The burden and blessings of home.

November 18, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

The dirt road out (and in) blends into white hillside, disappears with the last storm, strong winds set it smooth, a white horizon before the black timber. Defining lines disappear.

(before the last storms, looking back at the burned mountains from far down at the paved road)

Naked aspen and stripped spruce hold the bounty of another early snow, fat and plump and plentiful on otherwise blatant branches.

Smoke in a steady stream trickles into the pink morning sky from the cabin I find myself living in this time.

Passing time. A season. This one of change. After a decade of dormancy.

Funny it would be now, in the snow, the time of year you’d expect us to curl into our cave and slow our breathing and wait out the long white season.

Instead we’re out there
in
of
a part of
together
with the elements

In snow so deep the horses have stopped pawing
we learn to breathe again.

Deep powder
Deep thoughts
Bury my burdens and cover the past
Watching each flake land on my hand
Remain for but a moment
Whilst a fairy dances within each one
Then turns to a drop of water against my humid flesh
And disappears
As will my burden
Vanish into the comfort of husband, home, four legged friends and a warm afternoon.

Maybe it will melt out. Some of it. Not all. Not for this season.

It begins. I accept, embrace, welcome with open arms.

The season of white descends, I tell to you with a shiver of excitement.

Silence in the snow as the river begin to freeze and traffic (what little remained from summer) has come to a halt. No one’s around for miles and miles and miles. No where I need to go. And next thing you know, the snowmobiles are out. At least the big old beast of a work sled with its gentler purr than the play sleds. Hauling fire wood. The best use yet for all these beetled killed trees. My version of a controlled burn. In my woodstove. And second best is this: Logs to build the walls of the next home we shall build together.

Death upon our own land becomes new life.

A grove of young trees
Needles blue green
Laden with seed cones
Red and ripe with life

Odd how beautiful and exotic it seems now here in the snow. Something I remember but have not seen in so long.

(Desire cultivating devotion.)

Lettuce seeds in the planters along the front windows have sprouted.
Things grow.

We say it’s too late to leave Nature alone to manage Herself, but I laugh to see her power of rejuvenation no matter how much we mess up. I may not have much hope in humans, but the Earth, I think she’ll be just fine.

Seeing the forest for the trees. Alternating with seeing the trees for the forest. Every needle. Brown and fallen on the snow.

And then suddenly.
The young ones bust through the whitewashed landscape defiantly. Holding the colors of the deep sea. Here so far from the warmth and waves.

Are we better to live our lives as sailors navigating in the wind
Or the seed gently accepting and landing where the wind will take her
Or do we strive to balance the two
Manning our own ship, but when the storm sends us off course, recovery may be found only in letting go.

I let go.
Toss the seeds to the wind and will see them only again when they have flowered.
Their sweet smell will draw me back.

last seasons remains
blushing
in the Early winter
as the young lover peeking from beneath
the comforter of freshly
fallen snow

I leave you then with this, this week, words of wisdom not my own, but those shared by the wise, wonderful, beautiful soul, Amy, of SoulDipper. She who sees well before me what seems to take me so long:

So be it.

I am done.

And back to living.

Where I’m at. (taking time for personal updates)

November 12, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Remedy for an empty nest.

Fill the nest back up.
Or at least the barn.
Get new horses.

OK, so it might not be a cure, but I swear it helps.

Kinda strange not knowing
where on Earth he is Now.

As far away as one can go.
The end of the Earth. Really.

Somewhere between here and there,
I know that much.
Not much more.

Heading south for winter, he is.
All the way to the South Pole.
Can’t get much further away than that.

And I am pleased, and proud,
and know he is living life
full and rich and brave and strong
and what more could a mother, woman and friend
hope for?

(Update from late last night:
He’s there!
A day ahead and a world away.
And what can I say but
-stupidly-
Keep warm)

We remain
Home.
Bob and Gunnar and me
a couple of old cats
a bunch of good horses
And a few I’m going to try to teach.

So much to do and
our list keeps growing
fantasies of idle winter days
replaced with
lessons in time management
we had our idle time this summer
when we should have been
busy

try to count on things, make plans, assume
More often than not it turns out
so different than what I had hoped for

but if different is neither bad nor wrong
then why can’t I stop planning
learn to let go and just go with the flow

because really you know
what a disaster that would be
when at the end of the day
if I lived like that

we’d all be sitting around starving
wishing I had thought earlier about
what we’ll eat for dinner

These are the six months I live for
the easier ones to leave
the hardest ones
the ones that have become me
are me

and nothing no one no where else
allow this wild time

Time to release
my wild side

Intoxication
Of the elevation

Bob’s driving home and I’m watching the digital numbers on the thermometer on the rear view mirror drop. Ten degrees as we climb our mountain. By morning, the thermometer reads one below zero (-18 C). Bob’s up before daylight rebuilding the fire then climbs back in bed. The cats have been sleeping on him and I am wrapped around him and clinging tight to keep warm. He is the only one now very warm, but probably can’t sleep with all of us latched to him.

Some days I wonder what the heck we’re doing living here. Later on, that very same day, I wonder how I could ever leave.

Finally I leave you with these words for thought.

An observation on the Forest Service.

For those who live here, see.

We are willing to make observations based upon what is before us, what is happening, and common sense. It’s a matter of survival here, responsibility, connection.

On the other hand, many of those that come in to try to Manage (their term, not mine, though I believe even they are beyond maintaining such claims here and now) well, do as their told, say what they are supposed to, do their best to maintain of control of that which they will never.

My apologies to the wonderful men and women who remain within this Big Business because they care, and actually do see. I know there are plenty of you. The Cindys and Annes and so many I’ve had the honor to know, observe and work with… But I see so much more, and I’m tired of it, seeing the nothings happen and the so much spoken, the time wasted and the obvious ignored. I am sorry.

The latest bit of paid propaganda from one of their finest Yes Men is entitled (I swear to you): “Dead trees do not equal more fires… maybe.”

Really. When you’re done laughing, let me tell you this. As the title suggests and the piece confirms, it is no more than a way to get around admitting they have no clue…

However, rather than admit that then be free to open their eyes, look and think, they recommend this: let’s hold off on common sense, observing the obvious, and let’s wait for those scientific studies to be completed… which usually take a while, as we’re stuck sitting on our hands and can’t quite make it out there … there, where it is happening… there, where all of those folks who live, see.

What do you really need to comprehend the world around you, including the greatest of mysteries?

Beyond the front door.

October 18, 2013 / Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Bear tracks in the snow
on the front porch of the Little Cabin

he cleans up the last of my homemade cheese
sour and spoiled and I forgot to clean up

he steps on the bucket with which I gather wood ash
from the old cook stove
Crushes the metal side

and smears the mirror we keep outside under
which we hang wet coats
To dry in the intense high altitude sun

How many times have I see such marks
on the outside of cabin windows or inside of the old dump truck
stinking and smelling of last winter’s trash

who but me, my son wonders,
claps their hands in glee
to know her porch is chosen and shared

Wild enough
a rosebud
Ripe to bloom

awaiting patiently on my front porch
and all I need to do is reach

what I have been waiting for
may finally be here.

in my temple

outside
beneath heavy clouds
grey at noon
pink in evening
anointing me with soft snow

I sit back on hard rock in cold wind
and feel the bliss of eternal passion
in the wail of the still open waters
tears before the silence
of the deep freeze

Though far too much for me in summer
the crowds within a half mile of this dirt road
I have never found any place
As wild
as it is
in winter

Here

as far away from traffic and telephone
and gossip and a grocery store
from sound and synthetic stimulation
from humidity and heavy air
open trails and exposed flesh

far away from you

The wilds call

Here I have wide white wild wind
and really, I wonder,
what more do I need

maybe I already have

enwrap with
wind and white and wide open
remote, removed, far, far away

and for now I find myself
Here
Home

and am glad to find the world surrounding me
A world you know nothing about
and care for even less

or perhaps you have a picture
of where you once were that looked a little like this
But it wasn’t won’t be and is not

for this here and now what I see and what I do
Is mine
and not all of it do I chose to share

glimpses I allow
Open the door and let in the wind
with a swirl of brown leaves and white flakes of snow

and I may let out the smell of
fresh bread and warmth from the woodstove and
the sound of my boys’ laugher and

my dog barking and the cats purring and
my heavy breath and labored beat of my
heart as I have only just returned from

seeking out the last of the wilder beasts
from the big back yard a place where few remain
Where even big game seeks solace in lower ground

They say it’s the highest, hardest
place to hunt in the Lower 48

what I hunt
is just as elusive
within me

Winter here is a more wild, harsh and remote

place than any I have been to

any place I choose to be

though summers at times are hard to endure

This one was different
drought, fire, floods
evacuating all but us,
silence like winter
only it was warm
And we were waiting
in eerie silence
for something
more than flames and smoke
or the feeling that maybe it was time to leave
stuck in silence in a time there should have been children laughing
And the only noise you heard was
rumors as destructive as wildfire

I won’t forget this summer
and I can’t say my memories will be fond
Though you know how that can happen with time

There will be no ribbons for you my friend
only miles beside me
beside our horses

freedom you tell me you
need
spoken in loud barks

after a coyote
a half a mile away and
you’re hot on his heels

reckless they may say
but I see a heart bigger bolder and braver
than any I have known

at times I confess I thought to
Train him, teach him, subdue him
and break him like a old swayback horse

finally I have come to know
These things can’t be taught
and come only when we learn to let go

the wild beast that ran away
And when I awoke
on my doorstep he was waiting for me

Wintersong

October 11, 2013 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Wintersong
sung in silence
hung low and dark
where even secrets be not told

as snow falls heavy
hard on still soft ground
not yet ready for approaching
freeze and black and

long nights and endless blinding white
leaving her mark
covering traces
evidence of suffocation

It comes earlier this year
every year
how does one keep track
when tomorrow is as unsure as memories

the view subsides
and voice is muffled
whispers left unanswered
screams a part of the wind

But wake my friend
and see the last signs of life
defiant blades of withered grass still standing strong
and the last leaves tired and shriveled holding tight to

bits of color yellow gold
before the white wash comes and covers
and warmth from the sun burning
through to one tiny bit of

exposed pale flesh and
maybe
that will be all
until the end of spring

Labored poem of love and leaves

October 10, 2013October 10, 2013 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

~

~

From the open window I hear
the metallic guttural cry of
elk bugling in the back yard

descending on around so near my home
covertly in the black and cold
of this arduous night

tell tale signs of
snow in higher grounds rousing bulls to
drive their herds down

and on the roof above me
continued heavy tapping of the last of
swollen beads of rain

as the temperature continues to fall
and I await the ensuing silence
telling me in the wordless way

it has all turned to snow

even down here
Down here at nearly
ten thousand feet high.

And the poem I so labored
is no longer valid

No longer matters
No matter works

about the graying sky and stripped leaves and
the last of the golden ground

But I wanted to write it, to
share it, to help you see it, and
Now I wake to a whiter world

and wonder what part of it matters
What part of it did I think you’d like
Would you want to hear and see

The picture I was painting for you in words
And what part of it can I
crumple and use to start

the morning fire
while I sit before the flames
coffee cup in hand

watching the steam rise
and words burn.

abandoned branches
bequeathed bare
suddenly slender nimble fingers
orchestrating a secret song in the wind
luring in the long winter

and the golden
leaves are pressed back
into the earth from which they once were born
seeds to bloom again
next summer

A bunch of pretty pictures and one not so happy poem

May 29, 2013June 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Thoughts in spring time

And the sun shines

and warms and

tells us it’s all ok

and we smile and

Look around as aspen leaves

open and green the hillsides

that otherwise remind me

of death

And the light is high and flat

and my cheeks burn

and we say, yes, this is how

it should be, but

something deep inside

is nagging and we try

not to listen but

it won’t go

away. And then

we have another

glass of wine and wonder

if we can wash it

away but all it does is

make it louder and then

We want the rain and

the snow and the clouds and

darkness and want to turn

within and feel instead of

see and then we know we’ll

find what we are looking

for. Do you know? I wonder

if I ever will.

Re-working old poems

November 12, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Because I can.

Because I am indeed feeling bold.

Because the opportunity presents itself

And I would be a fool to let it pass.

Because I have always written

Will always write

But don’t always learn.

Because friends, feedback, teachers and editors

Don’t appear every day.

And so I begin.

Re-working old poems.

In hopes of seeing words anew.

Or rather

New uses for old words?

Succumbing

The water lures me

As she has so many times before

Now emerging

Discreet

As a delicate muse in the woods

Her hollow voice tempting

In a distant primordial song

Of silver coins tossed from teasing fingers

Her sweet smell and silky sway and wave

Taunting down the mountainside

Am I no more than a voyeur

Standing safely out of reach

Dry on her precarious banks

Enthralled

While she takes no heed of me

I am but a hunched form

A leaning tree

Casting shade across her face

As her struggle to keep fluid

Ebbs and flows

In thickening waters below

And if I stand here long enough

Will I see her freeze

Watch her facade relinquish

To the static state of

Solid water

Welcoming winter

November 11, 2012 / 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.

Begin again

November 9, 2012 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

And so it begins again, as it has so many times before.

I wake long before light to heavy silence. You can feel it. A pressure of sorts, weighty, though not oppressive. I know.

I feel my way to the window and there is the view as I expect it to be and as it is for nearly half my days here.

The branches of the blue spruce at the same time laden and light. The ground below bright and glowing as snow continues to descend in darkness.

This is the time the land shines and shivers. It is her time. When she is allowed to be solitary. Nothing to give or take. Demands washed over in white. Pure and pristine in stillness and strength. If Artemis was a season, she would be winter here.

She is out there, singing her own song, loudly but only for herself, with no one around to listen, comment, critique. I hear her in intimate moments as the sound of falling snow. I try to respect her space, walk lightly upon her with downy steps, and bow my head (and roll my eyes) in apologies for the sudden barking of my dog as he finds the tracks of a coyote that recently passed our path where we walk in the twinkling crystal light of fresh falling morning snow.

What brought it on…

November 4, 2012November 4, 2012 / Gin Getz / 34 Comments

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.

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