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.

Colorado

May 13, 2013May 14, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

You wake to the smell of the familiar lover you find yourself next to in the blinding sun of early morning spreading across the pillows like spilled milk and you wonder how on earth you got your self in this position again.

Place in parts. The individual intimate parts of the land you know. Some say “like the back of my hand” but I liken it more to knowing the back of your lover’s hand. Or back of his neck, the soft spot under his arm, the muscles, the moles, the curls of hair and prick of untrimmed toe nails. Knowing the land as you know the lover, a shared intimacy that comes with time and touch and silence and lying down together waiting for something or nothing to happen. And is it these private insights that change your relationship from lust to love. From sightseeing, to being at home. From being an observer, to being a part, blending, belonging.

At first it is the big picture that pleases the eye, draws you in as the sultry dancer seduces with waving silks and swaying hips, and you stand there mesmerized but too afraid to touch. Time passes. You begin to see closer. Flaws, imperfections, rolls and wrinkles. Beauty when the veils are dropped and the land remains raw and real and exposed as the leafless trees of early spring and attraction is not as bright but must be felt perhaps more than seen. This has happened here. I wonder if it will happen there.

Another beautiful day in paradise. Another beautiful place. From one to another. Here, there, No, it is not all the same.

Paradise lost and found. There if you’re looking but if you look too hard, say, for something specific, the big picture or the sudden change or the answer to all your problems, you may only find disappointment. Who knows what you’ll find?

A river of tears

cutting

through a crying land

I had forgotten the tremendous loss of life that spreads around me here, a skeleton’s cold embrace, and am told to see only the green but half my world is turning brown. And sadness, loss, despair are no less part of life. The part we too often feel or are told “it is best” to brush under the carpet. Until we begin to see the carpet bulge. The hillsides turning brown. Dare we lift and look in earnest or do we prefer to wear those blinders and see only what we want to, what we are told to see?

Every day this week rain, hail, snow and sun. A year in a day. Every day. Here is Colorado. Where we’ve had snow every month but July, and even then have dodged snow banks or crossed drifts lingering from the season before while horseback in the high country. The world above tree line where air is as thin as skimmed milk and the sun as intense as wild fire.

Colorado.

Where our pasture is shared with an equal number of working horses and wild elk and they graze comfortably together.

Where moose droppings are left outside the outhouse.

Where warmth is rare. Mid day for maybe a month and still those nights will bring a chill.

This morning the smell of damp earth. Familiar earth. Earth on which I have birthed and buried, laughed and cried. Land on which I’ve built a home, raised a child, fallen in love, and seen seasons come and go and familiar faces do the same and where I’ve felt unwelcome in my own home for far too long and stories swell like stormy waters I never meant to navigate and I am still just looking for a place to belong.

Seeing signs. I suppose we see what we want to see. Sometimes we look for confirmations. At least I do. I take a pen and little notebook in my jacket pocket every day when I hike or ride. You never know when inspiration strikes, and I’ve found it’s quite likely when out clearing my mind. I’m hiking along the trail across river where the snow banks still remain hidden from the sun. I’ve gone far enough for today. I’m supposed to meet the boys back at the bridge for a mate. I’m already late. You know how it is once you get going. Sometimes you go too far. At least, that’s known to happen to me. So, I’m maybe a third of the way back, back tracking. Inspiration strikes. I reach for my pen and find only a new hole in my old pocket. Damn it, that pen could be anywhere. Think about it. It could be back up the trail, or anywhere between here and home. I take maybe a half dozen steps and there, no more than ten feet from where I noticed it missing, is my pen in the middle of the trail, waiting for me to write the words I did not want to forget.

Another sign. I tell myself what I have so many times before. Leap and the net appears. Only this time it is scary. I guess it usually is, but more often than not we can only see the situation directly before us and forget about the challenges we tackled six months ago, the last time we leaped. Anyway, this time it involves my career. Writing, representation, selling myself, or not, and I hate this part and had been hoping it was taken care of at least for now, only I sort of knew that wasn’t really the case because I was going against my personal beliefs by working with someone I didn’t like working with because I was pretty sure he didn’t like working with me. My ego is too fragile for that.

Stay safe and don’t risk change and remain exactly where you are even though you know where you are is not where you belong. Or… leap.

Well, what do you think I did? I wrote my agent and told him it was time to change. So once again I tell myself, leap and the net will appear. Only instead, on this afternoon’s hike, I’m thinking about this, a little bit scared and a lot bummed out, and a feather appears in the middle of the trail where I happen to be walking. And not just any feather, but a hawk feather. And I’m guessing “my” hawk who came back to visit us so late in the season last year after the ground had been covered with white and the other such birds had long since left.

This was the sign I needed.

Leap, and maybe the answer will be even better than falling into a net. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll spread your wings and learn to fly.

New beginning

January 2, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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

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.

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.

No real cowgirl sings the blues

December 13, 2012December 13, 2012 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

So plug your ears, or you might just hear me cry.

`
(Picture of me and Flying Crow in the High Country in warmer days. Photo taken by Kate Seely)

`
Decisions are not random here. More often than not, they are based on nature. The high country, the rainy season, dropping temperatures, wind, drought, glaring sun, the road closed by snow. Things like that. Pretty simple, except we tend to complicate things with… emotion.
Our attempts at living where no one has before. A balancing act between human needs and nature. Complicated more by our decisions than what the weather does. Why can’t things be simple? As they are for the family of coyotes, loving the late-to-come winter, still out there pouncing voles in the dried brown grasses just out of Gunnar’s radar. Or the four elk still up high on Pole Mountain, grazing at an elevation of 13,000 feet. They say the Big One is rolling in tonight. These guys have not followed the forecast as intently as I have. I can only hope as the snows begin, they will turn to the timber and find their way to lower ground.

Now I’m looking through old photos. Warmer days. Sunshine, green grass, leaves on trees, solid ground to walk on, run on, kick up your heels on.

`
As I lay in bed last night, I cried. My husband unable to comfort me. And I am sorry I refused to let him try, for try he did. I know his warm touch would have soothed me, his gentle words a peaceful balm. Instead, I pushed him away, turned my back and cried myself to sleep.
I think you should know this. I don’t know why I share it any more than why I feel it. Sometimes I am tired of feeling and would rather find the perfect pill that washes it all away. Only not really, because I want to feel it all. I don’t want an unnatural solace, a potion that would make living less. I guess you have to take the good with the bad and there is always at least a bit of both if you’re really living.
This is ridiculous. I need to be stronger.

What do I really want?

Home. One. Seems pretty simple but it’s a constant theme. Here I have a love/hate relationship with the land. Yes, more love than hate. The best of relationships are that way. So why am I leaving again?
This is the last time I look elsewhere. If I find it there, I will move there. If I don’t, my search ends. That’s it. This place is not perfect, but it is mine, it is home. Complete with horses, chickens, cats and dog, a little family and a big mountain, and a healthy dose of normal problems to keep us all in line.
And there I am, loading the last four of my horses into the trailer to send them down to lower ground. Winter pasture. Before the road is closed. I wait until the last day. The last safe chance. My husband allows this of me. He knows how much it matters. He understands.
The hawk flies above me in the clear blue sky as my tears fall down into the snow. He is mine. There for me now when I am losing so much else. By choice. Damn it, what is wrong with me?

`
Winter will hit hard. Stinging against your cheeks like small stones as horizontal snow feels in the sub zero temperatures of early morning.
I won’t have to go out as early now. Tres will not be on back porch pulling down the snowshoes and ski poles to get my attention. I can wait for the sun to scale the mountain to the east and flood this little valley with sun on snow. But I won’t. I have been up early for years caring for those who need me, and really, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I will find something. The Steller’s Jays in the blue spruce, the pair of raven in the naked aspen, maybe even the magpie that shy from the coyote fence as I take the slop bucket down to the chicken coop each morning.
These will remain, a part of my morning ritual.
I frighten myself with my own decisions. Repercussions of creating life. It is not meant to be smooth, but we long for those still moments. They do not last.

`
And sometimes they die. A sorrow I care not touch on today.
The losses we have shared. Five foals in as many years. The scars are deep within me. I have carried each loss in my arms, bathed him or her with tears as he or she poured forth life that could not be contained.

`
No. Now I would rather focus on joy.
It is not always easy. But it is there if we look deep enough.
Horses have become me. A part of me. Chosen. Created. Not given, assumed or taken. I’m no lucky horsey girl grown up. I’m a horse woman, self made. An adult decision I like to say. Painted my own picture. And now I watch the last of them drive away…

Only for a few months. I remind myself and hold onto these words. Only words. But I can close my eyes and picture this. Some time in spring, long before leaves on the trees, streaks of snow patch cleared from pasture, brown waters in the Rio Grande, and tourists considering this a destination, we’ll be driving back with them in tow. And I know the feeling I will have, almost uncontained, bursting, just to have them again out of every window, following us about like bored children as we work about the ranch, the point and purpose to first light of day, ready to allow me at any given whim to wrap my arms about their neck and bury my nose in their warm hair.

`
It’s hard enough bringing Gunnar to Patagonia. I cannot bring all of them too.
How redundant to say “I will miss them.” These words are already assumed. You already know.
It’s not just about riding, is it? Maybe it was. Maybe that is how it started. But the deeper you go, the more there is.
They are now partners. We work with them, live with them, depend on them as they on us. Unlike pleasure horses, lawn ornaments, hobby horses, or toys. We are out there together and you hear me reading at night to the boys in our tent, while I hear you shuffling and stomping in the nearby trees. And some days we are both grouchy and other times both tired and short of patience, but you remind me to breathe deep and I do, and I smell you, your sweet musky sweat. And we get over it and get to work, and it’s not so bad, you know and I know so we get through it together. And then sometimes, just for the fun of it, we ride off to who knows where. Just because we can. We did more of that this year. And I thank you for trusting me to go where most wouldn’t dare and some places maybe that no horse has been before. You trust me. I tell you you can. And then I see your confidence grow stronger with each wild ride, like my child evolving into his own person. Maybe with a little bit of my help, but mostly because of you. Or maybe it’s a team. You grow, and I trust you more because of it, and really, it’s a very beautiful relationship changing all the time. It does not stop with what we did yesterday. Tomorrow will bring something new. Maybe subtle, like eye contact, little signals with a flick of my wrist, body language that we humans usually don’t quite get. We can learn to dance together. Not for ribbons or sport, not for some game or to show off. Just for each other.
And in that very moment, you grow and I grow. Perhaps not together. But maybe side by side.

(Here, Norman pulling a big rock and about as proud of himself as I am of him. This photo from “The Ditch Diaries”)

Yes, this is about home. It always is for me. The love of place and space. Balancing my love of home, mountain, horses, dog, husband and son. May be simple. But this is what matters most. To me.
And words. Though more than words. The spirit that words represent. The sharing of it all.
Now, something deeper than the pleasure of company which I will have again. Get over it. Be strong. Look what awaits me!
This is what is meant to be. Call me hokey but I believe that. I believe in the openings that presented themselves. The choices I have made. I will not let her down, let myself down, my husband down, who has believed in me through all the crazy stuff I have got him into.
At the end of the day this is my choice, what I want to do. This is what I wish I’d be the one doing if I heard someone else was doing this. Really, this is beyond a dream come true. I never could have dreamed this one up. This is no vacation. I wouldn’t want that, you know. “Vacation” is not my thing. Because even though I’ve made a living providing vacations, I have no interest in taking one myself. It’s got to have that point and purpose thing. And this does. See?
So, what I will take is this. Life. As full and rich as I can live it. And try to understand it’s just not always easy.
And then again remember this. I never ever would have dreamed up a place like this. Right here, right now. And this wonderful life we built here together.
But can I not want more?
How can something so simple become so complex?
Would I change this sadness and stay safe and warm in yesterday?

`
(The beautiful life of Bayjura)

Hush

November 30, 2012November 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Down by the
Muted river
Where hoar frost grows thick

Winter blossoms
Swelling
In frozen embrace under

Trees undressed
And you and I
In so many layers

Still cold
Though our hands touch
Through thick mittens

We pause over frozen waters
As the raven flies above
And the snow around us is

Marred by the last tracks of elk
Only there can we hear
The cry of moving waters

With depth greater than
Words we share
That shatter the silence

I read somewhere recently of the horse being the dolphin of the land
Then may I call this heavy frost the fish scales of winter

If you walked with me now along the north facing slope, perhaps you’d never notice.

The snow from a few weeks ago has held, now dry and packed, we walk on top with our boots and take twenty steps before falling in. This aged snow now turning to these fascinating crystalline fields of frost. In the trees you might think it odd that the snow is dappled with pine needles. Scattered randomly like in a childs drawing of cows in a field. Do you know what that means? The trees above are dying. Beetle kills. Needles fall like rain drops in the wind.

Perhaps we stop by a live Blue Spruce. It would be a small one. The little ones have not all been taken. At least, not yet. We notice the aroma.

Sap. Sweet life. A smell I have almost forgotten. For now it is rare.

We stop and close our eyes and soak it in, the sweet breath of the tree, inhaling to the depth of our soul. And we smile.

Bordering wild

November 29, 2012November 29, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Some days I’m out there alone (and I mean really alone – miles and miles from another human being) and I’m blown away. I’d like to come up with a more eloquent term, but it’s raw and it’s real and simple as it seems, it feels right. Blown away. By her beauty. Her silent strength. Her still power. Arms of wind that enwrap me as I stand on the breast of her mountain and listen to the last cry of open waters.

Trying to keep up with my imagination. The songs and sounds I want to share. She soars alone with wings silver and delicate as the frost forming on the north facing slope. I remain grounded. I run to catch up with her but am never quite there. Ideas brimming and bubbling. The lid rattles, ready to explode.

And there I am, doing no more than stirring a pot of green chili, tossing out hay to my horses, washing dishes and hanging clothes on the line we strung up stairs beside the bed, for frozen jeans take too long to dry.

As Julian mentioned recently, “In a busy world where true literacy is so rare, many people (I think) prefer to look at pictures…”

I hope then, this will do for now. And even then, there is so much more I wish you could see, wish I could share with you…

Holding onto the wind

November 21, 2012November 21, 2012 / Gin Getz / 14 Comments

Seeking solace in the high country. Looking for an answer. I know not who to ask. Don’t even know the question, so it seems some days.

Don’t get me started, this is a tangent that could take me far and wide, just please let me share this with you. I was given an answer I still need to understand. Maybe it will take a lifetime. I am in no rush. I will do my best to enjoy it all. The journey. Spread my wings and soar. Where the wind takes me. For she is far stronger than I am, and will blow long after I am gone.

And for no reason at all, I find myself lost. Even with the Yellow Brick Road winding before me. No matter. Somewhere within me, there is the lost child still doubting, questioning, afraid. I once read one should comfort her, but days like this, I’d rather tell her to grow up and get over it.

Tightness in my stomach, the same I remember on test day at the end of the semester, thirty, forty years ago. Come on, still?

Really, I hate that feeling. I see no good reason for it. Self induced stress. I used to think I should listen to that internal voice, inner wisdom, perhaps she is warning me, portending an unforeseen doom. Time has taught me otherwise. More often than not, it’s nothing more than my over active imagination and my under active sense of security flaring up.

Indulge in a desire for comfort, or get tough and get over it. Let’s choose the latter.

I woke early as I often do and looked briefly for a shooting star, having read the night before there may be a good show. Thirty seconds pass. Long enough. Nothing. If there was to be a “sign” it would have showed itself by now, I told myself. I’m not forcing it.

A sign. What am I expecting?

Don’t expect. You know? Just be open. And the signs arrive in a timely manner. Far better than if forced.

So there I am in the late afternoon, working on the water system for the cabins with Bob. And overhead I feel then see. A hawk.

Not just any hawk. But the one that joined us for the first time this summer and sat perched on the dividing fence or the cedar post by the barn as I fed each morning. The one that I am pretty sure reduced the Morning Dove population, not to mention helped with the onslaught of rodents that flourished in the long and mild summer.

He circles, the hawk, flying in from the south, loops around the dog and me, lands at the tip of the big spruce tree next to our cabin. Grandfather Tree, we call that one, with the tree house Forrest built when he was nine. So high I still have never been up there. I suppose that was the purpose, knowing I was afraid of heights as I’m sure he did even then.

Odd to see him now, this hawk, any hawk. All seem to have left a month ago, as the small birds were heading south and before the ground squirrels and moles had tucked themselves in for the season. What brings him back now? The ground is silent, covered in a thin blanket of white. The air too is silent, except for the group of Steller’s Jays that come begging each morning and the pair of Ravens that always stay.

I have missed the hawks, all their variety and interest and tension they circled our little bit of sky with this year, but understood their need to leave. Why return? What will he eat? I need not worry, Bob assures me, when he can fly fifty miles in a day. How easy for him to find lower elevation, open ground and a meal in a matter of hours. The whole world is not white. Just our little bit of mountain, up here at ten thousand feet. I forget sometimes.

We make eye contact. He does not move. Not for me entering the house below him to retrieve my camera, the dog barking, Bob pulling around in the truck.

I don’t notice until I look at the pictures I took. The waxing moon behind him.

I thank him. I am not sure what to believe, but I believe something, and something is better than nothing on days like this. In fact, right now I think something is… enough.

On yet another tangent, for anyone interested or curious, I’ve just updated our Lost Trail Ranch website (http://www.lost-trail.com/). Starting to take reservations for next year. Geez, time flies. It’s not even winter yet, and here I am planning next summer. I must be growing up.

Oh, and the poem below – more re-working going on here. This one originated this time last year, away from Colorado, in the northern part of Washington State. (Wanted to upload an audio file of the reading of the poem, but still can’t figure how. If you can help me out, please write.)

Thoughts? Suggestions? Pointers? And yes, even criticism? (I can handle a little, but just a little…) Oh, and Harold, the spacing is starting to make more sense to me when I read it aloud… but still seems so random at times.

Seduction of earth and sky

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 loose
hair a familiar 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 we
have witnessed

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

and still I
look back and
see an attractive
comfort and that
entices me

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 may carry
knowns and givens
with us the familiar
lover you cannot
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
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
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

Rhythm and Voice; finding something solid in the wind

November 16, 2012November 16, 2012 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

A seashell sliver of the new moon set low to the south, early over west side of Ute Ridge. You’d think by now I know her pattern, can predict where she will choose to settle. Yet she remains an enigma. And part of me likes it that way. I don’t want all the answers. Why can’t we appreciate mystery for no more reward than the observation of outward beauty, and the stirring of inward intrigue? Give me all the answers and maybe that is gone.

Under the sparkling throw of a deep black sky. I stand. Silent. Dog at my side. It is warmer tonight. But not too warm. The snow is becoming. Permanence of winter becomes. I say I allow it but have no choice. I accept it. It is what I want.

This morning was a “balmy” fourteen degrees Fahrenheit. Tonight I open the window after my tub so it will be cooler when we return inside and retire. We remain out there another moment. Gunnar, looking ahead into the void for something scary because that’s his job, or at least, the one he claims and works so hard to perfect. His title. Me, staring up at dizzy diamonds in coal. No title. Just one very small person in a very large universe.

The pair of owls speak. To one another. Only by chance do I hear. It matters not to them. They are there in the abyss, somewhere by the east fence line, somewhere in the deeper darkness of the tall spruce trees. Gunnar gives them a quick “woof” and senses they are no threat. He listens with me. I think they are guarding us. From what, I do not know. But their presence is somehow huge and deep like the whale in ocean and bring with them a wisdom I wish to understand.

So, Amy, you ask about rhythm, and I got it. No, not really. I’m working on it. I can’t say I get it yet. It is harder than I thought.

This part isn’t coming easy, but I like it… reading it, hearing it… sound and motion… if I can make it work. If I can write it! I share with you what Harold shared with me. Using my words, but changing their rhythm. As he mentioned, it becomes a little more “universal.” I find it a little less preachy. It is no longer my lecture, but a poem I share with you. Adds interest, motion, without (borrowing the metaphor Harold suggested) the regular footstep of horse down a trail.

Feedback would be most welcome and appreciated.

a love poem a
first for me words
we just assume and
so I tell you what
I should have
said and maybe
I will not for
I think you already
know without
saying with feeling
something in trust
completion pride and
assumptions
I am more
whole with you
I am more of
me because of
you you let it
be all me when I
need it to be which
really is far too often
I say and you say
nothing at all and let me
rattle on which I
will do no matter

today was one of those
days I’m really
up and
down I have

always thought
the curse of
the creative mind
passion puts one
out of balance
it comes in
waves swelling and
curling and pounding
and drawing back
to low tide

then again
maybe it is
just me
probably I’m sorry
poise is nothing I
have known
stability does not
come easy that is
one of the reasons
I need
you so much you
are the rock to my
rushing waters

today was a tide
drawn out day
leaving
the stench of
the barren beach
in the wake
tomorrow
I will be better
and this much I
do believe
tomorrow I will
love you still
though I may
only say so in
the darkness as
our sweat cools
and we are there
tired front by
side which is
exactly where
I want to be
more complete
because of you

funny how I am
not afraid
when I always
thought I should
be less
of me and more
of you

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.

Where is this going?

November 7, 2012November 7, 2012 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

My apologies for the incomplete post sent to subscribers on Monday. Seems the pictures made it, the text got lost in cyber space. I am sorry for the mess up. Fortunately for me, I saved the text in a Word document, and was able to make the corrections. If you have not seen the proper post, please click here. Anyway, a good reminder to self: Back up, back up, back up…

Today our country heals. Months of negativity and division, for what? Really, I don’t get it. Enough! It’s over, folks. Our country spoke. We spoke. Accept it. Live with it. Love it or leave it, but stop complaining. I’m done with the negativity, and opinions and beliefs that are better kept private. (What you do behind closed doors is YOUR business. Please, can we keep it that way? I really don’t want to know…)

Time to move on. To good things. If you want them better, make them better. Stop whining. Bottom line. Wake up, smell the coffee and see the sunshine. Life is good.

Back to where I was before The Detour. Today, I share with you this:

Where is this going?

We turn within.

This is the season of solitude.

Darker days.

Coldness descends. Slowly.

The trees stripped. Exposed. Nothing to hide.

Barren. Gold fades to brown fades to grey. We await what we know will come, when our world becomes swathed with white.

It is coming. Winter. When our chilly cocoon enwraps us, cuts us off, shuts us in, draws us together, those of us that remain. We’re in this together.

Times are changing. The weather faster than the people. November is not what it used to be. Eleven Novembers and I’ve yet to see a storm stay, stick around, and shut us off this time of year, but the threat chased the people off long ago. Stories of the one that gotcha. Vehicles caught and stuck and buried and remaining until the following June.

No longer. Seems like late autumn is becoming a lingering of summers end. Giving us glimpses only of early winter. Tempting, teasing, eluding. Broken promises.

Fifty degrees at ten thousand feet mid day today.

Elk in tall timber at high noon as we ride above tree line, southern slopes completely clear of the last little storm. They are not seeking solace from hunters, who have left long ago, but needing the shade. Comfort in the coolness of trees.

Where is everyone, we ask each other, just the two of us, outside on another crisp and cool November morn? Lunch on the deck, afternoons in shirt sleeves. Sun leaving a line on exposed flesh where the leather of my worn work gloves ends.

Someone else should still be here. We feel selfish. Our little secret.

Too much good weather. It’s exhausting. Just when you thought it was due time to take it easy and work inside. Balancing my books will be very late this year.

We take a break and drive to town.

Quiet streets and empty sidewalks. Every face is familiar. The few that remain, hard core, cold blooded, solitary in camaraderie. Silent understanding.

Driving through Creede at winter’s dawn. You know every truck and every driver. You wave. That is my favorite part. No more anonymity of summer. No strangers remain.

Front row parking outside and the only one shopping inside at Rare Things and San Juan Sports. Room at the bar at Tommy Knockers. Tables to choose from at Kip’s. Time for hugs. For catching up. For another beer.

Gin Getz

On the intimate connection between person and place. Sharing words and images of wilds within and around.

wilderness

A bunch of pretty pictures and one not so happy poem

Colorado

New beginning

No real cowgirl sings the blues

Hush

Bordering wild

Holding onto the wind

Rhythm and Voice; finding something solid in the wind

Welcoming winter

Where is this going?

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