Awaiting Beaver Moon.

November 3, 2025 / Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Tonight I watch the waxing moon rise as I lean back into the damp bark and moist moss of my favorite ancient oak. The air is soothing with the sound of crickets in thick woods, now low as if played on tired wings, and the ever present sound of the river, as steady and familiar as my lovers warm breath.

They say a big storm approaches. Be it rain or snow, I am ready. The wood shed and pantry are full. And like the bear still finding plenty on these moon filled nights, we are prepared to settle into the season of dark days.

With stiff shoulders and hands swollen and sore, I am as tired as the leaves that fall, and long for the season of rest. Of turning within. Life, death, pause and rebirth.

Acceptance of the seasons. Of change.

What else can we do?

But for now, right now, the moon and me and the dogs close by, the haunting call of an owl not too far away, all of it, a part of the season, of the land.

A spider’s silk, twinkling from moist air that rises as soon as the sun goes down, is moved by the evening breeze pushing up from the river, and gracefully wraps its silver thread upon my lap.

I take it as a sign. I do that a lot.

Considering the eternal connection, separate as it feels at times.

Wondering how my life has become.

And imagining where it will lead me next.

For now, it feels to be a story more beautiful than I ever imagined life could be.

Here now, the air is gentle, laced with gold as amber leaves fall in the light of bright moon, and the earthy scent of fallen leaves becoming a part of warm wet ground, a salve for the unsettled soul.

Time to return home. I take leave of the substantial oak, signal to the dogs and head towards the glow of the kitchen window. Mushrooms break ground beneath dark timber, and I find myself watching my step as I wander the forest floor in waning light.

The land has yet to freeze and the garden, always a place of solace, lingers, sharing vibrant bounty and beauty surrounded by a golden halo of autumn trees.

This is our first year to harvest zucchini into November, and as we were away for the main season, no, we’re not sick of it yet.

Leaves of tobacco, the sacred bold noble of the garden, are still harvested, ready to be cured and dried.

And roses, the beloved wise women of the grounds, still bloom, fragrant, rich and a little wild.

Yet I feel the natural close of season and have begun to cut back flowers and herbs and am eager to prune the fruit trees, though the flowers still bloom, herbs still aromatic, and fruit is still producing.

The quiet season unfurls. All we can do is settle back into it as if slipping into a warm tub and letting yourself go.

It begins by allowing time. Time to rest. To recover. Time to reflect and plot and plan.

And time to write. Something I still don’t know why I do it except it’s one of those things I can’t not do. I am incomplete without it. Perhaps it is creative passion, an expression of the feral soul, and/or the one thing I have always somehow felt I had that was worthy to give to others.

Lost at my desk, I’m found diving in to words, stories, places, time… some deeply moving, some simply hard, just as was the story I am starting to put into words.

For now, it’s still called, A Long Quiet Ride, because that is what I called it then. Though I’m open to suggestions, and hope you may share some ideas. The title, they say, is one of the hardest parts to write. And yet, possibly the most important words a reader may ever see.

And so it is that mornings are at my desk going places perhaps I should never have gone.

Maybe writing will help make it something you (and I) might finally understand.

Likely not fully, for every good adventure, every good story, should hold an element of inexplicable magic and mystery than can never be fully shared.

“What are you looking for?” I was asked time and again.

“Myself,” was the first thing that came to mind.

“A reason to live,” was the second.

And the third, was something beautiful.

I leave you today with this thought, something that followed me on that journey like a mysterious fragrance from a flower I could never see:

Remember to find magic, everywhere, everyday, in everyone.

It is there, waiting for us to find it, if only we take the time to see, to listen, to feel.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

PS from this morning, garden in the mist.

and from the kitchen table.

The season of the setting sun.

September 22, 2025 / Gin Getz / 1 Comment

This morning heralds the change of season.

Autumnal Equinox.

The season of change. And somehow, of soul. Of letting go. Releasing. And oh yes, of softening. Into the mountain as she shares an ornate display before stripping bare and standing forth unadorned.

A time of exposure, openness, inviting us gently to reveal our true colors, no longer harsh beneath summer’s buoyant light, nor subtle, still and washed over in white as in winter’s frozen air.

The season is one of slowing down, at least it naturally is. It’s the slow, deep exhale of the earth revealed in longer shadows, shorter days, golden light, and cooler nights.

There is some mysterious call for solitude in autumn air, asking us to wander off alone, if only for a moment. We’re called to turn within, to release summers big and bright, full and loud, left behind like a snake stepping out of her worn out skin, preparing perhaps for regrowth, the natural incline of hibernation that deep winter allows.

Alas, I wonder if I’ll have such a moment today. Feels like there is no time to be still and contemplate the deeper and greater meanings of this change this year. Yet these are the things that make life a little bit fuller, richer and more meaningful. Taking time to take in time. To see, taste, smell and fee the world around you, not only in ways that you touch it, but in how it touches you, or better yet, just is, regardless of you and your presence. It’s that thing bigger than you or me or today or tomorrow or our wants and worries and woes.

And so I will take the time, before the rains, or maybe while it comes down, to stop where the tall grass is brown, untouched and abundant with seeds ready to be kicked out as I walk by. I will stop for a moment and lay down upon the earth, with the pup sitting still beside me, listening to the sound of the creek, and distant wind through tired leaves, and let the rain fall on my weathered face, and I will breathe, and I will smile, and for just a moment in time, I will do nothing more than be.

As for building:

We’re close.

I know. I’ve said that before.

Pushing to complete a crazy challenge.

Almost there. Not to a place, but to a goal.

I’ll let you know when we make it.

And then what? On to the next?

Oh, I’ve got plans; you can be sure.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Finding Familiar.

February 28, 2025 / Gin Getz / Leave a comment

A whirlwind weekend flying from here to there and back again. There’s a lot of folks out there doing a lot of that on a regular basis. I’m not really wanting to be one of them. I’m no jet setter and don’t care to be. I’d rather be home. Wherever home is.

I try to remember that thing about searching for beauty where you are. Every day. It’s a challenge to find satisfaction, fulfillment, beauty and awe with what’s in front of you, rather than chasing rainbows, shiny and new, thrills and the latest greatest. We can run around the world seeking something else, but are we able to appreciate what’s right before us, and find beauty and magic and awe without taking one step?

Yet travel, even a short trip to visit family as this one was, is always a step outside your box, outside your comfort zone, an opening of mind and heart – seeing what is truly there, around you, not just what you expect to see. It’s humbling. You’re no longer king of your castle, or that big fish in a little sea.

For some, the best part of travel is the view, things you see, fun things you do. For others, it’s the food, drink, and apparently shopping is a thing. For me, it’s people I see when I’m out there, and those I meet along the way. It’s an opportunity to taste a small slice of the world with every person I speak with, a flash view of humanity in every story that is shared.

Four days “out there” opened me to the badass beautiful marine who signed up for service to pay for her college degree. The mother of six struggling with homelessness and physical abuse and a blinding sense of faith. A man from Venezuela who moved here twenty five years ago, still feeling like an outsider, sharing his “outsider” perspective on politics. (Yes, I love to ask!) The haggard woman with deep lines and signs of old habits she battled and won, and the raspy cough of the smoking habit she has not been able to shake. And the forty year old born and raised in Trinity County who would rather sit on his front porch and smoke his doobie than worry about such things, comparing pictures of rescue dogs, rivers, gardens and cannabis plants

I kid you not. I can’t make this stuff up. Well maybe I could, but I don’t have to. I just have to be willing to hear.

Learning to see.

Beauty.

In every one, everywhere, everything, even within ourselves.

Every day.

With little progress on all those things I could and should (but didn’t) work on here this week, today’s rambling takes an inner turn.

Spring?

It’s happening here.

So is that mounting pressure that engulfs me this time of year most every year.

Spring is the season of emergence. And at times, along with the awakening, the melting of ice and snow and bursting forth of new life, there is often a sense of emergency. Pressure and stress and the feeling that it all needs to be done all at once.

This year as every year, this time of year. It’s hardwired into the season. All those years of starting seeds, preparing ground, and growing. Of serving as mid-wife for farm babies being born, or grim reaper for the profuse, prolific, infinite and overwhelming wealth of weeds that call my garden home. Of brushing winter’s coats off hot horses backs and amassing mounds of dog hair as they shed. Of spring cleaning tasks that have changed over the years, from preparing a camp for kids or a guest ranch for families.

As we dust of cobwebs after months by the fire, or shake off melting snow and listen for the sound of rushing water as the encasement of deep ice begins to melt, it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement and anticipation of the season.

I want to sit with the season. Feel it. Hear it. Smell and taste it and roll around in it, celebrate it for what it is, not just what I expect it to be, demand from it, and think others want me to make of it.

Today. As every day. Seeing what is before me. Right here, right now.

Wherever here may be.

Here.

Now.

Early morning.

A morning like so many in the nearly six years I have been here.

Familiarity grows like the pear trees planted along the side of the creek, an amaryllis started at Solstice still blooming on the window sill, blackberries and poison oak that promise to sprout and spread even in places you wish they would not.

In the quiet hours with new moon and stars nearly black behind a lavish shroud of fog, I wake with arms and legs around my sleeping man. I am comfortable with his earthy scent and even breath and a little reluctant to rise. I slip on sweats, pull the covers back up around him, then quietly find my way around in the dark.

Stepping over snoozing dogs, lighting the wood stove, filling the coffee pot at the kitchen sink, all as I have done so many mornings before, I feel the ease in knowing where I am and what to expect. What time the sun clears the mountain to the east. When to hope for the last frost late spring and when the first frost of fall will arrive. What bird belongs to the flicker of wings that distracted me from my work or the song that rises each morning around the same time I wake. When to turn the soil, start the seeds, when to water, and when to drain or cover pipes. When to watch for leaves turning gold and brown and blowing down, and when to look for new life at the tip of each naked branch, swollen and slowly unfurling in fertile subtleties.

Familiar. Is it the place or the pattern? For I have done this here. And I have done this so many place I have been, and still will be.

This place, this pattern, has become familiar; intimate and expected as the view out the kitchen window which as the sun comes up and chores are done, awakens to an ever green pasture where horses graze, chickens free range, dogs play, and a brave cat or two may creep cautiously not too far from the house.

Familiar too is the sound, the ever present prevailing sound of the river, which ebbs from summer’s gentle roil over smooth rocks ever shaped by the ever movement of the ever changing flow – to winters rage and roar. A sound so familiar I often forget it is there.

In this semi-silence I am able to hold the world, embrace it like a big bear having found a honey hole, and my heart feels full.

Comfort in the familiar.

The same worn boots left by the back door. Same old truck parked out front. Same cast iron pans beside the wood cook stove. Same table, same chairs, same sofa, same rug. Same silly jokes that still make me laugh every time.

And comfort in accepting change, as the road map of my life unfurls on my face, stories embedded within wrinkles and every graying hair. I can laugh at my own fleeting vanity, because truth is, though I’m not thrilled with how I look now, I can’t say I ever was. Good looks are not what got me where I am. I’m more of a guts and grit sort of gal.

The inner landscape has changed, too. There is a calmer storm blowing within me now. Muddy waters have stilled and settled. Menopause, depression and drinking have been left behind. Hot flashes and explosive emotions have subsided. I sure don’t miss them. Neither does my husband.

Some days I look within and expect those frightening facets to surface again. But they do not. It’s not that I slayed those evil beasts. Rather, they just faded away. (One more good thing that comes with age.)

So it is into this calmer, quieter space that I feel myself finding a new familiar. Settling in. Not that I’m settled down; it’s more like the gradual un-letting of the belt cinched around my jeans. You can only fight it for so long. Then you stop holding in, exhale, let it out a notch, and realize it’s not such a bad place to be.

I am getting there. Closer to that place deep inside that whispers, “Welcome home.”

Connection comes, with land as with people, in time and age and stories. It comes with living through droughts and floods, fires we fend off together and snow storms that keep us apart. It comes with seeing our children grow and our parents age and our dreams emerge and somethings fall and fail while others take root and grow.

Some of us are seekers. You know, always looking. For something. Usually ourselves. That’s what I think I’m finally finding.

And in the meanwhile, I will settle in some days, and move around on other days. I will try and sometimes fail. I will give and sometimes falter. I will work and tire and wake again and get back out there again and again. I will tend and plant and nurture. I will dream. I will love. And I will live. Not like my parents wanted me to. Not like society expected me to. Not like I thought I would have, should have, could have. Probably not like anyone else. But finally in my late fifties, I’m growing my own skin, comfortable with my bones, able to look in the mirror and though I may wince for a moment at what I see, for the woman looking back at me is much older than I thought I’d ever be, I’m learning to feel at home in that skin and bones that is me.

I am growing up.

That does not mean I will suddenly be serious and stern. I will not wash up and get a desk job. I will not be that boring, stuffy, straight, sensible-shoe sort I used to think all grown-ups had to be. I don’t plan on cutting my hair nor keeping my fingernails clean. Chances are I won’t ever become the one to say the right thing at the right time, and certainly won’t ever have all the answers. Nor will I stop making mistakes, dusting myself off, and trying yet again. Maybe I won’t ever settle down.

Okay, so… maybe I’m not there yet.

Maybe we never arrive.

Maybe this has all been growing pains, the changing of the tides through the turbulent sea of having the courage to feel life fully, as I furiously worked my way out of one shell and built a new one around me.

We all have a story. This is mine. Chances are, you have felt this too. It’s a simple tale, old as time. A story of seeking, forever seeking, some sense of belonging. And getting to that place of realizing what we’ve been running after is within us all along.

Finding familiar.

Within.

After Equinox.

April 25, 2016July 6, 2024 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

The agitation of the wind creates unrest among naked branches. Beneath an unsettled sky, the monotone of a thawing land broken only by the continual call of the river reverberating against still frozen cliffs, while mud caked boots poke through remaining snow drifts and blistered hands touch sunburned noses and the brown back of the neck – bits of exposed flesh found uncovered from a down jacket that remains adorned though now unzipped.

Another winter sheds her white skin. The peeling of the snake reveals that which is real, raw, delicate in its renewal. The season begins showing herself subtly in sepia tones. Like an old worn photo looked at time and again, we hold to the past in a futile gesture but the present is always new. Look around. See it. Feel it. Hear it. Celebrate it. Join in and dance with it.

Spring is late to unfurl here in the high country and her early song is soft, hard to hear, often hidden beneath late season snow storms and the howl of the changeable winds. In a land where winter claims half a year, the other three seasons come and go quickly in the shared space of the other half. Savored, appreciated; nothing is taken for granted.

Tenderly she reveals the simplicity of the wilds. We see her new breath in the everchanging motion of the unsettled sky, the unrest in the wind, the thawing of the earth, the swelling of the river, the return of wildlife, the luxury of longer days, shorter shadows, an open road, and the tenacity of simple nameless yellow flowers emerging through the snow.

And the silent assumption that within the swiftness of the season stirs the lure and excitement of change… Into what, she whispers? And the wind shares a response I do not yet understand.

Interwoven in the web of life awakens questions more than answers if we listen solely with reason. How else can we hear? With our hearts, not our minds. With our senses, like the wilds that surround us, knowing not because they read it, heard it, were told to believe. Or are we so different we forgot how to feel? Let go of that, she tells us. Her answers are in the soft shades of brown and grey of the newly opened hillsides.

Do we just let it go? What we had last season? The assurance of the assumed. Today, I tell myself here for half the year, it will be cold and white. What will tomorrow bring? Plans? Expectations? Hopes and dreams? What would we be without them? Shed them and be free, she tells me. But I too feel naked without. Such is the time of awakening, allowing the season to bloom means starting with a seemingly barren hillside.

The land calls. I speak to her. With her. She answers with a whisper veiled in translation I try hard to decipher. Words, ideas, passions still remain. From within this tangled tapestry can we see the bigger picture? Can we see the fine lines into which we are tightly woven or the space in between? Perhaps in the early morning when dew catches silken threads and pale pink air is still but for the rousing of the robins unintentionally sharing their sweet song from beneath the leafless trees, and stirring of distant geese down by the expanding open waters of the full to bursting reservoir.

It’s mostly space, I am reminded again. But we choose to see the little bits of matter within the big wide expanse.

Morning’s stillness shares silence of the mountain in a slow gentle outbreath before the awakening of the day, the season, the beginning of change. This is a time of both reflection found in glassy ponds of melting winter, and planning for something we don’t fully understand. Oh but the leaves will unfurl and the grass will green and the summer homes will be lit and the road will be abuzz. And so it goes, no matter what I do and you say.

On Thanks and Giving.

November 30, 2015November 30, 2015 / Gin Getz / Leave a comment

In consideration and reflection of the year long intensive study of midwifery, spirituality and life of which I have been consumed.

I have recently been coming to a very strong and beautiful understanding of the teachings within my own heart. For me, as with most things in life, this did not come without resistance and a little bit of kicking and screaming.Mostly, however, it came through letting go, dropping both veils and armor, and seeing the truth within myself which these studies have forced me to look at.

We are not meant to blindly follow nor be anything we are not meant to become, unless we find contentment as sheep in a flock. Not all of us do. Some will question, some will quest. For us, by diving deep with open mind and open heart, we grow, like an in-breath, and with time are filled with a greater understanding and clarity. How could we not? Or do we resist change and refuse the view before us? Remain closed, comforted within the past, heads safety tucked within the wool.

Inevitably, we are challenged to look at truth, within and around us. The truth may be a little different for each of us, but for all of us, the process of finding the way is not always easy, often somewhat painful, frustrating, and frightening. Such is the process of awakening or becoming. It is expansive, and in the course of expanding, we are often left with uncertain boundaries and in the confusing state of seeing how much we do not know. At some point, the bottom drops out, and we are left to… fall or fly. And then, in that ethereal state, there is where the work is done, when all else has been stripped away, deep down within our souls, in the dark corners we may not have dared to look before.

The more healed, whole and understanding we then work to become, the more healing, wholeness and understanding we can give. This is the greatest gift. For ourselves and in turn for others. Are we becoming better, or are we simply becoming more? If the answer is “more,” we will inevitably find ourselves surrounded by more choice, and more community. As we become, so we belong.

Funny how a solitary path can eventually bring us closer to others. Simple as it sounds, perhaps it is because of more love, starting with ourselves, and then feeling we have more to give to others. In the absence or weakening of ego, we are left with weakening power of fear, defensiveness, judgment and anger. What can replace that void, in time, but love and knowing? And so, we open our hearts, and find them full and connected. Our community, far away as they may be, is revealed. Although we may be drawn together initially as strong, self directed (wo)men, because of our connection, we find ourselves even stronger, though possibly with a more gentle touch. Such teachings, such shared wisdom, and such support in time help us come face to face with our own unique formula (and thus practice and offerings) for care based on truth, compassion, bravery, and love.

Listening to each other’s stories, and being a part of the community, are powerful reminders and confirmations of this understanding, and living proof of this growing feeling. The comfort of community is the staff upon which we must at times lean. For any form of growth for the sake of found truth, not given truth, and then any resulting following of the natural choice of paths to pursue these truths (in my case, this is midwifery) is a political act. Whether we wish it to be or not, all of us following this calling will at times be up against the conforming, controlling majority, and will be labeled the rebel, risk taker, black sheep, and of course, the witch. Almost amusingly when you see the irony, we may be called ignorant and irresponsible, though our knowledge and understanding may be far greater and deeper than those pointing fingers. Most may not have to endure conflict and condemnation, though in time, all of us will have our challenges, our story.

At 49, having lived and continuing to live an untamed and unconventional life, I still feel I am just beginning. To understand, to know, to belong. And the more I learn, the more I am aware of what I still need to know. Likewise, how can we know what we need if we have never see these things before?

And so we must trust. And so must learn to let go, like the essence of the Tao. And that, then, is when truth is revealed.

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ~ Lao Tzu

So thank you, my dearest ones, for extending the community and allowing me to be a part of this sisterhood. I am so honored to be with you on this journey. May we continue graciously joining voices – expanding in our hearts and in our circles – supporting each other in supporting others.

Rapture of the wild.

November 14, 2015November 14, 2015 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it is closer every time.

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

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

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

On Seasons and Enlightenment

May 25, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Spring. The season of letting go.

So begins the natural year. Rebirth. New life. Last years’ leaves enrich this year soil. Last year’s blossoms have become this year’s seeds. Nourish them. Give them room. Allow them to take root. Tend to them wisely and they will grow.

Now is the time to get grounded. We can start with Spring Cleaning.

So it’s Spring. Here in the high country it comes in small doses. Rations. Little tantalizing tastes. And then another snow storm hits and your world is white and you wonder if that bright green grass was just a dream…

Now’s the time of fixing fences, dragging pasture, shoeing horses, getting the stock (and ourselves) in shape for the work of the upcoming season, clearing trail, and up here, always gathering fire wood.

All that fun stuff aside, this is the time of year I’m Cabin Cleaner Extraordinaire. Not really the most romantic part of my position in life, but the true meat-and-potatoes. The part that makes the rest of it not only possible, but worthwhile. The part that’s about giving, sharing, gratitude and humility. Without which, well, what’s the point? Self-indulgence only gets you so far. It gets old fast. At least, one can hope it will.

Anyway, we run a guest ranch. Six rental cabins. All sitting shut down, unused, gathering dust and cob webs and muddy prints and dirt from who-knows-where but there it is, for the past six months. Each one to be transformed into spic and span, and warm and welcoming with the touch of my magic broom.

See? Plenty of practice in the spring cleaning department.

So here I am, with a bucket and mop and wet rag, and I get to thinking…

About enlightenment.

What does cleaning have to do with enlightenment?

A lot!

First, let’s considered this. What is enlightenment? For definition, look around at those you might consider enlightened. Are they in one place and remaining there stagnant? Or are they involved in a process? I think we often look at (are told) enlightenment is one single state rather than a way of being and an ongoing journey, an evolutionary existence. Like the seasons, a continuum of birth, growth, death, transformation, rebirth.

We look to authorities for the answers, when they are within us and around us all along. Learn to listen. Quietly. To the sound of rain on soft spring soil and the rustle of newly emerging leaves.

What do you believe? Not what you were told, given or born into, but deep inside yourself if you dare to take the time to look. Tell me about those truths.

I see enlightenment not as some final product and divine state, but as the simple process of conscious being… which begins with letting go, lightening up.

So, lighten up!

No, it doesn’t end there. It doesn’t end. But that’s where it starts. So let’s start.

Enlightenment need not be something exclusive and elusive. We give it high airs and think it’s out of reach, some unobtainable state reserved for the special few. The term is often misused or over used, as in, “I am,” “He is,” “She is,” and, “You, sorry, are not…”

That’s not true enlightenment. That’s ego. Let that one go too.

Enlightenment is within us all. It is without judgment. Without expectation, assumptions, demands. It is without heirs, pretentions and prejudice. And it is not like a light bulb that once we flick the switch, it’s on for good. It too needs tending. It ebbs and flows like waves and wind. We don’t get somewhere and remain there. It is not one place. It is a never ending process. It is life and beyond life.

It’s all of us, all the time. It’s do-able It’s a state we all are in, any time we change and grow and even try to understand. Any time we make room within us to open up and clearly see and be. It’s not always big stuff. Start small. Start with cleaning. Cleansing. Letting go. Opening up.

This is just the first step. The first season.

Cleaning, cleansing, clearing yourself of what you no longer need. Getting rid of old baggage.

Yes, it’s that simple. And that hard. Because we all know how hard it is sometimes to just let go. We’re quick to cling, to hold on tight, and define ourselves by things we’ve had or happened in the past. We’re slow to see how bound we are until we begin counting and releasing our attachments.

So, we start by letting go, lightening up. Get rid of that stuff. Shed.

Enlighten!

The path to enlightenment is different for us all. I live in and with nature. So for me, it’s easier to see life as a natural process. Here’s how I see it work around me, and thus within me:

Spring: Clean up. Let go. Lighten up. Enlighten.

Spring cleaning of the body, mind and soul… and cabins and land.

Take care of them all.

Everything matters; nothing matters.

Consolidate. Prioritize. Pare down to the basics. Get rid of the baggage.

Clear yourself of judgments, expectations, assumptions, demands, criticism.

Just be.

Be curious about the beautiful world around you.

Be a part of it, not separate and detached.

Fully connect.

Get to know yourself. Unadorned with ones past, possession or pretenses.

Let go of the ego, self definition and social status.

What are you left with?

Fresh soil on a raw spring day.

Summer: Work. Give.

This is the season of plenty.

Expansion.

Of growth and abundance and long days and clear connection with heaven and earth through sun and rain and rich soil and the brilliant colors of wildflowers and soft embrace of the wind.

Now it’s time to replenish, fill your self with positive stuff.

Nourish and nurture. Our body, mind, soul. Those around us, the world we live in.

What matters most?

Whatever works for you, but not just for you:

Pray, meditate, practice, tend to your body, the Earth, give, do and care for others?

We live in the days of choice.

Consider widely.

Choose wisely.

Autumn: Remain. Complete.

Autumn. Settling in, stocking the pantry, storing up for the long winter ahead.

This is the time of completion: fruit ripens, seeds form, leaves are released and branches laid bare.

This is time of bringing the life blood back to the roots where it will remain for the long cold season ahead.

Here’s the one thing often missing. The key to making the equation work.

It’s called commitment.

Sticking with it.

Completion of a task well done.

Commitment is not a four letter word. It won’t bite. Try it.

Commitment is not a popular word these days. Old fashioned.

As in, “Oh, really, you’re still working there?” “You’re still doing that?” “You’re still with him?”

Yes, yes, and yes.

And this what allows us to become really good at something, get stuff done, complete what we start out to accomplish, be true to our word, deepen our relationships, complete one thing so we can move on to the next, and know for sure we can get more done.
Not to say it’s about accomplishment. That is not the goal. But accomplishment as part of the natural process. How can you grow and move beyond without completing and concluding?

Are we as flighty as the wind or as solid as the earth we stand upon?

Are we above this earth or a part of it?

Depending on your beliefs… and respecting others for theirs.
I see the cow elk running through the woods with her calf and the red-tailed hawked soaring above screeching her return to the mountain and the purple heads of the monkshood coyly emerging and hear the song of the Mighty Rio echoing on the cliffs.

This is the world around me.

And I am honored to be of this earth.

My ego does not place me greater than this, but connected to it all.

Winter: Dormancy.

Here in the high country in winter, in the vast whiteness that it is,

Just be.

Nothing more.

This is your time of stillness,

Of being,

Until you must, for you will, because life moves, we move.

We are neither static not stagnant.

This is the secret of the seasons we are not told

But we observe

In winter.

The time to settle in and go deep and in our quiet slumber, find our inner truths.

This is when change happens, we become.

We are constantly evolving, growing. We are not inert beings (read: stick in the mud?)

Change is a certain part of our human existence.

No, this doesn’t mean bag the commitment and try something new at every whim.

It means complete, release, and evolve. Flow with the process.

It means to take the time to consider. Where are you? Where did you come from? Where are you going? Where are you here and now?

Understand the seasons and be a part of them.

Let one blossom fade and fall off while a new bud begins to form, and a blossom opens.

Don’t get stuck in the mud, but know where to grow strong roots.

Are we meant to rise above our human existence, or make the most of it?

Transcend from this beautiful world, or be humble and grateful of the world around us, find our place and understand why we are here?

And so the cycles of the seasons continues.

Are we ever in just one stage? Only for brief moments. Like the seasons, we are ever changing. Because the nature of life is movement and change, and so we flow. This is our evolutionary existence.

Well, back to the beginning.

Spring. Mud. And cleaning.

Enlightening.

So there you have it. Spring cleaning. It’s not just about dust and cobwebs. It can be a first step to enlightenment. But instead of cabins, it’s our heart, mind and soul. Dust of those cob webs. Get rid of the tracks that came in from who or where we don’t even remember. Clean up the old pile of old news in the corner that’s been there since last year. Make room for new stuff. Good stuff. Allow yourself time to breathe, and create a space to expand.

Oh, and speaking about those cobwebs…

I leave you with this story.

Okay, I know a lot of you don’t like spiders and find them really creepy, but for the sake of this story, try to forget that for just a moment and hear me out. Think of them as “natural.” And there I was, out in nature. So, spiders have their place. Believe me, I’m not big on them in my bedroom either…

Out on a walk in the woods yesterday, I came across a spider web tucked gracefully under a tree with speckled light illuminating the fine silks and a small gray spider the color of tree bark poised in the center, resting. I stopped and stared and considered something beautiful from this simple sight.

Think about the correlation. She starts with nothing. Air. Space. And into that, she spins her web,

Perfect, beautiful, intricate, with care, symmetry.

How long did it take her to create this? She gives it everything she can to create it. Now it is.

And when her hard work is done, she sits and waits.

In due time, into that web that she so carefully formed, comes exactly what she needs. She doesn’t plan or act or lure or try any fancy tricks. She just creates, with hard work, commitment and care. And then with patience, she allows and trusts and knows…

Shared today on Conscious Life News.

Seven Poems in Seven Days.

May 22, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Actually there were ten, but some of them aren’t worth sharing.

After feeling “too busy” and having “too much” else going on (right, join the crowd – I’ll share more on this next week)… my heart returns to poetry. Like nature, this is where I find my grounding, my uplifting. The first thing I ever remember writing. I wonder if it will be the last.

The following is the result of a ten-day personal challenge taken on with Carrie of The Shady Tree.

It turned out to be a prolific enlightening to my inner passion.

Perhaps it may just look like lot of words.

With these, I hope you may find something that touches your heart too.

Read a paragraph, a stanza, a poem as you like.

Gratitude for a dear friend, fellow poet, artist, and lover of family, nature and life.

Gratitude for words, creativity, and inspiration – all of which abound in this beautiful world.

(Please stop by Carrie’s site over the next few days, too, to see how the same photo can inspire such different words.)

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

You can only get

Here

by wet foot

Cool and soft and

squishing deep brown

between bare toes

Over slick rocks

The sweet moist scent of earth and

Decay

Last years dreams fermenting in

Never drying soil

Like a festering open wound

Where the branches bend low overhead

Heavy and wet and untouched

By daylight

which in turn is obscured

By an endless

swath of fog

Dampened desires

Laying heavy on moist flesh

Suppressed by sunlessness

Do you remember what

burning feels like

Warm and gold on

Exposed flesh

Instead in this succulence

Each drop a tiny window into the soul

An eternal pool

That will evaporate

and turn to steam

Should the sun burn

through the fog

Photo by Gin

Barren are last year’s

blossoms

now Hard and brittle

Spent and sallow

having been bent over

By the weight of

last season’s snow

Their seeds scattered

in the spring rains

Brown dust

to brown earth

And so it should be

I lean over

as not to disturb

That which managed

against the elements

And marvel

at the simplicity

And complete

complexity and pure beauty

Preserved by the wind like

An embalmed queen

What inner

secrets do you reveal

Spilling forth promises

of eternity

That few may

bend close to hear

Before the bright easy days

of new growth

Consume us

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

On Wednesday

The midwife soars

Grounded

Taking flight

Because she is called

And though it appears

She has no control

And just moves

Out of action or reaction

of spreading her wings

And rising effortlessly

gracefully naturally into the stirring air

This remains

the most self controlled act

she may ever manage

Of leaving a ground

And returning

While remaining where she was.

Photo by Gin

Last year’s leaves

Next year’s soil

Compressed under this morning’s snow

Elk tracks across pasture

Revealing delicate chartreuse

Of spring grass

Seeds

Transforming

A quiet awakening

Beneath the consuming

unassuming white shelter

The robin is silent this morning.

How can I see something new

In the same old landscape

Like looking into the eyes of a lover

You have wrapped your body

around for over a dozen years

And still find beauty and shiver.

now in static essence of early morning

Upon brown damp soil

robin sings in the cold grey light.

Photo by Gin

Boots by the door

coated with clay

Brought in from out there,

Damp coats and wool hats

hang to dry.

What’s the point

You ask me

And I don’t have

a good reply.

We both know

they will only

be wet again.

Somehow starting out

dry

seems like

the thing to do.

The dog comes in

indifferent to wet fur and

Brown tracks behind him

With no boots to

leave by the door.

Out there

Where the bark of aspen

is soaked to green grey.

Silver tips

on bare branches where

water pools in

tiny glass beads,

and brown water

flowing through

brown soil, saturated.

creeks cutting new paths.

old paths.

it will all be washed away

we say

if this keeps up.

Heavy skies

in stratum,

the movement of

silky flowing veils.

What secrets do they reveal

As an entire mountain

Obscured

And does it matter anyway

That the horizon has changed,

Is no longer

Peaks and ridges

But soft simple close

White?

The view, the future, awareness

Lost

In the sound on the metal roof

That comes in waves,

Strong and steady like

deep breathing

As wet as the ocean

And as far away

Above me

Photo by Carrie of The Shady Tree

In my dreams

I am flying

Downward

Into secret places

Of mountain

And mind

Of my soul

Where even in winter

It is lush and green

Places no one else

can touch

Or see

And maybe I won’t share

Not even with you

Unless I feel certain

You need to know

I keep them for

Myself

I become Crow

Seeing from above

A mountain in

parts of a whole

Its steep slopes

And jagged rocks

And soft spring grasses

And the course of

the cutting river

From so high

As if I were

in the wind

blowing

across the open flats

and navigating the

rugged bluffs

in and out of

tall timber

until at last I light

upon the highest snag

above it all

the voyeur of my soul

seeing across the big air

and down into that

hidden oasis

no one else is meant to see

stealing a glimpse

detached

in this vast entirety

absorb my world

open my eyes

and find myself still

flying

Photo by Gin

On the surface

She shines

Simple and radiant

Easy going like

the afternoon breeze

On a good spring day

Idyllic

Tranquility

Stillness of soul

Waiting for

the coming unrest

Stirring.

April 13, 2015 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

There is an intense clarity found in springtime in the high mountains. It is not beautiful, but real and raw. It hides nothing. Like a truth you cannot escape. An inner stirring as the outer winds churn cold and biting from over the Divide.

It is not a stunning time, but one of stark realities. You are left to face yourself, your world, in all its plainness. Earthen tones and unadorned branches that may snap in the strong gusts if not full and plump with awakening life and the memory of remaining flexible. A time to weed out the weak, prepare for the upcoming unfurling. Last year’s brown grass strewn with grey branches like abandoned dreams. I pick them up as I walk by and stack them in burn piles to clean up when the wind dies down and we’re ready for a quiet evening.

There is no draw here for tourists now. Instead this is the time to drag the pasture and fix fences, repair gates and clean up back roads. It is a time for work, not for fun and pretty and light and laughter and languid appreciation of abundant natural beauty though there is always that too no matter. It is quiet at first tired breath, then exhilarating in its wild rapture with roaring river and winds that blend into their own inseparable harmony.

It is not a time to blatantly behold, but rather discretely observe, for what you are witness to now is her nakedness. Soon she shall dress, slowly, in preparation for what will be.

Some days you’re fooled into believing it’s all over or just begun and then you wake to temperatures in the teens and dig into frozen ground and remember where you are in spite of longing for longer days, warmer rays and shorter shadows. Shade cast from the remaining white high hills obscures hopes of lush and green and leaves and blossoms for some time to come.

It’s quieter around here without the goose. I confess I snuck down to Ute Creek to check on him. Only once. There was a big flock newly arrived of geese, ducks and smaller birds enjoying a warm brown open pool in the otherwise still ice covered expanse. And about a hundred yards away on a stretch of frozen mud, was one solitary goose looking back towards the others. What do you think? Yeah, that’s what I thought too.

In the meanwhile, there’s this independent hen… Ever hear of such a thing? In all my years of raising chickens, I never had. But sure enough. We got one here now. One of our free range hens decided she is not in need of flock nor rooster (though he’s quite in need of her and tries often to herd her home). Instead she prefers our porch, picnic table, the wood pile outside our front door. Go figure what’s worth scratching for in there. She’s outside our cabin at any given time of day. Though I’ve never been liberal in giving credit to a chicken’s sensitivities and insight, it’s as if she knows she’s in a bird friendly zone (it is indeed with my very active bird feeder) and a family in need of a feathered friend.

And then.

Yesterday we pass by the lake of open water miles down river below our ranch. Bob drives slowly as I have my head out the window and that wind is cold. I’m looking. Carefully.

No, that’s not him, I say and he drives on.

How do you know, he asks me. I just know.

Stop. Here. No, not that one… but that one there could be… slow down… pull over!

Rikki, I call.

The one with the big head and the low honk flies off to an island a short ways away and fights with another one before landing. Rikki never behaved like that, I note to self, and then I realize this: He is a she!

And there she is, with another female. Swimming this way from the far bank.

Listen, I tell Bob. I can hear her before I see her. I know her voice. My Rikki!

She is calling to me. We holler, back and forth across the cold grey water…

She remains in the water, closer but never too close, talking together all the time, back and forth, as the dog runs along the bank and I wonder which of us Rikki misses more, but I sense that she won’t come clear to us, and she shouldn’t, and she doesn’t. And although I’d love to sit next to her and stare into her warm brown eyes and just chatter as the two of us have done so many times before, her distance feels right. I am happy for her. She has found her place. And it is beautiful.

I am humbled to realize how wild the wilds shall always be, and how domesticated I remain.

I stand to leave in the brown grass along the bank and kick someone’s spent shotgun shells littered along the spring soil.

Thaw.

March 26, 2015March 26, 2015 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Crack open like a fragile white shell

Exposing

churning waters

pumped and swollen in the warm early

spring day

chewed the solid river free

ravage the lingering white surface

like an eager lover

Grey waters, grey sky and a land of ashen hillsides

fading

to patches of brown

a random quilt torn and worn with age

drown out the calls of the newly arrived

bluebird

And the beloved trees stand a silent cold still vigil

Of brown branches and pale needles

fallen

And eternal roots entangled roots

rising

Powerful in their ethereal presence

That can not be erased by tiny beetles

nor chased by a changing climate

entangled with those roots within me

Expanding

the breath of a new season

So… about the goose.

A wildlife success story.

Consider this.

The pursuit of happiness is hardly limited to the human mind. I have looked deep into his warm brown eyes enough to know. He has been lonely, longing, wondering. I hope he is happy now though we may question both the importance we place on the state of happiness and the impermanence of an emotional state. In any case…

Rikki flew the coop. Or rather, the ranch. He’s down at Ute Creek with… geese!

I want to ride down there now to call him, have him fly to me, look deep into my cold grey eyes and remind me that yes, he loves me, he is grateful for my having raised him with love, kindness, care. But these things I already know.

When we returned from Argentina, we watched the poor guy endure big snowstorms and fend off the fox (after nights of trying to wake in time to “eliminate” the fox problem, I actually saw the bushy red fellow run right by that goose, both uninterested in the other, so I suppose they worked their thing out). We watched him do his best to follow his two and four legged family everywhere (you should see how well he now climbs cliffs and hikes through the trees). And still looking out the window from the warmth of my cabin out to the little feathered football in the snow, I felt a sadness and loneliness in him. Yes, in a Canada goose. Go ahead and laugh, but it’s true.

A few evenings ago, we’re out cooking dinner in the fire pit and I hear geese flying by. The first of the season. There’s just this tiny sliver of a moon and they’re following the river. Rikki remained by the fire with us, seemingly unaffected. Then the next day, I hear them mid day. Bob hears them while working down by the new cabin. Rikki was out on pasture grazing with the horses. Decoy, Bob has called him there. That’s the last we’ve seen of him. No feathers. No chance of a predator with my big beast of a barking dog out there with him. In my heart, I understand.

I’m happy but sad at the same time. I’m tempted to go check on him but know I should not. I should let him be. He is where he belongs.

And so am I.

Some things to consider.

My Ted Talk to Self for the Season.

Growing up I wanted to change the world. Didn’t you?

The two of us did. Said we would. Different ways.

Both wanted to change the shape of the box. Or perhaps it was the contents.

You said from within. I said from without.

Inside, outside.

You told me you’d work with the system.

Me, I wanted to free those trapped inside.

Neither of us were wrong or right.

It takes both kinds. All kinds.

But have we changed it yet?

I’m still trying.

Are you?

I told you working within was Old School. The box is bigger now. Different. Everything changes. There should be no boundaries. Autonomy and liberation and expansive ideas. Silly me, you said. Maybe you are right. Maybe not.

Remember when I studied art? I’m remembering how it wasn’t until the 15^th Century that we figured out perspective. We played with it, mastered it, and moved on. Beyond perspective; beyond Realism; beyond painting only that which we can see though the art form is something we look at. From Classic to Impressionism, Abstraction to Minimalism, Modern and post Modern. Where are we now? Evolving, always evolving…

As human beings we are constantly evolving – as a society, as individuals.

Those that don’t get stuck in the mud.

Boring…

Try something new.

Look at those who have changed the world.

Those you admire most.

Are they within the box or without?

Chances are you’ll most admire those standing on the side you do.

How do we change the world?

Change ourselves.

You can.

I can.

Take charge, take responsibility.

Here’s a quick three step program to get you going.

I’ll let you know how it works – I’m on it.

Let me know how it works for you too.

Step one.

Question the box and its contents.

Take a good hard look at what’s in there.

Clarity is powerful stuff.

Don’t accept mediocrity. Is good enough good enough?

Don’t accept the truths you were given unless they feel right, down to your very core.

Don’t accept the way that was if you think there can be better. Is the way it was the way you want it to be?

Don’t demand it in others until you can do it yourself.

Step two.

Figure out where you want it to go.

And since you’re just working on yourself here, where do you want to go?

Who do you want to be? Now.

Not certain? Join the crowd.

Then be willing to step out of it.

Look around. Who do you admire most?

Be that person. Now.

Admiration – yes, even envy – is a call to action.
It’s not a green monster, but a great motivator.

What is it about that person that you want more of?

Rather than hate them for having it, figure out how to have it too.

Don’t take it from them either; that’s bad Karma.

Better yet, create it anew for you.

You can do it, be it, have it.

But you have to work for it.

Step three.

I just read an article that said no matter what you read from Freud, you really can change your personality.

So, see? You can change something within you.

And if you can do that… then…

Well, let’s just start with that.

The article said all it takes is 12 weeks.

First, figure out what you want to change.

Then, figure out how you want it to be.

Then, for twelve weeks:

Actively be it.

Fake it till you make it.

In 12 weeks, it will be yours.

Right, we have to be realistic here. In 12 weeks, I’m not going to be 20 again. (Don’t worry – I really don’t want to be 20 again!) But I could be more, say, social. (Or maybe not.) Yes, I could, but I don’t know it that’s on my list of things to change. Being socially inept isn’t that bad. There are other things I need to work on first.

Choose something that matters most. Something that will make you feel better about yourself.

And if you feel better about yourself, well, don’t you feel better about your world?

So you see… in 12 weeks, you can change the world.

Just a little bit.

It’s a start.

What are we waiting for?

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