The Writing Life

A brief greeting from the Rio Trocoman

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

~

argentine bling

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chippay channo and colts

~

estancia trocoman

~

A brief greeting and I return to silence.

My words are engaged elsewhere. Being used to write the story for which I came here. There will be time later to share this all with you, and so much there is to share! For now, communication is challenging. It is easy to do without, and easier still to forget I have a life beyond the here and now. Except for a sadness I feel when I think of my son, so many miles away.

For now, the occasional trip will suffice, computer packed into saddle bag, and a horse ride across river. From here where I write, with the river to my south and sun to my north, far enough away from electricity and internet, wood for making matέ and meals, candle light and stars, a sandy beach for our bath, and the only trail in is by horses. I could stay here longer than I know I should.

Please trust when I tell you this much. The story is emerging. Coming to life. Birthing slow and steady in the heat of mid day with note books and binder, pens and tea cup spread out before me on Ginny’s antique drawing table surrounded by her painting and ponchos, antiques and photo albums. Not always in the direction I thought it would lead. Like a river cutting into soft gravel in a sudden downpour and changing course. Yet to where the water leads remains the same.

Until next time. I send love and light from here where both are so bountiful.

~

gunnar bob and buck

~

in between butta and trocoman

~

victor and horse going gaucho

~

Silver fingers in the moon

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

~

hollyhock (640x427)

~

Sometime late
tonight I will be
sitting in front of

the fire, tucked into
the rocks and out
of the wind, with

my dog by heels and
my husband beside
me, and I will look

up to the north and
see Luna in her
full, fat splendor.

I will imagine on her
silver face, upside
down though she seems

to me here, a smile
as smooth as the Mona Lisa.
And you, you who I

love with a heart as
big as that moon, will
be so very far

to the north, and
I imagine you
will look to the

south and see her
rise, and we will both
be watching the same

full moon from
opposite ends of the world.
And I will imagine

her as a mirror, and
send a shimmer as you
so often did with

shiny things
when the morning sun
spent its wealth on

our breakfast table, across
your face where
my hand would otherwise

be, offering a gentle touch.

Wild ride

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

~

jorge (640x411)

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jorge 2 (640x437)

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jorge 3 (640x427)

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jorge 4 (640x427)

~

I stand in the wind at the casco and watch.   Here in Patagonia where trees take on the shape of the elements, grow in the direction the wind blows, or simply refuse to start and let the seeds scatter to a more tranquil land.

I can not share with you all I see as it seems on the surface still and not yet within, not yet absorbed into that deeper place where words are found and stories born.  There will be time.  I feel the soaking in, warm and gradual and rich as the summer sun browning my shoulders that have never been so exposed in January.

Start and stop.  I stare at my words like unfamiliar faces.  Hard to describe what I do not yet understand.  And yet, that is exactly what I must learn to do.  Describe a life not with the depth and perspective of intimacy as I have for my own life and feel for my mountain.  But as a storyteller, nothing more than the impartial observer, happy to share a tale.  And what a wonderful tale this is.  The story I am here for.

Though are we ever truly impartial?  Can we observe the world around us without becoming a part?  I do not believe I can. Fortunately, I have learned to love this woman before we even met.  As such, her story will be told with a loving touch, a knowing grin, and eyes wide from amazement.  (She is helping me work on the humor part.  Not my strong point, but one more of hers.) This is the story of a woman with MS?  Oh yes.  But her story is so much more…

Now is the time to absorb, and I am saturated.  Spending my days pouring into the life of another to gather stories like seeds, and hold them tight as to not let them blow away. And still the wind roars, and sheepskins hung along the fence to dry flap like thin flags on a pole, and gauchos ride in proud and handsome on their beautiful horses, people coming and going, most of whom don’t understand a word I say and of course I do not understand them which is very frustrating place to be, and the sound of hammers and saws and rooster crows and barking dogs and local gaucho rap songs tangle about me in the twisting winds. More distractions than an artist’s open mind can figure out a place for on the table filled with bounty and ready for the feast.  So hungry for silence yet wouldn’t miss all this for anything.  And realize I am so absorbed, I forget to look back. Forgot back “home” there is cold and snow and familiar faces, my horses and cats and just one quiet rooster that doesn’t wake until after I do, and a language I can understand, but none of that matters here and now.  And that is the best place to be.

Let the writing begin.  Why I am here.  Why we were brought together.

(And yes, Jorge did stay on that horse…)

~

just up the road from the chacra (640x427)

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looking back at the chacra and valley just outside of town (640x427)

~

Old rocks and new
sand worn from wind
and time, so many

millennia of relentless
elements overbearing
softened and smoothed

to a treeless hillside
void of
shelter as the lightning

touches down near and
the low bushes smell
of burning oil, we

curl our shoulders
forward and tilt our
head down

as rain hard as stones
drips through my saturated
hair and down my

still pale from
the northern hemisphere’s
winter forehead and

into my gringo blue
eyes and must be
brushed away by

a crumbled rag dug
from my pocket
the last place

I can find
dry and warm
and familiar.

~

another incredible sunset (640x427)

~

The beginning

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

~

looking back at lost trail ranch

~

farewell to our mountain for now

~

like leaving a lover

on one hand

and with the other

holding onto my hat

as we dive down into the wind

~

waterfall 2

~

Since Solstice

Sometime just past noon, the cabin is drained, power shut down, everything put away well enough. Food scraps and the remains of the cookie jar set out for the Steller’s jays, magpies and pair of ravens that will have to make do without us for a while.  Another pack rats caught in the trap under the house tossed out into the snow. Christmas lights taken down and put in away in the attic. Four boxes of food for a friend in town clean out the fridge.  And everything we’ll need for nearly four months away, piled and packed into the toboggan sled hooked behind the snowmobile.

Funny to be so bundled up in down jackets, long johns and thick winter boots.  We’re heading towards mid summer.  Such is travelling to the other side of the world.  People do it all the time.  I never have.

I’m not going to say deep farewells this year.  I’ll be back soon enough.  Long enough.  I’m in no rush.  Leaving behind the worse snow we remember.  Bad snow.  For us that means:  not much.  Better that we’re not sticking around wishing for something we do not have.  Elk tracks down on the reservoir flats make it look like a feed lot without fences.  They coyote are loving life.  Feasting on snowshoe hare that are also abundant this year.  Their advantage lost in low snow.

Just past two weeks after Solstice and you see the difference. Already I feel the sun stronger on exposed flesh.  My hands without gloves for the first time this year. Nose and cheeks, weathered and creased skin at the corners of eyes and lips and it feels so good. It feels.  I remember last winter in northern Washington where the sun held no power of touch during the deep of winter, filtered by mauve light under the soft inversion.

Last night I stepped out to walk with the dog under the brilliant and unlimited depth of our night sky to say farewell.  I will not see the same constellations for nearly four months.  And although I’ll be a in “remote” location, I can only guess it won’t be this many miles away from another light, another human being.  But it is our altitude that brings sparkle and luminescence to otherwise emphatic black. It is this altitude that brings us closer to touching the skies.

~

san luis valley at sunset

~

And tonight I watch the sky on fire in the coldest place in the Lower 48 as we drive through Alamosa and the San Luis Valley.

Now in a hotel.  With TV, pizza and wings and the dog on the bed between us.

on one hand

how quiet

without the call

of the coyote

on the other

TV and traffic and the buzz

of central heating

oh yes, the adventure begins

Do I call this Day One of this adventure when I feel our life is always an adventure and even this one, I’ve been working on for months?  How about Day One of this chapter?

~

bristol head

~

New beginning

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

~

rio grande pyramid

~

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

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

~

wild rose 2

~

The act of choosing

Today I choose here.  For now.

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

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

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

~

yarrow blossom

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

aspen leaf

~

Fine tuning point and purpose

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

~

died last season aspen

~

when I wake I
remember what
is outside I love
but in my head
is not where
I want to be

~

old and new life on aspen

~

You know I never meant for this to be a travel log. Quite the contrary. It was always meant to be about home. Building home, making home, home making. Homesteading. But it’s not, is it? Though I think it was four years ago when High Mountain Muse first began. Seems long ago and far away now. Though the view outside the window looks just about the same as it did back then. Maybe less snow this year. That’s a problem. But I don’t want to discuss that today.

Maybe I’ve lost my way. Maybe I’ve changed direction. But look! Here I go. I’m changing again.

After our adventure last winter battling the Empty Nest syndrome by flying my own coop to Northern Washington, I was pretty sure I was ready to return, settle down, stay a while. But it seems I am not done. I can’t blame the Empty Nest syndrome any more. I should be over that. (Or does one ever really recover?) Maybe it’s just Itchy Feet.

But I think it’s more. It is about life. About passion. About a wild desire to experience life, full and rich. About tasting life, not just reading the recipe. And diving in. Not just touching your toe to cold water and being afraid to dive in.

I’m diving in.

Time to think about packing now. We’re two weeks away from launching. I hope you’ll join me. Sit back, tighten your seatbelts, and enjoy the ride.

But first, I’m here. Now. And that’s still the best place to be. (Especially with our son here with us!)

~

icicles

~

hold steady the camera
to the mountain
my muse
and breathe in another shot

ingrained

chiseled somewhere in
there where I am
reminded of
the smell
of crumbled aspen leaves
and pine sap
spruce bark
and the odor of the bull elk
who left his bed of melted snow
to silently blend
into pale trees
and wood smoke wafting from
the cookstove chimney
lingering out on pasture
where the horses should be

ingrained

~

willow branches

~

Trying not to write is like morning without coffee. Very incomplete, but without the headaches.

~

willow branch

~

After the even zero of winter’s mornings

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

`

 

on thin ice

`

on thin ice 2

`

on thin ice 3

`

 

the weight of cold and clothes
slows us
down, lifting
bundled legs over
snow covered rocks
advancing up the
seemingly silent stream

a white ribbon running
through a white land

from her banks
she is silent still but
up close she
continues to sing

then suddenly she is
open, loud and
rushing from
a black abyss

broken

upon her smooth
surface, or gives
way beneath footfall
leaving breathe caught
mid way and
heart pumping a little

louder

we listen to find
our way, the stronger
she sings, the thinner
the ice, the closer we are
to rushing waters
and her secrets
chanting below
each hushed step
of snowshoe on powder

untouched

but for the occasional
criss cross pattern
bank to bank
like summer’s spider webs strung
tree to tree

in warmer days as we
come to the creek
and brush silk from our
sweaty cheeks
as we find a place
to cool and escape

now no more than an easy
crossing for
coyote and shoeshoe hare and

dog that turns wild on days like this
and allows us only
brief sightings
of brown fur and

domesticity

he moves silent as
the river, stealth
through dark timber
in his own world yet
never too far from
where we are

then just as suddenly
by our side
and we slowly progress
up stream together
while the waters continue
their muffled flow down
beneath each

uncertain step

`

on thin ice 4

`

on thin ice 5

`

on thin ice 6

`

I would also like to share this.  It is beautiful.

The following was written and shared by “Yourothermotherhere” as a comment.  I think you will see why I felt this should be shared in a post. Thank you, for your words.

 

it is about you
because your eyes
belong to you
and where you stand
the view is unique
to you

but it’s also about me
because you are more
than your eyes

you are heart
and soul
and mind

that all long to connect
with others of the same
creator
creations

an infinite gallery
of beauty
seen through
eternal beings

 

What I’m trying to say

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments
a scene from a snowier winter, what we're still waiting for...

a scene from a snowier winter, what we’re still waiting for…

`

some days I see
nothing new
the same
blue bird in bluebird blue sky
and yes it paints a lovely picture
but what I need to see
to share
and what you look for
long for
is somehow

something more

the breath of the sparrow
last year’s grass standing stiff as straw
breaking the endless white hillside
into soft waves as the wind catches
stirs and deposits
obstructed by no more than
a blade of dried grass

the tell tale tracks of the
coyote catching
the snowshoe hare, white fur
scattered on snow like
heavy grains of frost

pin holes and chipped bark
on the broad rough side of
the blue spruce
that has scattered its needles on
the fresh snow below
pick-up sticks played as a child

the orange wash of the lightening
sky spilled across the flat white
of the horse pasture
now cleared of tracks
calm as the sea on a day
when the wind holds
its breathe

it can’t just be about me
and the pretty world
I live in
and all I can do is
hope
that what means something to me
might mean something
to you

`

sunset

Mother to mother

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

finger mesa

`

moss rock water ice

`

You await your god to give you his blood
while we bleed ours onto the earth
and pour four tears
In times of drought

The blindness of being
of choosing to see only
the last green tree
In forest of falling needles

Like the mother who has two children
and after the first one dies
remains happy
Because the other lives

If I choose hope
I am off the hook

As if optimism were a fair replacement
For truth

`

last of open waters

`

ready for snow

`

A long story

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

the rio grande at ute creek

`

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

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

`

aspen leaf in snow

`

Another empty promise.

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

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

`

rio grande reservoir

`

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

like stars in the dark sky.

`

looking back at lost trail ranch

`

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

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

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

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

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

`

gunnar over lost lakes

`

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and that feeling in my gut?

It’s gone.

`

last summers growth

`