A brief greeting from the Rio Trocoman

February 12, 2013February 12, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

A brief greeting and I return to silence.

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

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

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

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

Deeper into the dragonfly’s den

January 30, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

(I am trying to capture the rich essence of this beautiful woman… a work in progress)

We are packing up once again, and beginning the next stage of this journey. Away from the Chakra on the edge of town, the noise, distractions, visitors, Ginny’s Embassy, Gin’s hosteleria and café. Tomorrow we all head to the higher country. Farewell to the song of a hundred roosters and a thousand barking dogs. An exaggeration, no doubt, but I swear that’s what it sounds like at six in the morning. And by seven, the sound of hammers, saws, tractors, local music, flocks of parrots, and horses outside my window nickering for me to feed. The latter is the only sound I am used to.

I have forgotten the ability to filter noise. Back in the day, long ago, when last did I live in a town? And then have lived where the sound of a passing plane twenty thousand feet overhead is enough to pull me from the table and out the front door to see who is here.

Now again, we return to quieter days, simpler ways, and that is where my creativity blooms. Time to allow the writing to flow at the river we will now reside beside. Not, for now, our Mighty Rio Grande, so many miles away and tucked safely and silently under a growing blanket of winter snow. No, here, I shall begin to know the rio Trocoman, and feel the land of which my dear Ginny is a part.

We go without great expectations, only desires to connect with this river, this land, and to focus on the work that has drawn us here.

I will keep you posted. In the meanwhile, for more information (and for those with the desire for peace, tranquility and life on a private and pristine stretch of a Patagonia river… the place is available for rent!) please see www.horsespatagonia.com.

Until then… admittedly I know not when “then” will be though I do know we will be without internet and electricity… I share love and light from the upside down side of the world from which I came. And from where I stand, here and now, it feels very much right side up.

Wild ride

January 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

millennia of relentless
elements overbearing
softened and smoothed

to a treeless hillside
void of
shelter as the lightning

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

curl our shoulders
forward and tilt our
head down

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

still pale from
the northern hemisphere’s
winter forehead and

into my gringo blue
eyes and must be
brushed away by

a crumbled rag dug
from my pocket
the last place

I can find
dry and warm
and familiar.

The introduction

January 6, 2013January 7, 2013 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Three months ago we met, though still not face to face. A strange coincidence. Those seem to be the best kind of meetings, have you noticed? Something about the things we cannot explain. She told me there are no coincidences. I don’t know what I believe, but I do believe getting to know Ginny has been somehow magical. I wonder how much more so when we finally meet. In a way she’s turned my world upside down already. Because of her, Bob, Gunnar and I are heading to the other side of the world. Patagonia.

Let me tell you a little bit about Ginny. Oddly enough, I know a lot. I have spent these three months pouring through notes, writings and information on websites that she compiled over the past several years covering her life stories, from birth to present. What a life it is!

Gin and Ginny. You might just get confused. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it if you stick around a while.

I am Gin, and just the writer. Working to put the pieces of the puzzle together into hopefully one beautiful picture. A memoir manuscript with consistency, interest and intrigue, capturing the essence of this remarkable woman.

The story is Ginny’s.

The adventure, well, that’s all of ours. Even yours if you’re ready to go for the ride.

Tomorrow, we leave our mountain and begin the journey south.

The fun begins.

And so, now.

Finally, an introduction.

For those who have been wondering where I am going and why.

For those who would like to “meet” a truly remarkable woman.

Tonight, I share this treat. An introduction to Ginny Carrithers.

Following is a rough draft, a condensed bio of Ginny Carrithers, and an introduction to her memoirs.

For now, we shall call this “Dancing in the Winds of Patagonia”

One remarkable woman’s inspiring adventures of living life fully with MS.

Welcome to the world of Virginia Tice Neary Carrithers. Welcome to a world that covers two hemispheres and spreads wide across the worlds of the Aspen art scene, Thoroughbred horseracing, jet setting and a fairy tale world where Prince Charming still sits at the head of the table. This is the story of life as wild as the land she chose to settle in, and as fast the winds that now embrace her. Ginny’s is story of extremes and challenges. Beginning with a childhood laced with trauma, Ginny has confronted, overcome and learned to live with physical and emotional obstacles throughout her life, and managed to come out laughing. Her drive and passion led her to the highs that are hard to keep up with, and lows that would be devastating to so many of us. Hers is a story of living the high life and ultimately choosing the simple life.

On the surface, this is a fun, fast and racy story of one woman’s wild journey generated by her own strength, positive outlook, and brilliant, shining character. It is a story of the power of creativity and nature. Deeper down, this story is one of personal growth, healing, and inspiration that the reader (viewer) will want to cheer, cry, scream and ultimately hug and rejoice for the celebration of character that Ginny Carrithers is.

Her story begins in 1949 in New Orleans, Louisiana. From the beginning, her strength and resolve are challenged with life threatening bouts of the croup. Hers was an odd and lonely childhood on private island with a psychiatrist father, and mother that had her first nervous breakdown and was institutionalized when Ginny was only nine. From her earliest days, art, horses, and nature where her consolation and inspiration.

Life begins to bloom at age 15 as her body blossoms. Her world widens and begins to speed up with boys, cars, and wild rides to Aspen with her best friend, Janice. Yet again, Ginny’s world is severely shaken by her brother’s car crash which left him forever in a wheelchair, her father’s suicide, and her mother again institutionalized.

With her great resolve and joy of living, Ginny continues to create her place in the brilliant world filled with wealthy and powerful men, painting, and horse racing in New Orleans where she lived the young beautiful life. Her notable accomplishments include becoming the first licensed woman in Louisiana to train Thoroughbred racehorses, commissions for her equestrian art, modeling and acting and being a body double/stunt woman in a James bond movie. This woman was indeed living the “racy” life, with a whirlwind of travel, power, passion, and fame.

In 1976 at the age of 27, Ginny has become paralyzed and is given the diagnosis of MS. A chronic, progressive, disabling disease. And still this woman is not slowed down, does not back down. For Ginny, it opened new doors. After a year and half of paralysis, Ginny goes into remission and begins her work for the National MS Society, becoming a world-wide spokes person, creating and donating her own artwork, raising millions of dollars over the years, creating promotion and awareness with her talents of horse racing and art, and inspiring so many, not only those affected by the disease, but so many touched by and finding themselves in the embrace of this exciting woman.

It is during this time that Ginny meets Ashley Carrithers. The year is 1986. Another one charmed by this lovely and vivacious woman! It is because of this connection that two new worlds are opened up for Ginny. The first is Patagonia. The second is motherhood. Ultimately, it is the combination of these two that transform Ginny to the next stage of her life.

As their relationship begins, Ginny is living the Princess Dream come true, continuing the jet set lifestyle though now between hemispheres. There she is on the Estancia, riding her white Arabian, continuing to evolve with her artistic endeavors. playing polo, flying out on their private airstrip. She is on one hand the wealthy Patrona, juggling baby, paintbrush, estancias, a challenging marriage, building airstrips, buying land, travel, travel, travel… Yet all the while the darkness of MS follows her about like an uncomfortable shadow. A shadow that at times can be fierce and cruel and painful and all consuming. And somewhere between those two extremes, she is learning about healing. She sleeps outside alone on the ground. Builds her fire, drinks her mate. She finds a deeper, stronger place of visions and medicine cards and animal guides.

After the divorce, Ginny continues the back and forth between North and South America, and ultimately chooses to remain in Patagonia. She is drawn to remain because of her daughter. Because of the simpler life. The grounding. Nature. What matters most. She finds her own strength, learning to live without the Prince Charming fairytale and become her own woman. Still the artist. The artist of life. She is continually challenged as she deals with the progression of her disease, her broken back, her independence and loneliness, her desire to continue to give and reach out to and share with others, her connection to the earth, her creativity, her horses, her limitations, and her broad and beautiful spirit shining possibly stronger than ever.

This brings us to The Present. This brings us to Ginny, today, dealing with a debilitating disease while living in the dramatic setting of Patagonia. And still finding ways to give, motivate, inspire. New ways to share beauty and life. This is her spirit. Brilliant and warm as we all have seen or are seeing.

This is Ginny Carrithers.

On the surface one sees a beautiful woman and talented artist living a dream come true complete with fairytale lifestyle, world travel, wild adventures, fast horses, and elite connections. The high life. Look again and see the lows of trauma, drama, loss, and the side of the same passionate, vivacious, driven woman learning to live with MS. Multiple Sclerosis for some. Messenger of Sprit for Ginny. MS became her call for transformation and inner growth, for waking up and living her life real, strong, self guided, empowered.

The greatest element of this story is still just beyond my reach. It is within Ginny. Her true essence, her spirit if you will, which you can read so much about on paper or the computer, but no doubt will change me and complete this story. After months of becoming relatively obsessed with the life of this remarkable woman, we will finally be meeting. And there, my friends, lies the missing link to this story.

And so it is that the rest of the story, in fact the part we will begin with, starts there. Next week in Patagonia.

In the meanwhile, I can promise you this. Ginny’s story is a wild ride. Hold onto your hats, sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride. Ginny’s story will take you first to places you’ve only dreamed of, and then to a place and space within that you secretly long to be.

(for more information, please see Ginny’s web site at CreativityHeals.org)

Well, sorry to leave you hanging. You’ll have to read the book to find out all the juicy details. In the meanwhile, stick around and enjoy the adventure as Gin meets Ginny, the Mountain Man leaves his mountain again because of his woman’s crazy whims, and the Pup heads to Patagonia.

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.

Confessions of a mountain mama

December 29, 2012December 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

So yes, travel… But first, life. The big picture.

Don’t forget what matters most, and what I’m all about. I’m not asking you, though if you know, please tell me. I just have to remind myself. Or trying to figure it out in the first place. Because this travel thing sure takes a lot of work, and time, and money, and we’re not even there yet. Remember, we scratch out a living providing vacations. We don’t take them. So what am I doing? Questioning myself.

Lessons learning, and will be learned on staying grounded. On one hand, I leave my world for a new one. On the other, I carefully pack parts of my world to bring with me. For example, obviously I care not to leave my relationship with my son behind. This is the hardest part – the sheer distance that will separate us. Or my business. Odd to consider I will begin taking reservations for this little bit of paradise from another one over six thousand miles away. I embrace my responsibilities, and have no intention (quite the contrary!) of tossing them to the side as I leap onto a limb. My shoulders are strong and I intend to carry these with me. Otherwise, I would not go. I’m really not interested in such frivolity. Leaving it all behind was fun when I was young. I had nothing else I cared about. Now I love what I have. But still want to experience more. Thus, the added weight, but added fullness of life and character. Embrace it all.

All these darned details of getting there from here (did I mention: with an eighty pound dog?). Complicated by a different country, a different hemisphere, a different language, trying communications, emotions and relationships. Going where you’ve never been before. Minor details. Get over it. None of that matters, just makes things hard, and I never said easy was good. What I’m going for remains the same.

And still it’s all just a small part of the big picture for me. For you, dear reader, might I guess, the more interesting part? The rest might seem like boring details in comparison. They are not for me. Helping my son with course load and career choice decision, setting up a reservation system and advertising for next summer’s bookings, juggling numbers and balancing the books (this never really happens but I go through the motions every year), arrangements for critter care and shutting down our guest ranch for almost four months… Do you really want to read about these things? (The few of our faithful cabin renters who read the part about cabin bookings are smiling wide and shaking their head saying, “Yes!”)

Do you know that feeling of arriving at a place you have never been to before? You know that dream state you find yourself in at first, so odd and a little eerie, of not being sure if you’re really there, or just watching life pass by like a movie until you finally find yourself in there and participating and then it slowly soaks in that it’s real? Nothing (except perhaps, hands-on positive parenting) brings you more face to face with your inner self.

Did you ever think what you were all about? Really, take a minute and think about it. Maybe write it down so it’s clear. Or tell someone. Then it’s somehow more real. You shared it. Tell me, if you’d like. I’m glad to listen. It’s interesting what you learn.

Me, first and foremost, I’m a mother. Nothing has created me more. I am a wife. I’m one part of a team of three, my boys and me. (And dang, we are one helluva great team, if I do say so myself.) I’m a dog mama, a horse mama, and the mama of whatever other animals I’m blessed enough to have and care for. I’m about nature, solitude, creativity and passion. I’m not always stable, a little too sensitive and filled with compassion. I strive for grace, and have so much to learn.

And what about artist, writer? The encore career. Or some may note, back to where I was going before. After the mothering and housewife part of the job has, well… I can’t say I’ve retired, but that part has turned into more of a hobby, shall we say. We’re three equals now. There is less for me to do. Now there is room for more. More of another side of me.

Somehow this matters. Defining yourself from the start. For travel will change you. Not tourism, but travel. Going to be, not just to see.

My fingers hover above the keyboard but make no contact. Slowly they settle, but no letter is pressed. I am waiting. Waiting for a way to explain all this and nothing reasonable is coming. Maybe this isn’t the time. Make the time.

Writing. Sharing. We all have gifts. I believe this is mine. I’m too shy to give of myself when we’re together. Some of you have seen that, or figured that out. This is my thing. Sharing stories. Maybe just images. Images painted in words. Bringing you out there with me. Or inside, deep within.

This makes no sense, I know. This is no explanation for where I am going. Though maybe it is. In a round-about way. I’m not big on straight lines.

I need to go outside. Everything makes more sense out there. The crisp morning air. Breathe… Yes! It’s six below zero (-21C) without a cloud in the sky and the new sun that just peaked the back side of Finger Mesa to the east has stretched long blue shadows across a rolling, waved hill like a frozen sea of pale golden snow, broken only by a meandering line of tall trees that define the river’s winding path, and then ending abruptly at the jagged wall of black timber on the other side.

After what seems like five minutes of pulling on, piling, layering and zipping up, I’m out there with the dog running way ahead, clearing my path from unforeseen dangers. And my big fat boots, loud. Each step crunching in the dried, sugary snow. White noise if ever I heard one! Music to my otherwise wildly racing mind. Relax now, there is nothing to think about except the next noisy step and grasping the next deep breath of this frigid morning air.

What I’m trying to say

December 16, 2012December 16, 2012 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

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

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

something more

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

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

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

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

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

A long story

December 7, 2012December 9, 2012 / Gin Getz / 1 Comment

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Farewell to the Prince (Charming)

November 26, 2012November 27, 2012 / 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…