personal

The burden and blessings of home.

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

The burden and blessings of home.

~

norman 2

~

The dirt road out (and in) blends into white hillside, disappears with the last storm, strong winds set it smooth, a white horizon before the black timber. Defining lines disappear.

~

looking back at a tiny part of a big burn from 149

(before the last storms, looking back at the burned mountains from far down at the paved road)

~

Naked aspen and stripped spruce hold the bounty of another early snow, fat and plump and plentiful on otherwise blatant branches.

Smoke in a steady stream trickles into the pink morning sky from the cabin I find myself living in this time.

~

willow branches in snow

~

Passing time. A season. This one of change. After a decade of dormancy.

Funny it would be now, in the snow, the time of year you’d expect us to curl into our cave and slow our breathing and wait out the long white season.

Instead we’re out there
in
of
a part of
together
with the elements

In snow so deep the horses have stopped pawing
we learn to breathe again.

~

norman 3

~

Deep powder
Deep thoughts
Bury my burdens and cover the past
Watching each flake land on my hand
Remain for but a moment
Whilst a fairy dances within each one
Then turns to a drop of water against my humid flesh
And disappears
As will my burden
Vanish into the comfort of husband, home, four legged friends and a warm afternoon.

~

gunnar 2

~

Maybe it will melt out. Some of it. Not all. Not for this season.

It begins. I accept, embrace, welcome with open arms.

The season of white descends, I tell to you with a shiver of excitement.

~

creek

~

Silence in the snow as the river begin to freeze and traffic (what little remained from summer) has come to a halt. No one’s around for miles and miles and miles. No where I need to go. And next thing you know, the snowmobiles are out. At least the big old beast of a work sled with its gentler purr than the play sleds. Hauling fire wood. The best use yet for all these beetled killed trees. My version of a controlled burn. In my woodstove. And second best is this: Logs to build the walls of the next home we shall build together.

Death upon our own land becomes new life.

~

spruce

~

A grove of young trees
Needles blue green
Laden with seed cones
Red and ripe with life

Odd how beautiful and exotic it seems now here in the snow. Something I remember but have not seen in so long.

(Desire cultivating devotion.)

Lettuce seeds in the planters along the front windows have sprouted.
Things grow.

~

aspen in snow 2

~

We say it’s too late to leave Nature alone to manage Herself, but I laugh to see her power of rejuvenation no matter how much we mess up. I may not have much hope in humans, but the Earth, I think she’ll be just fine.

Seeing the forest for the trees. Alternating with seeing the trees for the forest. Every needle. Brown and fallen on the snow.

~

aspen leaves in snowstorm 2

~

And then suddenly.
The young ones bust through the whitewashed landscape defiantly. Holding the colors of the deep sea. Here so far from the warmth and waves.

Are we better to live our lives as sailors navigating in the wind
Or the seed gently accepting and landing where the wind will take her
Or do we strive to balance the two
Manning our own ship, but when the storm sends us off course, recovery may be found only in letting go.

~

aspen leaves in snow storm

~

I let go.
Toss the seeds to the wind and will see them only again when they have flowered.
Their sweet smell will draw me back.

last seasons remains
blushing
in the Early winter
as the young lover peeking from beneath
the comforter of freshly
fallen snow

~

aspen leaves in snowstorm 3

~

I leave you then with this, this week, words of wisdom not my own, but those shared by the wise, wonderful, beautiful soul, Amy, of SoulDipper.  She who sees well before me what seems to take me so long:

~

1451597_572548459480948_840915567_n

So be it.

I am done.

And back to living.

~

What I’m trying to say

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments
a scene from a snowier winter, what we're still waiting for...

a scene from a snowier winter, what we’re still waiting for…

`

some days I see
nothing new
the same
blue bird in bluebird blue sky
and yes it paints a lovely picture
but what I need to see
to share
and what you look for
long for
is somehow

something more

the breath of the sparrow
last year’s grass standing stiff as straw
breaking the endless white hillside
into soft waves as the wind catches
stirs and deposits
obstructed by no more than
a blade of dried grass

the tell tale tracks of the
coyote catching
the snowshoe hare, white fur
scattered on snow like
heavy grains of frost

pin holes and chipped bark
on the broad rough side of
the blue spruce
that has scattered its needles on
the fresh snow below
pick-up sticks played as a child

the orange wash of the lightening
sky spilled across the flat white
of the horse pasture
now cleared of tracks
calm as the sea on a day
when the wind holds
its breathe

it can’t just be about me
and the pretty world
I live in
and all I can do is
hope
that what means something to me
might mean something
to you

`

sunset

Unworthy of a title yet

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

I am learning how much I have to learn and it’s often rather frustrating.

Harold, I am trying.  I have a ways to go.  Please don’t give up just yet.  Here, imagine the format like a waltz as I tried to type it, one-two-three, as I saw it done by William Carlos Williams. But somehow it is lost.  I won’t fight it.  Accept it.  Hope this works, though not quite the same.  Of course it would not be. Perhaps it wouldn’t work the way I indended either.

For Bob who thinks it’s always “nice” and is learning to say more.

 

Unworthy of a title yet

a love poem
a first for me
words we just assume
and so I tell you what I should have said
and maybe I will not
for I think you already know
without saying
with feeling
something in trust
completion
pride and assumptions
I am more whole with you
I am more of me
because of you
you let it be all me
when I need it to be
which really is far too often I say
and you say nothing at all
and let me rattle on
which I will do no matter
today was one of those days
I’m really up and down
I have always thought
the curse of the creative mind
passion puts one
out of balance
it comes in waves
swelling and curling and pounding
and drawing back to low tide
then again
maybe it’s just me
probably
I’m sorry
poise is nothing I have known
stability does not come easy
that’s one of the reasons I need you 
you are the rock to my rushing waters
today was a tide drawn out day
leaving the stench of the barren beach in the wake
tomorrow I will be better
and this much I do believe
tomorrow I will love you still
though I may only say so
in the darkness as our sweat cools together
and we are there tired front by side
which is exactly where I want to be
more complete because of you
funny how I am not afraid
when I always thought I should be
less of me and more of you

Grounded

/ Gin Getz / 51 Comments

Grounded.  And still so far away from where I want to be.

Forever longing.  Is this the state of human nature?

Touching down on solid ground.  Become a part of the elements.  Return to soil.

Autumn. Falling into place.  As if I intended it this way.

Dealing with the empty nest by filling it with six laying hens and a rooster just learning to crow.

The scratch and clang of yet another pack rat captured in the have-a-heart trap set under the front deck.  The season of rodents is winding down.   They all want to come in. How plentiful this year has been.  Attracting the added bonus of hawks that have come to heed the call of this bountiful crop, fed full by the warmest, driest longest summer we remember.  Or are our memories always painted more lush than reality was?

And now the coyote, mother and two pups, crossing out on pasture, undisturbed by the running horses.  Mother drops below the horizon, while children linger, distracted by a tall patch of dried grass and the stirring within.  They stop, arch, spring load, and pounce.  Then scamper off to catch up with mother.

Mother, mentor, magician or priest.  Someone show me the way when I am a little lost.

I write a friend and look for answers and only find more questions:  I tell her there is some darkness that comes over me every fall. Perhaps the change of light. Not a real sadness for the loss of summer, for with that means the arrival of winter and the departure of many things I could do without, and that’s all good stuff. I don’t understand what it could be.

Except… human nature… reflective… wanting more…

Falling.  Down.  Chilling, clearing, washing away…

I do my best to fill the emptiness inside, lighten the inevitable darkening.  I keep busy.  There are always things to do.  Laundry, bake, feed the horses, walk the dog, split wood, paper work.  I want more.

Falling leaves.  How quickly the trees let loose of their brilliant display, the grande finale, the dramatic completion.

To be replaced by what?  Barren trees.  Still hillside and silent winds.  Dormancy and hibernation.  The season of turning within.

I find myself sitting here doing nothing.  There is nothing I have to do.  I have never thought that was a healthy state.  I prefer to keep busy, have a full plate, have things that have to be done, deadlines, a little bit of pressure, point and purpose, you know?

How lucky I am to be able to have nothing, you might say.  But those are foolish words.  For who is lucky who is not employed, not doing enough, not with direction and meaning to each day.  I have never wanted ennui, abhor sloth, and fight them and the ensuing poverty that they carry with them as an added burden.

Get out and enjoy it, you say.  The rain holds me back. I’ll find other excuses.  One can’t keep going out “enjoying.”  At some point, responsibilities and realities ruin the fun.  I want to be productive, do something positive.  Yes, even make the world a better place.  Why not?

“I do not have a mansion,

I haven’t any land,

Not one paper dollar

To crinkle in my hand

But I can show you morning

From a thousand hills

And kiss you

And give you seven daffodils…”

(from an old folk song I once heard beautifully sung around a campfire I never was brave enough to sit near enough to warm my soul)

How simple can we be

Forever needing point and purpose

In this ever changing world

When some days change does not  come when and where we look for it

The gears are stuck

We are left waiting

The jolt, release, exhilaration of letting go

Now what?  We’ve fulfilled our calling in life of providing vacations, searching for something deeper, more meaningful.

Where is the yellow brick road hiding, or how far am I from finding the way?

Yesterday, today, tomorrow

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

A wonderful weekend working with and learning from photographer and teacher Bob Seago (http://www.bobseagophoto.com/).   No time now to review all the lessons learned and photos taken, but I’ll briefly share a few.

How lucky (yes, this is luck!) to have such an opportunity way out here.  The writer within me is envious.  For there I could use help, guidance, encouragement – but how does one find that, force that, improve one’s writing except by… writing?  The rejections weigh heavy; the confidence grows thin; hope flickers.  At some point, one finds it hard to rely solely on one’s own dream, and one hopes for a teacher, a mentor, or a lucky break.  Who knows if one of those will come my way?  In the meanwhile, I write. What else can one do?

Plan B.  If all else fails, you can be a ditch digger.  Classic “Caddy Shack” wisdom.

So, there you go.  Today, we return to ditch camp.

 

The other side

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

“You were made to contribute,” I read and these words felt strong and true.  But what do I have to give?

Isn’t there’s more to my calling in life than providing a vacation for tourists?  Building my world so others can enjoy it for a brief stay away from their own reality.

“Instead of wondering when your next vacation is, maybe you should set up a life you don’t need to escape from.”  Seth Godin.

I believe this and have tried to live my life this way, yet I’ve been providing that escape for others.  And doing so is what has enabled me to live the life others dream of, but don’t dare to walk away from safe and sound and secure to create.

Have I no further talents, gifts, abilities, that can help in some way?

Seriously, life is hard sometimes.  Why can’t the answers just present themselves?

 

I’ve been told they are out there.  Be still, silent, and listen.  I don’t hear them yet.

I try to find a quiet time alone with her.  Hear her wisdom.  In wind and water and hard earth beneath my feet.  Above the river, across the river.

Here, our Rio Grande, her stories are not old, but fresh and new, like fairytales heard as a child.  Here, only miles from where she emerges from snowbank and spring to tint, trickle and trail the mountains and wind her way through my land, my world, my dreams.  Here, she is new water, strong and pure, not yet softened and slowed, diverted, polluted.

Step in, she calls me.

And I do.

I thought you would be harsh, blunt, cold, shocking.

Instead I find you have softened with age, sun, seasons.  You are summer waters.  Childlike.  Or very, very old and wise.  Hard to tell the difference in your silver face.

Rolling over rounded rocks, as have I.

Take me to the other side, I ask of you, in a current too strong to remain.

And now I walk above you. And am there.  On the other side.

Washed away by white noise of the river.

Stepping upon last year’s leaves still untrodden.

Crossing waters

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The river sounds like rain

And is louder than my thoughts

For but a moment I am lost

And realize there is no place I would rather be

A silver lined droplet of hope

For the seemingly eternal conflict between heart and soul

Spark and dousing

For here I have found such wilds

And such confines

And the balance makes me dizzy

I hide here like a child

Knees to chin

Sitting silent dog and me

On fragile moss covered rocks

Where so few feet have stepped

And hopefully never will

Across river

Among the tall trees

Spotted sun

And columbine

My little bit of solitude

A chance to get away from those who came to get away

I’m hoping there is more to me than past and present

Here and now

Stand and confront the rushing waters

Look into her depths like a crystal ball

Answers floating downstream in the bubbling white foam below

I walk the still precarious planks with the Rio singing underneath

She has no answers for me today

Last night I dreamed of horses

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Last night I dreamed of horses, running towards me on an open field, wild things, tossing their manes in a rhythm of tempestuous waves on the open sea, tails whipping like tattered flags, louder and louder the pulse of primordial drums until I feel the earth trembling beneath my still feet as I wait for them to near. They close in, mob about me, as they’ll tend to do when they see me out on pasture. Coming not for treats as that’s not my thing, but as children vying for attention, of which I still never have enough to satisfy them or myself.

Long noses, round brown eyes and prickly hairs under the round balls of their chins. Their scent a pacifying perfume, a mix up of memories of leather, sweat, and sweet grass. I try to comfort them in turn, a gentle touch on the firm flat space on the side of their necks where my fingers hide beneath the shadow of their manes, or a soothing stroke starting just above their eyes and rubbing in a line down the front of their extended noses, feeling the weight and density of bones beneath, so close to the surface, the skull I am too familiar with after seeing the remains of plenty who have passed before me, with me, near me, in my arms.

I slide onto Crow’s back (clearly a dream, for little as the horse may be, the older I become, the harder mounting bareback becomes) easing my leg over his back and hoisting myself upright with my hands pressing against his withers. There, where I am comfortable, comforted, where I have spent so many hours before. My buttocks firmly planted in the center of his back, a perfect fit, my thighs wrapping around and down in the hollow between scapula and ribs, lower legs draping below his belly, my boots loose and relaxed, suspended as if weightless and barely attached. I reach forward and touch the poll framed between his pointy ears, a window through which I’ve seen so many mountains and trails. I lean further, run my hands down his neck and around in a knotted embrace, my chest to his neck, my nose deep into his mane. And we stand there, nothing more, me on he, my patient horse awaiting word of what I want, and yet I want no more than to be there with him. Soft and smooth and gentle on his warm back while the others mill about, contented simply to be there too.

Remains of last season

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

The remains of last season
Visible as an odd curiosity
For I have not seen the leaves green here
Somewhat strange to arrive at the start of the dormant season
And wonder how life will transform and blossom

Now we approach darkness
Hesitant like stepping into frigid waters

The darkness does not concern me
I barely discern the difference
Here where day and night ooze and overlap
Lacking strong shadows and clean lines

Oh wild beast
Contained
By civilization
It does not become me
My eyes narrow and pulse quickens
I pace the cage uneasily

You pinned me to the wall
Did you think I would settle in softly
And not lash out?

It is uncomfortable
I shift awkwardly and cannot make eye contact

She stares back intently asking for recognition
Recognition I am unable to give
Only a blank stare in return
Shallow
Touching no more than the surface of the reflective glass before me

For a moment I become the Little Prince
Standing at the center of my little world
Silent and alone I can see forever and forever is not far
I call out and hear my echo
It is a small world
Too small
It is not that I feel large
Only confined

I see last season’s leaves still clinging to a dormant branch
And I see beauty in even that promise of what was
What will be
A certainty I am not yet comfortable with

Instead I curl up like a kitten in the windowsill
Basking in sunshine I only remember

Seduced by earth and sky

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

The sky appeared above as a familiar lover
I have not slept with in years but still haunts me in my dreams
Spread out on top of, over, next to, entwined with me

I vaguely recognized the warmth against my back
Wind like lazy fingers through my loose hair
A recognizable sweet musky breath

Swelling wide above me was Colorado
Bright and blue, clean and open
A crisp dry chill through my nose and throat and lungs
As we climbed the hillside on the clearest day I’ve seen since moving here

It took me there and I was reminded there was not where I wanted to be
I left for a reason, for a hundred reasons
Finances and family, tourists and timing, altitude and in-laws
Histories I was placed into but don’t belong
A burning desire to change, expand horizons, ignite a new adventure
A secret hope to find the Forever Home

A desire to grow
Yes, just grow
As in a garden
A tomato
A lilac bush and hollyhock
A pig that can put on some pounds
Funny the things that interest me.

My father just forwarded an article entitled “Curious Things about Colorado” which included the fact that Silverton, the town closest to us on our west, has no growing season. Really. None. On average, a total of two frost-free weeks per year. I was hoping it was more like four at our ranch. On a good year. After all, I have managed to scratch out lettuce, chard, kale and carrots from soil laden with mounds of horse manure piled and protected in raised garden beds we built from the old bridge across the Rio.

Yes. On a good year.

And still I look back and see an attractive comfort and that entices me. Because it was known. I could find and fill the coffee pot in no more than moonlight when I woke at my usual early hour. Know the number of Stellar Jays that would appear from the Blue Spruce each morning and squawk above my wool capped head until I spilled out their daily rations. I could tolerate the heavy storms and mornings out feeding the horses with the thermometer so low it read, “OFF” because I knew the sun would soon shine and from exactly what point on the eastern ridge it would pop its glowing head.

It is hard to let go of what you had when you have no clear picture of what you have.

So we are seduced by desires of the past. Holding tight to false hopes that we can carry the knowns and givens with us as we step forward into the future and find ourselves floundering in the present. Clinging to the safety of the side of the pool. Afraid to let go of the handhold. Not because I want to return. Yet that comfort temps, the familiar lover you can not leave because a warm body in bed is better than no body at all. At least that is what we are often told.

I challenge that assumption.

Easy for me to do as my lover lies safe and warm beside me and the thick gold band on my finger, combined with my stubborn sense of commitment, reminds us both we will watch each others wrinkles spread like the hoar frost down by the river bank and still lie next to one another and spoon close on cold nights many years from now.

Today we find ourselves out under a low grey sky, hats and shoulders turning white amid the first good snow of the season as we walk in the dream state that first days in a new place seem to necessitate.

And for today at least, I am freed of the burden of the seduction of the dazzling blue.