.

Better yet, create it anew for you.

You can do it, be it, have it.

But you have to work for it.

Step three.

I just read an article that said no matter what you read from Freud, you really can change your personality.

So, see? You can change something within you.

And if you can do that… then…

Well, let’s just start with that.

The article said all it takes is 12 weeks.

First, figure out what you want to change.

Then, figure out how you want it to be.

Then, for twelve weeks:

Actively be it.

Fake it till you make it.

In 12 weeks, it will be yours.

Right, we have to be realistic here. In 12 weeks, I’m not going to be 20 again. (Don’t worry – I really don’t want to be 20 again!) But I could be more, say, social. (Or maybe not.) Yes, I could, but I don’t know it that’s on my list of things to change. Being socially inept isn’t that bad. There are other things I need to work on first.

Choose something that matters most. Something that will make you feel better about yourself.

And if you feel better about yourself, well, don’t you feel better about your world?

So you see… in 12 weeks, you can change the world.

Just a little bit.

It’s a start.

What are we waiting for?

Here I am.

February 2, 2015February 2, 2015 / Gin Getz / 15 Comments

You ask me… How was Argentina?

I answer… Intense.

One word. That’s all you want to hear. You don’t want to hear my stories. At least, I never think you do.

My stories are not comfortable. I’m out there. I try to touch down from time to time, but landing isn’t always easy. It’s neither pretty nor graceful. More often than not, I crash. But then I’m grounded. Flat out. I’m here. I’m home.

Anyway, I’m quiet. Not much of a story teller. I’m a writer. Maybe you’ll read my words; maybe you won’t. I will still write.

“TELL ME WHAT YOU PLAN TO DO WITH YOUR ONE WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE” Mary Oliver

Intense. Yes.

I don’t know what else to say. I think it takes distancing – reflection from a safe place – introspection – to fully grasp what you just went through. Get back in your comfort zone and see how far out of it you really were.

Good, you say. Glad you’re home. Seems the thing to say.

Enough of that. Let’s move on. You pull out your phone and show me a picture of another dead elk. Looks like the one you killed last year, but you tell me this one is different. You tell me the story. I try to listen. I try to care. I think about the dead elk. I think about how proud you are of one more death. I’m just back from delivering life.

Maybe these aren’t my people.

But this is my land. My frozen river. My white mountain. And my roots have tangled me tightly to life. Life here, there, where the wind blows wild.

I am not today what I was yesterday. I don’t want to be.

Don’t we all evolve? Some days it feels as the mountain erodes: slow and steady with every drop of rain, cutting, shaping, smoothing.

I am sculpted with every falling tear.

Wet and warm and crystalline. The clear blood of woman’s passionate life and the silent river from which stories are born.

Back.

And somehow it feels a little backwards. Maybe upside down.

Back to a community where I do not belong. I’ve learned to accept I’ll never be accepted. I can accept that.

Some days it feels lonely, but I’m not really alone. I have my own people, my own place. My tribe. Some closer. Some farther. My heart and soul spread wide. At least, I take comfort in trying to believe that.

And yet the trees embrace me. Cold silent silhouettes, standing like bones but still oozing energy of the untamed, pure and raw and unrefined.

In and among their ancient souls and wild ways and fallen needles, I find my place. I remember why I am here. I am home.

Stay tuned, subscribe or check back in soon. I will tell you about where I was.

Done.

November 14, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Done!

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

Enough for now. Time for a change.

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

Ten and a half months ago…

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

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

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

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

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

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

My goose, however, will be remaining here.

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

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

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

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

I held my breath

As around me wind

Roared though

my silence could not hide

me and I found myself

captured enwrapped and

seduced once again by

the elements

lifting heaving and embracing

dancing in the wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starting new stories of our own.

Together with the trees.

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

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

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

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

The wind is calling…

I’m going dancing in the wind!

Fall rising.

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

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

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

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

On building our home together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for book business…

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

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

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

A farewell to summer days.

August 23, 2014 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

A farewell to summer days.

Time

of the turtle

we withdraw where

in silent spaces

Darkening days we learn

to breathe

within or is it

beneath the surface

Return

to the cocoon

From which we emerged

Soothed by the sound of rain

the promise of browning grass

as the high country pales and fades

Washed over

with a wave of returning stillness

consuming

as a cloud enwrapping

the veil of early morning

silhouettes of what will be

maybe it is the

winds and waters which

hold me

when what I thought

embracing me

was something more solid

A poem in progress.

Words evolving as we do with life.

Yeah, I know. I could leave it and settle for “good enough.”

But good enough is not good enough.

If you only live once, live as fully as you can. Be the best person you can be. Do the best work you can do, and share the best of yourself.

A good reminder from Mother Teresa: “People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered. Love them anyway. If you do good, people may accuse you of selfish motives. Do good anyway. If you are successful, you may win false friends and true enemies. Succeed anyway. The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway. Honesty and transparency make you vulnerable. Be honest and transparent anyway. What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight. Build anyway. People who really want help may attack you if you help them. Help them anyway. Give the world the best you have and you may get hurt. Give the world your best anyway.”

We can’t expect others to be nice, use manners, play fair… All we can do is be the best person we can be.

Learn to trust. Sure, you’ll get burned. Get over it and try again. Practice makes perfect. Not trying gets you no where.

Take the blame if need be – Let someone else be the one to pass it on. Something too heavy for them to carry will only make you stronger.

It’s not just “the new generation.” It’s the old farts, too. And plenty of us finding ourselves in the middle ground.

Oh, the disappointment of human beings. My self included.

Notes to self.

This morning, I thought I’d share them with you.

I have been meaning to share with you my friend, Teri’s blog: http://myeverydayphotos.wordpress.com/

Teri is a talented professional photographer from Washington State’s beautiful Methow Valley. What many of you might be most interested in this. Considering the devastation, sadness, fear and almost a sense of personal violation so many of us here in Colorado experienced over the past years (and presumable in years to come as well) while wildfires rages around us (last year’s Papoose Fire/West Fork Complex Fire is described intimately in The Last of the Living Blue), this year it has been the Methow Valley hit hard. Teri’s words and powerful images tell the story better than I shall try to. If you have a moment, please see Teri’s work here.

A Personal Challenge… and a few random thoughts on a rainy day.

August 14, 2014 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

A Personal Challenge… and a few random thoughts on a rainy day.

This past week brought…

Rain every day.
Completion of the first floor walls.
A bear on our deck.
Our goose in the air. (I did not specify gracefully…)

At the same time, two dear friends are diagnosed with cancer; a third with pregnancy. The first two I truly believe will bravely battle, eloquently conquer and be triumphant while friends and family grow closer in support. The third, well, the lifetime of an up and down roller-coaster ride of frustration, exhaustion, endurance, sleepless nights and the most intense selflessness, beauty, love, compassion and comprehension one may ever experience that becoming a mother entails (adoptive of course included) … it is just beginning!

Thoughts blur and swirl while looking through streaked glass panes at brown waters swelling down the muddy road. Clothes hung indoors alongside cast iron pans by the wood cook stove to dry while the dog lies right beside it. Sticky, heavy boots left just outside the door. White noise of loud rain pounding on the metal roof does not quite my mind.

I am working on personal improvement. Seems like I always am. There’s plenty of room for improvement, and hopefully a long lifetime to keep me busy. Why would I not want to be the best I can be? Why would I not want to better myself and my world? Seriously, who truly believes “good enough” is good enough? I’ve never strived for mediocrity. I want a great life. And no one can make it that way but… me. One can accept the middle ground if that’s their thing. It’s not mine. I encourage you to not sit back and accept it either.

This is not therapy. That’s a topic I tend to stay away from. Today can be scary enough! Looking back, figuring out the reasons why… maybe some day… but today, my hands are full.

We all can blame someone else for our own misery, lack of love, lack of success, (fill in the blank), because surely it’s not MY fault.

Except, sometimes it is. And that sometimes might just be now.

When we start to accept responsibility for ourselves and our actions and our lives, we can begin to make changes.

Life is all about change.

So… with this in mind, I present to you one simple step towards self improvement:

The Thirty Day Internet Limit Trial

For the next thirty days, we have committed to the following:

One ten minute e-mail/internet check before exercises, cooking and breakfast.
One five minute check after cleaning up.
One ten minute check at lunch break.
One ten minute check after work.
A little more time to surf the web, do research, check weather, touch base on social media, whatever… after dinner. (See, we eat so late, this won’t last too long for me, as I’m ready for bed right after we eat!)

Still sounds like a lot, doesn’t it?

I justify this much as we have no phone service, so this is a reasonable compromise which allow us to keep in touch, run our business, do our work, and do all those fun things we’ve learned to love – and can’t seem to live without – on the internet, without it ruling our lives.

See, I swear we got to the point where the computer was always open just in case some important news came in and surfing social media became a brainless break for the boys no better than TV (which Forrest never had, and Bob had to give up when he married me). It became a crutch, and a waste of time at best. At worst, something which made us emotionally distraught (well, that might just be me…).

Maybe it’s worse for many. The folks texting during meals, posting what they eat for all to see, and interrupting face-to-face conversations because they are or the matter is so important they just have to respond now. We’re not that bad, but worse than I’d like to be. Maybe you do worse, and maybe you don’t care. We do, and we’re doing something about it.

Thought I’d share this with you for two reasons. First, because those of you who might just realize you have a problem, you might just want to do something about it, too. Go ahead. Try it. Just for thirty days. See if you survive!

I’m also telling you this too to give you fair warning: you may not get an instant response from me if you write. You probably won’t see much from me on Facebook unless I’m sharing book news or business. I’ll only be blogging once a week – which is about what I’ve managed to reduce my blogging to now a days anyway. (Instead I make my posts looooooonnnnng. Go figure.)

So, today begins the trial. We’ll see how it goes. I’m hoping it may help in two ways – mental peace and more time to do more positive things. As an added bonus, maybe it will also improve communications, team work, and productivity as my husband and son are joining me.

Want to give it a try?

In the meanwhile… life goes on… back on the ranch… back to the mountain.

The rains bring on the change of season, heavy and thick it hangs in the air with clouds lingering on her side like little children clinging for comfort.

Arousing the state of dormancy.

One season begins to bow. Another approaches. Anticipation as the land tires and leaves fade and summer sounds are washed away in the steady rains. Mushrooms flourish in withering land and light. And I wonder what the tree squirrel will eat this winter without a pine cone in sight. Such are the things which trouble me.

She begins her long slow deep exhale

And with her, I breathe in unison.

I need to remember this one, as I have believed it but thought perhaps I was wrong:

Wendell Berry: “I’ve known writers — I think it’s true also of other artists — who thought that you had to put your art before everything. But if you have a marriage and a family and a farm, you’re just going to find that you can’t always put your art first, and moreover that you shouldn’t. There are a number of things more important than your art. It’s wrong to favor it over your family, or over your place, or over your animals.”

Ecobiography.

What a wonderful word. Eco-biography.

Think about it. Hold it in your hand, roll it around in your mouth, savor it.

A story about person and place, and the intimate intertwining of the two.

Author, farmer and activist Kayann Short coined the term. In her review of The Last of Living Blue on her blog, Kayann honored my work with this term. Ecobiography. A phrase I am honored to write about; a new genre I am proud to be a part of.

For more on Kayann, her writings, her farm and the art of the Ecobiography, please be sure to tune in on Friday to Colorado Public Radio (CPR) for Random Acts of Culture.

It’s about slowing down… I enjoyed the opportunity to write a guest post for fellow author/blogger C.M. Mayo (for those who saw this, you’ll note I didn’t get it right the first time, but just one more excuse to keep on writing! I finally got it, and Madam Mayo posted this on her blog last week. I hope you enjoy.

That’s all she wrote this week. Until next time…

And don’t forget to consider giving it a try… Stay away from the darned internet, and see what happens…

Learning to let go.

August 8, 2014 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

A frost on the deck damp from yesterday’s rain

And a thin film of ice on the undisturbed pan of water

Where he used to bathe

Emptiness on the cliff

Where he used to stand

Watching the river flow

In this morning of uncertainty

I seek to find solace in the poems of Wendell Berry

Who uses words in ways I may never learn how

But always seek to emulate

Who preaches in calm certainty

Yet what I feel but he does not

For he a man and I a mother

And his practicality is replaced by my passion

Who might tell us it is time to let feral ones fly free

And be at peace knowing

We can never own that which is meant to be wild

Yet I find his distance disturbing

While his words more than I may ever obtain

As I dive into my life heart first

And leave behind a pool of broken waters

Shattered mirrors and forgotten dreams
~

Learning to let go.

This is not what I was planning on sharing with you today, but I think you should hear this.

Yeah, it’s about the goose.

When he was little he slept in the cat carrier under the kitchen table. Then the dog crate outside the front door. After two and a half months, you’d think he’d go in by himself at night. He never did. He is still a wild animal, he reminds me every day as he rests in shade under the pickup with the dog. Night before last he fought it. I had to herd him in. We sat at the table by the door at dinner and could hear him shuffling about within the box. Maybe it was the moon, we wondered. We knew he didn’t want to be there. But I didn’t want him out with the coyotes and foxes and tourist’s dogs swarming like little snapping turtles.

And then last night he flew off in the moonlight.

It started at dusk when he usually comes to the front door and we lead him to his box. Instead, he remained off the porch, fussing, chattering, and would not come close to me. I stepped closer to him and away he flew, off his cliff and down over the Rio Grande in the pale grey evening light. Fine, I thought as I returned to the cabin, lit candles and the wood cook stove and started dinner for my boys. A few minutes later, guilt took over. A sense of responsibility confused me. I raised him since he was but a day or so old. Can I just turn my back as he flies off and say, “Have at it! Good luck!” Perhaps I should, but I cannot. I returned to his cliff and called out. I looked down river and did not see him. I turned, rejected, back to the house, and there he was behind me.

He lay down on his cliff and it became clear to me. He was ready to fly. He was ready to be a big goose now. He didn’t really need his mother, and he certainly didn’t need his box.

Okay, fine, stay there, I thought. I smiled and let him be.

Darkness but for the growing moon came and we were at the table having dinner. He was back on the porch. I stepped out with him and squatted beside him and he stood there with long neck extended staring out at the big moon, the glowing river. I asked him if he wanted in his box, and he continued to stare. I returned inside, and then once again, we heard him fidgeting and moments later, the squawking of him flying off.

I heard him this morning as I woke at first light, the time when it’s usually just he and me and the ravens on the cliff that no longer fly off from fear of us and have more than me been the ones to teach Rikki to fly. But really, it was silent. No ravens. No happy little chatter. No honking as he spread his wings. No Rikki.

Surely he will be back, I told myself as the sky became brighter and the ground flooded with fresh sunshine forming little ripples of steam where the frost had just been. Surely he will follow the Rio as a goose does, see his cliff, the bridge, the construction site. Hear the crows, the dog bark, the power tools and mill under which he’s spent so many hours with the white noise of motors drumming in his ears.

Won’t he?

How wild he showed me he is. I try to respect and appreciate his choices. I let him. I did not hold him back. I hope not at the expense of his life.

Ten minutes ago, here at the table in the Little Cabin looking through the old weathered windows that look like its raining even when it’s dry, there flies Rikki.

He has flown home.

This is how my mind works.

July 7, 2014 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Caught in the middle in a land of extremes. The silence and solitude of winter now so far away. Today it’s about moving, shaking, building, banging, people, pleasing, chatting, listening, hearing a road racing with RVs and ATVs and almost forgetting the soft pale rumble I barely hear behind all this motion and commotion that is the Rio Grande. A certain and steady flow, drawing the line in a crystal clear sparkling swath between a high mountain summer season Mecca and a tranquil hillside of dead and dying trees which is where my heart is lost this time of year. Disconnected.

It’s the end of another day spent cleaning cabins, working on our new one, and sharing it all with the steady stream of visitors which summer brings. I’m going to go running. The dark clouds that have been building all afternoon suddenly seem more serious and a few fat full heavy drops tap loudly on the metal roof like anticipating fingers on a table top as I’m taking off my work boots and putting on my running shoes. No matter. I’m going to run. I’m going to sneak away from the goose, the tourists, the slowly growing cabin and the pending inevitability of figuring out what to cook for dinner over the old wood cook stove fueled by scraps of wood from the construction site, and appeasing appetites fueled from that construction work.

Out there in the rain, under a dark sky and through oddly eerie brown blue spruce stripped of needles, some having recently left their load still pale green in patches beneath their slipping bark and along the trail.

An owl calls. It is that dark.

The dog is in front, beside me, behind me, off in the woods to my left, my right, you never know except then suddenly there he is, as happy and wet and wild as I am and I’m feeling leaping over fallen trees that litter the trail, hair soaking and chest sweating and skinny legs nimbly peddling through wet brush.

I return to the baby cheeps of the goose on the top of the cliff above the river, looking down at me where I’m crossing – calling me home. He the wild thing, and me the domesticated. But for right now, it all feels upside down in the soaked state of summer rains in the high country.

Dear Readers: In case you have not yet had the time, please be sure to put these books on your Summer Reading List: The Color of the Wild and The Last of the Living Blue. And when you have finished reading them, and I shall sincerely hope enjoyed them, please take an extra few moment (really, that’s all it takes!) and post a review on Amazon, Barnes and Nobles, GoodReads, social media… where ever you feel comfortable, for reviews do matter and really do help!

And Reviewers: Those of you who requested and received a review copy. I hope you have read or are reading… and truly hope you enjoy! When you can, please take a moment to post your review. A huge THANK YOU to those who already have.

Growing up.

The new house. Not me. Though sometimes it feels one in the same. Solid roots. Walls. The Real Deal. (My boys may cringe at that one.)

This week brought walls slowly rising. Milling our own rough cut lumber. Framing out the first windows. Looking out. Looking in. Knowing now what that view will be like… Not too bad. Slow birth of a home, coming to life.

Peeling logs. Each a work of art. New life to dead trees.

The culprit revealed as we chip off the bark and grind smooth the knots and corners.

Life among the beetles. A couple years ago, we didn’t know what one looked like. Now we crush them with our hand tools as we wrestle each log in place, flick them from each other’s shirts, shake them from our hair, brush them off the log surface before we draw the line to make the measure that will mark the cut for the next part of the wall to the ever growing home. Did you know they bite? Maybe after working on the mill and peeling logs and sweeping up sawdust, I smell enough like a tree that they give me a go. We watch their random flight paths in the low light of evening as we pack up our tools and call it a day.

What will be the fate of the last living blue?

This is how my mind works. In random bursts. In colors red and gold then stormy steel grey, light and dark, warm and cold, getting colder. Discipline of body, of ritual, of ways to work. But not in peace of mind. You can’t really call me steady, level, even.

I leave you with this to consider.

A Rumi a dear friend shared with me yesterday:

Run from what is comfortable

Forget safety

Live where you fear to live

I have tried prudent living long enough

From now on I’ll be mad.

Don’t forget the power of anger. Use it wisely. On one hand, it can eat you alive. On the other, it can feed you. Fuel the fire of inevitable change.

Nothing stays the same.

Gin Getz

On the intimate connection between person and place. Sharing words and images of wilds within and around.

nature

How to Begin – An Intimate Look Inside a Beginner’s Mind

Stirring.

Thaw.

Here I am.

Done.

Fall rising.

A farewell to summer days.

A Personal Challenge… and a few random thoughts on a rainy day.

Learning to let go.

This is how my mind works.

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