personal growth

The thing about people.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Saving the best (lessons) for last.

Okay not really last (I hope) but late.

Really late.

In fact, this lesson took me fifty-something years to figure out.

It’s about people.

The photos today may not be, but the writing’s about people.

The thing about people.

See, intertwined with this journey of place is one of people.

Because true belonging is a balance, unique for each of us, of connecting with people as well as with place.

Ones sense of belonging is found with and created by connection.

Connection. Connecting with land has been easy for me. Connecting with people, well, this is the part I’m finally getting.

If you’ve known me a while, likely you know that people were not my thing. I was awkward. Shy. Reserved and withdrawn. At least I usually felt all those things.

And yes, scared.

People scared me. Being around them, talking with them, trying to connect with them. Never belonged. Connection felt like an impossible mission; I felt more disconnect than connection. And then would rehash and ruminate for hours, days and years all the things I surely did wrong in those (rare) encounters.

So in my defense or some sense of self preservation, I became a bit of a recluse, a hermit, a wild woman who lived “way out there.” And I did my best not to deal with people.

I’ve lived like a lone wolf. I’m not saying that’s a good thing. However… I once proudly boasted of not leaving the mountain for five months at a time, and going from fall to spring seeing only nine people, two of which were my husband and son.

It’s not that I didn’t like people.

It’s just that I chose to be alone.

It’s just that…

I thought I’d be better off.

I thought I’d be safer.

I thought I had all I needed, was self-sufficient, could do it all by myself.

And guess what I learned?

I was wrong.

Isolation created separation.

And separation created depression.

And in that self created state of disconnection, I found myself in a rabbit hole that got deeper and deeper and deeper still.

And into that hole I fell, deeper and deeper and deeper still.

Until I finally hit the bottom, dusted myself off, and climbed back out.

It took taking my Long Quiet Ride to wake me up to the greatest truth.

It was a trial by fire.

Throwing myself out there, in front of the bus, being at the mercy of people. OMG.

And out there, I learned two things.

First, people are good. For the most part, I mean like seriously, obviously, good is so far above and beyond bad. The fact that our population has grown to over eight billion of us is proof enough for me. Good wins.

Second, I need people. We all do. No matter how independent we fool ourselves to be. We are interdependent, and that’s a good thing. On that trip, boy did I need people. For direction, for suggestions of safe passage, for companionship, for connection, for some sense of wholeness that was left as a gaping hole while I was out there trying to do it alone.

Here’s the deal. The fear that prompted me to build my armor and protected walls didn’t keep me safe, only kept me separate.

Believe me, I had spent a lifetime of plenty of time alone and proving myself capable. That’s not what I went out there to do. I didn’t know what I was looking for but I figured it out fast. Got the message, loud and clear. And right away.

 And from the very first day, I realized, I didn’t want to be alone.
I wanted to connect.

 I longed to share a meal, a story, a hug, a laugh. I wanted to be a part, no longer apart.

Now, some things remain the same. I still choose to live “way out there.”

But some things are very different.

I have learned the thing about people.

And I have learned to love people.

In small doses, admittedly. I’m still not keen on parties, potlucks and group gatherings. One-on-one is more my style. Even if it’s one-on-one with the woman at the checkout or the guy in line before me, tea with a neighbor or a long walk with an old friend, getting the story of the person sitting beside me in a waiting room, or (this will always be my personal favorite) a lingering dinner shared with my husband and son with candles, fresh bread and simple homemade food, and lots and lots of laughter and love.

I believe it is a universal truth that everyone wants to belong, to be accepted, and to be loved.

Hatred is a defense. I know all about that. It’s armor. It takes more courage to drop it than to hide behind it.

But in doing so, in freeing ourselves of our so-called protective shield, we lighten our load.

Only then can our wings unfurl big and bright and wide. Only then can we rise and soar.

I’m living proof that we can learn, we can grow. We can forgive. And (I humbly bow to those who have) we can be forgiven as well.

I’m sharing this because I wish others wouldn’t make the same mistakes I made. But I know life doesn’t work that way. We have to make mistakes in order to learn. We have to live to learn. What we’re told or taught may be intelligent, but it is not wisdom. It becomes wisdom when it soaks into our heart and soul. Then we really get it.

It took me a helluva long time to learn what a lot of you knew all along. That’s a lot of unnecessary pain, for myself, and for others. That’s a lot of loss, because really, I did miss out.

But I got it.

Finally.

A late bloomer.

Better late than never.

What does this have to do with the adventure we’re currently on, building an off grid cabin “way out there” in Colorado, while still wondering where the hell we’re meant to remain?

A lot.

Because people matter as much as place. Because people are a part of the place. Because people fill my heart in a way that the wild world cannot, and hopefully I can fill others’ hearts along the way. Because connection matters, belonging matters, and no place will ever be “the” place without that bond and love and connection with the people around you.

How can I love a place without loving (at least most of) the people who live there? Am I so shallow as to love a pretty view but not the people, the stories, the interrelation of the people who are there?

The thing about creating or finding community  and the place where I belong is ever present if not on my mind than in my heart.

I don’t want to ever be isolated, separated or lonely again.

I may not be totally rocking the social scene. I’m still a quiet, wild woman, silent sort that needs more time in the trees than in town – but finally I learned I do need that time in town. With people. Connecting. Belonging. And much to my surprise, it feels so good.

Yes, it’s scary. Yes I am often still afraid.

But I have to. That’s the courage I’m building.

Though I may choose to live “way out there,” reaching out regularly allows me to live as I do, and be a part, not apart.

I am a part of humanity.

And it’s a good place to be.

Wherever that physical place may be.

And yeah, that’s the biggie I’m working on.

People are basically good. Everywhere. And I can find my people where ever I go. If I have the courage enough to open.

So the question in my heart now is, how do I figure out that balance of loving the land and the people who live there, and choosing where we are meant to remain?

How can I choose one place when I find a connection with people I meet all over the place?

Oh, that’s a biggie. I’ll save all that for another time.

I’ll conclude with a few updates from the past few days. Nothing ground breaking quite yet. Soon. Believe me, you’re not near as anxious as we are to get moving forward on this big job. But before working there is living, and right now, we’re still working on those details, and there are a lot, because it’s not just about building, it’s about living, and living takes a lot, and living does come first. A lot of little details, and some big ones too, like working on the road to access our camp and worksite with some seriously Old Iron and gravel from our land.

And the shed. Oh the shed! The shed is an amazingly awesomely wonderful gift from Bob’s sister that is turning into something we didn’t know how bad we needed, and now wonder how we’d manage without. It’s got enough room to house all our tools on shelves in plain sight, have a work table out of the elements (and elements are a thing up here, with rain and hail a daily thing). And though the shed also serves as safe storage for all those things we managed to stuff in the horse trailer on the way out here, we’re finding it even provides us with a mud room – a place to leave our muddy boots and hang out weather gear, and up here, that’s a mighty appreciated thing. It’s huge – big enough to live in, far bigger than our humble camper. Though rest assured, it’s not going to stop us from building. Just help us along the way.

The things that were easy and reliable for me to share back in California – the constant and reliable beauty and abundance of the garden we created – well, not so much here. Between the mice and mornings still freezing regularly,  my so-called garden, though covered with agribon and a heavy tarp at night, is not a happy place.

Though the rest of the wilds here are. And wild it is. With endless room to roam and mountains to wander and treasures to observe. All in all, it’s big and wide and wild and my heart and soul are soaring with the ever-changing but all the same expansive view before me.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

On Thanks and Giving.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

 

~

tall grass and shallow snow

~

transformation

~

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.

~

gunnar von getz

~

he's back

~

Standing Still Beneath Blowing Branches (Lessons Learned from Trees)

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Standing still beneath blowing branches.

Lessons learned from trees.

~

old leaf in new snow

~

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:

~

aspen in snow

~

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.

~

looking down to reservoir

~

 

 

 

Thaw.

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

~

leaf

~

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

 

~

baby Rikki

~

 

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.

 

~

baby rikki 2

~

 

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 15th 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?

 

~

pole

 

~

simpson

~

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

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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

~

aster

~

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…)

~

rikki

~

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!

~

columbine

~

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.

~

aspen

~

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?

~

grass

~

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.

~

leaf in puddle

~

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.”

~

early fall flower

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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.

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lost trail ranch

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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…

~

Follow the flow

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

waterfall move

`

Something about expectation. They made this one up to be so profound. I was hoping, of course.

They said it was life changing. Those were their words. What they told us when they came back from “the elusive waterfall.” So we went looking for it. Twice. The three of us. Bob, Gunnar and me. It used to be four. And every day like yesterday, I still wish to share these special places on the mountain, our mountain, his mountain, with Forrest.

`

waterfall art

`

I’m going through yesterday’s pictures, sharing a few but wish you could see them all though you might get as bored as Bob and think maybe a few hundred is more than enough.

I’ll start with this. I’m no cinematographer, but Bob suggested I try to capture the sound of water flowing beneath frozen surface of the creek in a hidden draw along the mountain. An intimate sound. Not very “visual” but I think you might get the point: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClLSFqAdN0E&feature=youtu.be

`

waterfall move 3

`

Seeking the obscure destination, the life changing waterfall. Not the words I came up with, but ones I held onto. Ready to have my life changed. Maybe I say it wasn’t a big deal after all. Yet take a few minutes to reflect and maybe you’ll see it was. That’s how it happens sometimes. Not all at once. Not obvious. Slow like water cutting rock.

`

at tree line

`

maybe not
life changing

that was their
thing not mine

though I confess I
looked for
a change

and what I found was
beauty

natural
and the love

of my husband
and dog
and humour

of getting my partner
off a mountain
with a blown out

knee and funny if you
knew this was not
the first time

the dog and
I scrambling this precarious
incline on all fours

and I was scared as
we slipped down a slope which
doesn’t seem like
much unless you were there

sliding

because we had to see
more and it was

perfect

`

upper waterfall

`

I guess I was expecting something else. I thought we’d get there and be bowled over and everything would be new and different and wonderful. My manuscript sold, my dog behaving perfectly, my son finding his chosen path, my grey hair turned brown and my wrinkles smoothed over, our property sold, our debt gone and all these ideas for the next book I’m working on just flowing like water from my mind onto paper…

After getting over the initial shock that this was cool, but that’s about it, I started to see.

`

above the rio grande

`

Life changing experiences. Are what we make them. Do we allow ourselves to be affected, and grow and change or do we hold on to what we were yesterday and think we want tomorrow without seeing what is in front of us today?

My life is the same today as it was yesterday, only my legs are more sore, and nose a bit sunburned, both of which are fairly regular. But me, I am different. Not just today, but every day. Some things in life I don’t want to change. That’s a tough one. Figuring out what we can carry with us into tomorrow. For starters, I’ll carry my husband, if need be. Especially if those knees quit him again.

`

gunnar and bob by waterfall

`

And where am I going?

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

The last of running waters. They say winter will be here tonight. The water and I await… this inevitable change.

 

Leaving what I love.

Driving home.  Headlights in the snow.  Owl and elk, coyote tracks and a snowshoe hare.  Only a dusting.  Perhaps it will be gone tomorrow.

We leave town.  Down past Airport Corner.  I will see no vehicle from here on up to home.  Even Freemon’s Ranch is still and silent for the season.

As if eyes almost closed.  We squint through snow shooting towards the windshield, whipping up and over at just the last minute.  A blinding tunnel vision.

It will not last.  We know.  By the time we reach the Reservoir, the sky is an even white, like a bed sheet draped over my head, tucking me in for the season.

This year is different. Every year is.  I cling to the early winter because it is all I have now.  Mid winter will take us south.  Far south.  South of the Equator.  South America.  Where the sun will shine north of us.

I never thought we would be “Endless Summer” season travelers when Winter is what we’ve lived for.  But who can resist an adventure?  And a big one lies ahead.  I can not say no.  We will go.  Four months in Patagonia.  It is summer there.  We will leave deep winter, dressed in long johns and parkas and heavy boots and riding on the back of my husband’s snowmobile with our dog balanced between us.   Somewhere on the drive to the airport perhaps we’ll slowly strip.  Leave the layers behind.  Go lightweight. Hawaiian shirts and flip flops.  Not really my style.  I think I’ll keep the Levi’s and cowboy boots and sweat it out if need be.

I will say farewell to my mountain for winter.  Close up our home, farm out the house plants, dig my nose deep into the hair of my horses as we bring them to lower ground.  One last whiff of their sweet smell, each one of which I am so familiar I could identify him or her blindfolded by scent alone.

And the twist to this story:  it’s all for the sake of writing.  Part of becoming a writer, or rather, expanding, evolving…  A chance to complete another story.  A good one at that.  I’ll save the details for another time.

There’s more to it than that.  There always is to every tale, isn’t there?  And this one won’t end otherwise.  In this case, there is, “For the sake of adventure.”

Because life is too short for Woulda, Coulda and Shoulda.  I’d rather stick with, “Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

 

Water and light. Perhaps for the last time this season.

Where is this going?

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

 

 

My apologies for the incomplete post sent to subscribers on Monday.  Seems the pictures made it, the text got lost in cyber space.  I am sorry for the mess up.  Fortunately for me, I saved the text in a Word document, and was able to make the corrections.  If you have not seen the proper post, please click here.  Anyway, a good reminder to self:  Back up, back up, back up…

 

Today our country heals.  Months of negativity and division, for what?  Really, I don’t get it.  Enough!  It’s over, folks. Our country spoke.  We spoke.  Accept it.  Live with it.  Love it or leave it, but stop complaining.  I’m done with the negativity, and opinions and beliefs that are better kept private.  (What you do behind closed doors is YOUR business.  Please, can we keep it that way?  I really don’t want to know…)

Time to move on.   To good things.  If you want them better, make them better. Stop whining.  Bottom line.  Wake up, smell the coffee and see the sunshine.  Life is good.

Back to where I was before The Detour.  Today, I share with you this:

 

Where is this going?

 

We turn within.

This is the season of solitude.

Darker days.

Coldness descends.  Slowly.

The trees stripped. Exposed.  Nothing to hide.

Barren.  Gold fades to brown fades to grey.  We await what we know will come, when our world becomes swathed with white.

It is coming. Winter.  When our chilly cocoon enwraps us, cuts us off, shuts us in, draws us together, those of us that remain. We’re in this together.

Times are changing.  The weather faster than the people.  November is not what it used to be. Eleven Novembers and I’ve yet to see a storm stay, stick around, and shut us off this time of year, but the threat chased the people off long ago.  Stories of the one that gotcha.  Vehicles caught and stuck and buried and remaining until the following June.

No longer.  Seems like late autumn is becoming a lingering of summers end.  Giving us glimpses only of early winter.  Tempting, teasing, eluding.  Broken promises.

Fifty degrees at ten thousand feet mid day today.

Elk in tall timber at high noon as we ride above tree line, southern slopes completely clear of the last little storm.  They are not seeking solace from hunters, who have left long ago, but needing the shade.  Comfort in the coolness of trees.

Where is everyone, we ask each other, just the two of us, outside on another crisp and cool November morn?  Lunch on the deck, afternoons in shirt sleeves.  Sun leaving a line on exposed flesh where the leather of my worn work gloves ends.

Someone else should still be here.  We feel selfish.  Our little secret.

Too much good weather.  It’s exhausting.  Just when you thought it was due time to take it easy and work inside.  Balancing my books will be very late this year.

We take a break and drive to town.

Quiet streets and empty sidewalks.  Every face is familiar.  The few that remain, hard core, cold blooded, solitary in camaraderie.  Silent understanding.

Driving through Creede at winter’s dawn.  You know every truck and every driver.  You wave.  That is my favorite part.  No more anonymity of summer.  No strangers remain.

Front row parking outside and the only one shopping inside at Rare Things and San Juan Sports.  Room at the bar at Tommy Knockers.  Tables to choose from at Kip’s.  Time for hugs.  For catching up.  For another beer.

 

 

Unleashed

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Photo by Tomek, shared by Pia  (My hands)

“There is so much I have wanted to take the time to share with you, but simple as my life seems, sometimes ‘time’ is the hardest thing to find…

We just spent the last week down at the Little Cabin, a one room cabin without indoor plumbing on this side of the river just across from the seemingly endless wilds of the Weminuche Wilderness.

We rented our house out – funny the things one does for money – but really it was a good excuse to have a retreat. It was wonderful, though I’m now very behind in things like correspondence… and laundry!

Twice in one week I have heard ‘there is no coincidence,’ though I always thought there was. It’s been an eye opening week for me. And door opening. Those that have seemed locked for so long.  Swinging open with the autumn winds and the last of the fallen leaves stirring in this thin air before the snow presses them tight to the earth.”

Finding answers in a never ending question.  Listen as the Earth speaks.

We close up the Little Cabin, a bit reluctantly, and return to Big Haus.  Return to running water.  Laying in a hot tub at night, sitting on a warm toilet seat in the morning. Simple pleasures. Already missing the show of the Milky Way overhead each night as I step out with a little tin cup and my toothbrush to spit under a willow bush.  The Grande Universe spread above like your plastered ceiling or city lights.  Deeper, farther, infinite.  Silent but for the soothing song of the Rio Grande whispering below me in the quiet of the drought.

Slow settling of the season, mild temperatures and abundant sunshine.  Winter is not harried to be here.

Another long day horseback while we can. This time saving the cows.  A few strays from the open range herd here in summer.  Somehow stuck above treeline, on frozen ground, sparse dried grass and only wind blow snow for moisture.   They chose a “barn” in the last of the timber where from the tell tale signs of their manure, they planned to remain.  If the hunters had not seen them, I imagine there would be nothing more than a pile of bones found there next summer. How they got there, and why they stayed, we’ll never know.  I don’t read the minds of cows, and wonder in cases like this, how much to their minds there really is.  Yet the depth of their understanding and appreciation after we pushed them off the mountain top down to a familiar trail (and running creek water)… I could see it in their eyes.  Perhaps it is just the sympathy within me, but I swear they were loving us, and will look at a German Shepherd from here on in as their savior (for Gunnar of course was there with us, up front, moving the cows to lower ground).

In spite of the mild season, winter comes.  Easing down the mountain.  A measured, slow freezing.  We know better than to be fooled.  It can slam and settle any day now.  We are ready.

And within me, a deep stirring in open waters as a pot boils with a new recipe, and new plan. Where did this come from?  The wildest dreams. As unexpected as the sudden shock of red on the throat of the hummingbird.  At the same time as calm and powerful as destiny, as the Red Tail rises overhead, without a beat of his wings.

(Pardon the quality of these photos – I’m still resorting to my little old camera when horseback; haven’t figured out how to handle a little horse and the big camera at the same time yet.)

Defining 45 and Feminism

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

Photo of Flying Crow and me, on the Divide. By Kate Seely.

 

Following is an essay I wrote earlier in the year.  It’s long winded as I tend to be and of a different subject matter than I tend to cover. But thought I’d share it with you while I’m still 45…

 

I feel so far from what I thought a feminist should be. In any case, surely I am not your average feminist (if ever there was such a thing). I simply do not look the part.

Now isn’t that a funny thought?  What does a feminist look like? So you think you know?

Some of us have a preconceived notion based on our own experiences.  My experiences started early and started strong.  It was the late 60’s or early 70’s.  I was a young child.  My mother had meetings in the house; women’s meetings, League of Women’s Voters and ERA and PTA and what else I don’t know if I ever knew or asked.  But there were powerful memories of powerful women walking with such confidence through my front door with broad smiles, clear eyes, always I remember their eyes, looking down at me with a twinkle and a wink as wonderful as Peter Pan only real and quite large.

I was on the worn and faded Persian rug that defined the dark wood entrance, rolling back like a dog on scratchy wool and dark jewel colors, looking up at these women, my goddesses. I did not believe in Cinderella or want to be a fairy princess. (Peter Pan? Perhaps.) Although I have no idea what they were there to meet about, I was certain then that these women defined power, strength, wisdom, and goodness.  They were my role models and heroes.  They defined what I would strive to be.

They were women, all women, sturdy and tall and old and wise, or so they seemed from my little-girl-on-the-rug point of view.  And I remember looking up at these solid women with those clear eyes that would look me back directly, their short trimmed hair framing broad faces devoid of most makeup except the true red lipstick which was so common back then. They wore thick wool skirts to the middle of the knee, or at least that is what it looked like from down there on the rug.  Pantyhose, medium tan nylon that felt smooth and rubbery when I’d reach out to touch them.  And sensible shoes.  Always sensible shoes. Black or brown and low heels so you knew if you tried to run, they could still catch you. A fact that instilled both fear and safety to the observer.

They were giants from my horizontal perception and at once I felt secure and wanted to be like them.

Funny the things we remember.

That is how my feminist roots were formed.

But look at me now. I am not like they were. I am married and bake bread and am helping to get my son ready for college. Tell me, why do you suppose I thought they did not?

Somehow I still feel so different from them. I do not go to meetings. I run my own small business from home. I have long hair and wear a size one and cowboy boots…. Does this make me less of a feminist than they were?

Of course it is not in my appearance, but in my thoughts. That’s where the problem lays, the problem of uncertainty of the state of my feminism.

Here I am at almost 45 (doesn’t that sound more definitive that 44?) trying to call myself a feminist, but doubting myself.  Why? Well, what have I done to prove I am? I don’t have to organize, work together and fight for our rights as they did.  Or do I?

I seek to define a feminist so that I can find my own place and hopefully clarify who I am.  Don’t we all need to do that to some degree? Of course what I am hoping to find is that I am indeed a feminist.  I can be defined.  I belong.

To begin with, I ask myself, and I suppose you should ask yourself too, what is the average feminist?  I suppose she is something different for each of us, as long as it includes a strong woman with a sense of self. A good deal of which is based upon the impressions we formed as a child, and throughout our lives.  Many of us painted a picture of what a feminist looks like, acts like, is.

What is she?  Who is she?

I say again:  a strong woman with a sense of self. Wavering at times, or so I am learning, as we still are human, and I have yet to meet one who can stand up against it all.  But she has the ability to stand tall when need be, when she really needs to, when it really matters.  For her children, her partner, her work, her beliefs, her choices, her country, her self.

Is that enough to define what a feminist is?  I can define her how I choose, I suppose, since I don’t see many from my generation telling me otherwise.  Us forty-somethingers.  We are a quiet group. We consider ourselves feminists and benefit from the work of others and reach out just a little bit to pave new roads for those who come after, but the formula is ever changing, as is the definition.  Rather than staying focused on the single goal ahead, be it equal rights, equal pay, or opened doors, we simply slide into place at the board or kitchen table (or both) and assume we are welcome, and wonder why we may get sideways glances from the men – and women – seated beside us.

Without those meetings I remember as I child to clarify the image in my own thoughts, I wonder what happened to feminism?  Where is it now? It spread out.  It became mainstream. That’s good and that’s bad.  Good because maybe it means it is everywhere and so common we don’t even notice it is there any more.  Bad because we take it for granted now and no longer fight for it.  We risk letting it slip away.

So I find myself grasping to ensure I don’t lose what others fought so hard to give me, and wonder if I am doing enough for those who come after. What can I do? Start by thinking, as I am doing here and now. Considering my place. Defining feminism and my place, my role.  Start by understanding who I am as a woman and what am I willing to do to retain my rights, my choices, my place.

Now is the time for me to consider this as I approach losing my definition of “mother” next year when my only child heads off for college.  Where does that leave me? I seek self definitions.  I feel lost without. What words will suit me? Forty-five.  Middle aged.  Married.  I need more.  How do I define myself now?

I begin by defining where I am.  I am softly settling into my middle years.

Next year I’ll turn forty five.  I’m in the middle, I guess.  The middle of my life, of the world around me, of the family I’ve raised and the grandchildren I await.  My middle years.

I define myself as “in my forties.”  Can I say “mid life?”  I can, but do not.  I’m still too young for that, I think.  So where am I?

In between my friends who have grandchildren, great grandchildren and back pain and contemplate or enjoy retirement and are tired of the cold – and those who have little ones or no children at all, no career or land or marriages under their belt to feel the discomfort of the tightness a little bit of age brings.  Just a little bit.  I still feel as fit as when I was twenty.  Maybe more so. But I no longer want to wear the tight jeans and short skirts.  I’m learning to dress like a woman.  More simple.  More refined.  Classier, my mother says.  Finally…

Who teaches us these things?  Do we have role models that show us how to define “growing up” and “middle aged?” And if so, who would our role models be? Believe me, I don’t strive to look like those ladies who came to meetings in my mother’s house back in 1972.

And yet at times I am left feeling lost. I imagine I am not the only one. I’m starting to think I am part of or the product of a lost generation, or perhaps a mere sub generation. It is hard to define.  I do not feel we are defining ourselves.

We are in between the baby boomers now in their fifties and sixties, and the slackers or millennium generation in their twenties and thirties. They have definitions.  They can fit in and belong. Stereotypes, I’m sure, but such are generational classifications. They still provide us comfort with an all-purpose understanding, a simplicity of what might otherwise be left constantly ambiguous. Such labels allow us a solid sense for belonging or separating, depending on which we choose.

What defines us in our forties?  What is our pigeonhole?  We had no wide spread childhood traumas, connecting wars or colliding rebellion.  We were neither dirt poor nor spoiled rotten.  We listened to southern rock or disco and the five o’clock news and nothing was very radical or exciting but nor did we complain.  We were rather quiet.  What did we stand for, and what did we fight for? What have we given up as we approach and settle into our middle years?

And where are we now? Betwixt and between.  Somewhat solid though I wonder if maybe we are led to believe we never will be.

Interesting to consider.

And as women in this sub generation, we are even more difficult to define.  We do not have boundaries, do not share boundaries, are scattered and separate and do not have our center hold.  We never thought we needed strength in numbers so we spread ourselves thin.  Thin relationships, thin memories, thin ambitions and dreams.

Those before us fought for their place.  Those after us assumed their place was solid.  We saw both sides and know what both feel like just a little bit – the insecurity and confrontation and the expectations and assumptions.

My sub generation didn’t have to fight for it.  We were handed it, fresh and new and exciting.  We took it for granted. Sat back and enjoyed it. We were allowed to choose what we wanted to do with it.  Most of us, the daughters of the women who fought to give us the choice, chose to be mothers and wives and maybe take a career or leave it when our children or husbands needed us. And I still don’t know if this is not perhaps the stronger choice a woman can make, or the weakest.

I am lost.  I seek to find my place.  In desperation, I softly moan and hope to be heard.  Heaven forbid I stand up and scream out.  But what I say is the same.  It is a cry to my feminist roots.

Are we still sisters?

Is feminism still alive and well or is my generation letting it slip away?

What about those that follow me/us?  The young ones.  It is done for them.  The women are equal, aren’t they?  Or are they?  It appears they have nothing left to fight for, and so they don’t.  Perhaps their struggles now are not based on the male/female rift, but on the economy, work ethic, education, a continually expanding urban and global work force.

I suppose we all have our challenges.  What I once felt I would have to fight for perhaps has already been fought.  That battle won. Now I have others to fight, if I dare be so bold. And now I should pay my due respects.

So here’s to that giant of a woman when I was a little girl on the rug.  That one with the sensible shoes and cropped hair and very bold, bright Peter Pan eyes.  Thank you.  I may not look like you, but today, I feel like you.

 

A portrait of a feminist today. This one wearing cowboy boots instead of sensible shoes. Photo by Bob Getz.