Source: saatchiart.com
I’m trying not to anticipate, taking each moment as it comes
Stretching, reaching for equity in hopes I can become
A human who lives it right, a human that truly dares
A human that as the paradigm shifts is willing to be there
To take the leap of faith required to assist and heed the call
Not keep myself concealed from the tenderness of it all
Tricia Schwaba April 2020
Artwork source: Saatchiart.com
They say that time moves on, ultimately it tells it all
I guess that’s true and may explain the depth of this great fall
It seems that we, and our world won’t ever be the same.
Perhaps that’s the blessing in this tragic human game
We’ve created such a mess, we let the greedy lead the way
With sacred rituals shredded down, all thin, and bare and frayed
This planet that we share is throwing off all that’s not needed
We should have heard the call, but blazing signs were never heeded.
We shrugged and we side-stepped and we shit on holy ground
And now we find ourselves inside this vortex heading down
We are not in control, and in fact have never been
Do we regret the poor decisions that were made way back when?
When the winds of possibility gently pushed us towards the light
But instead all wanted more of the power and the might
The males took the wheel driving far into the darkness
Led by many troubled souls, with no contour only starkness
Money and the jewel of flashy houses, guns and cars
Pushed for most to cheat and steal while up the hill they charged
The summit was scattered garbage and the remnants of their choices
No air to breathe, no trees to nourish, no truth from velvet voices.
So what do we do now, can we dodge the great unknown?
Or be the winds of change so bold, stir the many seeds we’ve sewn.
Tricia Schwaba April 8, 2020
Art source: Anon
You are important to the collective healing process.
When the stress gets overwhelming
Breathe the deep breath.
Nourish yourself with
Good thoughts, good food, good intentions.
We will get through this.
We will transcend.
We will gather again.
And won’t that feel spectacular?
Art Source: ShaktiArt.com
I challenge you to sit quietly in the eye of the storm,
To not let chaos steal the moment.
I challenge you to breathe deeply
Even when fear dives to your depths.
I challenge you to smile at the temptation of panic,
Allowing it to float by, a cloud in the bright blue
A cosmic clue to the puzzle of your struggle.
I challenge you to declare your self-love out loud
A peaceful, powerful proclamation that you are indeed, worthy.
*The High Priestess is an entity that uses Tricia as a conduit for divine guidance. She’s lovely.
Tricia Schwaba 2020
What if you thought of it as the Jews consider
the Sabbath- the most sacred of times?
Cease from Travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now, on trying
to make the world different than it is.
Sing. Pray, Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down, and when your body becomes still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives are in one another’s hands.
(Surely that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out your tendrils of compassion
that move, invisibly, where we cannot touch.
Promise your world your love-
for better or worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we shall live.
Reverend Lynn Ungar
Art source: Fine Art America
Buddha, Shakti, Shiva, Jesus
Prana, Allah & Blessed High Priestess
Please answer my calls if you hover above
Reminding the haters, it’s all about love.
The misled are leading, with egos and boasts
The garbage rises, too much to compost.
If a second coming can ever occur
Could you make it soon and please don’t deter ?
We need guidance now, a revelation to seize
If you think it will help I can fall to my knees
I’ll offer my prayer for peace to reign
Or please guide me towards a more enlightened plane.
Tricia Schwaba, Original 2017
Source: Purple Buddha Project
I awakened to the sun rising over the snow covered lake that sits outside my front windows. These windows frame my initial perspective for the day as I scan the landscape for inspiration, movement, irritating red squirrels or the bowing of the treetops indicating the wind’s intensity or lack there of, for the day ahead. The sun was hitting just so, as to nearly blind me to all else. It grabbed me, “Pay attention!!”. So I did. I shed my sleepy eyes, rolling reluctantly into the day. As the sun’s rays slowly rose they allowed me a more complete vision, other forms coming into focus. A figure moving at the edge of the frozen lake caught my eye. It was an otter, it’s dark body striking against the white snow, it’s roller coaster spinal movements and it’s sleek, tubular physique undeniable. I wonder if she, (an assumption, I understand) like me, wonders how long it will be before we can both dive into the depths. I consider an otter a hopeful sight, not just for it’s unique animal beauty, but for it’s ability to inspire contemplation around my own ability to move fluidly & playfully through the simplicity of the north woods.
My mind acclimated from playful otter to cup of Irish Breakfast tea when 100 yards out movement again caught my eye. I saw my red fox prancing across the frozen lake, offering it’s own distinctive gait, head slightly dipped but eyes laser focused, ever scanning for both predators and prey. The thick fur of the tail trailed the core of the body proudly, not only stunning in it’s fullness, but near doubling the length of this beautiful being and I’m guessing offering him (another assumption) a kind of reverse radar, a sensing of what is behind, maybe even what has been. I consider this fox an unwitting friend, as I see him every so often traversing our property in search of sustenance, I suppose, like we all are. One day as I was diving into my therapy trio of stretching, contemplating and writing this one trots right by the sliding glass door that defines my outdoor scene, displaying striking red fur and a thick tail of the same red, dotted with black and finally moving to the whitest of tips at the tail. He didn’t look my way, focused on his mission. Fables interpret foxes as sly, clever, tricksters. I believe that. I lose him as he reaches the northern edge of the bay and ventures into the trees.
I remind myself of my good fortune to live amongst this stunning grandeur. Just last evening the weather was so unexpectedly pleasant it allowed Elliott and I to enjoy some deck sitting, granted, with our heater alight. I saw a deer canter out from the south onto this same frozen bay. We watched, the natural beauty ever captivating. Then another followed and another. It was a caravan, a half dozen cantering across this same bay heading to the same area the fox aimed for. How different their body shapes and the cadence of their movements. We sprinkled some black oiled sunflower seeds on the railing of our deck for the Chickadees and Finches. (Better than a feeder which inspires too many food battles!) We placed them directly in front of where we sat and they came, in their kind of dive-bombing descent from their respective branches, bold as can be, landing, hopping a couple of times, grabbing a treasure then scooting back to the safety of the high perch. I had my moccasined feet resting on the lower railing of the deck and much to my surprise and pleasure, a Chickadee landed on my foot, our eyes momentarily locking, as it uttered its Chickadee chirp (was that a thank you?) then hopped onto the upper railing to grab a seed and flee.
My morning ritual of looking, and really seeing, continually reminds me of the sweeping beauty of this place I am now fortunate enough to call home, with all it’s many species, each of us looking for our own form of nourishment to get us through this long cold winter, and hopefully finding it. I didn’t witness the return trip of the otter, the fox or the deer, but I know they will visit again as we all honor our necessary routines. This knowledge keeps me hopeful and on the lookout for more natural moments of gratitude.
Tricia Schwaba 2020
“my sense of humanity has gone down the drain,
behind every beautiful thing there’s been some kind of pain.”
— Bob Dylan
Earth below, heaven above
Show me the certain path to love
Show me the beauty deep inside
Where balanced and harmonious I can reside
Show me the way to the energy pure
Instead of passage to the ways things were.
Love restores my mind when weak
It leads me to this path I seek
It flags me down in times of doubt
Bringing a blessed turnabout
It seeks out peace when my mind’s a mess
Or I am feeling that I am somehow less.
Earth below, heaven above
Your grace it flies on the wings of doves
Brushing my soul, light strokes of faith
Gently dispelling harsh words of hate
Earth below, heaven above
I stand grateful on this path of love.
Tricia Schwaba, 2019
I am a stallion they’re attempting to break
They hold me I buck, they whip me I fake
Pretending it doesn’t go right to my core
This pain of not knowing what I’m here for.
I know I can run like the wind through the trees
But the saddle of life brings me down to my knees
As I pray to a God I’m not certain exists
With the hope that this burden upon me will lift.
I dream at night that I gallop along
Free from the others, to sing my own song.
No hurdles to jump, no jockey to please.
Flowing in harmony with balance and ease.
What of the broken, who host heavy rides
Taking riders to the other side
Of the town or the country, or the universe still
Are they serving their purpose, owning their will?
The breeze blows lightly through this mane of mine
I take in the sights and take note of the time.
The era of bridles and bits is through
I take only riders for whom bareback will do.
It ticks away quickly this autumn of life
I take in the colors releasing all strife.
I traverse the fields, drink waters so clear
Graze the lush pastures of a life without fear.
Tricia Schwaba, October 14, 2011
The decision to go gray is a big one. Especially in a society where youth is deified and the standard is set by a woman who has boatloads of money to buy personal chefs, personal trainers, botox injections galore and claims she understands the burdens of life. I imagine the salons filled with woman my age wondering if this is the right time, or should they wait just one more year. “Next year I think I’ll be more confident in the aging process” I fantastically say to myself as I flop my bevy of blonde curls to one side.
The challenge becomes acute for me as my hair is my defining characteristic. There’s no question about that. I refer to my college friends who, when we were deciding where to meet at any particularly crowded event the sentiment was “Just look for Schwaba’s hair!!”
When I was born I had brownish curls and a surprisingly circuitous hairline. In my baby portrait my hair looks startlingly like that of a balding 45 year old man who is wondering if he should begin the combover process. As I grew, the hairline was hidden behind the thick, coarse strands that grew like bamboo in the wilds of Asia. Fast and plentiful. Evidence of that, is a photo my brother Michael took of me, in 1965 me sitting in our backyard in the middle of two grand pumpkins, each supporting one side of my tiny body. Me in anklets, black Mary Janes, flowered corduroy pants, smart jacket and the locks of blossoming Hollywood starlet. Marilyn Monroe had nothing on 4 year old me. My hair was twice as big as my face and with my mother’s random and haphazard styling technique she unwittingly made it look like a mix of amber waves of grain and a blonde version of Bob Marley.
Of course as I became a teenager my hair became my bitter enemy. I pleaded with my mother to let me grow it long and finally her delaying technique of “When you are old enough to take care of it you may grow it as long as you like” fizzled, I began a 7 year process of growing it long, longer and longest. For those 7 years it remained, tethered to my head in an elastic band, a collection of varying lengths of jute cord that reached to my waist mimicking, exactly, a horse tail. Years later in my 20’s when I dated a guy who had attended the same high school as me, he informed me that my nickname had been (wait I had a nickname in high school?) Spider Woman.
“Spider woman?” I replied.
“Yes because of your hair” he responded. I’m still trying to figure that one out.
Now in the ensuing years all kinds of mousses, gels and pomades were developed which made the taming of the shrew much easier, but it still took a lot of work and much to my chagrin people still used my hair to locate various meeting points and destinations.
In an bold attempt to redefine myself in 1994 I shaved my head. Yep right to the skull. I told no one I was doing it, just for the shock factor. It worked, my good friends looking at me with concerned expressions and cocked heads, years later laughing at the look I thought was edgy and they thought insane. This cut corresponded to the unexpected time frame of my father’s passing, the process of which took 3 months. He worked his way towards his exit by becoming everything he had not been the previous 33 years I had known him. This dad was a talkative, tell the truth out loud, humorous version of himself, who randomly broke into song. He was perhaps prophetically drawn to the ballad Old Man River. He told me how great I was, ate soup that wasn’t there and requested his fantasy wallet off a dresser that did not exist. I liked this guy. When I took my shaved-head self in to see him the day he arrived at the hospital I walked into his room where he was alone examining the hem of his sheet.
“Hi Dad, how’re you doing? I bent to kiss his forehead.
He looked at me confused. “Michael?”
I laughed “No Dad, it’s me Tricia.”
”Tricia?” he exclaimed with furrowed brow.
”Yes dad it’s me.”
”What did you do?”
”I shaved my head”
”What the hell did you do that for? You look like a prisoner of war!”
Ouch.
That night I met my then husband at Barnaby’s for a pizza and a beer. It was one of those places where you place you order and go sit until they call your number. We heard our number. “I’ll get it.” I said, arriving at the busy counter where there was a lot of people buzzing around. The Friday happy hour into dinner time frame had brought out a lot of pizza and beef sandwich eaters. So I stood patiently waiting. He called our number again, clearly distracted by his many demands. I approached the counter and awaited instruction.
“Ok, Sir that’ll be $25.34.”
Ouch.
Fast forward to today, me teetering on the edge of this blonde or go gray dilemma, leaning more towards the idea of looking like the real me, instead of the me I wish I might still appear to be. Why is it that gray, which I suppose is ultimately an admission that I’m older and I’m now a part of a different crowd, so damn difficult?
Post-appointment I talked to my new north woods stylist after she did a color wash that had the effect of doing exactly what she said it would do, and exactly what I asked for; create a look that would help ease the transition into the new world of gray.
“I am just not sure, maybe I want to go back to blonde, It’s not vibrant enough, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” She called the owner of the salon, whom I had befriended in a flurry of initial appointments and, pre-appointment pleaded with, to give me a solution to my inner turmoil. Her solution was, of course, introducing me to said stylist. I stood before them, they with their beautiful hair, unique to each, both along the spectrum of red into strawberry blonde. They looked to my pate, contemplated, looked at each other with an otherworldly knowing, one only a stylist can have, returned to me analyzed, finally came to a minot consensus regarding the state of my “look”. They testified (yes I made them raise their right hands) that they loved it and I was totally pulling it off. My only reply was, “Really??” I remained unconvinced. A bit more staring at my head and me feeling self-conscious went on and then a collective decision was made. I would sit with it for a couple of weeks and then decide. Would I get back on the carousel?
I walked to the car clinging to their proclamations of “I love it!” got in and drove myself to one of my favorite shops. “Just a quick glance at the clearance items” I commanded my cut off image in the rear view. Clearance my ass. At this particular establishment clearance prices are higher than most regularly priced items at other shops and far above that which I should be spending at this point, especially considering I do not currently wear three quarters of the clothes I have in my closet. But hey I figured a nice expensive clearance shirt might help me like my gray better. It’s all part of the process of acceptance.
While gazing at the clearance rack I saw this beautiful orange button down with bell sleeves. Simple but elegant. Just my hopeful style these days. I plucked it off the rack and looked around for a mirror catching the saleswomen’s eyes. There were three of them behind the counter. One had waist long dreads, blond, thick and beautiful. I had seen her many time before. Her hair definitely defines her. “Hello” we both said with a smile. The other 2 women looked up as well offering their greetings, one of which struck me to my core.
”Oh my God I absolutely love your hair! Is that curl natural?” one saleswoman asked.
I looked behind me for another woman she may be addressing. No one there. It was me. ”Yes” I replied. Back to my hair. Ugh.
She confessed, ”I have been wanting to go gray for years and I haven’t been able to do it. Yours looks great!”
”Thank you so much” I said as I explained my inner dilemma in 45 words or less.
”No do not go back. It looks fabulous. You are inspiring me to do the same. I love it!”
The dreaded woman nodded her head in agreement and the third woman opened her eyes widely and said, “I agree!”. No disputes here.
The non-dreaded women, I guessed, were around my age, straight haired bobs to the jaw line, tastefully dyed blonde. I knew where they were. I felt that stab of possibility. I had given it to women I had seen who went gray, pulling it off with confidence and an energy that said, “I know exactly who I am and I’m going to own myself, my hair and the wisdom I’ve accumulated from living in a society that puts undo pressure on females to keep looking 35 for the rest of their lives; stay thin, asses tight, boobs high and God forbid no damn imperfections please!”
I took a deep breath returning my focus to the present, me standing with the orange blouse up against my chest, and I gave the saleswomen my profound gratitude for expressing their very kind words, pretty certain that they knew not the power of their unexpected compliments.
I looked down at the tag on the clearanced orange shirt. I replaced it on the rack. “Thanks so much” I called as I went towards the exit. I caught a vision of a woman in the mirror by the exit. She looked confident, despite the lines of life on her face and had a shock of wild gray hair. And surprisingly she looked just like me.
Screw it. I’ve made my decision.
Let yourself go.
Tricia Schwaba
7737048172
tricia@triciaschwaba.com
brightbluesage@gmail.com