Done.

November 14, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Done!

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

Enough for now. Time for a change.

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

Ten and a half months ago…

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

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

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

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

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

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

My goose, however, will be remaining here.

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

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

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

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

I held my breath

As around me wind

Roared though

my silence could not hide

me and I found myself

captured enwrapped and

seduced once again by

the elements

lifting heaving and embracing

dancing in the wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starting new stories of our own.

Together with the trees.

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

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

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

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

The wind is calling…

I’m going dancing in the wind!

Fall rising.

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

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

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

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

On building our home together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for book business…

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

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

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

Full.

September 5, 2014September 6, 2014 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

The high country fades first.

The grasses on Pole Mountain turn to yellows, reds and browns.

Now the cold, wet autumn approaches.

Wool sweaters and down jackets and I even pulled out the long johns one day last week. My fingers don’t work as well in the damp afternoons and I remain huddled longer and closer cooking over the old wood cook stove.

The aspen leaves tilt and some turn. It’s happening. I’m ready. Though all I have wanted to accomplish this season remains pending. Time enough. To rush, push, get it done, and yet I know what this season does to me. Sets me stirring. Like leaves in the wind or cold silver waters after a fresh rain. To be out there, breathing, feeling, sharp sensed, wild like a deer, uncontained… Running in the woods and riding the high country when staying home, remaining focused, keep grounded, containment becomes closer to impossible… most years. Maybe not this one.

For now I want to be right here, where I am, doing what I’m doing. Today. Tomorrow is something else.

Maybe tomorrow, for today my hands are full.

Simple living isn’t simply living. There’s work to be done. Beyond hauling water and splitting wood, though those things must be done too. Days are full. Between building, books and guest ranch business. Cooking, cleaning, lighting candles, heating water in which to wash. Writing words, peeling logs, gathering eggs, shoeing horses, hanging laundry on the line in between storms, figuring out what to feed the boys, and chasing the goose out of the road as another visitor drives away. Would I want it any other way? Well, sometimes, yes. Indoor plumbing would top my list right about now.

Building. Two more months until snowfly will more than likely shut us down for the season. Not to say there won’t be snow before then. Next week may bring the first of it. I envision us shoveling off the work site, sweeping off our logs, working in heavy boots and thick gloves, watching our breath rise with the rising walls. Soon.

As the mountain releases, so do I. The slow, certain exhale to dormancy. The big sigh of relief. For years I attributed this to making it through another season without losing a client. I mean really losing. As in, loss of life. Injuries, well, that was part of it. You’re in the mountains now. But the pending fear of the big loss was ever present. I lost sleep over it, but never a client. Yes, that was a serious fear for me and a serious consideration in the outfitting business, while my clients would come in complete trust and often ignorance for which I would assume responsibility and risk. Many folks treated a horseback ride in the high country as a walk in the park. For me, it was their life on the back of my horse, which in turn meant their life on my back. I took it seriously. No, I have no intention of ever sharing the crazy stories I could tell of what my clients did, or what we did to them… suffice to say, I took my outfitters oath almost as seriously as a doctor does to her clients. Truth is, I learned from all of them, and loved the opportunity to share my world, my time, my horses, my mountain. And at the end of it, every time, I was glad I was done. Hopefully with great memories, better riders, and a mountain that remained unaffected for all the hours and foot prints, both horse and human, we laid upon her.

Breaking water in the oil change pan outside the cabin that serves as the goose’s pond. Ice most mornings now. I await the honking of the flocks coming down river, congregating on the flats of the reservoir below Ute Creek, hoping some primordial longing to belong will call Rikki. Friends tell me otherwise. Get used to it, they say, you’re stuck with a goose. I still hold hope that nature will prevail. He will want to fly off. I’ll let you know. Yesterday morning was the first time a flock flew over head. He ran to me instead.

Tonight after a dinner at the guest cabins he walks home with me and the wildly barking dog in the light of the moon.

This morning he remains on vigil, looking down at the river. Something in him knows, stirs. The river calls him. Will he follow the primal voice and fly back to where he belongs?

Lessons learned from looking between the horses ears. Because sometimes I see more clearly from there than from between my ears alone.

What next? What today? What lesson do I need to learn? Between my legs or out my kitchen window.

I used to run ‘em in. Made sense when I had twenty, even forty head to get in each day, brush out, pick hooves, saddle and get out on the trail. Now I have seven. Now I can take the time. I am their leader, not their menace.

Sometimes what we’ve been looking for is right there before us. Open your eyes, they remind me.

Between the horses’ ears.

Now back to work.

For those who received a complimentary copy (hard copy or pdf file) of The Last of the Living Blue,… please take a few minutes to write, post and share your review. If you need help learning how and where to post and share, please write me directly at gingetz@gmail.com. And for those who have already shared and posted reviews, and those who have written me personally to tell me your thoughts, thank you. Most sincerely.

As for the kind words some of you have shared, I can’t say I don’t need to read those things. I am finding myself horribly insecure with such matters right now. The first book was more personal than I would have liked (thanks to the poking and prodding of my initial editor), and the second came out too soon for me to be able to start selling myself all over again. I am a bit burned out on the whole process. Though not on writing. I am a writer. I am not a salesman.

Now I find myself turning pages back to and through already written words, back to Ginny’s world, the world we shared and lives that tangled and intertwined in the Patagonia winds. This book too shall come. It begins, the time has come. A new birthing. It stirs, awakens, as it was meant to do.

Time for letting the grapes ripen, the wine sweeten, seasons come and go, everything in its time, no matter that I’m as bad as any one for wanting it all yesterday…

Much appreciation and gratitude to Carrie Browne for posting a lovely review of my books on her blog, The Shady Tree. I also enjoy noting the progress Carrie has made on her poetry, photography and blog layout and design. Her blog is a wonderful place to visit. Enjoy!

A return to the approaching autumn.

This morning, the first elk call of the season heard across the mountain above the crazy calls of returning coyote. Tonight, hard rain on the metal roof. And already I wonder when it will turn to the silence of snow.

A farewell to summer days.

August 23, 2014 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

A farewell to summer days.

Time

of the turtle

we withdraw where

in silent spaces

Darkening days we learn

to breathe

within or is it

beneath the surface

Return

to the cocoon

From which we emerged

Soothed by the sound of rain

the promise of browning grass

as the high country pales and fades

Washed over

with a wave of returning stillness

consuming

as a cloud enwrapping

the veil of early morning

silhouettes of what will be

maybe it is the

winds and waters which

hold me

when what I thought

embracing me

was something more solid

A poem in progress.

Words evolving as we do with life.

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

But good enough is not good enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes to self.

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

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

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

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

August 14, 2014 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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

This past week brought…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is all about change.

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

The Thirty Day Internet Limit Trial

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

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

Still sounds like a lot, doesn’t it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Want to give it a try?

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

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

Arousing the state of dormancy.

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

She begins her long slow deep exhale

And with her, I breathe in unison.

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

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

Ecobiography.

What a wonderful word. Eco-biography.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Learning to let go.

August 8, 2014 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

A frost on the deck damp from yesterday’s rain

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

Where he used to bathe

Emptiness on the cliff

Where he used to stand

Watching the river flow

In this morning of uncertainty

I seek to find solace in the poems of Wendell Berry

Who uses words in ways I may never learn how

But always seek to emulate

Who preaches in calm certainty

Yet what I feel but he does not

For he a man and I a mother

And his practicality is replaced by my passion

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

And be at peace knowing

We can never own that which is meant to be wild

Yet I find his distance disturbing

While his words more than I may ever obtain

As I dive into my life heart first

And leave behind a pool of broken waters

Shattered mirrors and forgotten dreams
~

Learning to let go.

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

Yeah, it’s about the goose.

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

And then last night he flew off in the moonlight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Won’t he?

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

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

He has flown home.

Movin’ on up.

July 31, 2014July 31, 2014 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

In terms of construction, it’s slow but steady. Stacking big hefty logs, each one peeled and grinded, worm holes revealed, larva and young beetles removed, life and death skinned back with each pull of the blade of my drawknife, sawed and sculpted by Bob’s chainsaw, and lifted with ease by Forrest and the crane. This defines the first floor, with plenty of room for windows exposing an odd view of the changing hillside, now a silent, still wave of red trees.

Each log with a story to share, seemingly old as time, though even in the widest trunk we count back only three hundred years. Before the miners. Before the homesteaders. Before the dam, the fishermen, tourists and so-called old timers. You put it all into perspective. Counting the rings in the base of a tree now used to fashion the rising walls. It’s as if we’re creating a living museum for the trees. The big old ones. The kind my grandchildren and their children may never see live and green in these mountains.

Were they really once this big, perhaps they will ask me?

Oh yes, and bigger still.

That one we called Grandfather Tree.

Forever preserved in my home. I touch the smooth warm skin of wood and wonder. With these changing times, we learn to question: is anything really forever?

Rikki is air born!

So, this morning I’m sitting in the outhouse, door open as usual, looking down at the Rio flowing big and brown from all the wild rains we’ve been having, when suddenly… this goose flies by. Yes, my goose. Up river. Then down river. I don’t see where he lands but run down to the work site and start looking along the cliffs and calling and worrying and then… there he is, popping back up the hill side behind me.

Well, I guess he figured out how those wings work.

He looked so beautiful! Said by the adoptive mother of a Canadian Goose. Me, with my fear of heights.

Nature happens. I didn’t teach him to fly any more than I taught him to swim. I don’t do either one much, so how could I? A little boy staying in one of our guest cabins sees the goose and thinks it’s a duck, and what can I say as I thought he was a duck too when we first found the little fluff ball out on the cliff all alone? He tells me he hears they can swim. He says this with great admiration. I suppose where he comes from in Texas, and likewise for us here in the high mountains, swimming is not something you really do. Yes, I tell the little boy, he swims beautifully. And, I continue, he is learning to fly. The little boy’s eyes get wide and his mouth drops open. Really? He looks down at Rikki with tremendous awe. Flies?! He says. Part question, part astonishment. Wow, this is one impressive being… Watch, I say, and I run down the hill in front of the cabin and the goose gets air born, only a foot or so off the ground for a few paces then resumes to running (because that is what his mama has taught him to do, if one learns by example…). Just enough to leave the little boy basking in the wonderment…

Summer encroaching. Caging me in, the wild beast paces… Ready to bust free and soar…

At times it feels the more I give of me the less I have, rather than being fed by the giving and feeling more whole. There are empty places within me. Do you feel the same sometimes?

In front of me a hillside of dead standing trees. Close enough to be intimate. They are fading, their sprit song paling. There is silence where there once were stories of life, growth and timely death and a natural progression which is not what I see before me now.

The silencing of our collective soul.

Now standing before us stripped, bare, and lifeless.

An emptiness I need to fill.

I don’t get out much. Not down river. Not on the road, towards town, towards what one might call “civilization.” But yesterday found me in the truck, driving down our mountain, through the burn, and back up another rural road to another destination between a couple of tourist towns.

Each car or truck that passes by the other way, I lift my hand and wave. I should. That’s only polite. I might know these people. Or I might not. Which seems to be more the case this time of year when the vast majority of vehicles out there have out of state plates and no, I don’t know them, and probably never will. But is that any excuse to not mind my manners? Pretend I didn’t notice? Sorry, no can do.

I’m losing heart. After a dozen or so waves without a response, I wonder why I’m still lifting my hand?

The warmest mornings we had this year were 45 above. And now the heat is over. The sweltering days, all ten of them, are behind. Today, cooler air. Promise of fall. Longer shadows, shorter days. Already, I swear. Maybe I’m looking for it. Eager anticipation.

Until I look back at the log cabin we’re building and see how much we still have to do before snow fly.

Time flies, the goose flies, snow will fly. And what can I do but all I can do, or nothing at all, and wonder what drives us ever onward?

Cultivate your dreams like seeds thrown into the wind. It is your work to be certain what lays down wind is fertile ground, not hard stone, permafrost, or pavement.

How to be Happy.

July 9, 2014July 9, 2014 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Fellow author and blogger, C.M. Mayo, asked me to write a guest post for her blog, Madam Mayo. I skimmed over her requested requirements, thought to myself, I could never come up with something like that. What do I know? And then the answer came to me, and I couldn’t stop writing!

I am no expert at anything. But I am learning a lot, and I’m always game for trying. What I can’t share are some guaranteed fool proof tried and true methods that I know for certainty and feel the need to teach you, the reader, because I have it all figured out and maybe you don’t. I don’t either. So all I can do is share with you what I’m learning. And maybe we can learn it together. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point. That’s what it’s all about.

Well, after finishing writing this piece, I took a closer look at the requirements and sample posts, and realized I got it all wrong. I mean, totally. And I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything else to write about since I was so excited by this. Besides, I don’t think she wants to get political or stir waters, and since my second book addresses climate change from a personal perspective, and climate change is still by some considered a political issue, not a reality, I don’t think she’d want my list of Five Ways to Save the Trees or anything like that. So, I’m sharing this.

The five essential habits of positive people (or how to be happy in five easy steps)

Imagine if there were a few secret ingredients to a happy life. You know, inside information, words of wisdom shared by the happiest people. The tricks of the trade for the happy. What works for those people who smile a lot, seem comfortable with who they are, love their work, like the people around them, are nice to be around and nice to those around them. And imagine if we could learn from these people. Because who among us does not wish to be happier?

Say there are a few specific “rules” we can follow to find ourselves happier, what would they be? They would have to be inspirational, happy, humorous, fun, not preachy, not perfect, things to try for with room to grow and plenty of forgiveness, because we’re human and we always have to try.

It would be about choice. We can choose happier habits. Ultimately, we can choose our thoughts, rather than have our thoughts (and emotions) choose our direction. Not to negate these things – It’s just that most of us need to learn to live with them, keep them in line. Not let our emotions rule us and run our lives.

We can start by following the example of people we admire. People who are trying, against odds, to make the world a better place and find a better place within themselves. I’m not talking about the happy go lucky folks for whom life’s been just fine and they get through just fine – but never do anything great. I want to be all I can, try it all, experience life to the fullest. That means ups and downs. Good times and bad times. Make mistakes.

If we don’t fall on our face, we haven’t tried to run. Life’s too short to walk through. So, every once in a while, run! Flat out. And maybe you’ll fall. Get back up, dust yourself off, and when your wounds have healed (if you really must wait that long) try again. “Only those who have had, can lose.” You can go through life playing it safe. Make it through to the finish line. Slow, steady. Nothing fancy, no fan fare, no bells and whistles or even a lot of cheers along the way. Or you can dance your way through life and sometimes stumble. If you don’t try to dance, you don’t have to worry about making the wrong moves. Oh come on. Give it a try. Dance!

Sure, you can’t be happy all the time. That would be ridiculous. But you can be happier more often. It’s up to you.

Start your day on a positive note. Here’s one we learned from Zig Ziglar. Before you even get out of bed, clap your hands and say something wonderful about yourself, your world, and the day you’ve got ahead of you. Then this one from Louise Hay. Tell yourself you love yourself. Look in a mirror if you have one and say it to yourself that way. I don’t, and I live in a small one-room cabin. If I woke up clapping my hands and talking in the mirror, I think my boys would really worry. At the very least, I’d wake them up, and those who know me know this: don’t disturb my mornings. So, I keep it quiet, let them sleep, and try to say these things in my head.
Patience. Learn to slow down. Let go. Boy this is a hard one for me. For so many in society where we’re often judged on how busy we pretend to be, but how jam packed we fill our days, placing self value on number of hours worked (though do we stop and think how much we actually accomplish?). The more we can justify being busy, the better people we think we are. Or so we are told. Things are changing. That worked great to develop the modern world, create fast food and Wal-marts, capitalism and consumerism. But it didn’t bring us closer to happiness. Try meditation, walking, yoga, breathing. Watch a snowflake fall on your hand and melt. Sit and wait in the early dark to see the moon clear the horizon (or nearest building). Listen to the wind or the water or the waves. Find a tree and hear the leaves rustle. “Learn to let go. That is the key to happiness.” – Jack Kornfield, Buddha’s Little Instruction Book.
Life’s short – eat dessert first. All these excuse for why not. Think of all the reason why instead. Just do it. Learn to do something new every day. Never say never. Don’t let yourself (or someone you love) say “I can’t.” Go ahead, give it a try. Now. What are you waiting for? Don’t bother telling me. I don’t want to hear. I want to hear what you want to do, and what you’re doing to get there. Rather, I want to show me. Do it. Come on, dream!
Give. Practice – and expand on – compassion. Do random acts of kindness. Do something for someone without strings attached every single day. It doesn’t have to cost money. It doesn’t have to take much time. Just share the gifts you already have. You have a lot. As a writer, I like to share my words. A cook shares food, a photographer images, a mother comfort – these are the gifts we share, not just to make a living or get the job done or for self importance, acceptance, acknowledgement or reward. Simply to give what we can. Share your gifts. What gifts can you share? We all have something special. Creativity, prayer, song. Think beyond the box. Or look deep inside. There’s lots there. Open it up and share it. I bet there’s plenty to go around.
Have fun, smile, dance. I don’t have TV. Last month I finally saw the Ellen Show for the first time while staying at my sister’s house. Apparently she dances every day. Right on. Then there is Ginny, the woman who’s life my next book is based upon. Dancing in the Wind… There she is, even in her wheelchair. Dancing. If she can, I can too. Do it. Dance. It feels really good. And if you dance like no one’s looking, you can’t help but find yourself be smiling like you mean it. And yes, chances are, you’ll feel happy.

This is how my mind works.

July 7, 2014 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

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

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

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

An owl calls. It is that dark.

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

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

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

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

Growing up.

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

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

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

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

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

What will be the fate of the last living blue?

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

I leave you with this to consider.

A Rumi a dear friend shared with me yesterday:

Run from what is comfortable

Forget safety

Live where you fear to live

I have tried prudent living long enough

From now on I’ll be mad.

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

Nothing stays the same.

It’s about me.

June 18, 2014June 20, 2014 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

It’s about me.

I’m on the steep grass hillside up the Ute Ridge trail looking north. Gunnar is next to me, sitting, watching. Haven’t seen another person since I left the ranch. There are big fat clouds randomly shading the open expanse of water and the cradling hills on either side. Not dark clouds. They hold no weight. I don’t think it’s going to rain. With all this wind whipping the earth dry again, I sort of wish it would. I packed a jacket just in case. You can’t see far. The last mountain range is blurring into obscurity by blown up sands or silt from the charred hillsides down river.

I think the last time I was here was when we silently watched the smoldering remains of the Papoose Fire on the other side of the Rio Grande Reservoir. Seems like a long time ago. This time last year. There were no cars on the road when I looked down then like there are now, leaving a trail of pale brown dust in their wake long after they have passed.

Random notes on the Season and Life.

Big snow banks getting small. The river is going down. Now it’s as high as I’ve ever seen high waters in the dozen years before this. June winds so strong we hope the outhouse doesn’t blow over again. My skin is wind burned and eyes are bloodshot from working out there in it all day and there is too much to do to stay inside.

Progress on the new cabin. The floor joists are measured carefully, cut in the wind with sawdust flying, and securely screwed in place, blocked and insulated. I can’t wait to start with the logs. Almost there…

We’re a good team. Not a day passes without my thinking I’m the luckiest lady alive to be out their building a home with my boys. A real home this time.

Nineteen degrees in the morning and those spectacular wild iris on pasture froze, gave up and surrendered, folding over purple face down. Up here, it’s hard on wildlife, harder still to garden.

Roaring wind and raging

water

A fervent embrace

From the wild beast

within

While around me

Remains of last

season

Circle about courting me

In a whirlwind dance

Of tangled life and

death

Before me on the little table that contains three steaming coffee cups, remnants of last night’s dinner, our open laptap computers, and promises of the breakfast to come. And in that clutter, my proof copy of The Last of the Living Blue! It’s beautiful – what a wonderful job NorLights Press has done again. Thank you, Sammie. Some time between setting the plywood over floor joists and riding in to check the ditch, I’ll read (at least, skim) it over one more time (yes, one more damn time… by tomorrow) and then off it goes to press. Yippeee!

Oh, so that part about me?

Well, it started with this.

At the Tattered Cover event last week where I was promoting my first book, The Color of the Wild. The event, on a side note, and much to my surprise, was quite fun. A super big THANK YOU to all those who joined me, turned out, showed support, listen and talked with me, and to the many wonderful new faces I was able to meet. Anyway, in the presentation, I touched on this, with regards to writing memoir:

“Memoir is a medium for sharing intimate views – in my case, besides my views of nature, I share glimpses into personal issues, losses, pain, sadness. And growth and good stuff too. Memoir allows introspection both for the reader and the writer… Sharing your world, exposing oneself, bleeding with words on paper… Ultimately, it all ends up being about words. I want my words to sound good. I want my writing to read well aloud.

“Yes, the story is about me. It’s my story, my view.

“On the other hand, memoir opens odd doors of others hoping/wishing/assuming it’s about them, so you learn to leave their concerns and comments behind, and focus on what you set out to do.”

Bottom line: This is my story. And most importantly, I hope, a well written one.

Alas, here I am with my second book coming out end of the month, something I humbly consider an achievement and accomplishment, and from what I’m seeing in the reviews and reception, it is well done. But around these parts, I’m more likely to hear, “Oh no, you’ve written another book” rather than “Right on, you’ve written another book.” Interesting. So much for celebrating and sharing in your victories. Sad but true.

The truth comes out. Who really cares about you? And… what kind of people are they, anyway?

Fortunately, part of growing up is choosing. I’m so grateful for the loving, caring, supportive family, friends and readers I do chose, and who have chosen me. Thank you. If I haven’t told you all before, I’m also so thankful for the kind notes those who have been touched by my writing have taken the time to share with me. That is the reason we write, share our words and world. That makes it all worthwhile.

Maybe you have heard that blood is thicker than water, as if that would solve matters, demand forgiveness, and make dysfunctional families okay. It doesn’t work for me. I can’t help but wonder: Since when is thick a good thing, a compliment, something to strive for, a positive personal quality?

Sometimes, blood is simply stickier than water. Know when to wash your hands.

Gin Getz

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

personal stories

Done.

Fall rising.

Full.

A farewell to summer days.

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

Learning to let go.

Movin’ on up.

How to be Happy.

This is how my mind works.

It’s about me.

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