The morning after
Muscles moving with soreness and shivers
Dripping where once was dry
The cage door swings open
Feral beast unleashed
She bolts and does not look back
Stops to catch her heaving breath
Sweating along creased brow
Narrow vision of passion
It is all a blur
Mind blending memories with desires
How do we separate the two
After they have intertwined?
Rain turns to hail turns to snow
Winter’s white line blending with brown
A slow sad march down the mountain
Covering the last of summers stories
Faded like a sepia portrait of an old cowboy
Yesterday today tomorrow
You may say bad things comes in threes
I’d rather think of body, mind and soul
Nothing is not connected
Though too often we find ourselves alone
Seemingly old words shared with a new friend:
“As I write, I am down at the Little Cabin, our one room cabin built of old round logs, set out on the bluff above the river. Big Haus, our main home for now, is being used for the last big event of the season, so we’ve chosen to hide away down here, and I love it. A small satellite dish and solar panel which charges a battery which in turn is inverted to household power allows me the use of the computer and internet, though we have the old wood cook stove giving us heat, and candles and kerosene lamps at night by which we work. There is an outhouse nearby and when the rain and hail (and soon to be snow) are not as loud on the metal roof as they are right now, I can hear the song of the Rio Grande just below us.”
Get away, far away…
I wonder at times if I am running away? Or running to something just out of reach?
A new view, looking out of these old weathered eight-pane windows. Snow beneath the beetle killed spruce trees. Rolling waves of light and dark, subtle shades and repeated variation, hillside after hillside fading from green to grey. It’s only a matter of time.
Are we better off not looking?
Yet even blindfolded, would you feel the tears of the trees dropping their needles upon you as we stumble through the last of the shade?
Stripped stark
Barren trees
Allow more light to penetrate
An insatiable hunger for the withering warmth
Mid day light diffused by the soft sky overcast
It is only a matter of time before the snow settles in for the season
White world we know here for half our days
Until then longer shadows leave a vague pattern
As if something man made like an endless cattle guard
On the edge of the dying meadow
The thermometer has risen to twenty. I postpone a longer walk and return quickly from feeding the horses, the dog from chasing off the magpies. I am not yet used to the cold, too soft, still holding on tight to summer ways of forgoing long johns and tall boots. The cold has barely begun.
Horses at the water trough pawing through the ice.
The doves are down to four. I see them now settled on the fence by the one big Blue Spruce that provides protection. There is literally a pile of assorted small birds behind the house, all having been run into the windows. Even the cats can’t claim responsibility. The falcon flies by and creates another fury and another bang on the window. A feather and dusty impression of wings remain before me. A clear, hard wall one can barely see. The crystals I hung in every window have not helped.
The little dark mare turns from the water and snorts. I see water dribbling from her muzzle like a silver spray of shining beads, as she stand tight , tall, alert, neck and tail high and ears forward. The language of the horse. The moose is again in the willows. Or at least, that is what she fears.
The wind rouses, rips up the remaining thin brown leaves of the bush. No lurking sent is stirred. The little mare lowers her head, relaxes her back and slowly returns to the herd.
A great horseman once told me that to learn to be a great horsewoman, all I needed to do was listen to the horse. They have all the answers I seek, he said. His wife reminded us both that this theory only works AFTER one has learned the language of the horse, and not all of us were “lucky” enough to be born into a world of great horsemen as our parents and peers to pass on such information. A disadvantage on one hand. I had to learn it all from scratch. An advantage on the other, for we learn to speak ourselves, with our own voice and manners. After the magnitude of mistakes levels out, we are left with an understanding that is ours, between the horse and me, built from the ground up like a stone castle. This is more solid, strong and real than if it was handed to me. That is at least what I tell myself. Might as well. I cannot change how nor where I was born and raised.
Not everyone is lucky enough to be born where they belong later in life. I say that on one hand yet I have heard to those that say there is a great burden that comes with “being born into…” Or are we the lucky who have the blank canvas before us and paint the picture as we will?
No matter. We can choose who, what and where we are. And we can change it all too.
Can’t we?
And what can one do but await winter?
Sometimes depression isn’t chemical, isn’t disease, isn’t moods. It’s a result of circumstances.
Sometimes we have bad days, we go through hard times. Don’t ask me to smile and get over it. I need to be mad and sad for a little while. I dare say I’ll “get over it” when I’m good and ready. I’m not ready today.
What is so wrong with saying I’m bummed out and it’s got to me?
What’s a girl to do?
Saddle up and ride, I say.
Maybe that’s shallow. But it works. At least for a little while.
Yesterday the dog chased the coyote across our pasture and onto the neighbors’ field. A big no-no. All I saw was a little silver coyote about a quarter mile away, followed by Gunnar, full speed ahead. Two streaming bullets heading straight for the trees. Then I could see no more. But I could hear. And hear I did. It wasn’t hard to figure where those two went. Right into a pack of screaming wiener dogs being walked by a woman barking louder than all those dogs put together. I cringed. The neighbors up for the weekend, enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll. Oops. I called. Like he was going to leave all that crazy commotion and come to me.
The visual was a good one though, imagining coyote bait scattering wildly in all directions as the coyote runs right past, having better things to do than grab a quick meal with my mad dog at his heels. Really, I know, I should have gone next door to apologize for the ruckus my dog caused, but it is way too late for that. These are my in-laws, and I’m the out-law. We haven’t spoken in years, and if there was a time for apologies, I think it would have been long ago. So I look at this as giving them one more reason to hate me. Add it to their long list.
Next thing you know, there is the little Bull Moose (“little” being a relative term, of course) stepping over the field fence and stirring up the horses. And I know the dog wants to chase this guy off too. What a helper. But the thought of the Bull Moose heading toward the pack of wiener dogs is a bit much, so I keep the dog on leash which makes working around the ranch a real drag.
And I confess, I had already awoken in a bad mood.
Enough.
(pause)
And then I’m out there. Out on the trail on the back of a horse. Heading higher, always higher. Leaving it all behind. The dog behaving well following the two horses. One I’m riding. My silly little Arab, Flying Crow. The other I’m leading along, his partner and my best mare, Tres. The more we ascend, the more the trail opens, the view expands, the leaves have left the trees. There is my yellow brick road. I am on it. Following where it may lead me, and right then and there, it didn’t matter where “there” may be.
The golden path before me, ascending to the silver sky. The clouds are building. Thunder over my shoulder. We ride on. I have my slicker tied onto the saddle. I drape the rains, reach behind me, and slip it on like a protective cocoon. Such a thin barrier against the elements of the Mighty Mountain. But enough. Just enough. Not too much. I don’t want to get soft. The rain and hail begin. An added interest, intrigue, challenge. A reminder of the harsh elements surrounding me. A reminder that I forgot my gloves. I lean forward and press my hands on my horse’s neck, scrunch my fingers into his mane. Who needs gloves when you have a warm beast below and beside you?
And for just a little while (yes, “little” is a relative term, but in this case, big enough) my mind is clear of the self created burden of my own thoughts that weigh so heavy at times, more from the value I give them than what you might think they deserve.
She crawls deeper into the cave
Back to where the light is muted and vision is vague
Awaiting total blackness to wash over like the blanket of deep night
And lies back upon the brittle rose branch
Still tangled in her hair
Grounded. And still so far away from where I want to be.
Forever longing. Is this the state of human nature?
Touching down on solid ground. Become a part of the elements. Return to soil.
Autumn. Falling into place. As if I intended it this way.
Dealing with the empty nest by filling it with six laying hens and a rooster just learning to crow.
The scratch and clang of yet another pack rat captured in the have-a-heart trap set under the front deck. The season of rodents is winding down. They all want to come in. How plentiful this year has been. Attracting the added bonus of hawks that have come to heed the call of this bountiful crop, fed full by the warmest, driest longest summer we remember. Or are our memories always painted more lush than reality was?
And now the coyote, mother and two pups, crossing out on pasture, undisturbed by the running horses. Mother drops below the horizon, while children linger, distracted by a tall patch of dried grass and the stirring within. They stop, arch, spring load, and pounce. Then scamper off to catch up with mother.
Mother, mentor, magician or priest. Someone show me the way when I am a little lost.
I write a friend and look for answers and only find more questions: I tell her there is some darkness that comes over me every fall. Perhaps the change of light. Not a real sadness for the loss of summer, for with that means the arrival of winter and the departure of many things I could do without, and that’s all good stuff. I don’t understand what it could be.
Except… human nature… reflective… wanting more…
Falling. Down. Chilling, clearing, washing away…
I do my best to fill the emptiness inside, lighten the inevitable darkening. I keep busy. There are always things to do. Laundry, bake, feed the horses, walk the dog, split wood, paper work. I want more.
Falling leaves. How quickly the trees let loose of their brilliant display, the grande finale, the dramatic completion.
To be replaced by what? Barren trees. Still hillside and silent winds. Dormancy and hibernation. The season of turning within.
I find myself sitting here doing nothing. There is nothing I have to do. I have never thought that was a healthy state. I prefer to keep busy, have a full plate, have things that have to be done, deadlines, a little bit of pressure, point and purpose, you know?
How lucky I am to be able to have nothing, you might say. But those are foolish words. For who is lucky who is not employed, not doing enough, not with direction and meaning to each day. I have never wanted ennui, abhor sloth, and fight them and the ensuing poverty that they carry with them as an added burden.
Get out and enjoy it, you say. The rain holds me back. I’ll find other excuses. One can’t keep going out “enjoying.” At some point, responsibilities and realities ruin the fun. I want to be productive, do something positive. Yes, even make the world a better place. Why not?
“I do not have a mansion,
I haven’t any land,
Not one paper dollar
To crinkle in my hand
But I can show you morning
From a thousand hills
And kiss you
And give you seven daffodils…”
(from an old folk song I once heard beautifully sung around a campfire I never was brave enough to sit near enough to warm my soul)
How simple can we be
Forever needing point and purpose
In this ever changing world
When some days change does not come when and where we look for it
The gears are stuck
We are left waiting
The jolt, release, exhilaration of letting go
Now what? We’ve fulfilled our calling in life of providing vacations, searching for something deeper, more meaningful.
Where is the yellow brick road hiding, or how far am I from finding the way?
The Grande Finale. Washing away in early morning rain. Giving in, giving up. Pacifying rain. Perhaps the last of its kind for the season. I listen to its placid song on the metal roof. Quieter now without the rustle of the leaves and their subtle refrain, now stripped from the trees and tangled in the dried brown grasses below.
Fallen leaves. Bare trees standing static. Awaiting.
Darker days, longer shadows, I prepare for the inevitable quieting of mountain and mind.
Yesterday’s deep, rich, ripe orange. A juicy peach full of fresh life and sweet promises. The color of the Aspen leaves before they let go. A hillside on fire now paling to grey. Where even the evergreens are no longer green. I will find a subtle beauty in this too, you know.
Swollen with a passion as brilliant as the fiery hillside before me, then accepting expiring flames, blowing out. We are left stark, silent, solitary, each of us on our own paling hillside.
(For a greater display of the brilliant fall color from earlier this season, please see: http://www.facebook.com/#!/media/set/?set=a.4184427821999.164195.1623616997&type=1 )
Heavy clouds holding in the mountain
Containment, wet and shallow
Not deep enough to drown
The rage of waves
Ocean lures
Stirs me
I wake
Tumbling
Upon the spine of the sleeping beast
Land of dormant fires
Awaiting the chance to ignite
And then it clears. Then it dries. We return to blue bird sky and say this is how it should be.
Twenty five degrees and a heavy frost this morning. The garden has turned to mush once again. Heck, it’s later than I expected, later than most years. I gather the bounty of my harvest. Three baby zucchini and a couple of green tomatoes. That’s it. More than most years. Yes, I know. A greenhouse goes on the south side of my next house…
Colors turning early yet cold arriving late. The Aspen begin their show, gaudy as fluorescent flashing lights. Dazed and dazzling.
A long season coming to an end.
I am as weary as the grass, browning, turned to seed, swaying in the rains, bent over with drops of raining clinging like children to their mothers dress.
Hide me not behind a veil
Of pouring waterfall
Through which I breathe
A sputtered breath
Nor pin me to a wall
Hard and cold and unforgiving
I watch the caged beast pace uneasily
Left with blood on lips
Unable to rinse clean
In pure waters of the river
Down to which she tilts her head to drink
Waters flowing like silk in the wind
Now tainted with the color red
Pour into pink ribbons of a young girl’s hair
Disturbing as hillsides draped with swaths
Of dying trees once green
And full of life’s broken promises
Captured in the currents
Slammed into a rock mid stream
Or drifted to a shore upon which I never meant to be
Tangled with the upstream trash
Snared in the hollow stream
I tire of trying to stay afloat
And wonder if I’ll learn to breath
Below
Rain. A sweet sweet song playing on the metal roof. Steady rhythm, pulse, cadence. I fade into the dark clouds, black black sky, like the deepest sea, behind which the promise of full moon rises. Somewhere else someone else can see it. In their own silence, far from the stream of rain drumming primordial chants above me, over, on top, around, surround sound embracing me, accepting me and allowing me. I breathe.
I’m home. Ditch work for this week is cancelled. We’ll make it up next week. Sticking around to care for our little red mare, Canella, who, so it seems, was attacked by a mountain lion, and won. One more reason to love this horse. However, with a ranch full of little kids and a few little horses, too, sticking around to keep an eye on matters probably isn’t a bad idea.
So, I am left with a week unplanned, able to be filled with time to write, time to work the (other) horses, and time to get out and explore.
In my need to get out there as the confines of high summer weigh somewhat heavy upon me, the past three days found me on foot (not horses), hiking to places I have never been before. Spontaneous adventures leading to who knows where. Yesterday led us to the base of Brewster Park, about four miles up the Rio Grande from where we began, and back along our horse trail which seems so different viewed on foot in summer. On foot, one finds more time to look closer, slower. A different perspective. Perhaps more intimate with the mountain.
Time. This summer my goal was for more time. Time to do what we’ve had to put off for so many summers. More hiking. Fishing. Early morning photo safaris. Pleasure rides, the pleasure of riding with just each other and even alone. Building a bridge – our bridge, something just for us. Writing just to write; playing with the written word, wild thoughts.
And it was on one of these hikes (it matters not which one, now, does it?) I noted the first yellow leaves of Aspen. Bunches, small trees, a leaf strewn across the path before me.
Summer promised to end. I feel her bowing early as early she came on this year. The hour glass empties and as always is only so full. How short she really stays up here.
A part of me grasps for the hope of enough sun and warmth to bring on tan legs and a ripe tomato. I am rather sure I will see neither one. Another part of me trembles with anticipation of my wild winters returning. So close. My breath quickens and I am lost with her, alone, and exactly where I want to be.
She touched the face before her
A hard and cold reflection
Slick surface on delicate hands
When really what she wanted
Was a soft embrace
The thermometer on the porch reads thirty five when I wake up. Grass out on pasture is laced with frost. Yellow leaves of cinquefoil stick to my damp boots like polka dots. All morning it looks as if my squash plants are going to give up and give in to that sickly, mushy green of a frozen plant, but they do not. They survive. Not to say they will ever produce. Just staying alive here is asking a lot for a crook neck squash plant. My little Arabian shows the first sign of fuzz from his winter coat, though the ranch raised ones shrug off the rain that drips down their manes and muzzles.
The monsoon season has settled in. The hot and dry of May and June are but a misty memory. And when this pattern passes, the first chill of fall will find us as always unprepared, wondering how it came so soon, and where did the summer go.
It’s an arduous land, make no doubt. Even now, in the easy season of summer, when tourists come and go, smile and laugh and play and leave their world and worries behind as if this were some wild park at Disneyland. They will all be gone by winter. Ok by me, as I’ll remain, but I’ve never been much for the social scene.
So here we are in mid July and the weather site on the internet we check each day has rain clouds for as far as one can see in the forecast. This is how it should be, I am reminded, but I still remember summers in other places, hot and dry, where we swam naked in the river or sea, sand between my toes (yes, bare feet!), sat out in shirt sleeves and shorts at night under the stars, and took a siesta mid day. Our spring this year was as close as it gets, with the never ending blue bird blue sky that made one long for a bad ass cloud to break up that blue and whirling dervish dancing of rain and hail on the metal roof. Now we have that. Every day. Now we’ve got the monsoons, and it’s hard to complain because it’s greening up the pasture (sorry, it can’t do much for the red hillsides killed by those nasty little black beetles).
And I try to enjoy every wet, damp chilly storm and rainbow spreading across pasture knowing the fast and furious spell of summer will slowly sink into the comforting cradle of winter…
Lost.
Amidst the changing landscape of green hills turning red and brown.
Give up, give in, fall deep into the darkness.
I try to stay afloat. So hard in the rushing currents. Waiting for my island to capture me, hold me up, pin me down long enough for roots to grow, flowers to bloom, seeds to take shape for next year’s dreams.
Wanting the yellow brick road to appear before me. Instead there is a discernible path of last year’s aspen leaves still untrodden and I need to find my own way.
But this morning there is hope, relief, as I watch the footprints of my polka dot boots trailing behind in the frosty grass.
Last night’s rain lingers in low heavy clouds not yet broken and gone, and promising to renew again by mid afternoon.
For now there is cold wet ground before the morning sun.
Silver droplets on the railing
Each with a little world within them
Enter and lose yourself inside and away
Beads of rain clinging to the bottom of the rusted steel railings like welding lag or a row of sparkling diamonds dripping from a rough cut mine.
And inside each one are upside down images of brown and green hills over layered grey skies
Deep stratum of clouds, draped like velvet and barely moving
A lacy veil slung low along her hips in her slow dance of summer
Languid in the early hours
Like thickening water waiting to freeze
And by afternoon rain on the roof will drown out the sound of the growing parade of ATVs
Where for now the wilds are swept away in the murky waters of the monsoons
But I remain here
Hungry for more of whatever she hides
Starving for the wilds
Gin Getz 