writing

Defining 45 and Feminism

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

Photo of Flying Crow and me, on the Divide. By Kate Seely.

 

Following is an essay I wrote earlier in the year.  It’s long winded as I tend to be and of a different subject matter than I tend to cover. But thought I’d share it with you while I’m still 45…

 

I feel so far from what I thought a feminist should be. In any case, surely I am not your average feminist (if ever there was such a thing). I simply do not look the part.

Now isn’t that a funny thought?  What does a feminist look like? So you think you know?

Some of us have a preconceived notion based on our own experiences.  My experiences started early and started strong.  It was the late 60’s or early 70’s.  I was a young child.  My mother had meetings in the house; women’s meetings, League of Women’s Voters and ERA and PTA and what else I don’t know if I ever knew or asked.  But there were powerful memories of powerful women walking with such confidence through my front door with broad smiles, clear eyes, always I remember their eyes, looking down at me with a twinkle and a wink as wonderful as Peter Pan only real and quite large.

I was on the worn and faded Persian rug that defined the dark wood entrance, rolling back like a dog on scratchy wool and dark jewel colors, looking up at these women, my goddesses. I did not believe in Cinderella or want to be a fairy princess. (Peter Pan? Perhaps.) Although I have no idea what they were there to meet about, I was certain then that these women defined power, strength, wisdom, and goodness.  They were my role models and heroes.  They defined what I would strive to be.

They were women, all women, sturdy and tall and old and wise, or so they seemed from my little-girl-on-the-rug point of view.  And I remember looking up at these solid women with those clear eyes that would look me back directly, their short trimmed hair framing broad faces devoid of most makeup except the true red lipstick which was so common back then. They wore thick wool skirts to the middle of the knee, or at least that is what it looked like from down there on the rug.  Pantyhose, medium tan nylon that felt smooth and rubbery when I’d reach out to touch them.  And sensible shoes.  Always sensible shoes. Black or brown and low heels so you knew if you tried to run, they could still catch you. A fact that instilled both fear and safety to the observer.

They were giants from my horizontal perception and at once I felt secure and wanted to be like them.

Funny the things we remember.

That is how my feminist roots were formed.

But look at me now. I am not like they were. I am married and bake bread and am helping to get my son ready for college. Tell me, why do you suppose I thought they did not?

Somehow I still feel so different from them. I do not go to meetings. I run my own small business from home. I have long hair and wear a size one and cowboy boots…. Does this make me less of a feminist than they were?

Of course it is not in my appearance, but in my thoughts. That’s where the problem lays, the problem of uncertainty of the state of my feminism.

Here I am at almost 45 (doesn’t that sound more definitive that 44?) trying to call myself a feminist, but doubting myself.  Why? Well, what have I done to prove I am? I don’t have to organize, work together and fight for our rights as they did.  Or do I?

I seek to define a feminist so that I can find my own place and hopefully clarify who I am.  Don’t we all need to do that to some degree? Of course what I am hoping to find is that I am indeed a feminist.  I can be defined.  I belong.

To begin with, I ask myself, and I suppose you should ask yourself too, what is the average feminist?  I suppose she is something different for each of us, as long as it includes a strong woman with a sense of self. A good deal of which is based upon the impressions we formed as a child, and throughout our lives.  Many of us painted a picture of what a feminist looks like, acts like, is.

What is she?  Who is she?

I say again:  a strong woman with a sense of self. Wavering at times, or so I am learning, as we still are human, and I have yet to meet one who can stand up against it all.  But she has the ability to stand tall when need be, when she really needs to, when it really matters.  For her children, her partner, her work, her beliefs, her choices, her country, her self.

Is that enough to define what a feminist is?  I can define her how I choose, I suppose, since I don’t see many from my generation telling me otherwise.  Us forty-somethingers.  We are a quiet group. We consider ourselves feminists and benefit from the work of others and reach out just a little bit to pave new roads for those who come after, but the formula is ever changing, as is the definition.  Rather than staying focused on the single goal ahead, be it equal rights, equal pay, or opened doors, we simply slide into place at the board or kitchen table (or both) and assume we are welcome, and wonder why we may get sideways glances from the men – and women – seated beside us.

Without those meetings I remember as I child to clarify the image in my own thoughts, I wonder what happened to feminism?  Where is it now? It spread out.  It became mainstream. That’s good and that’s bad.  Good because maybe it means it is everywhere and so common we don’t even notice it is there any more.  Bad because we take it for granted now and no longer fight for it.  We risk letting it slip away.

So I find myself grasping to ensure I don’t lose what others fought so hard to give me, and wonder if I am doing enough for those who come after. What can I do? Start by thinking, as I am doing here and now. Considering my place. Defining feminism and my place, my role.  Start by understanding who I am as a woman and what am I willing to do to retain my rights, my choices, my place.

Now is the time for me to consider this as I approach losing my definition of “mother” next year when my only child heads off for college.  Where does that leave me? I seek self definitions.  I feel lost without. What words will suit me? Forty-five.  Middle aged.  Married.  I need more.  How do I define myself now?

I begin by defining where I am.  I am softly settling into my middle years.

Next year I’ll turn forty five.  I’m in the middle, I guess.  The middle of my life, of the world around me, of the family I’ve raised and the grandchildren I await.  My middle years.

I define myself as “in my forties.”  Can I say “mid life?”  I can, but do not.  I’m still too young for that, I think.  So where am I?

In between my friends who have grandchildren, great grandchildren and back pain and contemplate or enjoy retirement and are tired of the cold – and those who have little ones or no children at all, no career or land or marriages under their belt to feel the discomfort of the tightness a little bit of age brings.  Just a little bit.  I still feel as fit as when I was twenty.  Maybe more so. But I no longer want to wear the tight jeans and short skirts.  I’m learning to dress like a woman.  More simple.  More refined.  Classier, my mother says.  Finally…

Who teaches us these things?  Do we have role models that show us how to define “growing up” and “middle aged?” And if so, who would our role models be? Believe me, I don’t strive to look like those ladies who came to meetings in my mother’s house back in 1972.

And yet at times I am left feeling lost. I imagine I am not the only one. I’m starting to think I am part of or the product of a lost generation, or perhaps a mere sub generation. It is hard to define.  I do not feel we are defining ourselves.

We are in between the baby boomers now in their fifties and sixties, and the slackers or millennium generation in their twenties and thirties. They have definitions.  They can fit in and belong. Stereotypes, I’m sure, but such are generational classifications. They still provide us comfort with an all-purpose understanding, a simplicity of what might otherwise be left constantly ambiguous. Such labels allow us a solid sense for belonging or separating, depending on which we choose.

What defines us in our forties?  What is our pigeonhole?  We had no wide spread childhood traumas, connecting wars or colliding rebellion.  We were neither dirt poor nor spoiled rotten.  We listened to southern rock or disco and the five o’clock news and nothing was very radical or exciting but nor did we complain.  We were rather quiet.  What did we stand for, and what did we fight for? What have we given up as we approach and settle into our middle years?

And where are we now? Betwixt and between.  Somewhat solid though I wonder if maybe we are led to believe we never will be.

Interesting to consider.

And as women in this sub generation, we are even more difficult to define.  We do not have boundaries, do not share boundaries, are scattered and separate and do not have our center hold.  We never thought we needed strength in numbers so we spread ourselves thin.  Thin relationships, thin memories, thin ambitions and dreams.

Those before us fought for their place.  Those after us assumed their place was solid.  We saw both sides and know what both feel like just a little bit – the insecurity and confrontation and the expectations and assumptions.

My sub generation didn’t have to fight for it.  We were handed it, fresh and new and exciting.  We took it for granted. Sat back and enjoyed it. We were allowed to choose what we wanted to do with it.  Most of us, the daughters of the women who fought to give us the choice, chose to be mothers and wives and maybe take a career or leave it when our children or husbands needed us. And I still don’t know if this is not perhaps the stronger choice a woman can make, or the weakest.

I am lost.  I seek to find my place.  In desperation, I softly moan and hope to be heard.  Heaven forbid I stand up and scream out.  But what I say is the same.  It is a cry to my feminist roots.

Are we still sisters?

Is feminism still alive and well or is my generation letting it slip away?

What about those that follow me/us?  The young ones.  It is done for them.  The women are equal, aren’t they?  Or are they?  It appears they have nothing left to fight for, and so they don’t.  Perhaps their struggles now are not based on the male/female rift, but on the economy, work ethic, education, a continually expanding urban and global work force.

I suppose we all have our challenges.  What I once felt I would have to fight for perhaps has already been fought.  That battle won. Now I have others to fight, if I dare be so bold. And now I should pay my due respects.

So here’s to that giant of a woman when I was a little girl on the rug.  That one with the sensible shoes and cropped hair and very bold, bright Peter Pan eyes.  Thank you.  I may not look like you, but today, I feel like you.

 

A portrait of a feminist today. This one wearing cowboy boots instead of sensible shoes. Photo by Bob Getz.

Withdraw

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

 

Stripped stark

Barren trees

Allow more light to penetrate

An insatiable hunger for the withering warmth

Mid day light diffused by the soft sky overcast

It is only a matter of time before the snow settles in for the season

White world we know here for half our days

Until then longer shadows leave a vague pattern

As if something man made like an endless cattle guard

On the edge of the dying meadow

 

The thermometer has risen to twenty.  I postpone a longer walk and return quickly from feeding the horses, the dog from chasing off the magpies.  I am not yet used to the cold, too soft, still holding on tight to summer ways of forgoing long johns and tall boots. The cold has barely begun.

Horses at the water trough pawing through the ice.

The doves are down to four.  I see them now settled on the fence by the one big Blue Spruce that provides protection.  There is literally a pile of assorted small birds behind the house, all having been run into the windows.  Even the cats can’t claim responsibility.  The falcon flies by and creates another fury and another bang on the window.  A feather and dusty impression of wings remain before me.  A clear, hard wall one can barely see.  The crystals I hung in every window have not helped.

The little dark mare turns from the water and snorts. I see water dribbling from her muzzle like a silver spray of shining beads, as she stand tight , tall, alert, neck and tail high and ears forward. The language of the horse.  The moose is again in the willows.  Or at least, that is what she fears.

The wind rouses, rips up the remaining thin brown leaves of the bush.  No lurking sent is stirred.  The little mare lowers her head, relaxes her back and slowly returns to the herd.

A great horseman once told me that to learn to be a great horsewoman, all I needed to do was listen to the horse.  They have all the answers I seek, he said.  His wife reminded us both that this theory only works AFTER one has learned the language of the horse, and not all of us were “lucky” enough to be born into a world of great horsemen as our parents and peers to pass on such information.  A disadvantage on one hand. I had to learn it all from scratch.  An advantage on the other, for we learn to speak ourselves, with our own voice and manners.  After the magnitude of mistakes levels out, we are left with an understanding that is ours, between the horse and me, built from the ground up like a stone castle.  This is more solid, strong and real than if it was handed to me.  That is at least what I tell myself.  Might as well.  I cannot change how nor where I was born and raised.

Not everyone is lucky enough to be born where they belong later in life.  I say that on one hand yet I have heard to those that say there is a great burden that comes with “being born into…” Or are we the lucky who have the blank canvas before us and paint the picture as we will?

No matter. We can choose who, what and where we are.  And we can change it all too.

Can’t we?

Bird of prey

/ Gin Getz / 23 Comments

 

Wind strips away the last of the leaves and sucks the heat of the woodstove out from between cracks in the log walls before warming the room.  The wind chimes rattle ceaselessly on the back porch.  Bare branches wave wildly as if saying their final farewell.

I sit in the cabin and stare outside at the browning hillside.  Flocks of geese on the Reservoir flats joining up to prepare their journey southward as the tourists already have done.  Those of us that remain prepare for departure or hibernation.  I will do the latter.

“The feast before the famine…” Or so the saying goes. But this feast is bittersweet.

Now is the season of birds of prey.

In the sharp shadows of early morning, from the kitchen window I watch a falcon fly through the flock of mourning doves. They are slow.  He is agile.  A fascinating combination, confrontation, obvious he will be victorious, and of little surprise when after I count one less dove scratching at the seed by the hay shed.

Late afternoon looking out the same window.  High above the field the Red Tail hawk dances in the middle of a whirlwind of what appears to be golden birds, whirling, swirling, fluttering, flickering in the lowering light.  At first I think he flies among tiny birds, a flock larger than I’ve ever seen here and strain my eyes to identify.  But it is only freshly fallen leaves caught up in the twisting air, a wild dance of nature, the bird of prey participates in what seems like a joyous display of fervor and wind.

So the season blows away, leaving the last of the orange leaves to glow like rare pale sentinels in the high hills, while the rest of the mountain fades to grey, silent and peaceful as a monk under a heavy hood. At once comforted and burdened by the weight.

It is time for me to withdraw. To give in to the brown and grey and barren wind.  To write.  I begin with letters I have put off for months.

From a letter written earlier this week to a friend who probably wished he never asked:

 

This will more than likely be way too long and rambling, or way too short and say only a fraction of what I want to say.

I’ve been going through an odd adjustment with Bob working in town a few days a week, Forrest off to college and trying to figure what his future holds, and myself trying to find more of my own self through work and business or lack there of. Not a big deal, just little life changes. And too much time to think. At this stage in the game, I should be doing more than thinking. Giving more than taking. I’ll figure it out. Just an adjustment period.

Where to begin?

I’d like to begin with the financial matters we first discussed back in August, I believe it was. Crazy the power money holds over us, even when we try to live so simply. I appreciate you sharing a bit of your story. Your honesty and openness have always been refreshing, though a harsh reality at times. You are right about the burden debt holds over us. Walking away (though of course I know, walking away still brings a tangled thread dragging behind) for us is not an option at this point. We are oddly in a state of having to wait it out. Let me explain.

Our debt is created by having to fight for ownership of part of this land, the part with the cabins and business my husband built, separating him from the “Evil In-Laws,” the part of the family that fought all the rest of us for no better reason than because they could, to stir the waters, or because conflict and confrontation are a way of life for them. Fighting to own what we have worked for was worth it on principle alone, though a hard fight, and a personal struggle, as family matters, you know, often are.

Fighting for ones land does one of two things.  It can turn you off and chase you away, or draw you closer like a mother and child.  For us, it has been the latter.  Only at times I know not if I am the mother to or child of this beautiful land.  I have only learned it does not matter.  We are connected now by blood, the blood I have shed upon this land, as sweet and rich, wet and warm as my tears.

But alas, “moving on” is this odd carrot before my nose. I grab but can never reach. I know it will happen. At least, most days, I know. Other days, I wonder.

And what does “moving on” entail?  For moving on does not always mean a physical move.  What it can mean is staying right where you are… only you are changed.

Here is everything my husband ever worked for, and what I have helped build and gave all I could for the past eleven years. It is not a miserable place to be, just rather “status quo.”  I prefer change, growth, adventure. My insatiable curiosity for what lies over the next peak of the mountain drives me. I just want to live life as full as I can, in my own quiet way.

But what can I do? What skills do I have now besides running a little business, raising animals (and a child), cooking, cleaning, riding, training, gardening… nothing of value in today’s world. I am lost.

We’re not operating the guest ranch in the same capacity we were, and we’re not outfitting any more.  This is hard because I so love horses and riding and even sharing the knowledge and experiences.  And both Bob and I have considered working with horses as such an integral part of our identity. We are still relying on our horses for work at the ditch, which involves riding and packing into Wilderness, back and forth, for 20 – 30 days per summer; and using the horse for dirt work. But it’s not the same, and not quite enough for me. So I’ve been compensating by doing these big, extreme, crazy rides trying to fulfill my horse time, miles, and unsaturated soul. It’s almost addictive. How hard/far/long/challenging a ride can I do today? And then return home grateful to have survived.

Horse time is almost over here. As soon as the snow begins to fly, and the north sides of the slopes and in the trees begin to ice up, it’s over. It will be soon.

And still, fun as it is, it is not enough. One can only “play” so much, enjoy ones down time so much. That point and purpose, direction, meaning I’m longing for is still so far away.  I am no closer today than I was yesterday.  Or is this a path I cannot see, and shall I wake one day and find myself… there?

Once again, you see I have foregone short and sweet and tended towards long and drawn out.  Stay with me if you’d like.  I will be here, and I will share. Though the season of withdrawing and crawling deep inside the cave is coming.  And I intend to use that time well and wisely…

 

As blue as the big sky above

/ Gin Getz / 22 Comments

 

And what can one do but await winter?

 

Sometimes depression isn’t chemical, isn’t disease, isn’t moods.  It’s a result of circumstances.

Sometimes we have bad days, we go through hard times.  Don’t ask me to smile and get over it.  I need to be mad and sad for a little while.  I dare say I’ll “get over it” when I’m good and ready.  I’m not ready today.

What is so wrong with saying I’m bummed out and it’s got to me?

What’s a girl to do?

Saddle up and ride, I say.

Maybe that’s shallow.  But it works.  At least for a little while.

Yesterday the dog chased the coyote across our pasture and onto the neighbors’ field.  A big no-no.  All I saw was a little silver coyote about a quarter mile away, followed by Gunnar, full speed ahead.  Two streaming bullets heading straight for the trees.  Then I could see no more.  But I could hear.  And hear I did.  It wasn’t hard to figure where those two went.  Right into a pack of screaming wiener dogs being walked by a woman barking louder than all those dogs put together.  I cringed. The neighbors up for the weekend, enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll.  Oops. I called.  Like he was going to leave all that crazy commotion and come to me.

The visual was a good one though, imagining coyote bait scattering wildly in all directions as the coyote runs right past, having better things to do than grab a quick meal with my mad dog at his heels.  Really, I know, I should have gone next door to apologize for the ruckus my dog caused, but it is way too late for that.  These are my in-laws, and I’m the out-law.  We haven’t spoken in years, and if there was a time for apologies, I think it would have been long ago.  So I look at this as giving them one more reason to hate me.  Add it to their long list.

Next thing you know, there is the little Bull Moose (“little” being a relative term, of course) stepping over the field fence and stirring up the horses.  And I know the dog wants to chase this guy off too. What a helper. But the thought of the Bull Moose heading toward the pack of wiener dogs is a bit much, so I keep the dog on leash which makes working around the ranch a real drag.

And I confess, I had already awoken in a bad mood.

Enough.

(pause)

And then I’m out there.  Out on the trail on the back of a horse.  Heading higher, always higher.  Leaving it all behind. The dog behaving well following the two horses.  One I’m riding.  My silly little Arab, Flying Crow.  The other I’m leading along, his partner and my best mare, Tres.  The more we ascend, the more the trail opens, the view expands, the leaves have left the trees. There is my yellow brick road.  I am on it.  Following where it may lead me, and right then and there, it didn’t matter where “there” may be.

The golden path before me, ascending to the silver sky.  The clouds are building.  Thunder over my shoulder.  We ride on. I have my slicker tied onto the saddle.  I drape the rains, reach behind me, and slip it on like a protective cocoon.  Such a thin barrier against the elements of the Mighty Mountain.  But enough.  Just enough.  Not too much.  I don’t want to get soft.  The rain and hail begin. An added interest, intrigue, challenge.  A reminder of the harsh elements surrounding me.  A reminder that I forgot my gloves. I lean forward and press my hands on my horse’s neck, scrunch my fingers into his mane.  Who needs gloves when you have a warm beast below and beside you?

And for just a little while (yes, “little” is a relative term, but in this case, big enough) my mind is clear of the self created burden of my own thoughts that weigh so heavy at times, more from the value I give them than what you might think they deserve.

 

She crawls deeper into the cave

Back to where the light is muted and vision is vague

Awaiting total blackness to wash over like the blanket of deep night

And lies back upon the brittle rose branch

Still tangled in her hair

 

Yesterday, today, tomorrow

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

A wonderful weekend working with and learning from photographer and teacher Bob Seago (http://www.bobseagophoto.com/).   No time now to review all the lessons learned and photos taken, but I’ll briefly share a few.

How lucky (yes, this is luck!) to have such an opportunity way out here.  The writer within me is envious.  For there I could use help, guidance, encouragement – but how does one find that, force that, improve one’s writing except by… writing?  The rejections weigh heavy; the confidence grows thin; hope flickers.  At some point, one finds it hard to rely solely on one’s own dream, and one hopes for a teacher, a mentor, or a lucky break.  Who knows if one of those will come my way?  In the meanwhile, I write. What else can one do?

Plan B.  If all else fails, you can be a ditch digger.  Classic “Caddy Shack” wisdom.

So, there you go.  Today, we return to ditch camp.

 

Monsoon season

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

The thermometer on the porch reads thirty five when I wake up.  Grass out on pasture is laced with frost.  Yellow leaves of cinquefoil stick to my damp boots like polka dots. All morning it looks as if my squash plants are going to give up and give in to that sickly, mushy green of a frozen plant, but they do not.  They survive.  Not to say they will ever produce.  Just staying alive here is asking a lot for a crook neck squash plant. My little Arabian shows the first sign of fuzz from his winter coat, though the ranch raised ones shrug off the rain that drips down their manes and muzzles.

The monsoon season has settled in.  The hot and dry of May and June are but a misty memory. And when this pattern passes, the first chill of fall will find us as always unprepared, wondering how it came so soon, and where did the summer go.

It’s an arduous land, make no doubt.  Even now, in the easy season of summer, when tourists come and go, smile and laugh and play and leave their world and worries behind as if this were some wild park at Disneyland.  They will all be gone by winter.  Ok by me, as I’ll remain, but I’ve never been much for the social scene.

So here we are in mid July and the weather site on the internet we check each day has rain clouds for as far as one can see in the forecast.  This is how it should be, I am reminded, but I still remember summers in other places, hot and dry, where we swam naked in the river or sea, sand between my toes (yes, bare feet!), sat out in shirt sleeves and shorts at night under the stars, and took a siesta mid day.  Our spring this year was as close as it gets, with the never ending blue bird blue sky that made one long for a bad ass cloud to break up that blue and whirling dervish dancing of rain and hail on the metal roof.  Now we have that.  Every day.  Now we’ve got the monsoons, and it’s hard to complain because it’s greening up the pasture (sorry, it can’t do much for the red hillsides killed by those nasty little black beetles).

And I try to enjoy every wet, damp chilly storm and rainbow spreading across pasture knowing the fast and furious spell of summer will slowly sink into the comforting cradle of winter…

Lost.  

Amidst the changing landscape of green hills turning red and brown.

Give up, give in, fall deep into the darkness.

I try to stay afloat.  So hard in the rushing currents.  Waiting for my island to capture me, hold me up, pin me down long enough for roots to grow, flowers to bloom, seeds to take shape for next year’s dreams.

Wanting the yellow brick road to appear before me.  Instead there is a discernible path of last year’s aspen leaves still untrodden and I need to find my own way.

But this morning there is hope, relief, as I watch the footprints of my polka dot boots trailing behind in the frosty grass.

Last night’s rain lingers in low heavy clouds not yet broken and gone, and promising to renew again by mid afternoon.

For now there is cold wet ground before the morning sun.

Silver droplets on the railing

Each with a little world within them

Enter and lose yourself inside and away

Beads of rain clinging to the bottom of the rusted steel railings like welding lag or a row of sparkling diamonds dripping from a rough cut mine.

And inside each one are upside down images of brown and green hills over layered grey skies

Deep stratum of clouds, draped like velvet and barely moving

A lacy veil slung low along her hips in her slow dance of summer

Languid in the early hours

Like thickening water waiting to freeze

And by afternoon rain on the roof will drown out the sound of the growing parade of ATVs

Where for now the wilds are swept away in the murky waters of the monsoons

But I remain here

Hungry for more of whatever she hides

Starving for the wilds

 

Down for the day

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Image

Otherwise known as Discontentment in Paradise

How can I be anything other than peachy when so many say I’m lucky just to be here (but can’t see all I did to get here)?  As if a pretty face would be enough.  Or in this case, a pretty view.  For better or worse, I’m not that shallow.  And surely, my friend, you’re deeper than that too.  Aren’t you?

Give me a minute.  I’ll try to get my thoughts together, at least in some semblance of order. 

Or just let them spill out randomly.  That will do, too.

Hang in there with me on this one.  I think you might relate.

I’ll start with the “down for the day” part. 

Here it is, a new week, and I’m trying for a new perspective, but not achieving the positive outlook I was hoping for.

Was wondering why I was so down yesterday, and still not quite sure as nothing is wrong, per se, especially when you compare my current state of affairs with the hard times, heart aches and traumas so many others are going through, or troubled times I’ve gone through myself. So what right do I have to whine?

Probably none.  But I’m going to do it anyway.  We all need some time to vent, don’t we?

As my honey reassures me, “You can’t be up all the time.  Not if you’re really living, feeling, observing, soaking in and an active part of the world around you.  Some things will bum you out.  Some days will be worse than others.  Some days you just wanna kick the cat…”  OK, so that last part actually came from a book by Zig Ziglar.  And no, anyone who knows me knows I won’t really kick a cat.  My three kitties can attest to that!

Anyway, sometimes I just don’t think the thing to do is fake it, pretend it is all ok, sunshine and bunnies, hunky dory and picture perfect.  Sometimes we need to get real, get mad, allow ourselves a day of being down in the dirt. 

And this pile of dirt I’m talking about now?  Well, I just realized I am exactly where I was, only with less. And I don’t mean a positive downsizing.  I mean, less to do, less work, less money (though larger debt), less identity, less going on, less direction, less sense of point and purpose, less sense of self and sense of giving and belonging.  Not a good place to be.  I’m not outfitting, not running the guest ranch business full time, not “really” mothering as my kid is grown up, not writing well as the manuscript has not sold yet so it’s hard to keep convincing myself it is all worthwhile.  I’m not really homesteading or even feeling at home as the home I’m living in is for sale, and we’re waiting to build anew. 

Yes, I know.  Look around and you’ll see some wonderful stuff.  Starting with and topping the list of course are Bob and Forrest.  I could go on with a hefty list, no doubt, but that’s not the point. I worked mighty hard and took more risks than most to make what I have possible, and still… I want more. 

Look around me and you might see many things that so many shallowly search for but aren’t willing to walk away from safe and secure to make happen.  As if they were handed to me.  Easy to think it was so simple if you don’t know where I came from.  We all have a story.  Came from somewhere.  And hopefully are going somewhere, too.  Where are you headed?  As long as it’s not the same place you were yesterday, for that place and space no longer exist. 

A friend puts it all into words I wish were mine:   “…Restlessness or discontent is part of the syndrome of our beings. I look for people who have achieved their “perfect” life..and wonder if they have compromised.  If they even know they have. Have they settled for less ?”

The human state of longing.  Is anyone ever fully satisfied, or is it human nature to want more?

Image

Extremely lucky, just a few initial thoughts

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

photo by Forrest

 

Now she rains

Cool and wet, green and lush

Wilds washed away

In a land of extremes

Balance is hard to find

With the pendulum swinging widely

Wildly

Only over time

Does balance blanket

A soothing shelter upon her soil

 

Flashes of the white of winter

The deepest blue sky

You ever were lost beneath

Drawing you in and back and beyond

Alone and silent and still

Arrested with an unforgiving chill

 

But now she finds me

Restricted to raingear, cabins, confines

And conversations where I remain so out of place

Who knows when I will no longer be able to remain reserved

Lashing with fire and fury and rage

Open the doors to the cage

And let the wild beast roam free again

 

Hot as a southern summer night

When here and now the monsoons douse passion

And barefeet and shorts and sunburn shoulders

Suffocate beneath down and wool and oilskin

 

My uncertainties are never doused

Fed well by water, sun and snow

The one element to flourish

In this land of harsh elements and extremes

 

 

I share our latest project, my latest dream, with a visitor from out of town, out of state, for I’m already far from town.

First I hear I’m crazy. Then I hear it must just be luck.  I’ve heard both before.  Funny how it always comes from those standing on safe ground.  Unable to see what it took to get here.

It starts with a dream of biting into the succulent peach and letting the sweet juice flow freely.  Then climbing the tree and stretching out, reaching to the edge of the limbs to pluck the ripest fruit.

Can you see more than the results? There I am, eating that ripe juicy peach.  I make it look good and easy.  Now.  But don’t you know?  It started with a dream.

There is a price to pay for dreaming.  One must step out on that limb to make dreams happen.  And it seems like out there where the wind whips and balance is a bit shaky, you might wonder at times if in fact you are more than a little crazy.  But that is where you’ll find the luck.  That is how you make dreams real.  They don’t seem to materialize on solid ground while sitting around.

Sure, one could choose to stay safe, secure, easy.  Remain on this side of the river because there is no road, no bridge.  Me, I’ll say, let’s build a road, a bridge, and cross the river, and go where the rest aren’t willing to go.  And there are my boys, hammers, shovels and saws in hand.  Because no one said we could not.

Luck is found out on the limbs.

That’s where you’ll find me, even if I fall from time to time.

 

Crossing waters

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The river sounds like rain

And is louder than my thoughts

For but a moment I am lost

And realize there is no place I would rather be

A silver lined droplet of hope

For the seemingly eternal conflict between heart and soul

Spark and dousing

For here I have found such wilds

And such confines

And the balance makes me dizzy

I hide here like a child

Knees to chin

Sitting silent dog and me

On fragile moss covered rocks

Where so few feet have stepped

And hopefully never will

Across river

Among the tall trees

Spotted sun

And columbine

My little bit of solitude

A chance to get away from those who came to get away

I’m hoping there is more to me than past and present

Here and now

Stand and confront the rushing waters

Look into her depths like a crystal ball

Answers floating downstream in the bubbling white foam below

I walk the still precarious planks with the Rio singing underneath

She has no answers for me today

Random thoughts from a hyperactive mind

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Continuation, alteration of the poem I started Monday:

A new ending, though it’s still not right.  Interesting to find something so simple so challenging.  Endings.  I gotta work on mine.

 

Back to the place

Where we were birthed

Or are we born again

Each day

 

Nope.  Not there yet.

Oh, forget it.  Onto a new start:

 

I wept tears like raindrops

Pregnant with promise

(now is this too cliché?)

Pouring upon the land

Dousing sparks of unrest

In changing times

A land hot and swollen as my crying eyes

Sadness for the loss of life upon the now red hills

My sisters standing before me

Stripped and whipped

Waves of grace flow and settle like smoke from approaching fires

Covering up

Consumed

 

Tears like raindrops

Falling through the cracks

Of a parched land

Raped and left to die

Our land of plenty

 

And now my mother weeps

Left lying in a heap before us

Blood we are unable to wash free from our hands

As needles from the dying trees fall

Lining the yellow brick road to where I wonder

 

I am suffocated, suppressed

By my own sadness

 I cry

Tears

Dancing

A song upon the metal roof

 

Friend and fellow writer, Tricia’s M. Cook, has just published a new post on her blog over at Mountain Gazette entitled, “Hunting Bears,” an essay for those who know and love these furry beasts. Me, I can be as wild as any wild beast and willing to hold my own and fight for it if need be.  You stay on your side of the fence, I’ll stay on mine.  I choose to live in bear country, and I stake a little claim there.  And yes, I will defend it, though I’m happy to let the bear do as she pleases on her side of the fence.  I believe Ursa, like my friend Coyote, can be trained.  See this line?  Don’t cross it.  And don’t, definitely don’t mess with my watermelons, as the old story goes.  Tricia has a slightly different way of seeing things.  Please read for yourselves.

Which reminds me.  The free range cows have come for the season.  How out of place can an animal be, seeing domestic cattle up above tree line.

The semi’s arrived, and how many hundred pair are left to learn the perils of the High Country.  Never a popular moment.  Nor will it be after they are gathered for the season, and we are left to find the strays.  Or carcasses.

Our Forest Service calls it multiple use.  A lovely term. I call it putting up with cow shit and closed gates for the profit of the one rich man who owns them.  Go figure.

But this much I’ve learned: you might wanna still be a cowboy, but I’d rather keep working at being a horse(wo)man.  Hooting, hollering and riding the road in a dusty wake behind a bunch of loud and stinky cows destined for slaughter isn’t really my thing.  Why do we still use that term, “cowboy,” for those of us that work horses, not cows?  Cowboy.  Consider it.  Part cow?  Ever look deep into a cow’s eyes?  I use the term “deep” loosely here, if you know what I mean. So, as you can figure, I’d rather stick with being a horseperson and leave the “cow” part for the dinner table.

 

And I end today’s post (are you still here with me?) with these simple words:

 

I care not to live someone else’s dream

And try to wake early enough to remember my own.