The Writing Life

Take a break!

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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

A song for the autumn river

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

Upon returning from a stunning day skiing (yes, skiing…) atop the frozen Methow River… I was inspired to rework this poem originally started back in October of 2010 inspired by my beloved Rio Grande.  Thank you to new friends and neighbors here in Washington for a feritle seed of inspiration, and to those who put up patiently with my longing for where I was.

 

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 chant
Of silver coins tossed from teasing fingers
Her sweet smell and silky sway and wave taunting down the mountainside

And if I stand here long enough will I see her freeze
Watch the surface relinquish to the stagnant state of frozen waters

Am I no more than a voyeur
Standing safely out of reach
Dry on her precarious banks
Enthralled
While she takes no heed of my presence
I am but a hunched form like a leaning tree casting shade across her face
As her struggle to keep fluid ebbs and flows in thickening waters below

Watching the last of her dazzling dance down the mountain
A spray of glittering waters splashing over rocks worn smooth by her impassive force
As the last of the lowering sunlight sheds long shadows across her ever changing shell
So soon to be concealed for the drunken duration of long winter

The surge of ice shall spread expand swell and cover
Suffocate the last of this seasons song
As she gives up gives in and can no longer hold her own
Succumbing to the weighty swathe of ice and snow
Cooling and calming her passions
Reducing restricting constricting her rage
Held back at bay by the season

The expanding cold takes charge of her course
Secrets and sounds still
The long static expanse being laid out above her
A white ribbon winding between two hills of black timber
Silent

The end of a white noise louder than the clatter rolling around in my mind

I lose myself in the last of this frigid rushing
The conclusion of open waters and her alluring voice
Soon to be suppressed
Numb and stifled with no words of her own
Tucked away behind her hijab

I lean over and dip in my hand
Calloused palm seared by cold waters
Fingers outstretched seeking searching
As if I might hold onto something solid
Perchance an understanding
But all she does is move around me
Unconcerned with the minor inconvenience of my flesh and blood and bone
Appearing a ghostly white beneath the slick surface

I pull back my hand now red and throbbing
Anger at the violent cold
And allow the water to continue without me
My futile interference leaves not a ripple
I am allowed to watch but nothing more
The river is stronger than I am

And to think of how many spend a lifetime
Struggling to subdue control alter and own
That which is mightier than you or I will ever be

She will have her time again
Singing loudly with fierce abandon
As the ice recedes and she releases her pent up rage
Wild with furious brown waters
Six months from now

Back to a world of white

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The obscurity of a mid-night with no moon
Silent stirring of a shadow hiding in shade
A flower unfolds in this darkness
Bright blossom petals
No one can see
A blind woman roused by the fragrance
Feels the colors
Emerging

Untitled

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

Solstice Wind

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

And in the dark
The wind rises and twists and heaves
And circles me with a fierce embrace
Somehow lifting me body and soul

A black sky overcast
Void of sparkling depths
Air moist and heavy and balmy
The big trees that stand sentinel
I find finally moving dancing swaying
To a song I hear in the murmur of the wind

The forest comes alive
Here so trimmed and tamed and thinned
Now in the enigmatic depths of darkness
Whispering to be wild
In the deep ferocious bellow of the sky

Still somehow subtle soft contained
A secret promise remains held back
Unable to let down her hair
Throw back her head and howl
The hush of the mountain’s cry
A rumbling I finally feel
Low down and primal

Damn it, would you roar!
Let loose unsuppressed and unrestrained
Even the wind is sugar sweet soothing and polite
I want you to rip and tear
And burn and pulse
And let me sense your surging
Stirring
And I awoke
Looked around
And wondered what the hell I was doing here

Waiting for the darkest hour
As the wind teases
It doesn’t take much to arouse me
Set me off
And I am gone
Covertly covered by the wind

Remains of last season

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

The remains of last season
Visible as an odd curiosity
For I have not seen the leaves green here
Somewhat strange to arrive at the start of the dormant season
And wonder how life will transform and blossom

Now we approach darkness
Hesitant like stepping into frigid waters

The darkness does not concern me
I barely discern the difference
Here where day and night ooze and overlap
Lacking strong shadows and clean lines

Oh wild beast
Contained
By civilization
It does not become me
My eyes narrow and pulse quickens
I pace the cage uneasily

You pinned me to the wall
Did you think I would settle in softly
And not lash out?

It is uncomfortable
I shift awkwardly and cannot make eye contact

She stares back intently asking for recognition
Recognition I am unable to give
Only a blank stare in return
Shallow
Touching no more than the surface of the reflective glass before me

For a moment I become the Little Prince
Standing at the center of my little world
Silent and alone I can see forever and forever is not far
I call out and hear my echo
It is a small world
Too small
It is not that I feel large
Only confined

I see last season’s leaves still clinging to a dormant branch
And I see beauty in even that promise of what was
What will be
A certainty I am not yet comfortable with

Instead I curl up like a kitten in the windowsill
Basking in sunshine I only remember

Wild ways

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

If I were a wild river
Cutting at my own roots
Severing the past like grass to a sickle
Slicing cleanly through
Exposing a new path with each
Swipe of blade
Swell of water

Now no more than a
Down low moving
Ceaseless silent forward stream
Oozing seeping weeping sweeping
Close to freezing
The chant of monks in the woods

Warmer seasons bring singing waters
Rushing roaring ripping over rocks
Rejoicing in their wild ways
Scoring the bank with strong voice
Rhythm of pulse and force

I don’t hold back
A tempestuous scream
Dancing naked down the side of hill
Head thrown back and hair unbound
Bellowing like waves in the open sea
Aloft in my mind like memories
The pulse of power and passion
Releases me unruly and raging

Then a silent turn through the woods
Leveling out
A deer through the aspen
Disappearing in a flash
Quiet still silent serene
The pond of reflection
Nothing
For you to see
Only me
A face in the mirror I’m not familiar with
So much older paler tamer
I vaguely recognize her still
A second glance does not reveal
Anything beyond the surface of glass
The surface of the still forest pool

Rain begins with no more than ripple
And then an explosion of storm and swelling
Paint me with vivid strokes and colors
Cochineal crimson and raw umber
Emerald, amethyst, sapphire and tourmaline

Forget your civilized ways
For just a moment
Torn like pages from a book
Left to blow in the wind
Tangle in the untamed grass
And slowly decompose in the shade
Of the Blue Spruce
Whilst the Red Tail shares a lonely laugh above

But time demands
The path of the river revisited
Calm and contained again alas
Prim and proper
Clothed and clean
And see I can make that work too
Same waters
Different path

But this course of the river
Is not what calls me
Inspires me
Drives me
Wild

No more than a whisper

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Wilds whisper yet I long for their roar

In the hollow silence I listen for depth
The eventual splash of a bucket dropped into the well
Does not come

I learn to accept a bubbling brook tucked into the trees
When what I wanted was the bellow of the ocean
Crashing waves and endless horizons
Not before me but within me

Snow falls
Not so much a storm but a gentle covering
White wash
Settling
Erasing the past
A part of my passion and dreams
Colors
The horizon

Standing out alone
She adorns me with tiny jewels
Glistening silver and white
That last no more than an instant on my naked flesh

And then I am left
With nothing

Seduced by earth and sky

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. On a good year.

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

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

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

I challenge that assumption.

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

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

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

The time between

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

On a high pine bow at a bend in the river rests an osprey. Motionless. I see only the silhouette of the black and white bird. Perhaps awaiting his next meal from the gently moving waters below. Or perhaps for the raptor this is no more than a respite. The time between.

The waters remain unfrozen. A mild autumn. A silky flow of silver over smoothly polished stones. No more than pearls of ice form on low limbs overhanging the north side of the embankment. Small patches of hoar frost spread in secret spaces hidden from the sun along the shore. White as fresh snow, a reminder of what should be, what will be.

It is not easy to get here. A tangle of vines and fallen trees, grabbing my jeans, snapping branches, leaving welts of whip marks across my cheeks if I don’t duck in time. Keeping the river wild. Deer tracks. Signs where the coyote has crossed. No tell tale signs of rubber tread ahead of us; only our own following. Huge ponderosa stumps, roots and all, pile up like a log jam at a sharp bend. The water is choosing, creating a new route, cutting into the softer bank on the now receiving side of this flow.

They say winter is late to come here this year. I have nothing to compare it to. I seek references, association. There is a comfort in knowing. Putting the view before us in its proper place. A tidy jar on a shelf. Likewise, an unease in everything seeming so new.

We read about the many storms that have covered our old mountain, tucked her in tight for the season. That we understand. It fits into the links of the past we carry with us though we try to let go. If we were there, now would be our time for reveling in our solitude. Reconnecting with the trails and secret places that only we go. Reclaiming our big back yard.

I am aware of the selfishness of solitude. On one hand a breeding ground for deeper thinking. Undisturbed silence to allow our brains to bloom. My thoughts, my terms, my time. On the other hand is community and intelligent conversation. Are greater thoughts raised in the back and forth between interacting minds, or in the void of solitude? The challenge of defining and defending.

We are not there. We are here. A new mountain, new land, new back yard. And newness carries unease that only time can soften. The time between. Between the hardness of discovery and that softness of understanding.

Newness reminds us nothing is known for certain. We float precariously. Perhaps that is a more realistic point of view than feeling grounded, solid on assumptions.

I look down river again and the osprey is gone.