writing

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

`

Farewell to the Prince (Charming)

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

(a.k.a. So Long, Sucker)

Keep this in mind.  Nothing is complete.  It’s all a work in progress.  A poem.  Our lives.  Society.  The words I’m sharing with you today.  About… Prince Charming?

And if he were a horse?  My little Arabian, Flying Crow, reminds me how much work a relationship is.  The hardest horse I’ve had to train.  And from him, the most I have had to learn.

A dance to the silence of winter

the dog enchanted
by the echo of his bark
against frozen cliffs
across solid water

and when he settles
and his echo and ego
let him go
I am there immersed
surrounded by
winter white sounds

And then there is my dog.  OK, let’s not go there.  He is still a work in progress.  Progressing several times a day and I’m not quite sure we’re getting anywhere.  At least not where I was intending.

But this is not about them.  This is about… men.

A revelation of sorts.

The myth of Cinderella and Snow White and the Walt Disney Princess.  Shattered.

Well, many of us figured that one out already.

But what about…  him?

Seems like the woman is always blamed for holding on, seeking, expecting that myth to be maintained.

But what about the man?

Really, take a good look.  I think you’ll see he can be equally at fault in this fictitious fantasy, holding onto the hope of being and remaining Prince Charming Forever.  Societal teachings started as children.  Based (loosely) on nature, one might say.  And perhaps some men DO want to be the provider, the knight in shining amour, and Prince Charming.

Come on, guys.  How many of you used to believe that’s what a Real Man should be?

Or at least, have you thought maybe it would be nice to be HIM?  There you’d be, with her hanging onto your arm, following you fearlessly through hell and high water because you are brave and strong and will provide for her and love her until death do you part…

Forget partnership.  Forget a real relationship.  A healthy, loving, respectful interaction between two individuals.  That’s hard work. And not always healthy for one’s manly ego.  Instead, let’s hold onto that castle in the sky.

Now hold on. Who am I to lecture on relationships?  I’m about the last person I ever thought would have (or make) a “good” relationship; a “healthy” one; a balance of respect, love, fun and compatibility. Figured I’d always be my solid, solitary self.  (Or not so solid, but that’s another story.) Yet here I am, ten years into one better that I ever imagined, and I’m not falling apart at my independent seams.  In fact, he kinda helps hold them together as they unravel from time to time.  Scary.

But  really, that’s not what I mean to do.  Lecture.  All I wanted to do was share my revelation of the all too present social expectations not only for her, but for him.

Considering this is a biased audience already proving to be Modern Men by reading a Woman’s Blog (that said, fact is half my readers are men)  we may not get a true view of the whole of our society.

Let’s start with this one: Happily Ever After does not exist.

Ah-ha.  But Willing to Work through the Hard Times does.

Look around.  You’ll see the Neanderthal hunter- gather is no longer in high demand in today’s society here in the Western World.  We have Safeways.  And we all know it is actually the same guys out there practicing their primitive skills as stopping by that Safeway for a ripe bell pepper to compliment the meal, a crisp side to go with their fresh kill.

Whatever. OK, think of this. The old macho traits aren’t what are going to get us further in society.  One could say we as society have been there and done that.  And now we have evolved.  Looking back, that Neanderthal dude was not the best thing mankind had to offer.  Sure, you may want to hunt, go ahead and do it for fun or food or what not.  But don’t think it makes you a better man.  A more primal man, maybe, but it’s been a long time since one considered “primal” a truly attractive trait and one that has brought society to its higher state.

Well then, what is he?  Who is he, this Modern Man?

He need not be Prince Charming, a football quarterback, or a Neanderthal hunter/gatherer.  He may not be the blue collar worker home from the mill kicking back on his well worn Lazy Boy with a can of Lite beer in one hand and the remote control in the other.  I rather hope he is not just that, but that’s my personal thing….

He need not be the Metro Sexual donning shiny shoes, carrying  a Murse, and sipping espresso while ready poetry or the sensitive man tearing up watching The Titanic.

But maybe he is.

And that’s the thing about the rise of the Modern Man and the death of Prince Charming.  Today’s man has choices.  As Women’s Lib opened doors for we women, time has opened choices for men too.  Let’s get rid of expectations.  You do not HAVE to be the hunter, warrior, provider or Prince Charming.  And if you can be, guess what?  So can I.  That, my friends, is the best part of the modern man, the modern woman, the evolution of the human species.  We can choose.  We can grow beyond expectations, assumptions and fairytales.  We decide what is right. We can use our brain, not Walt Disney’s.  We can dream.  Our own dreams.  Not some phony one we saw on the big screen in pastel colors.

Pardon the comparison, Modern Man and Women’s Lib, for man is not traditionally suppressed simply by the sex into which he was born as woman worldwide too often are.  I speak from my personal perspective, a narrow view from a most privileged part of the world.

So where was I?  Oh yes. Prince Charming.  Stop waiting for him, gals.  Bet even if you think you found him, chances are pretty good he won’t be what you were hoping for.  He’s a pretty shallow and selfish character. And chances are, if he thinks he’s your Knight in Shining Armor, than you’re just a damsel in distress.  Don’t go there.  Please.  Hope for better. Expect, demand, work for and create better.  Really.  You deserve it.  Believe in the best.  But don’t buy the fairy tale.  Believe in yourself, the power of the modern man, the strength of a healthy relationship, your own ability to build the life you want, balanced with the ability to ask for help when you need it without thinking it’s the knight in shining armour that’s going to come to your rescue, and whisk you away on the white horse so you can be happy ever after.  You won’t be. That’s life.  Enjoy the ups and downs and hard work and heartache and stumbling blocks and growth and all of it.  It’s a package deal. They don’t show you that part in the Disney films.

This rant is inspired by the wonderful, strong, independent woman who (like most of us) once may have fallen for the fairy tale… And when her fairy wings sprouted, she learned to believe in herself.  And fly.

For my daughter, if I had one.  But I have a son.  So for him, a reminder of what he can be, and need not be, too…

Holding onto open waters

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

 

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

 

Rhythm and Voice; finding something solid in the wind

/ 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

 

Unworthy of a title yet

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

I am learning how much I have to learn and it’s often rather frustrating.

Harold, I am trying.  I have a ways to go.  Please don’t give up just yet.  Here, imagine the format like a waltz as I tried to type it, one-two-three, as I saw it done by William Carlos Williams. But somehow it is lost.  I won’t fight it.  Accept it.  Hope this works, though not quite the same.  Of course it would not be. Perhaps it wouldn’t work the way I indended either.

For Bob who thinks it’s always “nice” and is learning to say more.

 

Unworthy of a title yet

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’s just me
probably
I’m sorry
poise is nothing I have known
stability does not come easy
that’s one of the reasons I need you 
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 together
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

/ 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And where am I going?

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

The last of running waters. They say winter will be here tonight. The water and I await… this inevitable change.

 

Leaving what I love.

Driving home.  Headlights in the snow.  Owl and elk, coyote tracks and a snowshoe hare.  Only a dusting.  Perhaps it will be gone tomorrow.

We leave town.  Down past Airport Corner.  I will see no vehicle from here on up to home.  Even Freemon’s Ranch is still and silent for the season.

As if eyes almost closed.  We squint through snow shooting towards the windshield, whipping up and over at just the last minute.  A blinding tunnel vision.

It will not last.  We know.  By the time we reach the Reservoir, the sky is an even white, like a bed sheet draped over my head, tucking me in for the season.

This year is different. Every year is.  I cling to the early winter because it is all I have now.  Mid winter will take us south.  Far south.  South of the Equator.  South America.  Where the sun will shine north of us.

I never thought we would be “Endless Summer” season travelers when Winter is what we’ve lived for.  But who can resist an adventure?  And a big one lies ahead.  I can not say no.  We will go.  Four months in Patagonia.  It is summer there.  We will leave deep winter, dressed in long johns and parkas and heavy boots and riding on the back of my husband’s snowmobile with our dog balanced between us.   Somewhere on the drive to the airport perhaps we’ll slowly strip.  Leave the layers behind.  Go lightweight. Hawaiian shirts and flip flops.  Not really my style.  I think I’ll keep the Levi’s and cowboy boots and sweat it out if need be.

I will say farewell to my mountain for winter.  Close up our home, farm out the house plants, dig my nose deep into the hair of my horses as we bring them to lower ground.  One last whiff of their sweet smell, each one of which I am so familiar I could identify him or her blindfolded by scent alone.

And the twist to this story:  it’s all for the sake of writing.  Part of becoming a writer, or rather, expanding, evolving…  A chance to complete another story.  A good one at that.  I’ll save the details for another time.

There’s more to it than that.  There always is to every tale, isn’t there?  And this one won’t end otherwise.  In this case, there is, “For the sake of adventure.”

Because life is too short for Woulda, Coulda and Shoulda.  I’d rather stick with, “Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

 

Water and light. Perhaps for the last time this season.

What brought it on…

/ Gin Getz / 34 Comments

We’re in the kitchen talking about the harder days.  Before running water, hot water heaters, finished walls and trim work.   Long before luxury items like curtains, matching plates and book shelves. Our first year here. The summer of the three of us in a one room cabin. Though we moved to a larger cabin for winter (offering room to initiate a budding new relationship), that season even the septic line froze. We hauled our water downhill on a push sled and were grateful for a nearby outhouse.

I think what scared me most was the cold.  The stories worried me, which I believe they were meant to do.  Funny if you consider that no one else had lived here before us.  So where did the stories come from?  The rumor mill, at work again? Finding factual accounts and figuring out the truth takes time.  I could not get firsthand reports.  There were none.  Only exaggerated stories and distorted memories.  No problem.  Learn to write the book yourself.  And no disappointment from expectations.

Just the same, comfort is not what attracted me then or now.  Financial security and emotional stability don’t appear to be regular parts of my life.  Though maybe by my age they should be.

I thought a lot about this last night.  I couldn’t sleep. An itching that wouldn’t let me be, trying to figure out where my life was taking me.  I guess a self induced session of self reflection brought on by another birthday.  Forty-six.  Middle aged.  Time to grow up?  I think not.

What then?

At this stage in my life, I should have some labels.  There’s comfort in that.  I lost the one of Mother when my son went off to college.  OK, then.  How about my career?  Outfitter.  No more.  Guest Ranch owner/operator.  Barely.  Ditch Digger.  Yes, but… It is somehow lacking in, well, finesse for a middle aged woman. Writer?  I’ll take it. Writer.   I use that term daringly with great expectation and demands placed upon myself.  Too often I have trouble believing that what I give is worthy.  Who doesn’t?  Anyone who contemplates the meaning of life, their point and purpose, will question their self worth.  Won’t they?  And yet, many days I feel I have nothing to give… but words.

Pardon me if that sounds too plumped with self pity. I don’t really need the violins brought in for this.  What am I trying to say then?

Something about confidence.  Or lack thereof.  I read the words of others who have found success with their writing (and yes, success is a relative term, so here I mean that which brings one a sense of purpose and by which one feels defined), and compare them those of us (yes, that would be me…) who still do not believe in ourselves, or believe we have something worthy of giving.

This does is not make me feel worse about my state of being as not-yet-successful-writer, but rather, challenges me to grow up. Oh no!  Become that person. Start being today the person you wish to be tomorrow.  For what is the difference between she and me?  It is not in the number of books she has published and I have not, though I have used that as an excuse for the past few years.  It is in the voice that speaks back when I look in the mirror.  How easy it is to forget we are in charge of that voice. I need not look ahead with down cast eyes and hushed words and whisper, “Yes, I write…”  Perhaps it is time to look straight ahead, boldly make contact with the grey eyes staring back at mine, and speak in a loud and joyous voice, “Yes!  I am a writer!  And I am honored to share my words!”

Man, that sounds good at least.

Slowly snow

/ Gin Getz / 12 Comments

 

Snow

Dusting the deck as we finish dinner

Steak au poive under candle light

All that remain is my sweetie and me

Our four leggeds

The silly little coyote that refuses to run away

And snow

Illuminated by swelling moon

Diffused by slender clouds

Soft grayish whitish powder silky sprinkle

Clouds softer and lighter than those of summer

Without the depth and weight and drama of rain

Carried within them like a swollen mothers breast

But holding instead the sparkle and light and crystal air of

Snow

A silent promise

Little more than a whisper

That holds all the mystery of today tomorrow yesterday

Ten degrees to start to-day

The height of afternoon remained right at freezing

Ice begins to form upon the mighty Rio

Slowing her flow thick like ink of

Black pens I use to scratch out a poem in my weathered journal

There on the river in the dark of the trees still holding needles

Ice spans from bank to bank

Fragile as the thin shell of an egg

Only looming growing expanding each day

No longer chased away by mid day warmth

Portending as the melodious clouds above

Frozen ground hard beneath my boots

Steel on the horses hooves pound like thunder

As they run to me

Hungry

Frost beneath the blue spruce on the north slope

Growing like mold on moist bread

The loaf that will be left out all winter to flourish

She settles, the season, slowly oozing into to her ice age

Of hoar frost and solid creeks

And still silent white wintriness

And taking me with her into her ashen solace

But here I will not remain

When even here is not far enough away

 

So for the friends and family and those who read this who know and care, this weekend I head up to British Columbia to visit Forrest.

 

And this winter, well this winter…

I am here, now, and tell you only of that for now, for here is where I am.

For now.

And tomorrow, well…

 

Adalante!

 

 

Changing views

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

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?