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.

A Request for Reviewers!

June 10, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Readers – and Reviewers – Wanted!

I’m looking for a few willing and able readers. If you are interested in receiving an advance reviewers’ pdf copy of The Last of the Living Blue in exchange for posting/sharing honest reviews (on Amazon, GoodReads, etc.) please e-mail me directly at gingetz at gmail dot com. I would so appreciate your help, and sincerely hope you will enjoy.

Please remember. Not every book is for every person. I’m a nature writer and memoir writer. If your thing is romance or sci-fi or erotica, don’t waste your time (or mine). I mean no offence to those genres. That’s just not what I write. (This comes after getting my first bad review – from a woman who has a Playboy bunny symbol as her portrait picture. What a surprise. She won a copy of my book, so she read it. Well, I suppose I should be happy she read it… )

Oh, and the new cover… What do you think? I would love to hear your feedback.

Anyway, today it’s all business (well, mostly…) and self promotion. Please bear with me. It’s all good stuff.

The biggest of course is this. The release of The Last of the Living Blue is scheduled for the end of the month. The cover is completed, the layout is laid out, and the team at NorLights Press is once again jumping through flaming hoops (well, no, not really, but I imagine they feel like it at the end of some days) to get this done, and beautifully.

If you’re one of those wondering how lucky I am to have two books out in one year, yes indeed, I am feeling very lucky, but please remember this. The first one took me five years and a stack a mile high (or so it felt) of rejection letters. And all along I remembered this. Something I once read. Forget the rejection letters and keep on writing. So I did. You can too. Writing or riding, dancing or drawing, or what ever it is you’ve been dreaming about.

Writing is my dream. (Part of it.) I’m still somewhat in shock that people actually read what I write…

Well, let me tell you a little bit about The Last of the Living Blue:

“The Last of the Living Blue (scheduled for release June 30, 2014 by NorLights Press) is an intimate, intense personal account of the effects of our changing climate in our big back yard, Colorado’s majestic mountains and the Weminuche Wilderness. It reads close and comfortable, though the times it takes you through are often anything but. It’s real and raw, told in a soft yet powerful voice, taking the reader along through one year of drought, fires, floods and the healing of mountain and mind.

“This beautifully told story addresses a matter of utmost concern from a unique perspective and in a quiet yet captivating tone. The Last of the Living Blue is an unusual approach to addressing the effects of climate change upon our beautiful world, one tree at a time. Neither a preachy lecture, nor a “everything’s peachy” scenario, you’ll find yourself enchanted with Gin’s prose, poetry and storytelling as she open up her world to us and shares with the reader in stunning words what she sees.”

What people are already saying about The Last of the Living Blue:

“How does somebody hear a forest unraveling? How can she see a mountain sighing? With the patience of a predator and the melancholy notes of an autumn breeze, The Last of the Living Blue brings to us what is hidden before our eyes, disturbing yet enduringly beautiful. In a world careening recklessly over the speed limit, Gin Getz’s ‘quiet voice singing’ is worth stopping to hear.”

— Daniel Glick, author of Monkey Dancing: A Father, Two Kids, and a Journey to the Ends of the Earth (Public Affairs)

“Gin Getz writes exquisite prose about life on the mountain and at the headwaters of the Rio Grande. This is a passionate book: by a woman, for all that she loves intensely. And that’s a lot. This is a beautiful book to read.”

— Harold Rhenisch, author of Motherstone: British Columbia’s Volcanic Plateau

A special thanks to Donna McBroom-Theriot for sharing such a wonderful review of The Color of the Wild on her fantastic web site: My Life, One Story at a Time.

For all those folks who have asked if I have books on hand for sale, I do not. I prefer supporting local book sellers. Of course the book is available on-line at Amazon and Barnes & Nobles but if you can buy local, please do. The Color of the Wild is currently available in Lake City at Timberline Craftsman, and in Creede at San Juan Sports. Two stores you definitely should visit if you’re in or passing through this part of Colorado.

Oh, and speaking of local bookstores…

For those of you in or near the Denver area, if you’re around Thursday evening, please stop by the Tattered Cover (Historic LoDo location) at 7 pm. I’ll be presenting a talk, reading and slide show based on my work and world. I’d love to see you, meet you, and share with you there. (I would also really appreciate your support!) I think it will be fun, but I’m honestly more than a little nervous.

And… although talking is not usually my thing, I’ll be speaking with the fabulous Irene Rawlings for a radio interview before the Tattered Cover event. I’ll let you know (probably via Facebook) when the interview will be aired. Can’t wait to meet her!

On other fronts, house building is progressing. Slowly but surely. The rain, hail and snow slowed us a down a little (as did the mud stuck to our boots), but the footer and foundation are complete. My roots are in the Earth.

After words.

May 28, 2014 / Gin Getz / 23 Comments

Yes, lots happening. It’s Spring. You know. Same for so many of you.

Among a lot of other good things, the final editing of The Last of the Living Blue is underway, and we’re now completing the Afterwards. This may be part of it. And even if we cut it, I would like to share this with you now.

I’m down at the building site where the snow from the latest storm just melted and the clay of the cut open earth sticks to my boots like concrete. The foundation is poured. When the ground dries and cement cures, we’ll be back at it. Next with the logs which have sat dormant for the remainder of winter awaiting their fate. Becoming home.

At my feet is a gosling. A fluffy yellow and grey critter that at only a few days old swims across the creeks I jump. He showed up in the middle of the work site when we were setting forms. With a steep cliff down to the river on three sides, and the gravel road and torn up ground on the forth, how did he end up here, on this high harsh bluff above the Rio with no sign of other geese close by? Forrest heads off to explore the ravines and finds no potential parents, siblings or nest.

You don’t want to interfere. You want to let the wilds be wild. But you can’t just turn your back, walk away, knowing what its fate would be. I think that’s why they make babies so cute. You’re going to do all you can to care for them. Against all logic and principles and belief in non-interference. How do you draw the line at compassion? You don’t. So you have a baby goose in your house and find yourself cutting dandelion greens and walking to feed the horses very, very slowly so the little guy can keep up.

A friend tells me it must be a sign. Neither of us know what he might symbolize but you get the feeling it must be something, for some reason, for you can’t help but wonder why here? Why now? After having him in our lives for several days and becoming rather attached to the little stinker, I’d say the message he brings us probably has something to do with patience, love, slowing down and nurturing. He sleeps between Forrest’s feet at meal time and when I don’t feel like walking so slowly, Bob’s got him on his lap when I head out to take care of chores. I swear your blood pressure drops when he chirps sleepily on your lap.

I don’t have time for this, I want to say. Grinding chicken food, picking greens, carrying him about and cleaning up after him. Make time, my friend says. I know. She’s right. So there he is now, tucked into my vest, cheeping softly while I write.

Another May comes, is almost gone. The foundation for our home is laid. Concrete in the earth. A sense of permanence, wanting, needing to belong. These are my roots. Solid, grey, thick footers. Something to hold me down, connect me further with the land. Something to remain long after I am gone, my son and his family, generations thereafter. Long after the scattered seeds of the blue spruce turn into a forest of new growth, and the new some day turns old.

This season has been one of strewn spring snows. The river roars rich and brown and the reservoir is higher than I have ever seen it. It feels healthy. The grass on pasture is already lush enough that the horses hesitate when I call them in for hay. We no longer talk in terms of drought and fire bans and fear of lightning. We think we’re off the hook. It’s over. Long gone. The treed hillsides even look green. Am I seeing things? Sometimes we see what we want to see.

The season begins. Traffic on the road (well, at least a few motors a day), summer homes dusted out, smoke from other chimneys, voices at the trailhead. Even the UPS trucks drives in (and once again, a welcome sight).

I feel lost and need to find myself again. It is hard after a winter of silence and solitude. I try. I want to try harder but then find myself worn thin because I’m so tired of trying and I am left wishing it would all come naturally and it never does.

There is an emptiness and detachment that comes over me as I lose the voice of the trees around this time every year when the air is filled with people things.

I think of the conversation I had with a colleague last week who tells me he finds equal beauty in man and nature, and is fascinated by the precarious balance and blending between the two. A relationship, a dance of life.

Why can’t I see the beauty in this interconnection? Why do I too often see the fault?

Finding balance in this land of extremes.

stellers jay

A walk through the trees to Sweetgrass Meadow and I’m looking for the truth. I’m looking for answers. Is it over?

I stop to rest, sitting on a fallen tree alongside the edge of a small clearing. If you look up to the top of the north facing slope, it’s a hillside of grey and brown blue spruce. Down at the edge of the clearing, many trees are still green.

Here, I am close. In them. With them. Among my beloved blue spruce. I sit silently, look closely.

Behind green needles, I see clear fresh sap dripping from slipping bark like so many tears.

Has it ended? This wrath of beetles that devastated our forest. Has it finished its destruction?

Is the drought over? Is the aquifer refilled? Fire danger a thing of the past? I know the million acres of dead trees won’t return to life, but what about the ones left living? And what about the beetles? After such a mild winter, I wonder.

I want to believe it’s over. The spruce trees around the ranch and at the edge of the opens meadows across river are still green. I have not yet seen a bark beetle. With all this moisture, this beautiful spring, surely everything will be okay, I tell myself.

If I am to have blind faith, I shall find it in the wind and wilds.

sunday morn 2

sunday morn 3

Good stuff.

May 12, 2014 / Gin Getz / 22 Comments

Good Stuff.

Breaking Ground

This is big news. Yes, you got it. Ground breaking news. Progress on our new home. We started with the logs, harvesting the beetle kill from our land across river in winter. Dragging dead trees across the frozen waters for their next life of becoming a part of our future home.

Now the foundation begins.

Down on the exposed bluff above the Rio Grande, the bulldozer breaks ground. Earth is moved to make way for what will be our home. A hard, harsh cut gouged deep into fragile soil. I stand in the pit and place my hands upon the layers of soil that took maybe millions of years to amass and here we are moving them all in one day. I find myself crying. I think these are happy tears. We have waited a long time for this. There are many, many dreams tied into this one pile of dirt.

On one hand, I ask forgiveness for the land for such disturbance. We try to live simply, modestly, carefully. On the other hand, I see how we will be even more connected, grounded, a part of each other, with our home a part of the land, in the earth, partially buried and within these millions of years of creation.

I’ll need to keep that in mind when it seems some days like progress is going slowly.

All in all, it’s been a wonderful, crazy, busy week and looks like many more not only in the future, but here and now. Better get used to it. Coffee is good. Sleep is over rated. Jogging takes less time than walking. We’re running around finishing up projects on the guest cabins before the season opens, and Bob points to the plastic lawn chair next to the one he’s sitting in.

“Too busy to sit and enjoy the day?” he asks me.

I know. He’s right. I sit. A full minute, shifting my focus and tapping my leg and completely missing out on the view before me of the full creek, greening pasture, and horses lying about lazily. I know I’m not supposed to do that. I’m supposed to be here and now. But here and now, I’ve got things to do. Things I want to do. Good things. Okay?

“Can I go now?” I get up. I’m ready to get back to work.

Announcing a new book.

Over the weekend, I signed the publishing contract for my next book, The Last of the Living Blue, to be release June 30th by NorLights Press. I feel very, very blessed.

I think what makes me as happy, maybe happier, than having my publisher believe in me (when now that I’m revamping and working on the final draft, I’m wondering why and how she did when I see how much work it needs! Thank you, Sammie, for trusting me, and may I not let you down.) is the incredible support and warm reception I received from so many of you upon sharing the good news. Thank you!

I’ll keep you all posted on progress as we countdown to the release date.

Just when you thought the ground was drying out. Just when you thought “watering the lawn” sounded like a good idea but you don’t have sprinklers or a lawn, just a sub irrigated pasture that needs surface moisture from time to time to grow good grass for the horses. Just when you started to worry about fires and drought and all those things we DO need to worry about here surrounded by half a million acres of dead and dying trees due to bark beetles.

Suddenly, more snow!

No, it won’t kill the beetles. It won’t bring our trees back to life. But it does help the grass grow and gives us a great excuse to catch up on indoor work today.

Alas, I find a reason to go out there, in it. It’s beautiful. It’s fun. Anything’s better than sitting around staring at a screen! However, that does bring me to this:

Apologies, friends, family, readers, those who reach out and write to me, for being so slow to respond this past week. It has been a crazy, wonderful, busy week. Please know you matter so much to me. As I wrote to fellow blogger and friend, Carrie of The Shady Tree, I may be the world’s worst “blogger” and that’s okay because you know I never liked that word or title anyway. Blogger. Yuck. Anyway, you know the last thing I want is more time in front of the computer. Writing already takes up so much time. And when I’m done, I’m outta here! The last thing I want to do is spend more time sitting in front the back lit screen when I could be out there… There is so much out there!

How do you get it all done? I don’t want to settle for “good enough.”

“Trust,” Ginny tells me. And I trust it all happens in the right time, and in the meanwhile, do all I can to make it happen.

(“Dance,” she says too, as she raises her arms wide with a wonderful smile on her face like she hears the music and all the while she’s sitting in the wheelchair but you’re pretty sure any minute now she’ll burst out dancing. Yes, I definitely should dance more!)

And speaking of Ginny. Dancing in the Wind, a tale of two Virginias, will be put on “back burner” until after the finishing touches of Living Blue are complete. Then we’ll give it all we got, and we got a lot. Can’t wait to share this one with you all.

That novel too may take longer than I expected. And, I wonder, when will I find time to fit in the poetry project? I’m not sure, but somehow I feel certain it all will come together. It is all coming together!

On a side note.

A new long-distance friend is starting up a most interesting business, and I think her idea is so fun, so fantastic, I wanted to share this with you. Jill is combining the opportunity to make new friends, enjoy the great outdoors, and talk books. Sorry, guys, this one’s not for you. Ladies, please check out Outdoor Book Club.

And Stuff

The ethics involved in consumerism. Otherwise known as: A confession.

Last week found me in the big city. Denver. Smaller and warmer and friendlier than what I used to call “The Big City,” though lacking the unmistakable diversity, culture, chaos and intense vibe of New York. Which was fun back then, and still I crave in small (very small) doses from time to time.

I had not left the mountain since last November at which time I went to Lake City and had lunch with a friend in the only restaurant opened “off season.” This means, nearly six months of missing (as in not having been there, not as in longing for) town, telephone, traffic and putting on clean boots. This also means I had not touched cold, hard cash in a good long while. In fact, I had not even opened my wallet, which is why it came as a big surprise when I finally did and saw that my driver’s license had expired. Whoops.

I realize how spoiled, lucky (or dare I say… smart – ha ha!) I am to have built such a simple, quiet life. I’m busy, I get a lot done, there’s more than enough work, but I’m here. And the rest, I can do without. Maybe I might miss out on fun stuff like nights out on the town, talking on the phone, Starbucks coffee and travel, but this is what keeps me sane. And even then…

Love kids as I do, I would have made a really cruddy soccer mom.

Downsizing, simplifying… These things matter to me. I actually try to have less. I don’t want to be a part of the Fattening of Society. I don’t just mean the waist lines of the people. I mean the wallets, the debts, the amassed good, the expanding feeling of needing more, or deserving more. I want less. Of “things.” Stuff. Consumerism. Spending. I want more time in nature, with my boys, writing, taking pictures, dreaming. Yes, I want time to dream. I want slighter debt, fewer possession, less stuff, a smaller house to clean and fewer clothes to wash. A basic diet, nothing fancy, simple food is just fine, and, crazy as it sounds, comfortable shoes. Being in the city reminds me of this every time.

My escapades took me of course to the thrift shop, where I was able to find my new summer wardrobe and a few things for my son for less than the cost of a pair of new jeans.

And then, yes, the big confession. I found myself at Wal-Mart. Shopping. No one to blame but myself. It was my idea. Here’s why. It’s cheap. I justify my horrid behavior by knowing I’m saving myself money. Saving myself while messing up the world? It’s hypocritical. It’s wrong. Believe me, I know. Supporting maybe slave labor in China or something totally terrible. Tell me how do they do this when a new pillow case cost less at Wal-Mart than it did at the thrift shop? How to they grow the cotton, harvest, process, dye, mill, sew and ship it all the way from China to Colorado for a buck fifty and make a profit? Who, I should ask, makes a profit, and who is losing out? This is crazy. And here I am supporting it. Feeling guilty, but secretly grateful for the prices. What’s a person to do?

Paring of the soul.

May 5, 2014 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

paring of the soul

in simple season

of waxing moon and warming flesh

mornings hardly frozen

and air loud with crow and Steller’s Jay

and the shrill whistle of Redwing blackbird

and down by the river

standing on the bluff

where our home one day will be

dreaming

of foundation and roots and solid walls

containing confining comforting

and so many years of stories to patina the blued wood

a solitary goose flies low

below us

above the river

he follows the course to who knows

where or why

or what he seeks only to move to

someplace else as the sun takes its turn

lower in the sky

and I wonder what impels him on

when all I do is look for a place to remain

Spring air crossing snow covered Divide whips cold across our pasture freshly open promising moist and green at least for a little while. Out there, bitten by the wind I swear I smell the sweetness of flowers. I am certain. From where does this fragrance come? I picture lands lush and rose bushes and lilacs and hollyhocks and marigold flourishing. Here I find pleasure in dandelions and wild iris and the delicate petals and defiant stalks of the wild rose, each short lived as every season but winter is. Little more can grow though who would I be if I didn’t try so every year I do. Last year the tomato plants I bought with fruit already set produced two fruit and the zucchini plants gifted us with eight tiny fingerlings of the most precious bounty I sliced and sautéed in butter and served alongside fresh bread and was wanting for nothing more that night. Such a treat we had not tasted in so long because they birthed before the frost that turned the big broad leaves to mush.

We prepare the Little Cabin for another season there beside the river. The one-room cabin dragged away from the guest cabins to a part of the mountain without history, herstories, tales or roots, ready for us to grow our own. Our lives pending another move. And from the humble front door of the little log cabin we’ll call home once again, we shall watch mud transform and sprout new life.

Our new home.

News for now…

Just out this weekend, A unique take on an interview and article I had the pleasure to write on the wonderful, charming, handsome, and very talented Texas bit & spur maker Daylan Nixon featured in the newest issue (4.1) of Ranch & Reata magazine.

The interview with Indie House Books posted this weekend was fun. You can still read that here.

A bunch of visitors this weekend, so nice to see those who took the time to visit – but no one willing to pose for a portrait. Thus, these. (I will learn not to give up on the people so easily next time…)

From a conversation on Womanhood…

Deep felt thanks to a friend who opened up with me a conversation on womanhood. No, I should write that with a capital: Womanhood. That’s better.

Who was born intimately understanding their feminine side and comfortable with what they found? The few I thought who did, what did they do with what they had and what more did they find? Those that took time to deny or be denied, dive into the depths and ask questions… they found very interesting answers…

Years ago in art school, I did a piece I called “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” A large flowery clay most feminine of female body parts decorated in gaudy rhinestones and set into a deep box like a casket with a glass lid. It won first place so at the award ceremony a picture went up in the auditorium on the big projector screen and I swear the whole room started to blush. Few are comfortable with the feminine side.

There are few leaders, women to follow, women willing and able to show us how. If there are many, I’m missing something, for I have found their presence and reaching out/responding rare. I’m obsessed with the concept of mentoring – I don’t feel qualified yet – I’m too young (funny thing to say at 47, some of you will may say), not experienced enough and just don’t feel ripe – I’m still looking for mentors for me. Stop looking. Start being. Most of us don’t have the role models we need. So we must become them. We need to re-group and find our paths, and hold each other’s hands in the process. Encourage, urge, push, and protect when need be. More than just listen. We need someone to talk to us and tell us WE CAN. We can dream, we can write, we can fall in love, we can live through a broken heart and rejection letter and all the crud life brings because in the wave of mud is just one place of crystal clear, and that’s all we need.

There are no right answers, only a wonderful adventure. Womanhood is not a destination, but a process. Enjoy the journey. Dive in, swim, splash, splutter from time to time, and let go and float on top staring up at the billowy clouds. It is exhilarating.

Let it happen, as we become the women we want to be. Emerging… Ever changing…. And so, so beautiful, as the heart of every women can be.

playing with a love poem

because I have spent so many years

in praise of the broken heart

and why would I not when that’s what I had

now that I can have

or cannot separate

a life that more than parallels my own

rather wraps around and breaks borders

in waves of twisting over lapping lines

like arms and legs entwined in bed

until one day we become no more

than rotting bodies in straight lines

side by side in the ground

This is not what I was looking for

I said sort of but no one listened only laughed

as I fell not head over heals

but solidly planted

and now some days it seems so simple

too simple, him, our conversations, being loved

the assumption that he’ll be there

that I can wake early in the morning before light

and ask him and know he would never say no

some things maybe I miss

pain and insecurities and blinding desires

and wondering if he’s The One

there are days I want to be without him

as if I’d be better on my own

think of the things I could do if I didn’t have to

care worry encourage push and pick up the pieces

love?

instead could take care of only me

if only I remember how

and maybe I don’t want to anymore

then I think how lost I would be

how incomplete I would find myself

if you take away half my air

and just as much of my foundation

would I still remember how to breathe?

On a personal note.

April 28, 2014 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

Yes, it’s spring. Exposed dirt. Not to say it’s thawed out. Broken pipes aren’t easy to get to and digging a fresh outhouse pit through a frost line that goes down five feet…

Anyway, that’s what kept me busy and out of trouble when the sun was shining. And now it’s not, and snow falls again.

And today, that which was exposed is covered again in white.

Right. Spring. What should you expect here in the high wild mountains of Colorado?

Enjoy it while you can. Before you know it, they’ll be a little less wild as the summer season unfolds and all the folks that come here to get away start to accumulate along with the miller moths, horse flies and hummingbirds pumped with sugarwater, and I am reminded that maybe the elements will always be easier for me to live with than people.

Arbor day. You plan on planting a few dozen trees because that is what you do. Plant trees.

Going against nature, I am reminded, in this time of dead and dying, and we pick up a shovel anyway and dig a hole and carefully place in a new sapling. You have to try. How could you not if you love the land? Look around and you’ll see the rein of the spruce tree has passed and the aspen have seen better days. Let’s try Cottonwood, I say. They say it’s too high and harsh up here, but it doesn’t take rocket science only a quick look around to get it. Things have already changed. And I’ll bet you it aint over.

So go ahead. Give life. Give it a try. Better than sitting around crying, complaining or pointing fingers. There’s already enough of that.

So plant a tree. Plant a dozen. A few dozen while you’re out there. Maybe they won’t make it. Maybe a few will. But at least you’re out there trying. I was thinking of this as I’m looking across river at a hillside of dead and dying. Sure it will always be beautiful. But there’s more to it than beauty. I’m forever reminded of the shallowness of a pretty face when what I want is a deep connection. With my trees, there is a problem. Do I want to be so superficial and sit there with a stupid smile and say, “Well, gee… at least it’s still pretty.” Turn my back and leave it at that. Or do I want to address the problem, look it in the eye and still love it? Face the facts? Of course, that means finding out what the facts are first. Not always easy, but easier if we try.

A tease of open ground. Slow to come, but spring of the land and soul inevitably arrive.

Now with the world white again, outside work is put on hold. Inside I catch up on correspondence.

The lost art of letter writing. If you write letters are you a writer? In this day and age when even talking on the telephone takes too much time and people just drop a text or twitter a line, I would say yes, indeed. Some of those with whom I correspond clearly are writers (though perhaps unknown and unpublished), thus their correspondence is beautiful to read. Those who shared and with whom I shared – you’ll know who you are, and I hope you know how you’ve inspired me. From the balance of my daily early morning ramblings with a friend a generation and a thousand miles but in both respects feel closer, as in right there, with me, sharing another cup of coffee… to people who I’ve never met and who have come to feel they know me through my writing and I have learned to know them through our letters … to my “extended” family in Argentina… sisters of sorts for me – older and younger – one so grounded in her solid stance of silence and hard work and familiar dirt beneath her nails, to the other with a spirit in the air, a bit ethereal and ever stirring like the wind and just as suddenly she’ll breeze into your life and pick you up and take you on a magic carpet ride. So you hold onto your hat though really, you never even leave the sofa where you’re sitting to write.

And it is in this back and forth of revealing bits and pieces of our lives through words, giving, taking, sharing what we can and maybe a little more than we think we have but then we realize we have so much more – in this we find an unlimited pool of grace and gratitude and compassion within ourselves often left untapped. And through such correspondence do we learn to at the very least brush our hand to the surface and see the reflection is not just me but we. And if we are brave enough, we dive in. (Or even slip in by mistake, but there we are, swimming in the silver pool and realizing the waters hold us up.)

Much of what I share with you is inspired by my conversations with them. I share in turn here at best in hopes of inspiring you, and at the least, as reminders for myself… For that’s what this blog means to me. Two things, really. A way to reach out, share, open my world inside and outside and give of myself what I can – and a piece in progress, an inspiration for myself of work, word and image. I hope this is okay.

On writing and the blues…

Once your first book is out, suddenly you’re an expert. Of course this is not true. I’m just as confused and curious as I always was, and probably always will be. I’ll never be that know-it-all and let-me-tell-you-how-it’s-done type of person. Though there are times I wish I had a little of that in me and believed in myself a little more.

Some things never change?

Anyway, what I read out there from authors who have “succeeded” (this too, of course being a relative term as we all define success differently) is expert advice and opinions. I won’t go there. But I will share a little personal insight, because that’s my way, what I write about any way. Only now too I can share with you a glimpse into the insight of one insecure author whose first book is doing pretty well and is still having a helluva time getting the next ones out. (When does it get easier? DOES it get easier?)

They told me this might happen. Like post partum depression, they said, but without the hormones as an excuse (though we women, you know, can always blame it on the hormones…).

They warned me I might feel deflated, vulnerable and over exposed.

They warned me that when the first book comes out, you start to see who really cares. Readers can be more supportive than family and friends who often are too terribly busy, and busier when you ask. And how beautiful when those dearest to you can prove to be so caring, like my husband who never was a reader before but manages to read most every word I put out there now. Then there are those that suddenly don’t know you anymore, and certainly don’t have time any more. Funny how many just don’t have time. Just the reminder I need when I’m tired and think taking a day off would be the thing, then remember those who are waiting on my response and that matters more to me. And somehow giving more, being the person I want to be, treating others how I wish to be treated, ends up being the best treatment I’ve found for the blues.

They warned me that all those folks that only call you when they need something, and if they don’t need something, well, you’ll hear nothing at all – you won’t hear from them for a while. It might be a little lonely, but as a writer, you need the alone time.

They warned me that things do change. Oh I know, I said, things always change. I just didn’t realize it would be this much.

The good news is that most people are primarily supportive of each others’ strengths (and weaknesses when need be), celebrate one anothers victories and pick each other up when we’ve failed.

We will all do both, won’t we?

In the works… about books.

The summer book tour for The Color of the Wild will begin with a special event at Denver’s Tattered Cover historic LoDo location on June 12, 2014 at 7 pm as part of the Rocky Mountain Land Series.

Hoping to have book two close to ready for you to read by then, book three in the grind of editing, and that novel roaring to life.

In the meanwhile, I need to continue my marking efforts and asking you for help. Okay, here it goes. Please read it, buy it, share it, spread the word and talk about it: The Color of the Wild.

For those who received review copies, another friendly reminder that review copies are shared for reviews. If you haven’t shared a review yet, it’s never too late. GoodReads is good, social media is great, Amazon is super helpful. Write me and ask if you have questions on how. I’m happy to help.

Oh, and on the 2^nd and 3^rd of May, there will be an author interview of yours truly posted on Indie House Books.

Now, time to get back to what I do best. Better than marketing. Writing. Have a good week, all.

Suddenly Spring.

April 24, 2014April 24, 2014 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

~
Suddenly it’s spring and you’re busy and no matter that the days are longer, there still aren’t enough hours in every day, or energy in the body to do all you want to, need to, should do…

Tired, a little sore, and somewhat sunburned, and yet it feels good. Just a little longer out there, one more thing, and do you really have to go in just yet? Paper work begins to pile.. Bare hands, wool cap stuffed in the pocket of your unzipped jacket. Only to pull that cap out five minutes later as the next snowstorm blows on through. Yeah, welcome to Colorado. Chapped lips, eyes parched from the wind, mud and snow banks, and geese in potholes on pasture. It’s Spring

Outdoors work is great, but sometimes I need to go beyond, to see and feel her in silence. Out there, alone together. Be a part of this progression of the season.

Walking with the dog for the first time on semi-solid ground out there in a passing storm miles from my house which is miles and miles from any other around here now. And suddenly the roar of what sounds like a jet engine across river. Rotten snow descends the mountain in a violent rush.
I’m glad I’m here, not there.
~

~
A raw wound
You’re left bleeding
by the side of
the road that leads out of town

To a place you’ve never been
and you remember
Anything’s better
than here

an open mouth of
Fish underwater Breathing
through muddy waters Gushing
down brown slopes

Did you think
it would be harder?
Did you know maybe you are

right where you belong

Moon rises later now. I walk the dog with flashlight in blackness as clouds cover even the tiny sparkles up above that usually light our way. With melted snow, even the ground is dark. Finding significance in the insignificance when I look up at the stars. Or is it the release of significance that brings us peace?

A pair of miller moths gently bang against my window as I sit at the table back in by the light. It’s mid April. Funny the things we are seeing.

In the early morning hours, moonlight floods the cabin. In the quiet and still, here on the sofa with the wood stove hissing and crackling behind me and the sky turning a dusty blue, I could sleep. I could close my eyes and let go and listen to the familiar sounds and be comfortable and warm and drift off. I know I should be writing…

Wake up! It’s spring. Plenty to do. Get up, get out, get to work…

The guys are still asleep. Life with family. My life is not just about me. It’s We. My decisions affect us all. And although I may not have the freedoms I once had, I have so much more. I’ll pass on what I had and am grateful for what I have. Yes, and still want so much more. Thank god it’s only “mid life” I’m in.
~

~
Continuing work on The Art of the Portrait. Because there is beauty within every one. Looking through a focused lens helps us filter what may be otherwise blurred by our own tangled minds.

These things are not found in the fast and easy nor with instant gratification. A metaphor for society.
~

~
I leave you with this. The Art of the Selfie?
Go ahead. Laugh. No one should take themselves too seriously. When really, what I’m working on is the Art of the Portrait. Since I don’t have a lot of willing victims around here, I have to run in front of my own camera from time to time. Okay, keep in mind a few things here. First, I’m almost fifty. Second, I don’t wear a stitch of make up or dye my hair. Third, I spend a lot of time outdoors… Yes, yes, I know. Excuses, excuses. But what we’re looking for the light, the composition, the essence if you will. Capturing a mood. Not a pretty face.
Is it self gratification or seeking understanding? A reflection within. A sense of who and where we are in the bigger picture. Only more often than not, we rush it and compromise results and are too quick to move on to what’s next. What is your place? What is mine? Ever changing. How do we define our place of in between? It is our nature to need to know.
At “almost fifty” I am not the wild young woman I once was. I don’t care to go back there. It was fun, I survived, now I’m done. Yet still so far the wise old crone so quick to offer advice or silent in her seemingly eternal wisdom.

Who’s next?
~

Letting loose.

April 14, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

A time of contradictions. Harsh and raw. Revealing, emerging, exposing. An open wound. Healing from the year before.

She has lost her hiding places. And suddenly, she dances.

I wrote this describing spring. But somehow it feels personal. Maybe it is. Interconnected as one becomes, our selves and our land. Changing with the seasons.

One day she melts, then next she is covered again as a furious spring storm blows in, lets lose its load and leaves, only to return an hour later.

Up here, we expect it. Heavy, wet spring snow and the choice to remain indoors comes as a relief, maybe, just for one day, part of a day, and already I’m itching to get back out there.

I see now the innocence, perhaps ignorance, of my intentions. The intimate view of my first book, exposing an open wound. What was I thinking in sharing this? Two more of a similar vein completed, and now I find myself bled out. I’m starting a novel now. Nothing about me. I’m making the damn thing up.

Trying to keep my head above water when some days I think it would be easier to just let go. In my dreams I can breathe beneath the surface.

Yesterday the mountain lets loose in a wild rage of passion and fury and brown waters, melting snow, exposed earth like pale flesh, and the first fertile signs of sprouting green.

The great big wash that is the great big melting of the mountain began gushing down pasture between the top layer of slushy pink snow and a bottom still of ice, a fine line from cutting deep trenches through our fragile sub alpine soils and stealing it down river.

Sun burn and sore muscles as you can’t call it quits when the air finally feels so good and the long days are hard to leave when the sun still shines.

Morning muses as the mountain thaws and soft pink spreads from the top down as the sun light emerges in the mornings. Geese on the reservoir flats, though there is little open ground. The air is alive with birds and their songs as I feed the horses in the morning, and hear though never see those owls in the evening as I go out with the dog under brilliant stars and growing moon.

We press spring and push back her snows with Bob’s Cat and there we have mud and we’re not sure it is better or worse but it is spring and the change is always exciting. Preparing to break ground. Forgive me, Earth, for cutting into you as we do our best to live with you, lightly beside you. May we not take but give to each other in no other way than letting each other be.

Out on pasture with a couple of curry combs, one in each hand. I’m going for quantity, not quality here. Get off some of the dang mud. Their winter coats are just beginning to shed. Out in the wind, it becomes an inevitable pig-pen dust storm around each broad back blowing into my squinting eyes.

What’s coming.

April 7, 2014 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

A request for readers and reviewers! Of special interest to writers and avid readers of non-fiction. This request is on behalf of my publisher and friend, Sammie Justesen. Wouldn’t you know? She’s also a writer…

A select group of pre-readers willing and able to share reviews is a great help for the writer and the publisher, as well as for other readers considering this book in the future. Ever notice how much time you take to read reviews and how much it helps you? Your help on this one would be most appreciated by others.

I was honored to have the opportunity to read a pre-published copy, and this is what I had to say about it:

“Sammie may have set out to write about dialogue – and that she does – yet her conversation with the reader goes far beyond. Dialogue Mastery for Writers is about writing, for writers, written by an author, editor and publisher.

I was hesitant to read another ‘how to’ book on writing. This is not that. Nor is it strictly about dialogue. As a memoir and nature writer, I was attracted to Dialogue Mastery for inspiration in developing further depth in my work through the use of dialogue. What I left with after reading Sammie’s book is a brain swimming with ideas she has generously shared based on her years of experience in all aspects of ‘the industry.’ She shows us, not just tells us, with style, humor and an easy, comfortable voice. Her examples bring the points to life. Sammie indeed practices what she preaches, and shares with us as reader and writer a fun to read and handy compilation based on experience and insight.”

This is a great opportunity for those of you who’d like a chance to read this book on writing, and begin a conversation with fellow writer , former agent, editor and experienced publisher, Sammie Justesen.

If you are interested, would like some more information, or just want to introduce yourself to this great woman, please write her an e-mail at: sammie@norlightspress.com . Thanks in advance for helping out!

A dozen winters we have watched fade from the mountain as spring slowly creeps up the thawing land. I can’t say it really feels like it’s here yet, but if you know what you’re looking for, you see it coming.

It’s coming.

Not a day goes by without the magnificence touching me. Some days, it is overwhelming. Stops you in your tracks and your breath is held, eyes wide, and you want to cry for the sheer splendor of it all. Other times, softly, lightly, a little bit magical and mysterious, as this morning when the I’m out there feeding the horses in the single digits after a dusting of fresh snow came last night and clouds are still clearing , and each branch of the aspen and surface of tired snow covering the ground is twinkling as if with a thousand stars around me as the sun inches over Finger Mesa and spreads long stripes of grey shadows nearly a quarter mile long across pure white from the tall trees that stand alone across river.

Not a day goes by without appreciation. And now, astonishment.

Interesting indeed the things we are seeing.

The swollen buds on a group of Aspen at the bottom of Elk Trail have burst open, pushing out the first of that fluff that looks like snow in June. Only it’s April. And there is still real snow on the ground.

On an open patch of dirt a little further up the trail, the first cluster of flag poke up through the exposed damp ground covered only now with last years rot.

We snowshoe to Snowmobile Point. That’s a lot of dead trees, I say to Bob as we stand there, leaning on our ski poles and staring. Crazy, he replies. There is nothing else to say.

You forget what a live one looks like and start to assume they all might be. For if you look close enough, even the green ones don’t look so good. I would guess that this mild winter has been good for the beetles. It will be fascinating what happens next. Something. Nothing stays the same.

Maybe it will look like Patagonia here some day. We agree that won’t be too bad. We like Patagonia.

Time with my horses is still limited. For a few days there was a little mud that gave me a lot of hope for working with them soon. That’s been since covered back up with snow.

At least I’m out there, day in, day out, every day, with them, for them. A part for me, a part of them. I don’t resort to automated horse handling, feed and water that the horse think just appears and I’m just some human somewhere in the distance that comes to get them when I need them. We’re in this, on the mountain, together. Waiting for the spring. Waiting for shedding coats and brushing and afternoons out there together on dry ground.

What do you do with them when you have to go somewhere? A friend asks. I don’t, I reply. I haven’t left the mountain in five months and that’s okay by me. And them. Only now we’re both ready for more. Not leaving. Just more up here.

They run up when I appear and kick up their heels and seem to tell me they’re angry at another snow storm and I don’t blame them. They are getting stir crazy. They need more now than snow and steady feeding. They want dry ground upon which to run and work to focus their energies and tire their minds, and sunshine and green grass on which to relax in the morning before hand.

Maybe it’s the longer days. They know spring is slowly approaching. And by the time it finally comes, will I be too busy building then to be with them?

Releasing.

April 3, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Spring winds like ocean waves roar

so far we are from the open sea

releasing brown waters of wild creeks

bringing Sedona sands in sepia skies

And leaving pink snow behind

A silent red tail over the treetops camouflaged in fat flakes of falling snow.

Had I not been looking, I would not know he was there. Back upon our mountain. I am waiting to hear his screech, the haunting cry that carries far against still frozen cliffs held back from the sun.

Snow drips from the red roof like rain.

Increasing exposure of naked earth. Transformation from a white and grey world to one that is shades of brown. Then all is covered again.

We are here while the bear hibernates still and elk remain in lower ground.

Stirred up in spring winds depositing pieces from some faraway land long exposed to the elements.

And the questions of what will be, will happen and what will tomorrow bring

Are answered with maybe, possibly, who knows, and we’ll see…

And what I hear in the wind is this:

What do I have to lose?

And all I can think to reply

Is a winter’s coat.

Birthday week winds down. All my boys, well most of them, celebrated in seven days. Gunnar, Bob, Crow, Tresjur and finally Forrest. Time to get back to work.

We had it all planned. Finally, fencing. My favorite spring chore, would you believe? Not a popular preference as seen from most fences around these parts found in various stages of disrepair. But I love it. How could I not? Out there with my boys, the mountain, sun and soft spring dirt.

Only it’s not dry. It’s still frozen. Barely warm enough to hold a fence stretcher and pliers. And another storm blows in. So this week I don’t think we’ll be working on fences just yet.

Working class. Leisure being a choice we earn, not a life we are given. Do we define ourselves according to our work, what we do, our “job” and how many hours we work? These are things I’m reconsidering from a set of rules I once was taught. I don’t know the answers, though see they are starting to change.

This is no poor-me syndrome. Don’t you see how lucky we are? You and me both, my friend. We have so much. Maybe too much.

Life is at first a gift, and then it is ours. We work for it. And thus we can create it to be whatever we dream.

A dear friend among the leisure class writes of his life based on “ease, health, happiness, and comfort.”

Now health and happiness hold great value, but ease and comfort? Why?

Our bounty is earned, our rewards respected, and the possibilities are endless. We are not bound by idle time and the need to be pleased and the fear of losing comfort.

A woman once shared a story of the brass ring she missed. I wonder – was there only one?

In my ability to quickly stir up rage within me (for better and for worse) I’d say scrap the tears, turn around and forge a new ring.

Don’t you see these opportunities presented with every challenge?

In theory. For I am certain I did not and do not always when I live through them, but it sure sounds good to say.

The last word(s):

Much gratitude to these website than mentioned The Color of the Wild this week. I so appreciate the support and encouragement! Thank you:

Indies Unlimited

Bestseller Bound

And… I’m very excited about this… I’ll be at the Tattered Cover in Denver in June as part of their Rocky Mountain Land Series. If you’re from or in the Denver area, please do stop in and join us. Time, date and location to be announced shortly.

Finally, I wanted to share this link with you. I posted it on Facebook but don’t believe I’ve put it here, and it’s worth sharing. It’s important. This should be required reading for anyone who cares about Colorado and our mountains:

2013 Report on the Health of Colorado’s Forests

Gin Getz

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

photography

It’s about me.

A Request for Reviewers!

After words.

Good stuff.

Paring of the soul.

On a personal note.

Suddenly Spring.

Letting loose.

What’s coming.

Releasing.

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