prose

Where we were.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Where we were.

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big cloud at buta

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buta

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sunset from the phonebooth

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evening clouds and horses

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seeds at buta

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leonidas

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Patagonia, Argentina.

Somewhere out there in the wind.

~

 

What were we there for?

 

Only in retrospect do we clearly see.

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

Overwhelmed, overcome

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

 

I knew before I went.

 

To escort.

 

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

~

 

It’s personal.

 

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

 

What happened to the personal?

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

 

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

 

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

~

 

What was I there for?

 

Escorting.

New life.

Old life.

The eternal powerful process.

Assisting, perhaps only observing

A woman through the greatest transformation of her own life.

 

Simply escorting.

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

How deep can you go?

Birth brings life so close to

death and we are hanging

on by tendons tied to some

eternal mother

as strong and sweet as a first breath.

 

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

 

Intense.

~

 

Now.

 

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

 

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

 

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

~

 

Before.

 

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

 

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

~

 

Overwhelming.

 

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

 

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

 

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

~

 

And then.  A new beginning.

 

Grounded.

 

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

~

 

And then I was there.

 

And most days I wondered why.

Because I love and want

to give but sometimes give too much and am left with

Wind.

Cold and harsh and biting,

Stripped naked and whipped, exposed

to the elements, beaten and broken down by

the earth and air and water that feeds me.

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

becomes my own shackles so I cannot

run away.

 

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

Or the people.

People. That is what matters most.

You see?

Don’t you?

It was

Intense.

~

 

Intense.  Yes. This is where we were.

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

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

 

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

~

 

Don’t be afraid to go deep.

 

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

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

 

Drink in the intensity.

And then, my friend, where will you go?

Not where you were yesterday.

~

 

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

 

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

 

Because you know I’ll be there with you.

 

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

 

Home.

~

(for Forrest)

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leaf in ice

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cold cabin

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rose hip

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winter leaves

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New beginning

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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rio grande pyramid

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Here’s to a new beginning. Today and every day we choose to see the newness.  And here’s to being a part of it, not just watching it pass by.

A new beginning
today, as every day.
Is it any different?
the crutch of familiarity
balancing
inevitability of change
when so much around is changing
solid ground moving beneath still feet

~

wild rose 2

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The act of choosing

Today I choose here.  For now.

The sound of the pot of water on the wood stove hissing into dry air.  Breathing.  My husband’s, my son’s, my dog’s, my own. I can make out each breath, underscored by the sound of a purring cat.  Is this what the world sounded like in the womb? Or the sound, perhaps, of drowning. And then there is nothing more.

Though maybe there is touch.  My dog’s cold nose against my hand waking me.  My husband so soft and warm, his back to me.  I roll towards him and fit just right.  He doesn’t stir but settles into the comfort he is now so used to.

The little things please me today.  Time with my son.  We don’t need an elaborate celebration.  Save that for those who need a thrill.  There is no need to put on airs for more. We have plenty.

~

yarrow blossom

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It’s not like you wake up one morning and sit up in bed with your feet on the cold floor and say to yourself, “Oh my, I changed!”

No. It’s slow, steady, deliberate.  Think molasses.  And yes, chances are that means thick and messy, too.

Two weeks into my seventeenth year I boarded a plane for France and stayed there for a year. That was almost thirty years ago. To pay for the ticket, I had spent the summer working as a camp counselor at the local Y, caring for 18 8-year old boys, shuttling them around by subway between the boroughs of New York City, holding the door that wanted to keep closing open against my skinny little back until all my skinnier little kids were safely on board or off. When I returned back to my parents’ apartment, nothing was the same.  You don’t go backwards, do you?  You can choose to do something over, try it again, that sort of thing.  But the same?  Really… never.  Something is always different.  Though sometimes, of course, that difference is pretty profound.

At what point did I change?  Maybe when I was still working as the camp counselor and my superior had taken mescaline that day we were schedule to take the boys to another borough, and I knew it was up to me to take care of the kids by myself, and it didn’t cross my mind I could not.  Maybe it was when I boarded that plane alone and was flying across the ocean at night, and saw darkness I had never seen before, and found such peace in the hum of massive engines pushing steel through the black sky.

I don’t know.  We usually don’t know when we go through change.  Only upon reflection do we figure it out.  So what can I say?  Maybe tomorrow I’ll look back at today and wonder.  But I don’t think I’ll have it figured out for a while.  And I’m finally starting to get this much.  Maybe we never know.  That mystery thing.  Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

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aspen leaf

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A long story

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

the rio grande at ute creek

`

Still fat and bright flooding the kitchen sink is the waning moon
as I run water to fill the percolator in the otherwise dark kitchen.

You can hear the rooster up early and footfall of the horses by the back door
stepping on the dry packed snow like crunching bags of chips.
They’ll wait there for me as if their presence might urge me to hurry up
and feed them sooner and I suppose in a way it does.

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aspen leaf in snow

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Another empty promise.

The cloud cover cleared and if I look up and away from where the moon is nearly blinding
I can see stars brilliant in their assumed mystery penetrating through what may be infinity.

Another hope of storm comes and goes and leaves us with nothing.

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rio grande reservoir

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The coffee pot now heating over the pale blue flame of the propane burner
as I feel my way across the room to the wood stove
no frills model
nothing fancy
just a big iron box to fill with wood and heat this cabin we built of logs and love.
I bend and stack and light and wait as I have so many mornings before
this ritual primal and grounding and simple yet sings with such wild mystery

like stars in the dark sky.

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looking back at lost trail ranch

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What matters? What matters most to me? I tell myself to stop being so selfish. How hard not to think of “me.”

What matters most? Look at the big picture. Step outside. Not just the door. The comfort zone.

Do I dare stand alone naked on the mountain top and let the wind whip my flesh?

And wonder if my eyes are really open or am I dreaming, only to wake and find myself back where I was yesterday. Nothing changed. Like most of the lives I see.

So hard to see, to know, to understand. Something about compassion. Seeing beyond this view that could be a fairy tale of sorts except I never read one with characters living like us before.

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gunnar over lost lakes

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I guess it started with my dog. At least that was the first sign I clearly saw. When I heard maybe it would be best to leave him behind. Best for whom? Of course the first thought through a mother’s mind. And then… what’s wrong with having him a part of the picture you painted? And therein lies the problem because the picture is not quite as it was painted. OK, so it’s going to be rather different. But the dog will still be a part of it.

Lets go back to talking about my dog. Gunnar. He is not easy. That’s a good way to put it. And yet, consider this: who ever said “easy” was “good” probably never learned a whole lot. About dog training, horse training, relationships, cooking, dancing and love…

On one hand, he is independent, confident and mighty strong of will. My mother while visiting us recently watched him and laughed at me. She said something about “what goes around, comes around.” Was this what I was like as a child?

On the other hand he lives life full. With gusto. Nothing half way. He loves with abandon, plays with such zeal, and when he gets a whiff of a coyote, becomes the epitome of Big and Bad.

He has an agenda all his own which has drawn me to resort to tricks, treats and leashes where I used to just trust my dog would be right here, and he was. Those were the other dogs. Not Gunnar. He who does not see the point in sticking to the trail when he’s already been that way. He may have a point there. Though perhaps I am more like my horses and find comfort staying on familiar trails. And then again, maybe I am not.

On this journey we’re preparing for, he has a role. I’m not sure what, besides complicating things for everyone on one hand. And on the other, I’m there keeping my promise and caring for him as I know no one else can. They might think they could, but I swear I wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Perhaps he is with us to be grounding. To slow us down, because I’m not good at sitting still, but know I need to learn. And really, he can do that too.

Slow me down. Side track. What’s the rush? Stop to walk the dog. Run with him or wrestle, because no dog I’ve ever known is willing to take you on like this guy will happily do. And he does make me happy. Lets me be happy. I wish I was wiser and allowed myself to be so silly when Forrest was still a child. I was Mama Bear and Papa Bear all by myself, all rolled into one, during what could have been the playful years. It was all I knew. Balance and letting go from time to time were things I could not do. I think he forgives me and knows I tried.

Ah, one of those born wiser than the generation before. I’ve met a few like that. I was forewarned when he was still within me. My pregnancy was spent working in a wood shop with a bunch of guys that were so clueless about women, all of them single and for good reasons. And then here is this skinny hippy chick with the growing belly. Quite the odd man out. They were good to me in their own way. Which was the way lots of guys are good in the “stand back and give her some space” kind of way. “Just don’t make her mad…” You know the sort.

Well, one of them, Justin, was waiting for the aliens to take him away to a better place, and in the meanwhile, he lived in a communal earthship just outside of Santa Fe along with a few others, waiting. He smoked his beedies and smelled of clove and did yoga and drank pureed grass. He painted, and he’s the one who told me Forrest was way beyond me, and I did then and still do believe him, though of course at that point Forrest was still months away from seeing daylight, tucked safe and warm in that beast of a belly growing behind my overalls.

And he, this one born wiser than me, writes me this morning with the greatest wisdom I could want to hear. “…intentions are good, but health may definitely affect the direction of everything … So maybe your job will be a little different, but still… it seems amazing for all involved.”  Really, who needs to hear more?  He is right, you know. If you’re brave enough to give it a try. I think I am.

You’re probably wondering what the job will be, our plans are, where we’re going and what we’re doing. Trust me, I’m wondering too, but I know a little more than you, so I suppose I should share some of that.

It started on a feeling. Those can be the things that get you in trouble, I know. But they can also be the things that change everything.  I am ready for change.

For two months I had this ad on my desk beside my computer. A job in Patagonia. But nothing about it was right for me, for us. Sounded great for a  young, weathy, carefree thing. I am none of the above. Finally I write, saying I am not the right person, but for some reason, I couldn’t get this off my mind. And there the connection blooms quick like if you plugged in a light and the power just spread… She was looking for a writer… to write her memoirs. Sound like anyone you might know? That would be me! And what a story she has for me to put into words!

You know what I love to say: Leap and the net appears!

So we agree, make plans to be there for four months, hubby and dog and me, room and board for my writing. It’s all falling into place perfectly. Oh my, a remote, off grid, beautiful place with horses. Sound like any other place you know? Right. Here. Weird, eh?

Sounds too good to be true and maybe it is or was but it’s not going to be like that. Maybe, just maybe, it is going to be even better. Better for us. Maybe not you, because maybe you’re still looking for a pretty place and that’s enough for you. But I’m looking for more. Something deeper, richer, more meaningful than a pretty view or a pretty face.  I’ve got all that here!  And I am finding it all.  There.  Topping the list:  point and purpose. Then there is a brilliant person to learn from, live with, help out. An adventure unlike anything I have ever done. And a darned good story to boot.

I’ll explain it all more clearly in time. I know this is already far too much for one sitting. But I have to share this with you first, and then I’ll let you be. This from a letter I sent to a friend:

For two weeks, I’ve had this odd feeling in my stomach. I could not tell if it was strictly physical, or if it was emotional/spiritual taking a physical manifestation. Since it was just a nagging feeling, not pain, I kept assuming the latter, but could not “get” the message. Seems like things were/are going so well.

It got so strong. Again, not painful, just would not go away to the point that I was constantly aware of it, could not ignore it, and it seemed to affect my breathing as if I needed to breath stronger and deeper, which up here at almost 10,000 feet elevation is going to be a challenge no matter.

Well, last night I got a letter telling me we’ll be living on the outskirts of town and travelling around and acting in a position of caretaker/caregiver I did not feel either capable of, nor what I signed up for.  And we won’t be out at the ranch. And I’m thinking, wait, we’re really quiet folks used to very remote, I’ve not lived near town in twenty years, and I have Gunnar, I just don’t know, this is a big change from what we originally planned. And what about the writing? Writing this book – is that still the focus? I thought that was my calling and the greatest gift I could give.

Bob and I talked it over while we lay in bed at night and decided.  We would do it no matter. There are many reasons, but one of the most basic is something to do with trust and love. That got us into this situation. We have to continue based on that.

Besides, if we were to remain, we would be bored. Yes, bored. Even here. Think of it this way: we’ve been here, done that. Same old/same old. We’re too comfortable now, and we’re too young still to be ok with comfortable. You might think it’s neat, but we’ve done this. Yesterday. Many yesterdays.  We built it, dug it, cut it down, birthed it, trained it and /or dreamed it. Sure, we’re proud of it. But we need not be so attached to it that we can not see beyond, and find a little more depth and meaning. It’s that point and purpose thing. That matters. What’s the point and purpose of holding onto the shallow surface? Dive in!

Anyway, that’s what we decided. And this morning when I woke, there was another letter explaining the situation further. It was beautiful. And the crazy thing is, through all of her explaining all of her problems, she is the most brilliant, bright being. As she said, “I might be losing my eyesight, but not my vision.”

The journey may be taking on a slightly different path than we expected. But maybe, just maybe, it is a greater one.

Oh, and that feeling in my gut?

It’s gone.

`

last summers growth

`

Welcoming winter

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

 

Seven degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and a foot of snow.

Winter has come.

Spread out her picnic blanket and begins to unpack her feast.

She has arrived early.  We take this as a gift, for our winter will be shorter this year, heading south to summer again in January.

The forecast predicts the “real” cold comes tomorrow. A rude awakening, they say.  If you weren’t ready for winter, you will find it regardless. It will find you.

We’re ready.

Yesterday we took the afternoon off (the weather providing a wonderful excuse to not work) and snow-shoed along the other side of the Rio Grande in virgin snow, looking back at our mountain, white again, horses and houses tucked into the snow laced trees, seemingly so little and far away. And I think of how far away another person today might be.  Any one else.  Miles away.  And you know I find comfort in such distance.

We follow the hillsides like waves, and again cross the river, now where she is open and as yet, still unfrozen.  That will come in time.  Many more mornings like today and it will not take long.  For now, however, there are no black depths lurking through solid white, but rather, she calls quietly and shows me her brown and green rocks at her soothed soul, and invites me to step in.

Snow shoes and all, we walk through the water.  All we can do is hope waterproof boots are just that, for turning back the way we came on our first trek of the season that proves more extensive than planned is not what we want to do.  You know how it is.  Once you start, you just keep going.  It’s so crazy beautiful.  You just can’t get enough.  Until all of a sudden, you had too much. And then you find yourself… exhausted.  And still with a ways to go to get back home.

The boots proved tight, our crossing worked well.  Except on the other side the wet boots and snow pants coated with dry snow, packing thicker with each step, and became quite heavy. The two mile trek back up the snow packed road seemed very long indeed.

We feed the horses double in the storm.  Three times their normal rations last night.  Icicles on their muzzles this morning.  Norman’s furry feet dangled with little snowballs, jingling almost joyously as he lifts his heavy feet to come find me feeding this morning before sunup.

Yesterday morning in the thick of the storm, watching Bob take the horse trailer down the road before it got snowed in.  We can ride the horses out when I am ready to part with them and allow them their winter pasture in lower lands.  They might be ready, but I am not.  Those that have spent most of their winters up here with us (Crow, Canella, Tres, Bayjura) do not find it odd to weather the storm and hunker down as the snow coats their backs.  They hide in the Aspen and gnaw the bark of the freshly dead trees while waiting for Gunnar and me to show up for their next feeding.

This morning the last of the elk have left their tracks across our pasture as they scramble for open grounds.

Now we enter the time of depth, physical challenge, silent connection, intimacy with the elements, isolation with earth and sky.  Alone need not mean loneliness.  For some of us it is a state of awakening.  An opportunity to flourish.  A quiet radiance.  The winter crystals bloom so brilliant, though are more fragile. Both created by and at the mercy of the sun.  Exposed to the elements of which they are a part. So delicate in nature, so susceptible to the whim of man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Withdraw

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

 

Stripped stark

Barren trees

Allow more light to penetrate

An insatiable hunger for the withering warmth

Mid day light diffused by the soft sky overcast

It is only a matter of time before the snow settles in for the season

White world we know here for half our days

Until then longer shadows leave a vague pattern

As if something man made like an endless cattle guard

On the edge of the dying meadow

 

The thermometer has risen to twenty.  I postpone a longer walk and return quickly from feeding the horses, the dog from chasing off the magpies.  I am not yet used to the cold, too soft, still holding on tight to summer ways of forgoing long johns and tall boots. The cold has barely begun.

Horses at the water trough pawing through the ice.

The doves are down to four.  I see them now settled on the fence by the one big Blue Spruce that provides protection.  There is literally a pile of assorted small birds behind the house, all having been run into the windows.  Even the cats can’t claim responsibility.  The falcon flies by and creates another fury and another bang on the window.  A feather and dusty impression of wings remain before me.  A clear, hard wall one can barely see.  The crystals I hung in every window have not helped.

The little dark mare turns from the water and snorts. I see water dribbling from her muzzle like a silver spray of shining beads, as she stand tight , tall, alert, neck and tail high and ears forward. The language of the horse.  The moose is again in the willows.  Or at least, that is what she fears.

The wind rouses, rips up the remaining thin brown leaves of the bush.  No lurking sent is stirred.  The little mare lowers her head, relaxes her back and slowly returns to the herd.

A great horseman once told me that to learn to be a great horsewoman, all I needed to do was listen to the horse.  They have all the answers I seek, he said.  His wife reminded us both that this theory only works AFTER one has learned the language of the horse, and not all of us were “lucky” enough to be born into a world of great horsemen as our parents and peers to pass on such information.  A disadvantage on one hand. I had to learn it all from scratch.  An advantage on the other, for we learn to speak ourselves, with our own voice and manners.  After the magnitude of mistakes levels out, we are left with an understanding that is ours, between the horse and me, built from the ground up like a stone castle.  This is more solid, strong and real than if it was handed to me.  That is at least what I tell myself.  Might as well.  I cannot change how nor where I was born and raised.

Not everyone is lucky enough to be born where they belong later in life.  I say that on one hand yet I have heard to those that say there is a great burden that comes with “being born into…” Or are we the lucky who have the blank canvas before us and paint the picture as we will?

No matter. We can choose who, what and where we are.  And we can change it all too.

Can’t we?

As blue as the big sky above

/ Gin Getz / 22 Comments

 

And what can one do but await winter?

 

Sometimes depression isn’t chemical, isn’t disease, isn’t moods.  It’s a result of circumstances.

Sometimes we have bad days, we go through hard times.  Don’t ask me to smile and get over it.  I need to be mad and sad for a little while.  I dare say I’ll “get over it” when I’m good and ready.  I’m not ready today.

What is so wrong with saying I’m bummed out and it’s got to me?

What’s a girl to do?

Saddle up and ride, I say.

Maybe that’s shallow.  But it works.  At least for a little while.

Yesterday the dog chased the coyote across our pasture and onto the neighbors’ field.  A big no-no.  All I saw was a little silver coyote about a quarter mile away, followed by Gunnar, full speed ahead.  Two streaming bullets heading straight for the trees.  Then I could see no more.  But I could hear.  And hear I did.  It wasn’t hard to figure where those two went.  Right into a pack of screaming wiener dogs being walked by a woman barking louder than all those dogs put together.  I cringed. The neighbors up for the weekend, enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll.  Oops. I called.  Like he was going to leave all that crazy commotion and come to me.

The visual was a good one though, imagining coyote bait scattering wildly in all directions as the coyote runs right past, having better things to do than grab a quick meal with my mad dog at his heels.  Really, I know, I should have gone next door to apologize for the ruckus my dog caused, but it is way too late for that.  These are my in-laws, and I’m the out-law.  We haven’t spoken in years, and if there was a time for apologies, I think it would have been long ago.  So I look at this as giving them one more reason to hate me.  Add it to their long list.

Next thing you know, there is the little Bull Moose (“little” being a relative term, of course) stepping over the field fence and stirring up the horses.  And I know the dog wants to chase this guy off too. What a helper. But the thought of the Bull Moose heading toward the pack of wiener dogs is a bit much, so I keep the dog on leash which makes working around the ranch a real drag.

And I confess, I had already awoken in a bad mood.

Enough.

(pause)

And then I’m out there.  Out on the trail on the back of a horse.  Heading higher, always higher.  Leaving it all behind. The dog behaving well following the two horses.  One I’m riding.  My silly little Arab, Flying Crow.  The other I’m leading along, his partner and my best mare, Tres.  The more we ascend, the more the trail opens, the view expands, the leaves have left the trees. There is my yellow brick road.  I am on it.  Following where it may lead me, and right then and there, it didn’t matter where “there” may be.

The golden path before me, ascending to the silver sky.  The clouds are building.  Thunder over my shoulder.  We ride on. I have my slicker tied onto the saddle.  I drape the rains, reach behind me, and slip it on like a protective cocoon.  Such a thin barrier against the elements of the Mighty Mountain.  But enough.  Just enough.  Not too much.  I don’t want to get soft.  The rain and hail begin. An added interest, intrigue, challenge.  A reminder of the harsh elements surrounding me.  A reminder that I forgot my gloves. I lean forward and press my hands on my horse’s neck, scrunch my fingers into his mane.  Who needs gloves when you have a warm beast below and beside you?

And for just a little while (yes, “little” is a relative term, but in this case, big enough) my mind is clear of the self created burden of my own thoughts that weigh so heavy at times, more from the value I give them than what you might think they deserve.

 

She crawls deeper into the cave

Back to where the light is muted and vision is vague

Awaiting total blackness to wash over like the blanket of deep night

And lies back upon the brittle rose branch

Still tangled in her hair

 

Grounded

/ Gin Getz / 51 Comments

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

Forever longing.  Is this the state of human nature?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except… human nature… reflective… wanting more…

Falling.  Down.  Chilling, clearing, washing away…

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not have a mansion,

I haven’t any land,

Not one paper dollar

To crinkle in my hand

But I can show you morning

From a thousand hills

And kiss you

And give you seven daffodils…”

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

How simple can we be

Forever needing point and purpose

In this ever changing world

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

The gears are stuck

We are left waiting

The jolt, release, exhilaration of letting go

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

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

Fallen leaves

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

 

The Grande Finale.  Washing away in early morning rain. Giving in, giving up. Pacifying rain.  Perhaps the last of its kind for the season.  I listen to its placid song on the metal roof.  Quieter now without the rustle of the leaves and their subtle refrain, now stripped from the trees and tangled in the dried brown grasses below.

Fallen leaves.  Bare trees standing static. Awaiting.

Darker days, longer shadows, I prepare for the inevitable quieting of mountain and mind.

Yesterday’s deep, rich, ripe orange. A juicy peach full of fresh life and sweet promises. The color of the Aspen leaves before they let go.  A hillside on fire now paling to grey. Where even the evergreens are no longer green.  I will find a subtle beauty in this too, you know.

Swollen with a passion as brilliant as the fiery hillside before me, then accepting expiring flames, blowing out.  We are left stark, silent, solitary, each of us on our own paling hillside.

 

 

(For a greater display of the brilliant fall color from earlier this season, please see: http://www.facebook.com/#!/media/set/?set=a.4184427821999.164195.1623616997&type=1 )

 

Untitled

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Promises holding no more depth than a looking glass
I’m giving you what you want
And still you see right through to the view beyond
Envision me romping happily in the open field
Dry of snow and awash in sun
Not noticing my flesh and blood before you
Bleeding in the wind

Seduced by earth and sky

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. On a good year.

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

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

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

I challenge that assumption.

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

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

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