personal stories

Here and There.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Sounds of silence.

Oddly loud.

The puppy’s paws on crunching leaves. Frogs. Horses shifting in their close-by covered pen. The ever present song of the river still strong from this winter’s rains.

It’s dark. Behind me, there’s soft light from candles on the kitchen table. Before me, just enough to see shapes in shades of charcoal gray from the waxing moon still up over in the western sky

I’m sitting out on the deck as I do most every night before turning in, letting the dogs out one last time.

My nighttime ritual of taking one small bowl in a pipe filled with my special blend. Home grown tobacco, mullein, and mugwort. I’ve never been much for smoking anything altering, and my days of smoking the bright red box are gladly far behind me, along with my dreams of being the Marlboro woman. I breathe better now. I no longer fear my son will watch me drown in my own lungs from my own doing. It’s over twenty years since I left that habit behind. Over six since I left drinking behind. But still a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do. I’m not perfect, know I can’t be, and well, not really interested in being completely vice-free. So it is for me with this little pipe, my little smoke, my little bad habit that brings me out at the end of most days and allows me to sit on the deck in relative silence, often under the eve while the rain batters down, and just sit, just be.

It’s clear tonight. Cold. Cold for here, but not for there.

Here, stars twinkling through bare oak branches above me that connect the earth to sky.

Trying to just listen. Not to think. Quiet the mind. Loose my thoughts in the rumble of the river and the bits of infinite space above.

Can I just watch the tiny glow from the tip of this little pipe, the smoke wafting softly from my lips, the big dog laying still beside me?

Isn’t that enough?

How hard it is to simply be?

Not all of us were born where we belong.

Maybe I am not there yet. Maybe we never arrive. Maybe it’s all just an endless journey passing through places and time.

Somehow it feels close. That sense of being where I belong. Only it’s not what I thought it would be.

Is it “where?” No. Because I am where I thought I’d be full. And something still feels empty. Though it’s filling. At an oddly calm and gentle rate. Like a slow inhale, exhale, and the pause in between, time and time again.

It’s not about place. It’s something so much more.

It is a filling from within.

I thought place would define me.

Or does it, I wonder, confine me?

It has.

Not here. Not now.

I’m starting to feel free. And starting to feel comfortable in that groundlessness of not needing a place to tell me who I am, tell you what I am.

A dear old friend Em so often told me, “Home is inside.”

The last place I thought to look.

“Stop chasing rainbows,” she’d tell me. “What you’re looking for is is not out there. It’s within.”

Yet I watched her never fully find whatever she was seeking and I was left to wonder:

Do we ever get there?

Or is this a never-ending journey, of longing to belong. Of growing up.

Why did I ever think it would be easy?

And why did I ever think it would be done?

Tell me, is it just me, or do you wonder too?

Here.

Rubbing my eyes and adjusting to the soft pale light of a California early morning spring sky, laden with fog, that when it rises into nothingness but blue with big fat happy clouds, reveals swells of gentle mountains undulating in crisp sharp shadows that begin and end spring days. Living is easy here with mild elements, warm waters, and heavy humid air. It is comfortable and congenial, words I never sought to describe my world. And yet, I belong here. I feel a part of the sand as I lay in naked by the river, the oak under which we sleep on summer nights, the geese that return to nest by the river before our house, and the twenty-something fruit trees we planted: peach and pear, cherry and plum, apple, persimmon and fig. I feel a part of the wood nymph fairyland of thick moss and ferns and ancient trees dripping with old man’s beard and the sound of frogs and wind-chimes and a swollen river. I feel a part of the people, my neighbors and friends and folks in town, people I am comfortable with, at home with, can talk with about sharing seeds, starting seedlings, thinning carrots and canning peaches from our own fruit trees. People that make me feel I belong.

And yet too I belong there. Colorado. A part of the stark open sky that shocks you at sunrise, the intensity of the elements that determine our days, the shivering sound of bull elk bugling and teasing call of coyote, the lure of mountain tops surrounding us like dancing muses, and the impression of being so close you can touch the stars as you sit bundled by the campfire at night leaning back into a silence of nothing but wind. I feel a part of breathlessness and burning lungs as the elevation calls and the mountain seduces and I find my tired legs climbing higher and higher and higher still like a feral beast appeasing some inner hunger. As if I needed more to call me, there is family, our son, and well, that love outweighs the rest.

It’s a cowboy boot and Levi jean life there, at least for half the year. The other half is down and wool and a lot of layers. It may sound harsh, and I suppose it is, but something about it entices me. Rather than chill my passionate side, the cold and harsh, the high wild life of those Colorado mountains makes me come alive.

On the other hand… even in these unknown hidden hills in the far north of California it’s flip flops and shorts for half the year, and in winter you don’t need much more than a slicker. Here, in summer, we sleep out on the deck beneath wide arms of old oak trees, lullabied by the sound of the gently flowing river. Here, in cool gray light of early morning with my husband still asleep beside me, the same one I have wrapped my limbs around countless dark morning back there, too, I wake to the smell of sweet grass and willows and wild mint that wafts up from the damp banks as I lay still, trying to count the awakening birds by their particular call. With closed eyes, I know them by their sound. The Redwing, the raven, Steller’s Jay, Tanager, towhee and chickadee.

Is one world better than the other? Who am I to judge? All I know is, some days I want it all. Both. Everything. Everywhere. Here. There. Home. A sense of belonging. With both. To both. Maybe to all.

A feeling that I am where I’m meant to be. But how does one decide? Does the place define, or do the people? Is it “where” or “with whom” or something else, something deeper down, an inner voice, a higher knowing?

How does one decide?

Does the place call us, hold us? Heck, I’ve been called, held, then chewed up and spit out. It can’t be about place. I told you how I wished it were, wished I always knew, wished I was born where I was meant to remain.

But I wasn’t.

And that too is neither good, nor bad. It just is. I’m not the only one.

So I look within. For answers. For home. And watch it grow.

It’s being built. One log at a time. A rustic, little cabin in the wilds. My kind of home.

Within me.

Back At It.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments


I once read an essay by the remarkable Wendell Berry that began with,

“I have never not known where I belong.”

Me, I have never known. I am still searching. It’s what I’ve always written about. The searching. That journey. It continues. Maybe someday I’ll get it right. Maybe I’ll get there someday…. Or maybe the non-attachment, the learning to flow, the openness, courage, challenge and adventure that searching has allowed me are enough. Who knows? We’ll see.

In the meanwhile, I have learned to love my wild life. Finally. Or should I say, for now. Because you never know what the future brings. Though I do believe the past has brought me to a beautiful present. It took a lot of work. Was it worth it? Yes indeed.

Moving has never been my intention. I always wanted to remain. Permanence, grounding, the forever place, that sort of thing. But life happens. And then next thing you know, I’m moving again.

Though I still sometimes think of myself as a lone wolf, I am not. I have my forever place in heart and soul, a foundation always with me, no matter where I am. My husband. Our adult son. Rock solid. My rock stars. And really, because of them, because of the “who,” the “where” doesn’t matter near as much.

That said, “where” sure can be interesting!

So, yeah. Guess what?

“Where” is changing again.

You got it. A new adventure awaits.

No, it’s not a wild horse ride across the West this time. Though it too will involve making my way from California to Colorado, with my horses. And once again, the adventure will not just be about being there, but about getting there. It will be about the journey. And then, it can be about what happens when we get settle in and get to work.

We’ll see where it goes. All I can do is start. So here it goes, friends. I’m starting to blog again!

Change. Big change. Scary.

I’ve put a lot of thought into this, probably too much, and still I’m kinda confused by it. Here’s why. On one hand, I love our peace and privacy. On the other hand, I think it’s an exciting idea to share our life and world. Living as we do, it’s hard to reach out, connect and contribute. Putting stuff “out there” is one way we can reach out and maybe even do something good.

If you haven’t noticed (and likely you did not), I’ve been avoiding social media for my mental health. Has it helped? Well, something has. Maybe it’s age. Having menopause behind me. Having my husband still with me. Maybe even the joy I find from my dogs, cats and horses. In any case, I’m happier than ever I was.

So why risk that by putting my writing, an intimate expression of me, out there again? Believe me, I’ve been going back and forth, finding courage then chickening out again. I’ve probably brewed this over way too much.

When I have trouble figuring out something big, my deciding factor is usually asking myself this: Would I regret it more if I did it, or did not do it? Believe it or not, I’d regret not writing, not sharing, not connecting, not having the courage to put my words out there. I need to try. That’s always been my mantra. Try.

Looking back nearly twenty years, I started blogging with the long since deleted “High Mountain Muse” site. It was initially created to be a “how-to” platform, sharing off-grid building and homesteading skills. It turned into a literary expression that resulted in my first two books.

See, I’m not interested in telling anyone “how to.” All I can share is “how I do.” There are plenty of experts out there. I’m not one of them. I am comfortable with simplicity and humility. And yet, I also believe there is much to be said for having the courage to put yourself out there and share. Not as an expert, just as a unique individual (or couple in this case) doing things a different way. Not necessary the best or right way, but our way. Doing what we can, what works for us. I don’t even want to tell other people “how to.” I think part of the journey is figuring it out ourselves. So if I can do any good that way, it would be in inspiring people to drum up the courage to try, whatever beautiful dream they imagine, their way.

What I can do, however, is share my world, my view from the front porch, or from some secret place deep inside. A simple, slow, quiet world. Expressed with courage and creativity, beauty and love. And in doing so, I hope you find some part of yourself, some inspiration, some enjoyment from reading what I share.

All that said, this blog was, and likely will be again, part “how we build an off-grid high mountain homestead from scratch,” and part how we live (or at least try to live) with care, creativity, contemplation, connection, commitment and contribution. The balance and harmony of inner and outer life. Sharing the untamed view – out there and within. That includes the soulful element. Diving deep. Things like the solace of nature, the peace in simplicity, the joy of open space and time, the awe and magic of the wilds, the pleasure in hard physical labor and rewards of a hot bath, and the comfort in love. This is part of the picture, that inner and outer landscape, just as is building the homestead, growing the vegetables, tending to the land and animals, and caring for one another. Thus part of what I share is transparent and hopefully inspirational with the reality of the difficulties, challenges and rewards of finding balance of body, mind and soul when your world is splattered with mud and sawdust, sore shoulders and frozen toes.

On the revamped “About” page, I shared this as an introduction, or reintroduction if you’re familiar with me and/or my work:

We move. We grow. We evolve. 

I do. I have. I will.

So has, does and will this website.

For now, it’s about honoring my craft: writing. Writing of the wild view, out there, and within. And sharing the wild ride of building all over again: off-grid, out there, a bit off-kilter, and admittedly, a little out-law.

It is in part about building an off-grid, self-sufficient home and homestead life in the high (10,000 ft elevation/zone 3) mountains of southern Colorado. That includes life with my husband, family, animals, gardens, farming, ranching and slow living.

It is also about expressing heart and soul of nature and solitude, isolation and connection. It’s about love – love of life, partner, family, community and yes, even self. Therefore, it’s also about point and purpose, and the meaning of life – which is ever evolving, with changing bodies, minds and souls that aging allows. 

Mostly, it is about writing. For me.

And for you, I sincerely hope, it is about enjoying reading, connecting, finding yourself in these stories and words, and delighting in the wild ride it takes you on.

So, there you go. My big confession. I’m back to blogging.

The plan is to write here regularly again, likely one time per week. That means I’m putting my other books on hold for a while. Yes, I always need creative expression. But I also need the focus, and right now, my focus is not about menopause, midlife passages nor my Long Quiet Ride. It’s about moving – and building again. All over again. At our ripening age. Like fine wine. Fragrant, rich, deep and earthy. At least, I hope that’s how it is. Of course we’ll be as we always are: off grid, out there, and again, high and wild. This time, at an elevation of over 10,000 feet. For those who know my passion for farming and gardening and creating the self sufficient homestead, that’s an interesting challenge I am – we are – willing to take on. I won’t be the first, nor the best, and of course, not an expert. But if I say I’ll do it, I likely will.

So begins the journey, the wild ride, the adventure of starting over again, out there, off grid, high and wild, together.

Before I take leave today, I’d like to share a note to subscribers (did you ever think I’d blog again?), and/or whoever may find this site anew.

If this is not or no longer of interest to you now, please follow the unsubscribe directions from WordPress that I think are linked at the bottom of each page. (If not, please let me know and we’ll figure it out). And if you think this might be of interest for someone you know, please, pass it on. Remember, writers write to be read.

For those that want to stick around to see where this goes, great, thank you, I am honored.

We’ll see where the writing, and this journey, takes us.

For now, we’re here and now. And right here, right now, there’s no place I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing, and no one I’d rather be with.

Thanks for “listening.”

With love,

Gin

Rapture of the wild.

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it is closer every time.

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

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

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

~

freezing rio

~

grass

~

coming through snow

~

Going Nowhere.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

As the leaves turn full and fat and green

and wilds swell moist and plump and prolific

and views enshrouded in cool grey veils

and mornings frost and afternoons wash us away

 

As flowers burst forth and fruit attempts to ripen

and seeds within are scattered without

so far yet from fruition but emerging

coming to a life not yet realized

 

River voice speaks loudly

monotone and constant

And I vaguely remember the in and out

pulse and surge of waves

 

But we do not have that here.

 

Pale silver morning dew

frosted on tall green grass

already turned to seed

that this year may wash away

rather than scatter in the winds

 

Waving silky laden pregnant with promise

I do not know their names

any  more than I know the names of flowers or birds

as they know them not and care not too

 

Only appreciate my recognition:

the blue one, the dear one,

the silly one that lights atop the outhouse,

the yellow one that blooms beside the door.

 

Geese grow their young and feathers of flight

and coyotes are wisely silent

and crow sits on the rock watching her mate

feeding her child now the same size as she

 

And the river barely lowers her voice on this year

that the snow gathers energy to return early

on this lush ephemeral season

which I will watch pass

 

And through which I will remain

now apart of where I tried to leave

finding roots sinking spreading taking strong hold

through bedrock without my blessings

 

Ah yes, and now they got me.

 

And here I am

and shall remain

beside nameless flowers

and familiar songs of birds and wind

and grasses bursting with next year’s life.

old mans beard

 

elephant heads

 

penstimon

 

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

Time to get to work.

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

A tremendous time of change.

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

Spilling over, now is the time of bounty.

Expansion in retreat.

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

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

Until the next time we meet…

norman

 

on pasture

 

On Death, Dying and Depression: Dealing with our Darkest Days.

/ Gin Getz / 17 Comments

~

Finding a bright side to a dark situation.

Going with it. Allowing it.  Honoring it.  Moving beyond not in spite of, but because of.

Because we can learn the greatest lessons from our darkest days.

This is the natural cycle of life. And death.

~

This is not what I meant to write about this week.  A whole essay on another topic open on my desk top ready to share with you.  It can wait.  This came up. And so we go with it. Ride the waves of life. For to miss out is to lose those greatest lessons.  This is living.

~

Here in the high country, rain and hail continue. Clear mornings bring heavy frost. Clouds amass by mid day and the sky is awash in striations of deep grey by afternoon. Maybe in evening after a good downpour, the sun will break through far to the west and illuminate the tops of the snow covered peaks, glowing like stars on top a Christmas tree.

Leaves challenge the elements and slowly emerge, blending hillsides of the most vibrant greens into bands of waving white above tree line. Dandelions are quick to open their sunny faces in fleeting moments of sunny skies, and tuck themselves in with a sense of self preservation and practicality when the clouds wash over again.

Now is the time of rebirth, yet what I feel is the oppression of loss.

No one I know has recently died, nothing has changed, nothing is really wrong.

And yet, I feel I have lost something.

Something deep and primal and personal and essential.

A part of myself.

And for that part, that something I can not fully define, I find myself in mourning.

Amazing we can feel this way, so strongly, when on the outside it appears everything in our lives is “just fine.”

~

I need to rant.  Please bear with me. I think you can take this, and maybe, just maybe, you’ve felt this way too.

Winter was hard.  It’s a long story; I won’t bore you with it now.  But the season on one hand left me empowered and with new focus; and on the other left me tired, empty, something in me missing, hurt, off, wrong.  The wind got me.  That sounds weird and I don’t really understand how and I can’t explain it better than that, and believe me, it doesn’t make much sense to me either.  But I think that’s what it was. The wind.

I thought I was strong.  Impenetrable.  (At times we may find we are weaker than we think, and the lesson may be in finding the beauty in that softness which only weakness allows.)  Well, I don’t particularly want to be weak, so I went to a Traditional Chinese Medicine doctor and she noticed the wind right away.  She said my chi was weakened and the wind got in me and got me bad.  Believe what you wish, think what you want, this really made sense to me.  It just felt right.  Something deep inside was off and needed to get grounded.

So, I’ve been working to balance my chi again, and thought I was doing well… but then suddenly… WHAM.

Suddenly I am sad, angry and depressed.

What triggered this? Where does this stuff come from?  I thought I was doing great… everything was fine.

I walk down to my beloved bridge – my way to get away – and the river is so crazy high with spring melt off from the warm temperatures mixed with the abundance of rain, swirling café au lait colored brown and raging, loud, wild, powerful and intense like I have never felt her run before… and I just sit there, legs dangling off the bridge in the middle of all this powerful water… and I cry.  Hard.  I have visions of falling into that water. I think how easy it would be. Just let go, slip away. No more problems, confusion, hurt… But I don’t want to end my life or miss out on what will be or cause pain to others.

What then, can I do to end this suffering?

Don’t worry, I won’t kill myself. I’m not suicidal.  I’m just really sick of life today.

~

The next day, I walk back down to the river, that bridge, and stand there over the mighty river and smile. The sun shines warm on my face and my husband holds me and says just the right things, and my dog sits by my side as I stop and listen to the strong white noise and I can’t imagine a better life.

~
Nuts, you may say.

Maybe so.

Or maybe, just maybe, this is living life, wild and free.

And what can we do but go with it, and make the most of it?

~

Considering balance.  Our life is fuller if we allow the cycle of life to ebb and flow and even over flow at times. Remaining in balance at all times denies us this vast array of human emotions, creative expression, wild adventures, amazing acts of beautiful passion and tremendous bravery, and ultimately, great achievements.  Balance is an over-touted safety net by which we can remain level, in line.  Mediocrity, if you ask me. And missing out.  It’s not easy, riding the pendulum, but it’s a wild ride, and well worthwhile. And I’m just starting to get it: this is what living life fully means.

(More on this can be found in the fabulous excerpts from this week’s Brain Pickings.)

What can I say?  Don’t say a thing.  Instead, let’s hold on to our hats and stand out in the wind and pouring rain, raise our heads back and howl!

Because remember this too:  What about love?  What is level and balanced about love? Would you be willing to miss out on love in order to keep your cool and maintain control and live your life well balanced?

~

And yes, that means risking a broken heart.

A little bit of death every time.

Would you have it any other way?
~

And so we must die. Leave the past behind.

What does it mean to die and remain among the living?

Is this not an intense part of the spiritual journey, and like all experiences, unique to each of us?

Giving everything, going to the ends, letting go, a complete release, and opening up to that which is absolutely new.

Or do we prefer to let go of those extremes, find center, be steady and stable and secure, and live life only from that balance point?

There is no one right way.

What way do you choose?

I won’t tell you your way is wrong if you won’t tell me mine is.

~

Suddenly in meditation it all makes sense.  Fleeting glimpses of great wisdom and the Divine.  The intensity is intoxicating, though it does not last long.  I don’t have the answers, but the questions become more clear, and I can’t help but want to know more…

~

There is such comfort in knowing we are not the only one. And so I share this, with you.  Maybe you’ll think I’m nuts, and prefer to remain safe and stable. Or maybe you’ll feel this way too.

~

Dear Amy of SoulDipper shares the following wisdom:

We do have to die before we are reborn.  One book used in my study of the mystical principles in Sufism (borne from the wisdom of the Desert Fathers) contains a chapter titled “Die Before You Die”.    

…Rumi, the poet who was a devout Sufi, is also quoted in the chapter.  He wrote:  

The mystery of “Die before you die” is this:
that the gifts come after your dying, and not before.
Except for dying, you artful schemer,
no other skill impressed God.  One Divine gift
is better than a hundred kinds of exertion.
Your efforts are assailed from a hundred sides,
and the favor depends on your dying.
The trustworthy have already put this to the test.
(Mathnawi, VI, 3837-40)

(Amy is a wonderful friend, well known resource, powerful guide, and fellow soul searcher along this journey.  She offers two invaluable services for the awakening mind. First is her Operation Blind Spot, helping you help yourself in understanding, accepting and healing your past.  Second are her Intuitive Sessions, channeled readings bringing insight and wisdom into the Self through spirit guides, and ultimately, through the Divine.)

~

Can we call it depression in the literary sense, not the clinical:  low, slow, down, dull?

Finding a bright side to a dark situation… for is not depression a little bit of our soul dying and being reborn with every wave?

I think those of us who think a lot about things like… say… life… are going to have our spells.  How could we not?

We are not taught to treat ourselves, to trust ourselves and even to understand ourselves.

I am challenging you to begin. With me.  Let’s give it a try.

To clarify depression, I do not mean the clinical term but the emotional state.  As in sad, down, low, dull (for none of us can be up, high, bright and light all the time!).

The label of Depression for disease, chemical imbalance, mental illness are of separate concern and beyond my realm.  Not that I don’t want to give this matter value, but I don’t deal with labels (nor the medical model).  I deal with life, and hope to share my little glimpses with you, not take on medical assumptions.

What I speak of here is the inner turmoil of the eternal seeker.  The natural part of life for those living fully.  The low on the waves, the ebb of the tide, and dark cycle of the changing moon.  To avoid darkness is to deny half of our life.

As we are all unique, so are our maladies, and so are our treatments.  Listen to yourself; trust yourself; know that you are your own best excerpt – no one knows you better than you know yourself. And yes, sometimes knowing our selves means knowing when to turn to others for help…

For those of us for whom depression is but a dark spot to dive into, it serves as an opening to the light on the other side.  Maybe a cliché.  But you get what I mean.

~

Because there must be death before new life.

Leaves will wither and fall before new buds emerge.

Which promise then new blossoms, fragrant and bright and wild.

~

My husband tells me he was told you haven’t really lived if you never thought of dying.

~

Does the cycle ever end?

What would the alternative be?  Balance?

Missing out on the lows would mean missing out on the highs.

Am I willing to forgo all that to remain somewhere safe?

~

At times I am tempted, but these times do not remain for long.

I return to life with a childlike zeal and curiosity and passion.

Lost as the young women I try to help.

How can I help when I don’t know the answers?

Somehow just being there, reminding others they are not alone, you are not the only one and this is not wrong… in fact, within this is something very beautiful indeed.

I am still on the path.

Walking beside.

Some days wildly wandering.

~

I don’t know where I am going with my writing.

I don’t know where I am going with my life.

Saying that at nearly fifty seems wrong.

I want to know. I think.

Some days I don’t want to be searching still.

I want to have found the answers.

Truth.

Maybe we never do.

So, I write.

Words come.

I can’t keep up though I try, and have no idea where these words will lead me, will lead you, if you will even read.  And somehow this matters, not for vanity so much as sanity, and just the same, I must write.

I want to reach people, help people, that’s why I write, I think that’s why words come to me, through me.

Some days I just don’t know.

Maybe today is one of those days.

Tomorrow will be different.

~

After nearly fifty years of asking questions, suddenly I find myself being asked the very questions I have asked a hundred times. Although I still feel so often like a child in body, heart and mind, what others see must be different:  graying hair and spreading wrinkles like hoar frost on a winter morning.

The natural progression of things. I’m not sure I understand, but go along with it. What else can I do?

This is the curious order of awakening minds.

And the random wisdom we share,

as both the asker and teller

Receive.

~

Widen your gaze!

Embrace all of life.

The light and the dark.

My world is wild, and natural, and trusting and nurturing.  It’s cruel, harsh and raw and real at times, and more beautiful than anything I could dream up other times.  I don’t want to refute, refuse or change my world, only make the most of it, be fully connected, and do my best to understand, integrate, and be one with it all.

I want to live.

As fully as I can.

~

Working in the high country yesterday, along the Continental Divide.  Pouring rain, soaked through slickers and boots well packed with mud and I’m just grateful it’s not snowing.  We’re wet and chilled and working with saw, shovel and ax until we feel we can’t do more and then of course we do a little more because really it just feels so good to be out there in the elements and giving our all and this is living, and that’s how I feel so alive.

~

Once again, I am re-born.

~ ~ ~

 

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

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

From the Beginning.

~

spring road

~

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.

~

spring thaw

~

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.

~

outside of creede

~

Stirring.

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

~

spring on the mountain

~

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.

~

looking down lost

~

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.

~

spike and lichen on cedar post

~

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.

~

looking up pole

~

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.

~

rikki at rc res

~

 

How do you define Success?

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

~

aspen in spring snow

~

For some really strange reason I have this inner calling to open my mouth and speak up for the wilds and wildlife and the mountains around me. Maybe it’s that David and Goliath thing. At times, it gets me in trouble and doesn’t always get me friends, but I can’t help myself, and feel morally obliged. I have to speak up  – maybe the only contrary voice out there – one little woman taking on a bunch of big boys.

Few of you will read this.  Fewer still will care.  And a few might even get a little riled up (safe to say, based on personal biases and connections held onto tightly).  Good.  Go ahead.  The truth can be disturbing…. Time to open your eyes, and your hearts, and look a little deeper, my friends.

Most of us believe what we want to believe.  I guess it’s part of human survival. From assumptions to core beliefs. And changing our minds is as rare as changing religion. I am not asking you to change your mind.  Only open it.

This is about the Canadian Lynx relocated to southern Colorado, and those that have worked to create a successful program… at what cost and for whom?  Now they have launched a review and I think we can safely guess what they will call their outcome.  Before you too are convinced of their self proclaimed success, please read on.

~

Success!

For whom, and at what expense?

~

I have nothing to lose in speaking up. Nothing riding on this but care and concern for those with whom I share this mountain and the wilds.  I also have nothing to gain.  No money, no reputation, no ego, nothing to prove to the public.

It’s been about ten years since I first voiced my concerns.  I imagine unrelated to my little voice from up on this big mountain, not too long after that, they left the remaining lynx alone.  Rumor had it the program ran out of funding, and public opinion was getting wise and getting mad.  They simply called their program “a success,” and left the mountain with their tail between their legs.  Along the way, they quietly removed their sign depicting the cute little lynx at the beginning of the road where it changes from pavement to dirt which was intended, I suppose, as a warning to people driving by. After all the trapping, touching and handling in the relocation and continued monitoring even after release, the lynx were known to walk towards humans up here, not run away.  That’s how most folks around these parts learned to identify the lynx, not to be confused with the wise and native bobcat.  Well, that and the darned collars.

I live 18 miles up that road, just beyond where they release the lynx that had been trapped, sedated, relocated, and “rehabbed” to adjust to our altitude, they say.   Not a lot of other people live here, especially in winter.  I think there’s one family about six miles away as the crow flies; otherwise, the nearest home is 18 miles away… back down by that sign. The lynx do live around me.  A few that made it.  I see their tracks, and keep my mouth shut and wish they would just hide so “they” wouldn’t come bother them again. But here “they” are, back at it.

And so, I am too. Voicing my concerns about a program that may have been born with the best of intentions. That was many moons (millions of dollars, and hundreds of lives) ago.   Now, if we dare to look deeply, we are forced to question:  who is this program really for, and who truly stands to gain from this process?

~

The program I am referring to is the relocation of Canadian Lynx to southern Colorado, an area that at best may have been the southernmost range recorded for this beautiful animal currently designated as a “threatened species” but often referred to incorrectly as “endangered.” I’ve even hear the species referred to as the Colorado Lynx, which I suppose would make this a new species all together, or simply a term of endearment for those wonderful creatures that were taken from their native Canada and actually survived here.

Now they’re doing a review.  Proving their success.  Yeah!  After how much time and money and losses, there are Canada lynx alive and well in Colorado!

Yet, we must not be fooled by the “facts” we are provided with, nor ruled solely on our emotions for cheering on what we want to be: the success of this wild animal.  Whose success are we really looking at?

What we have here is an ethical dilemma.  We’re playing a game, using a beautiful innocent creature as the pawn and one of the most unpopulated parts of the country as the playing ground. Who really are the players involved?  Though we all become involved as our heart strings are toyed with too…

~

Oddly enough, the “critical habit” for the Canadian Lynx in the Lower 48, as reported by US Fish and Wildlife, does not even go as far south as Colorado, not to mention southern Colorado, but includes Maine, Minnesota, Washington, Wyoming and Montana.

No matter. Here we are in the day of climate change and we’re thinking this is the thing to do:  let’s take an animal native to the eastern and western sides of Canada, and drop them off a thousand or two miles south in the middle of the mountains, and see what happens.

This week we have snow.  What about the rest of the winter? What about, as even “they“ have called it, the new normal?  We jokingly call this part of the southern San Juans The Banana Belt.  Compare us to northern BC, Alaska and Quebec where the animals originated, I’d say that’s not too far off.  No, we have no bananas. But here at the head of the Rio Grande and the end of the Four Corners region, we have strong sun and wonderful warm days in winter and high altitude unlike anything seen up north…

I may not be any wildlife “specialist” but it does not take such degrees to grant common sense.  It takes eyes, mind, and heart.  I’m here, and I see.  I’m not reporting from behind a desk from some big city far away.  I’m talking about my back yard.  No, I’m not the slick professional putting out the press releases to stir public interest and to support my cause.  I’m just a small woman with a big heart who is crying out to try to get some answers, open some eyes, and protect the wilds I’m lucky (or crazy) enough to live in.

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And so, they came here. First because there was no public interference. Hinsdale and Mineral Counties are each about 96% public lands.  That means, of course, only 4% private, and so, not a lot of people, period. Those folks up north were not only more plentiful, but wise to potential restrictions like road closures such a program could bring, and would not cooperate.

Recently, I read a new twist to this theory. Their story changed.  Now they say they researched and chose this location because they found so many snowshoe hare around here it seemed like a great place to give it a try.  I’ve also heard they relocated snowshoe hare here too, so I don’t know what or who to believe any more.

I do know this. My aunt scoffed when years ago I first told her enthusiastically they were bringing the Canadian Lynx to Colorado.  She’s from upstate New York.  “They tried that here too,” she scowled, “but the lynx all left.”

Ours tried to leave too. But this time, the powers that be chose a location so far away, making it back home would be close to impossible. They found “our” lynx in Kansas, and I don’t remember where else.  Many died trying, on the side of the road.  Though more of them simply starved.

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Proof that if you put enough money into a program, have enough ego to keep at it at all costs, and are willing to risk enough lives, you can make anything work.

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Now, I’m just a middle aged lady who has called this mountain home for over a dozen years. Nothing fancy; nothing powerful. In fact, kind of small and usually pretty darned quiet. I’m a homebody and would rather walk or ride a horse than get in or on anything motorized. I don’t fish or hunt and I can’t even get myself to kill a rabbit. I’ve lived up here far beyond where a lady “should” with my husband, my dog, horses, cats, chickens and a wild goose that came to us last spring and hasn’t left.  We raised our son here and at 21, he now is wintering at the South Pole station – testament, I suppose, to how remote, removed and cold one assumes it can be here. But we’re comfortable.  We live simply and eek out a living between running a seasonal guest ranch, writing and taking on odd jobs.  I’m not here to get rich. I’m here just to be here. The wilds, wildlife and Wilderness (note the capital W) mean the world to me after my family and my own animals.

This is my home, and after all these years, and all the battles I have taken on to remain here, I have an incredibly intimate connection with and fierce attachment to the land.  And for that land, I have a moral obligation.  For that land, I have to speak up and do what I can to protect the land, wilds and wildlife.

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Playing God

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As humans, we have a tendency to (1) want to care for those we feel need care; (2) want to prove we can do it – whatever it is – at whatever cost; (3) never want to admit we are wrong; and (4) want to control our environment rather than simply be in it.

Combine these all together, and you have the perfect formula for this program.

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In spite of waning public opinion and growing concerns with sightings of these normally elusive animals on  roads and/or seemingly starving, at some point, the powers that be called their own program “a success.”  I recall reading that “the success” was based on this:  there were more cats born that year than cats that died.  Oh my god.  Do you know how many kittens are in a litter?  Now do the math.  And see if you can figure this out:  how many deaths then were they thus responsible for each year?

And how many millions of dollars were poured into this program to support these efforts… and by whom?

How many millions were spent trapping live animals in Canada, and (we must hope) caring for them in transit, rehab and relocating in to Colorado. On top of that, how many millions more were spent on salaries and snowmobiles and flights, and fossil fuels used to track from the air and trap in the snow?

The only “facts” and “figures” I can find are those provided by the very same people operating this program.

How do we find the truth about these beautiful animals with which we’ve played god, uprooting them from their native lands and turning them out to see what would happen here?

With all the monies poured into this program on behalf of one species, did anyone consider the affect upon other species who now have to co-exist in these changing times, in this changing climate, such as the bobcat, the coyote, and the fox?  What impact would the “success” of the lynx have them?

I do care. About them all.

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Keep trying… keep spending… money and life… sooner or later, it’s going to work!

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Sure, some will make it.  Look at the moose.  They were never here before and were dropped off and for whatever crazy unknown reason, they are currently thriving. The lynx is not as lucky, but he’s still around.

Before you support or negate this program, I would suggest you try to find the facts.  What are the numbers?  The real numbers – not those readily provided by the program.  How many were released? How many died? How much money was spent?  Where did the money come from, and where did it go?

And while you’re at it, ask them this:  why?

~

Success, they have called it. I suppose after all the monies and lives expended, they have to. And who has thought to question? We are all guilty of wanting this to work so badly we were willing to forgo the facts.  Now we have to ask: success for whom, and at what expense?

Where we were.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Where we were.

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big cloud at buta

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buta

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sunset from the phonebooth

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evening clouds and horses

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seeds at buta

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leonidas

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Patagonia, Argentina.

Somewhere out there in the wind.

~

 

What were we there for?

 

Only in retrospect do we clearly see.

When at the time we may be lost in dark depths or blinded by brilliant light

Overwhelmed, overcome

Though sometimes there is foresight to cling to like a torch.

 

I knew before I went.

 

To escort.

 

Along the way, maybe I lost sight. For a little while, at least. It is hard to see when you are in deep. Retrospect and a wild ride and the grounding love of my family and my tribe brought me back to center.

~

 

It’s personal.

 

I’ll put this out there.  Read it if you want.  I’ll share what I can.  I won’t expect you to read it all, though hope you’ll enjoy if you do.

 

What happened to the personal?

We’re too busy to take the time, make the time, a new set of priorities, an epidemic of cluttered time, personal value and social status placed on how busy we can appear.

 

We’ve got to the point where by if we put it out there, post it, we assume all will know. Maybe I don’t know.  And no, I won’t assume.  If you want me to know, write me. Personally.  Crazy concept, I know.  Old fashioned.  You’ll find I usually write back. Likewise, if it matters that much to me, if I need you to know, I’ll write you too.  Personally.

 

For I am learning maybe you’ll read this, maybe you won’t; maybe this is for you, and maybe this is just out there, for the general public, an entertainment service. You decide.

~

 

What was I there for?

 

Escorting.

New life.

Old life.

The eternal powerful process.

Assisting, perhaps only observing

A woman through the greatest transformation of her own life.

 

Simply escorting.

Mother and child do the work while I hold tight to the burden and honor of bearing witness, and little more.

And then we let go, and leave the new life with that which is seemingly old and wise as ever a woman can be, all knowing and eternal and the most beautiful connection and spirit and energy and light, bonding of the truest love, and time no longer matters or can be told except the here and now of mother and baby in enduring bliss.

 

As midwife, the passage is not ours. Though we are there beside her, go there, deep, stand vigil, hold tight, strong, nurturing, bearing witness to the transformation of life, of girl to woman, primal and passionate movement, motion;, the tribal ritual; going down deep into the most intense space a woman can go. And then the instant creation of motherhood, vital love, this is what it’s all about.  Everything.  To be there, with her, if no more than watching over, and giving the gift of trust that she knows I will do all I can to ensure safe passage, see that she returns from that wild space no man may ever know, with a babe at her breast suckling. All so she can let go, and fully experience this enigmatic process.

 

As midwife, we serve as escort. The greatest of honors. The careful observer, at best empowering and encouraging and ensuring safe passage.  If we can, for how much is beyond man and medicine, things they will never fully know, and the more I know the more I realize I don’t, but what can I do because this is not mine, it is her hers, what she wants, and it is natural, and it will happen, or it won’t, and what can we really do but trust.

 

This was not only intense (and at times, I reflect back and admit:  a bit insane), it was intimate. Being there for another woman turned out to be even more intense that doing it myself.  Back twenty something years ago when I birthed, my midwife had not been there before, and didn’t know how deep a woman can go.  She was afraid.  I scared her.  It can be a frightening place, the depths that a woman can dive into.  I am not afraid.

 

Diving deep… And not alone.  And then, being certain of the unwavering strength and core belief in women; our collective body, mind and soul; and life and the primal, passionate act of birth. Belief in her, and in myself –  strong enough to bring them back.

 

I can’t explain it better yet.  If you’ve been there, you know.  If you haven’t, go there.  Somehow. Try.

How deep can you go?

Birth brings life so close to

death and we are hanging

on by tendons tied to some

eternal mother

as strong and sweet as a first breath.

 

Life changing.  Life creating.  The elemental woman’s Right of Passage.  Primal, powerful, passionate, ecstatic.  Yes, it can be.  It is.

 

Intense.

~

 

Now.

 

The intensity of a bath.  The horse trough in the living room, beside the wood stove.  Drinking spring water a degree above freezing. Sweating.  Here so far from pavement, anything seeming like solid ground. In quiet laughter, we recall sweating in Buenos Aires.  The purity of sweat; cleaning from the inside out.  Raising the body temperature; cleansing the pores down deep from the soul.  If I sweat, I don’t get sick.  If I’m getting sick, I need to sweat.  This is good medicine.  Simple stuff.  Old Man Brinker taught me that.

 

Sit back and sweat in the water by the wood stove…

 

It all comes back, rolls over me in a steamy embrace of hot water in a horse trough by the wood stove with my husband.  I want a glass of wine, taste the sweet tart cool richness on my lips and in my throat, but know this is the last thing I really need.  I’m already dizzy.  It is the heat. The relaxation. The utter letting go.

~

 

Before.

 

Several moons ago.  (Tonight I saw a sliver of a new moon tipped up like an empty bowl, waiting to be filled, or just having been emptied.)

 

Tomorrow will be a better day.  Today I’m ready to cry.  I don’t want to.  I want to be strong and make it through this whole huge undertaking without breaking down and being all girlie like, you know?  I can take it, tough it out like the guys and make it without a full day off, and I want to dress warm and play hearty and pretend the snow and wet and cold don’t bother me… but today they do.  And I’m tired and I’m scared that we won’t get it done and I sort of just wish it was done and we could take a day off and talk about something besides logs.

~

 

Overwhelming.

 

As commitments unfold and plans become and the reality of all this work and time and money and fear of how hard it is on Gunnar and fear of my own unknowns and my dear friend’s birthing and how little I still know yet how much I innately trust… these things solidify, and yet I do not become stronger, but more confused.  I don’t not want the adventure – and I don’t want to remain here for fear of trying something else.  But I worry that I’m just spitting in the wind and will find the same discontentment there, everywhere… when really what I must be working on is the contentment in myself.

 

I fear I’m going down into a personal darkness and Now is not the time.

 

A time in between without boundaries. The fear of the un known.  Nightmares of Gunnar, losing him, city streets, hearing him bark, knowing he is trying to find us; and waking fear of Rikki, worry for his coldness, loneliness, missing out on that which could have should have might have been but was missed of natural life for a wild being. Fear of my inability to write, or find a proper publisher, or… what is the purpose of writing if not to share my words?

~

 

And then.  A new beginning.

 

Grounded.

 

It starts in the air.  Most of the greatest adventures do.  Often at night, flying though the endless black,

~

 

And then I was there.

 

And most days I wondered why.

Because I love and want

to give but sometimes give too much and am left with

Wind.

Cold and harsh and biting,

Stripped naked and whipped, exposed

to the elements, beaten and broken down by

the earth and air and water that feeds me.

Too hot or too cold, and Gunnar’s broken foot

becomes my own shackles so I cannot

run away.

 

Is that the land I am meant to be attached to?

Or the people.

People. That is what matters most.

You see?

Don’t you?

It was

Intense.

~

 

Intense.  Yes. This is where we were.

I’m not ready to share the stories, not here, not now.

They are personal and private, though part of it should be shared. I want you to know.  I want you to be there with me.  You too may never be the same.

 

In the meanwhile, I am here, home, my wild white mountain and state of solitude and serenity.  My husband and dog and goose on the deck and horses and crowing rooster in the morning and blinding white afternoons.

~

 

Don’t be afraid to go deep.

 

You must go where you have not been, and that place must be farther than you thought you could go.  It may not be a pretty place.  It may be harsh and raw and real. There is where you’ll find what you are seeking – that inner part of your self. The elusive secrets to the self, the soul, life.  Only when you are truly lost, giving up and opening to guidance to get you out alive, only then will you understand direction.

If we don’t go deep we remain but on the still surface.  Dive into the mud.  You will find your way out. And in the meanwhile, you will learn to swim.  Open your eyes and drink it in. You will not be alone – that is the biggest surprise.  And sometimes, what you will find in those depths are the richest of waters.  The waters of life.

 

Drink in the intensity.

And then, my friend, where will you go?

Not where you were yesterday.

~

 

But I may still be there.  Or you will be.  And no matter how deep we go, me or you, let’s promise each other this.  We won’t leave each other too far behind.  I’ll look for you, find you, and bring you back.  Carry you, drag you, or walk by your side. Don’t forget that.

 

And if you truly believe that, you can go deep.

 

Because you know I’ll be there with you.

 

Or at the least, waiting for you with a big fat grin when you make it back.

 

Home.

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(for Forrest)

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leaf in ice

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cold cabin

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rose hip

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winter leaves

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Here I am.

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

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looking back at the ranch

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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.

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rio grande winter

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

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my horses

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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.

~

rikki

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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.

~

pole mountain

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

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