Hear. Now.

March 14, 2025March 14, 2025 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Last night just past midnight I woke expecting the full moon to guide my way through the otherwise dark cabin. It did not. The lunar eclipse! Amazing how magical these things are, and note to self to never stop finding magic well taken.

Stumbling over sleeping dogs, I stepped out onto the front porch. There was a cold, light rain, somewhat soft and it felt good against my bare feet and naked skin. I wanted to see if I could see the eclipse. Hard to see what’s dark, and even harder when it’s hidden behind clouds.

I returned to the warm bed in awe none the less, for the reminder of the magic this little event stirred in me.

Later I woke again and listened. The gentle patter of rain on metal roof turned silent. I know what this means. More magic. The rain had turned to snow.

Right now I’m sitting here writing to you by candle light inside while the snow continues out there. Yes, I could flick a switch. We have solar power (though it’s true, not an abundance, and certainly not in this weather). But the simple life comforts me. The peace of stillness and silence soothes me. It’s easy to find here. And sometimes easy is good: a lot less wires and bells and whistles and high tech stuff that’s inevitably going to break down. Yet at times, it’s harder, too. If we want food (and of course we do), we grow it, at least the majority of it. If we want heat, buck and split wood, stoke a fire. If we want shelter, build it. If we want light, we strike a match and light a candle or oil lamp.

Yes, this “simple life” is work, and a lot of it, but it’s a direct life. If we want something, we work for it. Want a home, build it. Food, plant it and tend to it for hours each to day to allow it grow with abundance. Want water, bury lines from the spring to the house. Rather than working for money to pay for these things, we work for them directly. See? Simple. And yet those of us that live this way so often hear, “What do you all day? Don’t you get bored?” Smile sweetly, say nothing. It’s one of those things. If you know, you know.

It’s getting light out now, though the snow is coming down harder than ever. Time for me to bundle up and head out to do chores. Feed the chickens that lay the eggs. Let out the horses that make manure that enable the garden to grow… that sort of thing. Simple, yes?

But before I go out, I just wanted to say this. Since I started writing here again, the words have been flooding. I’m drowning in incomplete ideas. This, today, will be no different.

See, what I wanted to share was about belonging. How maybe it’s more about care, connection and contribution – what we do for others – that defines the place where we belong. At least that’s my latest idea to mull over. And I wanted to share about courage – the courage it takes as a writer (as any artist) to open your soul and pour, then put it out there for the world to see (alas, mine is but a little world). And I wanted to write about passion for place, the intimate connection between person and place, comparing land to lover.

But I’m not going to write any of that today. I’m going to go out in the snow with my dogs and take care of what needs to be done to make this simple life worth living.

I wrote this yesterday. Maybe it’s still relevant. Maybe it’s old news. But to prove my point to myself, this thing about care, commitment and contribution… things that really matters, that I’m trying to work out, trying to write about, but I haven’t figured out “how” just yet, I’m going to muster up the courage to share this (and hope I don’t wince at my foolishness afterwards).

Rain. Snow. A little sun.

Today in the far north of California it’s a southern Colorado spring day. A little bit of everything. Wait five minutes, and it will change.

Hats on and off, zippers up and down.

Speeding up the season.

Slowing down progress.

When what we need to be doing is falling trees and milling timber, we’re inside keeping the wood cook stove going to keep the cabin warm. Go ahead and bake another loaf of bread and more cookies we don’t really need ’cause when what we need we can’t have, might as well make the most of where you are and what you got. Right now, that means time inside to chill, and a wood cook stove that’s hot.

Truth is, it’s been a good excuse to stay indoor and to work on plans. Floor plans. Spread across the kitchen table like breadcrumbs and a splash of black coffee. It’s all part of the process. Last time we built from scratch involved submitting fourteen pages of detailed plans, hand drawn on graph paper yet still technical and precise, for a log cabin inspected and built to code. That’s a big deal for us hillbilly cowboy sorts than didn’t go to school for this stuff, just figured it out as we went along. This time ’round, hopefully a clear idea of what we’re building should suffice.

With drawing close to complete, it’s time to get back out there and at it. Falling, hauling, milling, stacking…

We are ready. The weather? Not so much..

No matter the weather, spring comes. In spite of fresh snow on the hills behind us, the almond blossoms open and peach trees are close behind. A few brave asparagus have burst through moist ground, and last season’s kale is going to seed.

The first bed of spring crops is in, new kale, spinach, broccoli and chard, carefully tucked under row covers to protect the small plants from the still cold elements – and the dogs.

With a break in the rain, we go to the garden. Milling can wait. Growing our food cannot.

The dogs lay in freshly turned soil. My husband lays on the grass. Me, I lean into the shovel, and smile.

Meanwhile and always, water flows.

Here, now, as before and will be, a river calls us to sit beside and listen.

Listen.

A shrill whistle cuts through the air.

The call is simple. Familiar. Stirring me someplace deep within.

Emanating from branches of dark timber, the song of the Redwing, piercing through the dun of hard rain on metal roof and an ever swelling river.

Listen.

Hear.

Here.

Now.

You cannot outrun the past. The past is the path that led you to where you are today.

Yet in moving, you leave where you were behind. In a way, you leave a piece of who you were behind as well. A part of you left in the soil you fed with countless wheelbarrow loads of manure gathered each day from the horses. A part in the fruit trees that may feed only bear and deer when we are gone. A part in the people.

That can be the hardest thing to leave.

And in that void between what you have left behind and what you are crafting anew, you become the blank slate. The clay upon the potters’ wheel. You are both the clay and the hands that shape it.

We are not moving back nor backwards. We are moving forward towards a place that feels familiar with the clear crisp air and intense light and breathtaking endless horizons. A place where we’ll recognize the flash of mountain bluebirds and the bloom of showy cinquefoil. the fragrance of fallen aspen leaves and the soothing balm of winter snow. We’ll leave parts of that past behind. Time has healed trauma. Stories carry weight only if force fed as a mother still fattening a grown child. There are better things to nurture now.

Now is the time for re-writing. Not based upon where you are, but who you are.

The answers are not found out there. They are found in here. Within.

Where I should have looked all along.

Here and There.

March 7, 2025March 7, 2025 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Sounds of silence.

Oddly loud.

The puppy’s paws on crunching leaves. Frogs. Horses shifting in their close-by covered pen. The ever present song of the river still strong from this winter’s rains.

It’s dark. Behind me, there’s soft light from candles on the kitchen table. Before me, just enough to see shapes in shades of charcoal gray from the waxing moon still up over in the western sky

I’m sitting out on the deck as I do most every night before turning in, letting the dogs out one last time.

My nighttime ritual of taking one small bowl in a pipe filled with my special blend. Home grown tobacco, mullein, and mugwort. I’ve never been much for smoking anything altering, and my days of smoking the bright red box are gladly far behind me, along with my dreams of being the Marlboro woman. I breathe better now. I no longer fear my son will watch me drown in my own lungs from my own doing. It’s over twenty years since I left that habit behind. Over six since I left drinking behind. But still a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do. I’m not perfect, know I can’t be, and well, not really interested in being completely vice-free. So it is for me with this little pipe, my little smoke, my little bad habit that brings me out at the end of most days and allows me to sit on the deck in relative silence, often under the eve while the rain batters down, and just sit, just be.

It’s clear tonight. Cold. Cold for here, but not for there.

Here, stars twinkling through bare oak branches above me that connect the earth to sky.

Trying to just listen. Not to think. Quiet the mind. Loose my thoughts in the rumble of the river and the bits of infinite space above.

Can I just watch the tiny glow from the tip of this little pipe, the smoke wafting softly from my lips, the big dog laying still beside me?

Isn’t that enough?

How hard it is to simply be?

Not all of us were born where we belong.

Maybe I am not there yet. Maybe we never arrive. Maybe it’s all just an endless journey passing through places and time.

Somehow it feels close. That sense of being where I belong. Only it’s not what I thought it would be.

Is it “where?” No. Because I am where I thought I’d be full. And something still feels empty. Though it’s filling. At an oddly calm and gentle rate. Like a slow inhale, exhale, and the pause in between, time and time again.

It’s not about place. It’s something so much more.

It is a filling from within.

I thought place would define me.

Or does it, I wonder, confine me?

It has.

Not here. Not now.

I’m starting to feel free. And starting to feel comfortable in that groundlessness of not needing a place to tell me who I am, tell you what I am.

A dear old friend Em so often told me, “Home is inside.”

The last place I thought to look.

“Stop chasing rainbows,” she’d tell me. “What you’re looking for is is not out there. It’s within.”

Yet I watched her never fully find whatever she was seeking and I was left to wonder:

Do we ever get there?

Or is this a never-ending journey, of longing to belong. Of growing up.

Why did I ever think it would be easy?

And why did I ever think it would be done?

Tell me, is it just me, or do you wonder too?

Here.

Rubbing my eyes and adjusting to the soft pale light of a California early morning spring sky, laden with fog, that when it rises into nothingness but blue with big fat happy clouds, reveals swells of gentle mountains undulating in crisp sharp shadows that begin and end spring days. Living is easy here with mild elements, warm waters, and heavy humid air. It is comfortable and congenial, words I never sought to describe my world. And yet, I belong here. I feel a part of the sand as I lay in naked by the river, the oak under which we sleep on summer nights, the geese that return to nest by the river before our house, and the twenty-something fruit trees we planted: peach and pear, cherry and plum, apple, persimmon and fig. I feel a part of the wood nymph fairyland of thick moss and ferns and ancient trees dripping with old man’s beard and the sound of frogs and wind-chimes and a swollen river. I feel a part of the people, my neighbors and friends and folks in town, people I am comfortable with, at home with, can talk with about sharing seeds, starting seedlings, thinning carrots and canning peaches from our own fruit trees. People that make me feel I belong.

And yet too I belong there. Colorado. A part of the stark open sky that shocks you at sunrise, the intensity of the elements that determine our days, the shivering sound of bull elk bugling and teasing call of coyote, the lure of mountain tops surrounding us like dancing muses, and the impression of being so close you can touch the stars as you sit bundled by the campfire at night leaning back into a silence of nothing but wind. I feel a part of breathlessness and burning lungs as the elevation calls and the mountain seduces and I find my tired legs climbing higher and higher and higher still like a feral beast appeasing some inner hunger. As if I needed more to call me, there is family, our son, and well, that love outweighs the rest.

It’s a cowboy boot and Levi jean life there, at least for half the year. The other half is down and wool and a lot of layers. It may sound harsh, and I suppose it is, but something about it entices me. Rather than chill my passionate side, the cold and harsh, the high wild life of those Colorado mountains makes me come alive.

On the other hand… even in these unknown hidden hills in the far north of California it’s flip flops and shorts for half the year, and in winter you don’t need much more than a slicker. Here, in summer, we sleep out on the deck beneath wide arms of old oak trees, lullabied by the sound of the gently flowing river. Here, in cool gray light of early morning with my husband still asleep beside me, the same one I have wrapped my limbs around countless dark morning back there, too, I wake to the smell of sweet grass and willows and wild mint that wafts up from the damp banks as I lay still, trying to count the awakening birds by their particular call. With closed eyes, I know them by their sound. The Redwing, the raven, Steller’s Jay, Tanager, towhee and chickadee.

Is one world better than the other? Who am I to judge? All I know is, some days I want it all. Both. Everything. Everywhere. Here. There. Home. A sense of belonging. With both. To both. Maybe to all.

A feeling that I am where I’m meant to be. But how does one decide? Does the place define, or do the people? Is it “where” or “with whom” or something else, something deeper down, an inner voice, a higher knowing?

How does one decide?

Does the place call us, hold us? Heck, I’ve been called, held, then chewed up and spit out. It can’t be about place. I told you how I wished it were, wished I always knew, wished I was born where I was meant to remain.

But I wasn’t.

And that too is neither good, nor bad. It just is. I’m not the only one.

So I look within. For answers. For home. And watch it grow.

It’s being built. One log at a time. A rustic, little cabin in the wilds. My kind of home.

Within me.

Time

February 14, 2025 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Things change. I changed. I shall continue to change.

Yet as stand here with my hip against the kitchen sink, holding a warm cup of coffee between hands weathered and worn by time and place, darkened by sun and soil and years, something within me feels this sense of peace of the familiar, something I need, we all need. That need feels pressing right now, that knowing no matter where we find ourselves, even when the world seems upside down, inside out and backwards, so much still remains the same. Solid. Grounded. Sturdy. There is comfort in that knowing, soothing as the hot black liquid I am slowly sipping.

At this very moment, as I gaze up from dirty dishes I’m pretty good at ignoring, my attention scans outward, across pasture. Horses head down, chickens underfoot, bare branches of sprawling oak with tips not yet swelling, last years leaves still scattered across the patchwork quilt of ever green grass and tenacious wet snow.

What I am looking for is not yet there. It’s still early. Wait. It won’t be long. The 18th of February. That’s the date marked on my calendar. It is not only my mother’s birthday, but the date I begin to listen for his call. Then, or soon after, like some primordial clockwork that does magic of seasons and cycles of the moon, I will hear his song. I listen, for I may hear him long before catching the sight of his orange flash in the otherwise still winter scene, a landscape drawn in shades of gray.

It’s often later. A few days. A few weeks. But my stirring starts early and builds, always excited by these little harbingers of changing seasons. Sure, I can wait. I have waited before. Here, there, other places I have been, have lived, have looked and listened. He always comes. As the bluebirds when aspen or oak buds begin to swell. The pair of ravens that gather the shedding horse hair just in time to build their nest. The geese at river’s edge, hoping for a place safe from rising spring waters. These things come.

And so too will the unassuming Redwing Blackbird come, sharing his shrill whistle as I lean closer to the window to hear. Perchance he’ll rest on a branch of the sprawling oak that in summer shades the house from midday sun but now stands still with bare branches extended like fingers of an ancient witch; or perch on the stalks of willow that bend and sway with lessons in learning to give.

And even while I wait, anticipating what will come, the song bird, the change of seasons, the change of view from a change of kitchen window over a change of sink, for now at least, I am here. And right here, right now, there is no place I’d rather be.

Winter’s going way too fast.

The greenhouse is alive with spring starts of broccoli, cabbage, kale and chard, keeping company with overwintered geraniums and that sprawling avocado tree because I swore I wouldn’t buy the fruit, but man, I do love them. Seedlings spouting on the kitchen counter: tomatoes, peppers, basil, snapdragons, marigolds, all leggy from lack of sun.

(“How can you garden,” you may ask,”when you said you were moving on?” And my response, just as you’d expect: “How can I not?”)

Ten inches of rain one week, snow the next, then a clear spell long enough to dry our boots, but not those logs waiting to be milled before the next storm arrives.

You know that feeling of having to be indoors but so dying to be out there? Yeah, that one. Me, I can keep myself occupied indoors between writing and drawing out plans for the new house. And there’s always cooking, cleaning, baking, herbal crafts, little inside things I love to do, like happy sappy 70’s songs remembered from my childhood, distracting me from the longing of wanting to dig my hands deep in dirt, which right now, is not happening. The soil is either to wet to walk on or hard from freezing temperatures.

It won’t last. Nothing ever does. Give it time. It will change. And before you know it, I’ll be back out there longing for these languid days, which likely I won’t get again until next winter rolls around. And geez… hard to imagine what next winter will be like.

So don’t.

As for Bob, he’s making the most of it his own way, as he does. Indoor arts and crafts are not his thing. His way of having his boots dry out is hauling the first load of milled lumber to our new place. California to Colorado and back again. Three days driving, each way, taking the loneliest road, or four when you run into truck troubles and weather, both of which he did. Then back to me just in time for Valentine’s Day. At least I hope, as another winter storm has settled in.

Why mill and haul from here when there’s plenty of logs to build with in the mountains of southern Colorado? A seemingly endless supply of dead standing blue spruce killed by the beetle infestation that washed over those hills like a tsunami. Enough of those trees will hopefully still be good enough for using as full logs, but they have not the integrity, heft nor girth, we want for posts, beams and dimensional lumber, counter tops, shelves, ceiling and floors.

Meanwhile, here in northern California, the beetles hit too, but not as hard, fast and heavy. At this point, the damage is just the right amount for giving us dead trees to clear from our property; and all the lumber the Old Mill, my old man and I, can crank out. Beautiful lumber. Doug fir. Still hard and strong and perfect for what we need.

So, we do it here, bring it there. It may seem inconvenient at best. And yes, Home Depot is an easier option. But that’s not ours. Or us. Making the most of what we have.

Which right now is a forced break indoors, while the “wintry mix” outdoors keeps coming down.

We’re pretty hearty, but we have our limitations. Milling in these conditions is a big NOPE. It’s a nasty, sticky, soggy mess. I’d rather get covered with sawdust on clear afternoons when the wind blows my way. That time will come.

You know how it goes. One thing waits, while another happens.

Ever changing.

Some days so slow you feel stuck in stagnant waters.

Other days, hold on to your hat and brace yourself for the wild ride.

Time changes.

Changing times.

Like seasons.

Take time.

Time to stare at flames in the fire pit, or falling snow.

Time to slip on your boots and run out in warm rain.

Or slip off your shorts and immerse yourself in the river.

Time to smell orange peel, chocolate, the warm dry pup.

A new baby, damp rich earth after a summer rain.

Time to feel the sensation of that summer rain wetting brown skin burned by yesterday’s sun

or winter sun like a gentle hand on red cheeks, the only flesh brave enough to be exposed.

Time to celebrate last years leaves fragile as fresh eggshells crumbling beneath your boots

or cheer for melting snow if you drum up the courage to step out in hot bare feet.

Time to hear that river, that endless river, the never ending background sound of this land

or that sleeping dog’s heavy breath.

The inhale. The exhale.

The pause in between.

Time to rush around.

And time to sit.

Still.

Put the damned devise aside and see the magic you would have missed.

Time for solitude and socializing.

Time for reflecting and planning what is next.

Time to let go.

And how about, “time to get your ducks in a row?”

Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

You know, ducks will do that. It’s what they do.

And in a way, that’s a good cliche for what I’m trying to do.

Figure things out.

Things.

I dunno. Writing. This blog. Where we’re going. How to hold onto here. And there. How to afford it all. Life. That sort of stuff. Big stuff.

Right, at my age, shouldn’t I have that figured out, my ducks all nicely lined out?

Don’t kid yourself.

You never stop.

As long as you’re living, you’re learning.

At least, that is what I tell myself.

Makes me feel a little better when I realize how far I’ve come.

And how much farther I still have to go.

Thank you for listening.

With love, always love,

Gin

Back At It.

February 7, 2025 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

I once read an essay by the remarkable Wendell Berry that began with,

“I have never not known where I belong.”

Me, I have never known. I am still searching. It’s what I’ve always written about. The searching. That journey. It continues. Maybe someday I’ll get it right. Maybe I’ll get there someday…. Or maybe the non-attachment, the learning to flow, the openness, courage, challenge and adventure that searching has allowed me are enough. Who knows? We’ll see.

In the meanwhile, I have learned to love my wild life. Finally. Or should I say, for now. Because you never know what the future brings. Though I do believe the past has brought me to a beautiful present. It took a lot of work. Was it worth it? Yes indeed.

Moving has never been my intention. I always wanted to remain. Permanence, grounding, the forever place, that sort of thing. But life happens. And then next thing you know, I’m moving again.

Though I still sometimes think of myself as a lone wolf, I am not. I have my forever place in heart and soul, a foundation always with me, no matter where I am. My husband. Our adult son. Rock solid. My rock stars. And really, because of them, because of the “who,” the “where” doesn’t matter near as much.

That said, “where” sure can be interesting!

So, yeah. Guess what?

“Where” is changing again.

You got it. A new adventure awaits.

No, it’s not a wild horse ride across the West this time. Though it too will involve making my way from California to Colorado, with my horses. And once again, the adventure will not just be about being there, but about getting there. It will be about the journey. And then, it can be about what happens when we get settle in and get to work.

We’ll see where it goes. All I can do is start. So here it goes, friends. I’m starting to blog again!

Change. Big change. Scary.

I’ve put a lot of thought into this, probably too much, and still I’m kinda confused by it. Here’s why. On one hand, I love our peace and privacy. On the other hand, I think it’s an exciting idea to share our life and world. Living as we do, it’s hard to reach out, connect and contribute. Putting stuff “out there” is one way we can reach out and maybe even do something good.

If you haven’t noticed (and likely you did not), I’ve been avoiding social media for my mental health. Has it helped? Well, something has. Maybe it’s age. Having menopause behind me. Having my husband still with me. Maybe even the joy I find from my dogs, cats and horses. In any case, I’m happier than ever I was.

So why risk that by putting my writing, an intimate expression of me, out there again? Believe me, I’ve been going back and forth, finding courage then chickening out again. I’ve probably brewed this over way too much.

When I have trouble figuring out something big, my deciding factor is usually asking myself this: Would I regret it more if I did it, or did not do it? Believe it or not, I’d regret not writing, not sharing, not connecting, not having the courage to put my words out there. I need to try. That’s always been my mantra. Try.

Looking back nearly twenty years, I started blogging with the long since deleted “High Mountain Muse” site. It was initially created to be a “how-to” platform, sharing off-grid building and homesteading skills. It turned into a literary expression that resulted in my first two books.

See, I’m not interested in telling anyone “how to.” All I can share is “how I do.” There are plenty of experts out there. I’m not one of them. I am comfortable with simplicity and humility. And yet, I also believe there is much to be said for having the courage to put yourself out there and share. Not as an expert, just as a unique individual (or couple in this case) doing things a different way. Not necessary the best or right way, but our way. Doing what we can, what works for us. I don’t even want to tell other people “how to.” I think part of the journey is figuring it out ourselves. So if I can do any good that way, it would be in inspiring people to drum up the courage to try, whatever beautiful dream they imagine, their way.

What I can do, however, is share my world, my view from the front porch, or from some secret place deep inside. A simple, slow, quiet world. Expressed with courage and creativity, beauty and love. And in doing so, I hope you find some part of yourself, some inspiration, some enjoyment from reading what I share.

All that said, this blog was, and likely will be again, part “how we build an off-grid high mountain homestead from scratch,” and part how we live (or at least try to live) with care, creativity, contemplation, connection, commitment and contribution. The balance and harmony of inner and outer life. Sharing the untamed view – out there and within. That includes the soulful element. Diving deep. Things like the solace of nature, the peace in simplicity, the joy of open space and time, the awe and magic of the wilds, the pleasure in hard physical labor and rewards of a hot bath, and the comfort in love. This is part of the picture, that inner and outer landscape, just as is building the homestead, growing the vegetables, tending to the land and animals, and caring for one another. Thus part of what I share is transparent and hopefully inspirational with the reality of the difficulties, challenges and rewards of finding balance of body, mind and soul when your world is splattered with mud and sawdust, sore shoulders and frozen toes.

On the revamped “About” page, I shared this as an introduction, or reintroduction if you’re familiar with me and/or my work:

We move. We grow. We evolve.

I do. I have. I will.

So has, does and will this website.

For now, it’s about honoring my craft: writing. Writing of the wild view, out there, and within. And sharing the wild ride of building all over again: off-grid, out there, a bit off-kilter, and admittedly, a little out-law.

It is in part about building an off-grid, self-sufficient home and homestead life in the high (10,000 ft elevation/zone 3) mountains of southern Colorado. That includes life with my husband, family, animals, gardens, farming, ranching and slow living.

It is also about expressing heart and soul of nature and solitude, isolation and connection. It’s about love – love of life, partner, family, community and yes, even self. Therefore, it’s also about point and purpose, and the meaning of life – which is ever evolving, with changing bodies, minds and souls that aging allows.

Mostly, it is about writing. For me.

And for you, I sincerely hope, it is about enjoying reading, connecting, finding yourself in these stories and words, and delighting in the wild ride it takes you on.

So, there you go. My big confession. I’m back to blogging.

The plan is to write here regularly again, likely one time per week. That means I’m putting my other books on hold for a while. Yes, I always need creative expression. But I also need the focus, and right now, my focus is not about menopause, midlife passages nor my Long Quiet Ride. It’s about moving – and building again. All over again. At our ripening age. Like fine wine. Fragrant, rich, deep and earthy. At least, I hope that’s how it is. Of course we’ll be as we always are: off grid, out there, and again, high and wild. This time, at an elevation of over 10,000 feet. For those who know my passion for farming and gardening and creating the self sufficient homestead, that’s an interesting challenge I am – we are – willing to take on. I won’t be the first, nor the best, and of course, not an expert. But if I say I’ll do it, I likely will.

So begins the journey, the wild ride, the adventure of starting over again, out there, off grid, high and wild, together.

Before I take leave today, I’d like to share a note to subscribers (did you ever think I’d blog again?), and/or whoever may find this site anew.

If this is not or no longer of interest to you now, please follow the unsubscribe directions from WordPress that I think are linked at the bottom of each page. (If not, please let me know and we’ll figure it out). And if you think this might be of interest for someone you know, please, pass it on. Remember, writers write to be read.

For those that want to stick around to see where this goes, great, thank you, I am honored.

We’ll see where the writing, and this journey, takes us.

For now, we’re here and now. And right here, right now, there’s no place I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing, and no one I’d rather be with.

Thanks for “listening.”

With love,

Gin

After Equinox.

April 25, 2016July 6, 2024 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

The agitation of the wind creates unrest among naked branches. Beneath an unsettled sky, the monotone of a thawing land broken only by the continual call of the river reverberating against still frozen cliffs, while mud caked boots poke through remaining snow drifts and blistered hands touch sunburned noses and the brown back of the neck – bits of exposed flesh found uncovered from a down jacket that remains adorned though now unzipped.

Another winter sheds her white skin. The peeling of the snake reveals that which is real, raw, delicate in its renewal. The season begins showing herself subtly in sepia tones. Like an old worn photo looked at time and again, we hold to the past in a futile gesture but the present is always new. Look around. See it. Feel it. Hear it. Celebrate it. Join in and dance with it.

Spring is late to unfurl here in the high country and her early song is soft, hard to hear, often hidden beneath late season snow storms and the howl of the changeable winds. In a land where winter claims half a year, the other three seasons come and go quickly in the shared space of the other half. Savored, appreciated; nothing is taken for granted.

Tenderly she reveals the simplicity of the wilds. We see her new breath in the everchanging motion of the unsettled sky, the unrest in the wind, the thawing of the earth, the swelling of the river, the return of wildlife, the luxury of longer days, shorter shadows, an open road, and the tenacity of simple nameless yellow flowers emerging through the snow.

And the silent assumption that within the swiftness of the season stirs the lure and excitement of change… Into what, she whispers? And the wind shares a response I do not yet understand.

Interwoven in the web of life awakens questions more than answers if we listen solely with reason. How else can we hear? With our hearts, not our minds. With our senses, like the wilds that surround us, knowing not because they read it, heard it, were told to believe. Or are we so different we forgot how to feel? Let go of that, she tells us. Her answers are in the soft shades of brown and grey of the newly opened hillsides.

Do we just let it go? What we had last season? The assurance of the assumed. Today, I tell myself here for half the year, it will be cold and white. What will tomorrow bring? Plans? Expectations? Hopes and dreams? What would we be without them? Shed them and be free, she tells me. But I too feel naked without. Such is the time of awakening, allowing the season to bloom means starting with a seemingly barren hillside.

The land calls. I speak to her. With her. She answers with a whisper veiled in translation I try hard to decipher. Words, ideas, passions still remain. From within this tangled tapestry can we see the bigger picture? Can we see the fine lines into which we are tightly woven or the space in between? Perhaps in the early morning when dew catches silken threads and pale pink air is still but for the rousing of the robins unintentionally sharing their sweet song from beneath the leafless trees, and stirring of distant geese down by the expanding open waters of the full to bursting reservoir.

It’s mostly space, I am reminded again. But we choose to see the little bits of matter within the big wide expanse.

Morning’s stillness shares silence of the mountain in a slow gentle outbreath before the awakening of the day, the season, the beginning of change. This is a time of both reflection found in glassy ponds of melting winter, and planning for something we don’t fully understand. Oh but the leaves will unfurl and the grass will green and the summer homes will be lit and the road will be abuzz. And so it goes, no matter what I do and you say.

The Still, Silent Rousing of Solstice

December 21, 2015 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Mid morning after a pale sun rises over the silvery snow of pasture. The last herd of elk on the mountain, a few cows led by a young spike bull, nervously jump the fence, one at a time, each one hesitating, stepping back, moving forward, a slowly progressing wave. They are working their way down river, down mountain. The horses watch. Curious, not disturbed. They see this coming and going every six months, as they remain. Now colder, now warmer, now working hard, now not much more to do than paw through the snow just for something to keep busy with while waiting for the next flake of hay. Now is their wild time. As it is for me too.

Mid day I sit by the river. An open patch where the creek comes in. Most of the river and creeks have frozen over by now, ice covered with snow, insulation. The mountain is quiet.

The other day on a snowshoe, a warm hillside, a dead standing aspen having held onto its leaves. The updraft air moves through the dried and brown leaves. A rustle like walking through the big piles of dead leaves we raked and jumped into as children. The sound stirs me. Remembering seasons past, yet to come, the great cycle to which we are but witness. Or are we a part?

Now I am here to listen. The song of moving water. Rising from seemingly fathomless black depths only a few inches deep.

This soft sound, the little space of open river.

I gaze with soft eyes, unfocused, a peripheral view, and it is like I remember as a kid staring into deep waters and waves of the infinite space of the sea. Daydreaming then. Daydreaming now. Taken away by the water.

Now she shows me her veins. A small spot open to the elements, of the elements. The life blood of the mountain. Exposed.

For a moment I sit with her, her song, her movement, her flow, the primordial pulse, the connection of life and blood, movement and eternal migration. The low sun dazzling on the tips of the currents, tiny white caps that have yet to freeze. I too know they soon will. Winter has only begun.

Today I return to the mountain. Away from my desk. Both of which I am a part. In which we find balance, ever shifting. We adjust our stance and move on.

Somehow fitting that yesterday my final work of last season was submitted. Today a celebration of completion found in the quiet wisdom of Solstice, one that is only heard if we listen closely, only seen if we are still and wait and watch.

Deep within a primal stirring.

In this time of deep dormancy, dark days and internal energy, it all comes together, at peace in its center, like the center of the earth, guarding its molten core, the slow gentle breathing of the sleeping beast exposed in an unexpected gust of warm air.

I hear him sleep, his gentle breath, and deep down into myself I follow.

Nature, the nature of our beings, of life, the nature of my soul.

Now is the time sap gathers in the roots and the bark remains dry. Out there it appears nothing moves. Day after day of still and white.

Now is an awakening, and a transformation, and though it may be a while before we can hold the well earned throne of crone, before then there is the Matriarch calling, and so to her I am shifting, opening, serving, and finding how to become what is unfolding into the most powerful stage of life.

The wings began to unfurl only months ago. They are still damp, drying, learning to catch air and lift me. And when they do, I have found myself higher than I have ever been. It’s not a giddy stage, but a solid one. As if the ground beneath me too has risen.

And though I wonder if I will ever fall back down again, the inner wisdom in me tells me not to fear. We find our truth in those dark corners and hiding under places others dare not peak. And so we overcome as we become.

A sharing of reflection, evidence, found buried beneath the snow.

Solstice as a time of contemplation, withdrawing, looking within. Followed by The Gathering. Of resources, wisdom, strength, direction. Followed in turn by A Time of Giving. The natural evolution of things, the way the wilds work.

We learn from the seasons, the cycles of life. Now with our blindly outstretch hands in winters early darkness. Our fingers reaching, touching, exploring. We see with eyes closed that which is most essential to observe.

I may not have time to share words with you for a while. In the meanwhile, I leave you with a long one to take in as you like. This is on the notion of Natural Resilience. Inspired by a group meeting I was honored to be a part of here at our ranch recently.

This was written almost two months ago, on my retreat, scratching out the birth of ideas with pen on paper as the first snows fell and the river only began to freeze and I was upriver alone and so fulfilled and the great shift began.

This is not polished, it is not meant to be. It is a natural outpouring, and nothing more.

All it is. All it needs to be. A drifting thought no more permanent or important as stick floating down river. A quiet reflection on Natural Resilience.

It is hard to see in the plush season of summer or the stark covered winter. But now, in her season of exposure, of abandoned quiet grace, we begin to see again. This time of year is so clean. An open view. Bare branches, with leaves freshly shed. Upon the unadorned mountain, clarity surrounds us. Now is the season of exhaling, letting go. A natural allowance in the cycle preparing for the well needed dormancy that is descending. Balance. The eternal cycles of life. With every death, be it the fresh needles fallen and crushed beneath my gentle steps as I run through the woods, or burned hillsides standing cold before you… from this loss comes rich fertility, new life, new growth. A new cycle begins, or rather, continues. As with us, each trauma, each challenge, each new experience a lesson and a chance for natural expansion. The eternal rise and fall, death and rebirth. We are reborn every day, every moment. We humans have a tendency to hold onto the past, perhaps out of fear, comfort or laziness. We remain attached to the way it was as we are attached to identities and desires. Like the standing tree that refuses to shed its leaves, or the fallen tree than refrains from rotting.

Is this natural resilience?

Just down river from my camp beside a large beaver dam, past a swath of mixed live and dead blue spruce and vigorous willow bushes making walking through a challenge as in a labyrinth, I stumble upon a group of healthy, fat old aspen trees, all fallen down into what appeared a senseless jumble. The beavers had done this work which at first looks like vandalism, irrational human doing. Silly me – for nature rarely works in ridiculous ways, things coming and going for a reason, with a cause and effect, a part of some bigger picture that we may never understand. Unlike our man made ways, the rest is interconnected, parts of the wave, now rising, now falling, one moving and in motion with the other.

They, the beavers, as so much of wildlife we’ve noticed around here this year, are preparing for a big winter. They see signs we miss. Further, as we have observed numerous times, the felling of large old aspen springs forth a mass re-growth the following year of new shoots. A common biological reoccurrence creating natural sustainability. Upon further observation, I note there are few “middle aged” aspen. After t he so-called drought in this area lasting ten or more years, followed this year by the incredible rains, what I do note is a field of brand new shoots, healthy and prolific, having arisen from this especially moist year. The cutting of the old trees will allow these light to grow, and new life will be initiated in the process. This seems random and pointless at first to us, but when we look closer, longer, and do not interfere but simply, silently watch, we see. Natural resilience in action.

Sitting on cool damp sand surrounded by the silent calm of dead standing spruce trees, in small intimate opening down by the autumn river, I meditate. Ice begins to form along the banks and on the north sides of large boulders. The flow is lower now, more tranquil, serene, as the upper mountain springs begin the big freeze for the season. As if even the water prepares for hibernation, quieting the pulse of the mountain.

Here, by the river, with no further distraction than the occasional passing bird, and my dog patiently sitting on guard behind me, it is easy to become mesmerized by the water flowing over rocks in the river. The sound, the motion, the light. The continual movement, and the shift of attention from the fluid water above to the steady rocks below. I consider if we, as human beings, are more like the water, always changing, moving, following the path, and eventually ending up a part of the great ocean? Or are we the rocks, calm and unwavering and worn to a smooth grace by each passing molecule of water, like all the events of our lifetime, our lifetimes.

Starting from where, I wonder, what sweet seeping spring high up on the mountain has this water come? Endlessly, the water gathers, grows, flows and finds its way around each rock on a calling forever moving, together. And the rocks, each holding firm but worn so soft and smooth to the touch, as the waters continually flows by, taking a piece of the rock with it and leaving the essence of the rock behind to tumble, reset or remain in the ever changing waters.

And as the water would not be contained if not for the strength and direction of the rocks, and the stones would not be exposed if not for the gentle force of the water, I am reminded there is no separation.

And so it goes, the continual movement. As a drop of water flows, merges, stills, evaporates, and returns to the river once again in the delicate yield of a flake of snow.

And so it goes, the wearing, smoothing, settling of the stones. As the undying breath of the river continually brings forth and leaves, inhale, exhale, the eternal balance of that which will be, that which was, and the stone sitting solid in the here and now.

Now in my hand I hold one of those stones. And another. Each soft and round and smooth. A bit unusual and oblong. Each unique. With my open palm I smooth a small patch of sand beside me. Slowly, I balance and stack, a small shrine, and do nothing more than stare at this pile of rocks.

Perfection found in the harmony and balance of so much imperfection.

Is this not the key to natural resilience, this understanding, acceptance, and respect?

Here, by the river. That began as clouds, and will return as clouds, and back again, and so continuing as long before and far after me, in this one body, this one incarnation, this one chance at understanding more.

Yesterday morning. I wake to the silence of the river. Snow enwrapping my world. The simplicity of the monotone environment, washed in white. All inclusive. Without judgment or preference. Spruce branches, both living and dead, bow gracefully, and delicate limbs of the aspen humbly hold what they can. It is so much. And this intimate connection which becomes our shroud reminds us of the grace coming from above, sparing none. I step out and stand within the open air temple. I hear the song of falling snow. I stand beside the trees and too am covered, my lashes full and white, bow first, then my snow covered cap and shoulders. Snow embraces me. I shed tears which become a part of this eternal movement.

I can study the beauty and mystery of one individual snowflake. Each so remarkable and fleeting as they melt in my palm. And then see the whole forest turning white, covered, included, embraced. Can we see both the magnificence of one tree and the majesty of the whole forest with the same eyes and heart? And then look inside ourselves. One cell, and one whole body. The interplay, the interconnectedness, the interdependence, the unique beauty in all its perfect imperfections.

How connected we all are!

Why then do we keep ourselves so separate?

This, I believe, is natural resilience. And I am a part of it.

We all are.

And here is the secret the earth shares with me in our silence together. I know you know this too. In spite of human greed, fear, anger and lust, in spite of what we do to the earth, the water still flows. The seasons still come and go. The waves ebb and flow. The sun rises and sets. Places burn, epidemics spread, and new trees, new life, like new babies are born.

Nature is resilient. Are we?

Life. Life happens. When we open our eyes and our hearts to see the incredible eternal power and beauty of the natural way, how can we not be in awe and be humbled?

We are in a time of great change. In change, there is great hope. For what? Open our eyes. Behold! Open our hearts. Breathe in deeply. I need not say more for the answers are all there before us and within us. This beautiful, resilient nature. Of which we are a part.

~ ~ ~

With grace and gratitude.

For my beloved mountain, river and Earth.

For those with whom the fierce love of land, all land, all waters, and the deepest reverence for the Earth drew us closer.

For those with whom my spiritual quest and questions have blessed me with our connection.

For the new life and exciting changes being breathed into our guest ranch, Lost Trail Ranch.

For my dear teacher and friend of The Matrona from whom I have learned as much about life as I have about birth.

For my next book now birthing.

And mostly for my family, my boys, my two best friends, my team. Together on this mountain.

On Thanks and Giving.

November 30, 2015November 30, 2015 / Gin Getz / Leave a comment

In consideration and reflection of the year long intensive study of midwifery, spirituality and life of which I have been consumed.

I have recently been coming to a very strong and beautiful understanding of the teachings within my own heart. For me, as with most things in life, this did not come without resistance and a little bit of kicking and screaming.Mostly, however, it came through letting go, dropping both veils and armor, and seeing the truth within myself which these studies have forced me to look at.

We are not meant to blindly follow nor be anything we are not meant to become, unless we find contentment as sheep in a flock. Not all of us do. Some will question, some will quest. For us, by diving deep with open mind and open heart, we grow, like an in-breath, and with time are filled with a greater understanding and clarity. How could we not? Or do we resist change and refuse the view before us? Remain closed, comforted within the past, heads safety tucked within the wool.

Inevitably, we are challenged to look at truth, within and around us. The truth may be a little different for each of us, but for all of us, the process of finding the way is not always easy, often somewhat painful, frustrating, and frightening. Such is the process of awakening or becoming. It is expansive, and in the course of expanding, we are often left with uncertain boundaries and in the confusing state of seeing how much we do not know. At some point, the bottom drops out, and we are left to… fall or fly. And then, in that ethereal state, there is where the work is done, when all else has been stripped away, deep down within our souls, in the dark corners we may not have dared to look before.

The more healed, whole and understanding we then work to become, the more healing, wholeness and understanding we can give. This is the greatest gift. For ourselves and in turn for others. Are we becoming better, or are we simply becoming more? If the answer is “more,” we will inevitably find ourselves surrounded by more choice, and more community. As we become, so we belong.

Funny how a solitary path can eventually bring us closer to others. Simple as it sounds, perhaps it is because of more love, starting with ourselves, and then feeling we have more to give to others. In the absence or weakening of ego, we are left with weakening power of fear, defensiveness, judgment and anger. What can replace that void, in time, but love and knowing? And so, we open our hearts, and find them full and connected. Our community, far away as they may be, is revealed. Although we may be drawn together initially as strong, self directed (wo)men, because of our connection, we find ourselves even stronger, though possibly with a more gentle touch. Such teachings, such shared wisdom, and such support in time help us come face to face with our own unique formula (and thus practice and offerings) for care based on truth, compassion, bravery, and love.

Listening to each other’s stories, and being a part of the community, are powerful reminders and confirmations of this understanding, and living proof of this growing feeling. The comfort of community is the staff upon which we must at times lean. For any form of growth for the sake of found truth, not given truth, and then any resulting following of the natural choice of paths to pursue these truths (in my case, this is midwifery) is a political act. Whether we wish it to be or not, all of us following this calling will at times be up against the conforming, controlling majority, and will be labeled the rebel, risk taker, black sheep, and of course, the witch. Almost amusingly when you see the irony, we may be called ignorant and irresponsible, though our knowledge and understanding may be far greater and deeper than those pointing fingers. Most may not have to endure conflict and condemnation, though in time, all of us will have our challenges, our story.

At 49, having lived and continuing to live an untamed and unconventional life, I still feel I am just beginning. To understand, to know, to belong. And the more I learn, the more I am aware of what I still need to know. Likewise, how can we know what we need if we have never see these things before?

And so we must trust. And so must learn to let go, like the essence of the Tao. And that, then, is when truth is revealed.

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ~ Lao Tzu

So thank you, my dearest ones, for extending the community and allowing me to be a part of this sisterhood. I am so honored to be with you on this journey. May we continue graciously joining voices – expanding in our hearts and in our circles – supporting each other in supporting others.

A Quick Fix: Four Essential (and Easy) Steps to a Better Life.

September 28, 2015September 28, 2015 / Gin Getz / Leave a comment

In gratitude to elephant journal for sharing this today.

We each have our own unique journey and path. The challenge is to find the beauty and grace within each of us, not trying to be someone else, take on something which does not belong to us, or claiming someone else’s view as our own. We are each our own greatest teacher. When we learn to lead ourselves in our greatest manner, at our highest vibration, then we begin to expand into the soul we have the potential of being. Then we can serve as we are meant to serve. This is our responsibility. This is our wonderful journey.

We each need to find out for ourselves. And we can. The answers are within us all, and different for us all, as we are each beautifully unique. There is no cookie cutter form to define the path to or the goal of a better life. Though the more we dive deep and seek, the more we find there are universal truths.

Following is simply that: a summary of some of those universal truths for practice, for raising our own vibration, for moving ourselves along the path of enlightenment. For, quite simply, creating a better life.

And yeah, easier said than done, some days, isn’t it?

So we work together, learn from each other, help each other out and grow in the process. This too is our responsibility. Being of and contributing to our community.

This formula I am sharing with you is not original. The essential steps have been around for thousands of years, in theories and practices across the globe. Sifting through the vast array of infinite knowledge embedded in the great religions and spiritual practices, these four gems shine through, solid and bright, worthy of our attention. So yeah, maybe I’m just pointing out the obvious. But if you’re even a little like me, sometimes we need a bit of prodding to open our eyes to see what’s right there in front of us.

Four simple steps that make a huge difference. At the very least, these allow us, if only briefly, to feel better, and make us better people to be around for those closest to us. And maybe, just maybe, it does a lot more. This practice can raise our vibration which in turn raises the universal vibration. We not only create a better life for ourselves (and those with whom we live), we may in turn be creating a better world.

Give it a try and see for yourself. It works. I guess that’s why it’s been around for so long, in so many different mediums. It has helped me pick myself up when I’m down, raised my energy when it has weakened or I have wanted it higher, and brought me back on my path when I have stumbled and stalled. And when I practice what I’m preaching here, I’ve seen those around me lift themselves up in kind because of shared positive energy. How far can we take this potential?

One step at a time…

By being here now and reading this, you are on the path. That already is a giant step. Or like me, perhaps the accumulation of a lot of little ones. But I’m not counting that (or those) as one of the Four Essential Steps. That was probably the long drawn out prelude. At some point we feel so close, and yet, so blocked. We get to the stage of wondering, “What next?” And “Is this really working?” And “What is the point of this anyway?” Ah yes, the darkness before sunrise. This is a wonderful place to be, frustrating as it may feel. This, my friends, is the doorway to the Jewel within the Lotus.

Welcome!

Before we begin, let’s consider what “a better life” is. Here in the States, the mainstream leads us to believe that “better” is more. More money, prestige, power, position, possessions, trips and stories, labels and accreditations. Bigger is better; the more the merrier. Consumerism, capitalism, and the damning desire for more, more, more! We’re told “better” means having the perfect partner, a powerful job, tons of money, and an awesome body. How many of us think we need these things first, and then the better life will come? I’m pretty sure we’ve all done that. I know I have. You know, the “If only…” “I’ll be happy when…” “Why can’t I…” and “After I get x, things will be different.”

Well, let’s just say after years of work, we finally get “x.” And guess what? Then we find ourselves still unsatisfied. It happens. We’ve all done that. There’s a bigger picture out there. And once we realize we want to be a positive part of that, then “x” suddenly loses it charm. We find it wasn’t the answer.

I’m not saying these things are bad. But are they the keys to unlock a better life? Are these the essentials for a better life? We all know they are not. They are just the stepping stones to a Bigger life. Or bigger ego, bigger debt, bigger complication, bigger struggle and bigger picture in which we are still not a positive part. So bigger, yes. But better? You decide. You already know the answer. These are not the things that bring us inner peace, contentment, point and purpose, universal understanding and compassion. I’m guessing that if you’re here reading this, your journey is not one of material/superficial pride and profit. You are deeper than that. Your path is higher. Your path is one of wisdom, grace, and gratitude. And love. Definitely love. These are the keys to happiness, fulfillment. These are the keys to a better life.

And so we begin to shift our focus to where we are, what we have, what we can do, and who we truly are. We begin here, learning to create a better life. Not tomorrow. Not down the road. Now. Here and now. Within us. A beautiful place to begin looking and expanding. Starting within one’s self.

Wonderful things happen when we start to fulfill our inner calling, understand our place in the big picture, and honor the complete connection. And the funny thing is, often we find, through practice of these simple steps, we get what we are really seeking. And more. Start simple. The rest will follow.

Now, I’m not saying this is quick and easy. But starting is. And the steps we follow really are. And then it takes practice, dedication, discipline and commitment. And it’s worth it. Because it’s something we can do. Not something we are waiting for, or depending on others for, or need something else first before we can get what we think we want. It’s within us all. And yes, it works.

A better life. Who defines what that would be? You do, as you create it. Start by defining what matters most. Fancy food and a new car and big house and a hot date and a pile of cash to buy the latest, greatest, which is always something more? If that’s what you want, fine. Then you’re probably too busy shopping, spending, primping and preening, and battling through your high power job to be here reading this.

But for those who think maybe, just maybe “better” means something deep inside oneself, something maybe completely connected with the bigger picture, something very, very simple…

We’re the one’s working to change ourselves. Not because we think bigger is better, or more is mightier, or we want to keep up with the Jones’. But because we believe in working towards inner peace. And in turn, we are working towards world peace…

And that’s how we change the world. One little step at a time.

Okay, now onto those steps. (Finally!) Let’s get to work.

Four simple steps. Sounds so easy. Some days it is. Some days it’s not. Like with any practice, the more we practice, the better we become, the better our life becomes. But first, we must start. And second, we must continue.

This practice honors the highest and “best” within you and of life. Through practice, we honor and expand our mind/body/soul balance to the self/community/universe connection, practiced and expressed with gratitude, grace, respect and humility.

Keep it simple, or go as deep as you can. Take three minutes, or thirty… Just do it.

Breathe… Deep breathing is an art with many forms. This is but one way. This is based on the simplicity of centering, grounding, being. Begin with three deep breaths. Imagine the path of air like a cane flowing through your physical being. Bring your breath fully through your body, deep, down, bright and fulfilling. Breathe in through your nose, imagining the air moving up through your head, down your throat, through your lungs, heart, organs, and down into your core, through your solar plexus at the center of your physical being, all the way into your belly, the dantian, the cauldron, below your navel, where your chi or life force is stored. Then slowly exhale, following the path, completely up, and outward, letting go. Focus on each breath, following it completely through its path within you. Long, slow, deep breathing. Honor each breath. Watch it flow through you. Move your attention with it.
Release… This step creates relief, freedom, space. It is about letting go. Letting go of anger, fear, attachment and our ego. These are contractive states that do not serve our “best” nor the highest energy of the universe. This is surrendering. This is the hardest step. Try. That’s all you can do, and that alone is so much. Begin with forgiveness. And in forgiveness, begin with yourself. Forgive yourself. Accept, allow, be grateful, grow. It is part of going through what we went through that allows us to be where we are now. Be thankful for our past, but do not dwell on it. It is past. Release completely. Holding on to the past is self indulgence. Visualize yourself standing in a cool stream, with the past in your hands. Honor it with grace and gratitude, and then let it go, dropping your hands gently to the water, allowing it to float free, down through the cleansing river, away from you. It no longer serves you. Why hold on still? Continuing with your breathing, on each exhale, release more. Deeper, fuller. Down to our ego, the mighty lion roaring within us all, and that which fights the strongest to hold on in times of change. You are changing. Allow it. Imagine with each exhale, the ego, the past, fears and anger leaving you, floating out, flushed away, or blown out into ether where they can be returned to the Infinite Universe. Release.
Replenish… Now is the time to fill the void back up, recharge that space that was flushed of fear, anger, resentment and ego with Divine Light, love, positive vibration, expansive energy – call it what you will. This is the good stuff. Imagine it. Feel it. Visualize it coming from above, a beam of brilliant light reaching down from the heavens, penetrating into your crown, pouring into you, filling you, becoming you, radiating through you head to toe, and continuing deep into the core of the earth. Watch, feel, open, receive as this light pours forth luminous energy into you, filling you completely, radiating abundance, understanding, and love. See yourself completely glowing, a ball of light radiating from you, from your center, shimmering gold or white or a luminous rainbow. Pure light, pure energy. This powerful positive force shines within you, through you, from your center, deep within the core of the beautiful body you were given, outward, infinitely expanding.
Connect… Now we move beyond our self, our ego, our body, our aura, our space. Now we expand. With each breath, we radiate that inner light outward, farther with every breath. Begin on the in-breath, concentrating that light and energy and positive vibration radiating deep within the center of your being. On the out-breath, send it outward to share it, offer it, extend it. Again, breathe in to return to your center, your heart light where the energy concentrates and increases in intensity. And again breathe out to expand this light far beyond your physical being. Inward to replenish; outward to extend. Send the energy further with each breath cycle. Begin close, with those dearest or nearest to you. Then onward to your community, to nature, to all beings, to the Earth, to the Universe. Breathe out to an infinite expansion. As far as your beliefs will take you, and maybe a little further. Perhaps it is reaching outward just to the person next to you, and that alone is so much. Or maybe it’s further, reaching your community, all beings, the entire earth, and beyond. Where ever this step takes you, whatever feels right to you, it is beautiful. This is bliss, beyond one’s Self and a part of the Whole. It is outside of you. And yet you are part. Go with it. Expand. And here we find the paradox: you are both everything and nothing, everywhere and nowhere. Completely connected. Giving, offering, sharing, reaching out. And as we expand our energy, we expand ourselves. You are with this step making a better life, making the world a better place by reaching out with love and light and connection.

Four simple steps that take us so far and yet no where at all. We breathe into it, we release, we replenish, and we connect. And in doing so, we feel better. We are being a better person. We are creating a better life.

With each breath, we can create a better life.

Namaste. What a wonderful blessing to conclude with.

Standing Still…

September 24, 2015 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

With grace and gratitude to elephant journal for sharing my work,

for the opportunity to share words and worlds beyond my mountain,

and to all who have continued to read my writing, touched and inspired me.

Namaste.

Going Nowhere.

July 20, 2015July 20, 2015 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

As the leaves turn full and fat and green

and wilds swell moist and plump and prolific

and views enshrouded in cool grey veils

and mornings frost and afternoons wash us away

As flowers burst forth and fruit attempts to ripen

and seeds within are scattered without

so far yet from fruition but emerging

coming to a life not yet realized

River voice speaks loudly

monotone and constant

And I vaguely remember the in and out

pulse and surge of waves

But we do not have that here.

Pale silver morning dew

frosted on tall green grass

already turned to seed

that this year may wash away

rather than scatter in the winds

Waving silky laden pregnant with promise

I do not know their names

any more than I know the names of flowers or birds

as they know them not and care not too

Only appreciate my recognition:

the blue one, the dear one,

the silly one that lights atop the outhouse,

the yellow one that blooms beside the door.

Geese grow their young and feathers of flight

and coyotes are wisely silent

and crow sits on the rock watching her mate

feeding her child now the same size as she

And the river barely lowers her voice on this year

that the snow gathers energy to return early

on this lush ephemeral season

which I will watch pass

And through which I will remain

now apart of where I tried to leave

finding roots sinking spreading taking strong hold

through bedrock without my blessings

Ah yes, and now they got me.

And here I am

and shall remain

beside nameless flowers

and familiar songs of birds and wind

and grasses bursting with next year’s life.

The season is short. How long until the winter coat begins to grow again?

Time to get to work.

Got a house to build, a business to run, school to study, bellies to fill, another move to make… and another book to complete and the next one softly raps against the door, waiting for room to come in.

A tremendous time of change.

Time to turn within and focus at the work at hand.

Spilling over, now is the time of bounty.

Expansion in retreat.

And though the writing room is being built and new books are spilling into fruition, for now I am taking a rest from sharing articles for a while.

I’ll touch base from time to time, a way to keep grounded and connected and remind you I care, because I hope you know I do. In the meanwhile, please keep in touch if you’d like – write me directly or via this web site (sorry, I no longer use other social media and prefer to keep it personal instead).

Until the next time we meet…

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