writing

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.

A side note

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

A side note.

The horse story will resume another day.

For now, there is this.

I am a writer, though you may question that fact almost as much as I do.  For I’m taken to believe that a writer without a publisher is not really a writer at all.  Then what am I?  Trying.  Too hard at times.  Willing to change my voice for the approval of others.  Sing a song to please you, so to say.  So tired of rejection and getting nowhere and being asked to be patient and trust when truth is it is my self I do not trust, my talents, my abilities.

However hurt and down this gets me, quiet, soft spoken and demure I will not be. I get mad.  I suppose anger has its proper place.  If not suppressed, it can be a call to action.  Then how shall I act now? What shall I do?

In response to yet another rejection from a publication I’m not even impressed with, an editor who pointed me in the direction of work he personally liked and suggested I try to sound more like someone else, I wrote the following.

 

Tell me who I am

What to wear

The words to whisper in your ear

Does this dress become me

I ask

As I coyly dance before you

On my knees

Where you want me

Where I’ll never be

And then it is over

Last I looked you smugly smiled

And then you smiled no more

Now I hear only the evening wind

A familiar soothing sound

Wind chimes drowning out your banter

Cutting through your shallowness

Calling me closer to where I was

Before I ever tried

The nitty gritty

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

Here’s the deal.   Last fall, we packed up and moved out, leaving the home and business we built, saw the son off to college, and Bob and I flew the coop together instead of wallowing in our empty nest.  Took a few months away from blogging to finish a separate writing project.  Then suddenly I reappear only to say, “Guess what?  I’m moving again!”

Where?

Back where I came from.

I would tell you life is all about change.  Perhaps it is for me.  For now.  Of course it won’t always be.  This is my challenge. What is yours?

Friend and author, Laura Crum, reminds me, “…the still pond is not always stagnant. Sometimes it is clear as crystal and of an unimaginable depth.”

I remind her I have not been so lucky.  I am no Wendell Berry who has “never not known where (he) belonged.”  Some of us were not born in the place where we were meant to stay.  We have our work cut out for us in a different way.  Our lives are not about diving into the still quiet depths in the world around us, but in learning to find it within us while the world around us spins…

And yes, I do get dizzy and wait for this thing called life to slow down.  I too shall allow deep roots to take and spread some day, though the land on which they grow will be my choice and challenge, as finding it seems to be.

There is not one right way.  As I responded to Laura, “…points of view bring further wisdom if one is willing to listen (or read).”

For now, a few specifics. The nitty gritty.

First, about blogging.  I am glad to be back. Back to the blog, that is. Back at the ranch, well, that remains to be seen and is still a week or so away.  Though I think you can imagine how I might feel when we arrive.

I have missed this form of writing, sharing, bouncing ideas and receiving your feedback, not to mention the opportunity of keeping in touch with many of you. So, back to blogging.  To bouncing ideas and pushing myself to get my work out there, even if it is rough and rustic and falling apart at the edges.  At least I’m trying, writing, growing, evolving as a writer, slowly but surely.  Pushing myself.  I’m keen on pushing myself.  For now, I’ll try to post at least three days a week (Monday, Wednesday and Friday). Check back regularly; there should be something new.

Second, where we are, where we’ve been and where we’re going.  Well, this is a little more complicated.  I’ll sum it up by saying we’re in northern Washington State, somewhere between the edge of the Methow Valley and the North Cascade mountains. And we’re going back to our Lost Trail Ranch in Colorado. The rest of the story will come out in due time.

And third, what the heck are we doing with our life?

I’m not so sure what our plans are for the future, though we’re not running the cabin rental business anymore and the outfitting business is changing hands.  Time for us to move on with the rest of our lives and find our next calling. (No offence to y’all, but this one has been fulfilled.)  Still just a whisper, but I’m thinking it will turn into a song before you know it.

Where to next?

For now, we’ll stay firmly planted with our feet in the clouds.  We’re sticking to our land in Colorado, way high up in the San Juan Mountains and figure things out from there. We are oddly excited. Nervous as young lovers. Butterflies in our stomachs.  I just caught Bob whistling a John Denver tune. (Don’t tell him I told you that.)

So you see, same place we were, but everything has changed.  Life is like that. Guess it all comes down to how you look at things.  Right now I’m looking at a still pond that is very, very deep.  Only it’s not the land.  It’s me.  So I am learning.

Thanks for checking in.  See you Monday.

On Returning.

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

Am I returning?  Yes… and no.  I am not going back, but moving forward to a place I once was.  A place where I belong.  Now.

By choice.  My choice.  My land.

I’m moving again.

Remember this. Moving does not necessarily mean staying long enough to get comfortable.  (As if “comfortable” was what I was looking for?)

Moving does not always come with a sense of commitment set in stone.  Life is more like the flow of water tumbling rocks.  Still waters turn stagnant.  We must move, change, evolve, bloom.  Surge and swell like water and waves fed by no more than a gentle stream.

So we move. It’s what we do.  Or at least what we did before and are doing again.  I can’t say it’s been a conscious choice.  We did not plan for a short term move and back again. But I can tell you this.  We are living life full.

As I look back on my adult life (and at 45, that can read “only?” to some, and “OMG!” to others), there are the facts. Moving happens. For example, the first three years of my son’s life, as a single mom trying to make it on our own, we moved a dozen times.  Say what you will, it worked. More or less. We survived, if not thrived.

Sure, I’m looking to settle down.  And our ranch is (and was) the most stable sense of permanence, of home, I’ve known.  Crazy when you realize all the conflict and turmoil it came with.

And here we are. Returning on one hand.  Leaving on the other.

We wouldn’t be living right if leaving was easy.

Of course there’s more to say.  Another day.

Thanks for being there.  Wherever your “there” may be. For I am learning this. “There” does not define you.  I wonder if, if anything, it holds you back rather than sets you free?