Sharing some deep thoughts and pretty pictures.

coming home

There is a time for expansion, and a time to retreat.

There is a time for the inhale, and a time for the exhale.

Wholeness comes with the balance of the breath.

The inhale. The exhale.

What time is this for you?

The power of just one breath to balance us, to bring us back to wholeness.

On the inhale, deep into our back, with power, strength, receiving.

On the exhale, from our heart, with love, with giving.

~

As caregivers, we must remember this.

If we intend to care for the whole person, so must we be a whole person.

What does it take to be whole, to find wholeness, to re-center our being and find that place of balance so unique for each of us?

~

And you, dear mother, dear mother-to-be, are you not a caregiver too?

Who better than you will care for your child?

~

So it has been a time of withdrawal. Of hands digging deep within the earth. Blackened tips of the nails and calloused palms and skin worn to leather by the sun and wind.

And so it shall be a time of hands softly, gently upon the womb. Supporting. Witnessing. A miracle every time.

~

This is about birth, death, life, rebirth. Where does one end and the other begin with one season flowing into the next, one closing to allow another to unfurl?

~

And so the seasons move. Slowly at first, then gathering momentum, and we find ourselves running to keep up.

Can we see beyond the path on which our feet are moving?

What happens if we stop?

Now, look up. Look around.

Once our eyes have opened, what do we make of the view before us? Shall we revert to blinders, or shall we step forward into all the ugly beautiful mess before us, calling us like the Pied Piper though we often care not to hear and heed, choosing or safely remaining distracted behind the cloudy veil that enwraps us with a false sense of pride found in busy-ness…

What would happen if we let go and simply stood still?

Would you feel the wind, hear the laughter, sense the rising light?

Paring down to feel the elements.

Return to presence.

Unencumbered by the weight of social pressures, expectations of others, demands of self, and ego.

Who are you trying to please if you cannot please yourself in a sincere manner?

Oh, the worries, such a heavy burden and undue importance we place upon each until we see them all like grains of sand, and there on the beach we sit before the eternally churning waves. Are you still concerned with that one grain of sand, I ask you, and you smile, seeing the senselessness of the situation, and open your eyes and heart to that which is all around. It is beautiful indeed.

~

A long dormant winter.

Though summer solstice nears, I remain in my retreat.

Not a place I pay to go, but rather work to remain at. Not a master that guides my learning, but rather the wind, the water, the elements to help me find the answers hiding within us all.

This has been a powerful time of awakening and awareness.

Of remaining present.

How can I reflect and write and share with you when what I need right now is simply to be?

Without reflection. Without judgment. Without expectations, demands, and even desires.

This too shall pass.

Nothing remains.

Everything changes.

You and I included.

Those who claim enlightenment as a state once achieved and forever remaining will set themselves apart and above contrary to the true meaning and state of bliss and understanding. I am grateful for the fleeting glimpses. And then I get back to work. Is this not what life is about?

And then there is this.

The part about life being about giving – beyond oneself – for the bigger picture – no longer about me – learning to shed the skin of ego and stand naked and know you still have all I need.  You are. Unencumbered. What cloaks do we cover ourselves with and think we are because we wear? Are you really the robe than enwraps you?

~

As a student and nearly fifty, there is a great lesson in humility. Of simply being open. How else can we receive? The very premise of which is admitting I do not know all the answers. And though I know no one does, it is the wise student that makes no claims and opens themselves to discover. Likewise it is the foolish teacher that takes the stand and defends and judges. No, my friend, the lessons are not about you. Only what you make of them, take from them, and pass on and share. We all have the ability to be both the open slate student as well as the wise teacher – like the Tao – teaching without saying a word. Guiding by living our lives.

~

As a student midwife, it has become clear that part of midwifery is not just about birth, or body work, but soul work. It’s working with the whole woman. And as a caregiver for the pregnant woman, how can I care for and nurture you and walk with you while you heal your wounds if I have not done the same for myself?

Yes, midwives can operate without this element of care. The medical profession has encouraged us to look at the body as a separate entity. A machine. Detached from mind and soul.

Are you not the whole of all these parts?

~

Being present.

How can we understand the truth and see the beauty and feel the connection if we can’t slow down? We rush around and miss the point and seek the answers but never stick around long enough to allow them to be revealed.

Stop the madness. Stop the filling the self with busy-ness and stuffing the soul with false meaning found in title and a price tag and the latest greatest shiny thing, and trying to fulfill our innate sense of longing to belong with the false premise of social media and shallow relations.

Can’t we get deep and still remain simple?

~

After a year of putting myself out there to promote my books (oh, the unexpected discovery, I suppose, that I am a writer, not a salesman) and a year following of returning to wholeness, this season of deep withdrawal has been a powerful transformation and awakening.

The wild beast moves. The wind shifts solely from the flick of her tail. Is it time to rouse?

~

And so it has been. At some point we find this within us: it’s not about me, but we. It’s no longer about what we can get out of life, but what we can give to life. It’s no longer about taking, but giving; no longer about me and mine, but at times my place in the bigger picture, and at times, nothing to do with my place at all – only a greater understanding of that bigger picture, and accepting my irrelevance, and realizing that too is okay.

It’s ongoing. I’ve yet to meet someone fully “there,” wherever and whatever “there” is. A state of enlightenment? It’s vague. It’s fleeting. Like seasons. Like days. Some days we’re it. Some days we’re not. I guess that’s why we get to live so long and have this crazy strong desire to keep learning, growing, evolving. Lots of chances to try it again.

One of my wisest friends reminded me. It’s here. Where ever you are. Look around. Be in awe. It’s beautiful. And the answers you seek are already there. No matter where you go, what you run after, what you claim to be seeking… it’s within. You are already there.

I open my eyes as I open my heart. The wisdom is all around.

Lessons from the Elements. Wisdom from the wilds. In this season of turbulent winds and waters, a gentle calm from within.

What have the wilds taught me?

What has this past year taught me?

That next year will be different.

That tomorrow I’ll be someone new.

I’ll say something else.

That nothing stays the same.
Which brings us back to…

It’s ongoing. You don’t get there and remain. You have to work at it, every day. That’s what living is all about.  It’s not a state achieved and remained at status quo and stagnant.

And a half a century of questioning authority taught me this time and again. As soon as we claim a superiority, we separate, and thus we degrade. There is no superiority in this world. The moment we claim to be better or know more is the moment we step into the place of ego, and out of the place of enlightenment. Am I wrong then for sharing what I have found? Maybe…

I do not care to impose my beliefs (and certainly not those of another) but to simply support women in their choices, and am working to have the skills and abilities to do so. It’s about birth and life and maybe a little bit of death and rebirth. How can you have one without the other? Like the inhale and the exhale.

The greatest lesson absorbed from my studies to date is not the message of undisturbed birthing nor the know how of health care. That’s simply part of the package of supporting women in their own choices, rather than imposing mine. Really, it’s the message of humility. That’s what makes a midwife. The ability to serve, to support, to do what needs to be done which may be nothing at all… All of these “skills” come to life within us only through humility. Without humility, we return to it being our beliefs, our trip, our vision of what women should be, birth should be, life should be. Who then are we truly serving?

Oh and one more lesson I’m still working on.

To listen.

I begin by listening to the wind.

And the water.

And one heartbeat at a time.

 

Expose.

waterfall 2

~

Forget the fancy fluff that poetry can bring

when all I meant to do

was show you that which lies before me

at my feet uncovered by the melting snow

~

in the silence of the early morning still dark blue

red raven comes and settles upon my mind

~

I remain hidden

behind the looking glass

Talk to me I tell you

and you turn to me and stare

into your own eyes

~

waterfall

On these trees

~

clouds to the west

~

The rhythm of movement. Lost in thought, and trying not to think. Just observe. The beauty and silence of the early winter on the mountain. Over cast sky and hills flattened without shadows, broken by dried bunch grass and the leafless cinquefoil poking through thin snow. Speckled hillsides where we expect by now to see smooth white. Don’t think about the continued drought. Don’t think. Just observe.
Cold hands. I struggle to press the shutter with my mittens on. As clumsy as boxer mits. Such contrast to the delicate subjects before me.

~

beetle killed blue spruce

~
Dead trees. And dying ones. Sending out their last sap in a losing battle.
Beetle kill. Part of learning to see, finding the beauty in the beast. Getting used to it. Living with it. Knowing the tell-tale signs. Pin holes, loose bark, dried and heavy sap runs. This is Cutting Edge science. They look for answers. I wish they had them. I am learning to see reality. We are seeing changes yet undocumented, not yet understood. We learn to live it, not analyze it. We use our eyes, our heart. We listen to the falling needles on cold ground in spring and brush a tiny black beetle off our shirt in early summer. We walk trails silent from the layer of needles spread out before us like sand leading the way to the beach. Needles that once were shade. The view is opening.

~

running sap 2

~
It’s big, hundreds of thousands acres around me, but I am going to look close.
Some days it gets to me. Looking up at the rolling hillsides of brown blue spruce. Looking closer, say, at one pin hole or piece of slipping bark, is easier.

~

running sap

~
Living in a land I used to think was one of the last to be affected in this country, kind of like the late bloomer. Behind the times, if I may say. But now we find ourselves ahead of the game. Water issues. Drought. The aquifer drying up. Farmers paid not to grow. Entire forests dying. This is the forefront. There is nothing to refer to except for today.
We learn to listen with our eyes, our hearts, and let the so-called experts spit in the wind. Hopefully not too close to you or me.
I’m a dark timber kind of woman. A wood sprite of sorts who hides in the big heavy trees where my spirit is free and soars. I found my grandmother wisdom in the old growth fir, and my passionate bliss among the vanilla scented ponderosa pine. I’m not a silken bark aspen kind of lady putting out a fanfare of garish delight one season, and letting loose my leaves for half the year. That said, I have grown to love a hillside blending one into the other. That is Colorado.

~

dead aspen 2

~
At last count, Colorado lost 17% of our aspen. The aspen, some say, will be replaced by the conifer. They said that before the conifer began to die. Now some say the aspen will replace the conifer. I say no one knows. Such claims bring false hope. Can’t the land be beautiful for how she chooses to be? Ah… but are these changes her choice, or her reaction to our changing world?
All we can do is watch them slowly die, a quiet death, without fanfare. It doesn’t take a scientist to tell me. It only takes my eyes.
I see it. Plain as day. Plain as death.
Perhaps it is meant to be a mystery after all.
Have I lost my way again? What happened to quieting my mind and just observing?
How hard it is to just breathe.

~

dead aspen

~

What brought it on…

We’re in the kitchen talking about the harder days.  Before running water, hot water heaters, finished walls and trim work.   Long before luxury items like curtains, matching plates and book shelves. Our first year here. The summer of the three of us in a one room cabin. Though we moved to a larger cabin for winter (offering room to initiate a budding new relationship), that season even the septic line froze. We hauled our water downhill on a push sled and were grateful for a nearby outhouse.

I think what scared me most was the cold.  The stories worried me, which I believe they were meant to do.  Funny if you consider that no one else had lived here before us.  So where did the stories come from?  The rumor mill, at work again? Finding factual accounts and figuring out the truth takes time.  I could not get firsthand reports.  There were none.  Only exaggerated stories and distorted memories.  No problem.  Learn to write the book yourself.  And no disappointment from expectations.

Just the same, comfort is not what attracted me then or now.  Financial security and emotional stability don’t appear to be regular parts of my life.  Though maybe by my age they should be.

I thought a lot about this last night.  I couldn’t sleep. An itching that wouldn’t let me be, trying to figure out where my life was taking me.  I guess a self induced session of self reflection brought on by another birthday.  Forty-six.  Middle aged.  Time to grow up?  I think not.

What then?

At this stage in my life, I should have some labels.  There’s comfort in that.  I lost the one of Mother when my son went off to college.  OK, then.  How about my career?  Outfitter.  No more.  Guest Ranch owner/operator.  Barely.  Ditch Digger.  Yes, but… It is somehow lacking in, well, finesse for a middle aged woman. Writer?  I’ll take it. Writer.   I use that term daringly with great expectation and demands placed upon myself.  Too often I have trouble believing that what I give is worthy.  Who doesn’t?  Anyone who contemplates the meaning of life, their point and purpose, will question their self worth.  Won’t they?  And yet, many days I feel I have nothing to give… but words.

Pardon me if that sounds too plumped with self pity. I don’t really need the violins brought in for this.  What am I trying to say then?

Something about confidence.  Or lack thereof.  I read the words of others who have found success with their writing (and yes, success is a relative term, so here I mean that which brings one a sense of purpose and by which one feels defined), and compare them those of us (yes, that would be me…) who still do not believe in ourselves, or believe we have something worthy of giving.

This does is not make me feel worse about my state of being as not-yet-successful-writer, but rather, challenges me to grow up. Oh no!  Become that person. Start being today the person you wish to be tomorrow.  For what is the difference between she and me?  It is not in the number of books she has published and I have not, though I have used that as an excuse for the past few years.  It is in the voice that speaks back when I look in the mirror.  How easy it is to forget we are in charge of that voice. I need not look ahead with down cast eyes and hushed words and whisper, “Yes, I write…”  Perhaps it is time to look straight ahead, boldly make contact with the grey eyes staring back at mine, and speak in a loud and joyous voice, “Yes!  I am a writer!  And I am honored to share my words!”

Man, that sounds good at least.

Take a break!

My dear readers,

I am taking a brief break in posting while I’m completing another writing project. But before I sign off for a little hiatus, I believe a brief “thank you” is in order. A thank you to my readers – especially those who have been with me for years, who I now feel I know intimately though many I have never met.

(I always say I write to be read, to express, reach out and share. Not just to get the words out of my head. Though sometimes it feels like the latter.)

My gratitude is sincere though my ability to express it might be a bit lacking.

While I’m off for a while working on my “other” writing project, please continue to keep in touch, through this blog or by writing me directly. I’ll be here. Writing, and reading, and as always, thinkin’ and dreamin’.

For now, I leave you with a list below of a few of my favorite posts written over the years, just in case you have a few minutes to share here with me a while over a good cup of strong coffee.

Warmly,
Gin

The Night the Chicken Blew Away
Moving the Little Cabin by the Big River and a few words about Hillbilly Ingenuity
Untitled (The death of Artemis)
Grains of Sand
Losing the Bull
The Homestead Bear
Grill Chicken
Ditch Diaries
On Truth
Newcomer
Lucky Girl
Return
More on the Fear Factor
Two Poems by Two Special People
About Not Getting Lost

From a New Perspective
Cowgirl Up
Leap!
An Open Letter to My Son
Seduced by Earth and Sky

Tearing away


Do not shed tears. Hold them back. Contain them for now. And then I will let them burst unbound. Soon. Then they will be for joy. They will fall upon a new land, enrich and nourish parched soils, merge with a new river, and flow with a freedom I have not felt in years. An exultation. A release. A flood of emotions pouring forth with a saline surge held back for too long. As a child, uninhibited, lost in passion and release from a comfort she does not fully understand, only trusts that this is how it meant to be.

Is this what they call blind faith?

Perhaps I am learning to believe.

Last night the rain turned to silence and our world turned to white.

Such a familiar state. For nearly half my days living here have been in snow. I am more comfortable with the cold white world than I am with the few warm weeks that pass in the blur of summer.

I hear the old rooster crowing in strong defiance. He too is too familiar. He knows what winter brings. What he doesn’t know is this. He’ll be relieved of this burden soon and allowed to pass the last of his days two thousand feet lower in elevation in an aviary owned by a neighbor of a friend. Rooster retirement. I never said I was not a sucker.

Unadorned


Your peaks were painted with snow yesterday. And for just a moment I stopped my work, stood outside and looked at your white laced mountain tops, and felt the same stirring I have felt each year, a yearning for the excitement of anticipation of the season. Primal and uncontrollable, yet still soft and deep enough no one ever really knows.

For how many years have I worked on our little piece of land here on your big broad mountain side and looked over my shoulder awaiting your leaves to put out your final fiery display and then blow off, taking with them the last of the summer tourists, leaving you here with me, unadorned, as we remain and near the stark white season, that which settles in and consumes, quiet and calms, allowing me to hear my breath in your winter winds.

And yet this winter will find me on a different hillside, a different mountain to cradle my fears and passions. A winter, hushed and sleepy and snowy, awaits me but in a new land, new places to explore, touch and tease me, unfold before me like lacy golden wings, delicately covered with frost in first light of an early winter morning.

But will I find wilds? Will I ever be embraced by the wilds that have surrounded me here for half the year? The solitude and silence have become me. I have identified myself more with the mountain than the people who come and go, and from both I step away. I will find them again, that which matters most, the wild places and spaces, elsewhere. Some of us belong somewhere just a little more wild. Or is it that perhaps we don’t fit in the other places.