For What Binds Us, by Jane Hirshfield

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they’ve been set down —
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There’s a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest —

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.

Jim Flanagan Has Flown

Jim Flanagan

Jim was my cousin. He loved life. He flew planes, he sailed boats, he fixed things.

The fire was lit, darkness had come upon us and the party was a good one— not too many people, but just enough to make it feel festive. To my left a few women sat on a stretched out lounge chair chatting on about north woods fashion, a conversation I had been a part of until Jim caught my eye. He was sitting across from me in an Adirondack chair, legs crossed figure 4 style. In his right fore & third fingers a cigar was perched, half smoked, his other hand was resting on the armrest cradling a jigger of bourbon in a heavy glass, the fire dancing off its rich golden color. His face struck me at that moment, donning reflective, contemplative eyes and a relaxed, subtle smile. I took note thinking, “He looks really content.” We continued to sit amongst the chatter, movement & laughter around us, both of us quiet.


I wasn’t around Jim all that much in past years but living in the north woods, as we both chose to do later in life, you connect with close-by family & kindred spirits as sparse as they are with more intent, fostering connections to bring warmth to a very long, cold season. You make more of an effort. For that effort I

got to know Jim, a man that had adored my mom, and she him. I understand now that she offered him guidance his own mother could not— guidance he desperately needed, but it was his touted academic accomplishments & their subsequent professional success that had become the bulk of my Jim Flanagan recall— until Three Lakes.


A couple of weeks after that party Jim texted me, 

“Do you have a sewing machine?”

Did I hear him right? I had never had a man call me up and ask about my sewing machine— maybe not even a woman, but I thought, it’s Jim. 

“Yes I do” I responded.
“Do you think I could borrow it? I’m creating a new sling seat for my sail boat.” After initial confusion about how one would sew a sailboat seat I was impressed, thinking “Of course you are!” 

He continued, “ I looked it up and it says you can use a home sewing machine if it’s powerful enough.”

“Absolutely you can borrow it.” 

We spoke of his plans, me surmising it was basically sewing a gigantic pole socket in the seat material which he described as “trampoline-like”. I had done this exact project on much flimsier material many times to change the look of my rooms with random drapery panels I had created. We discussed machine mechanics and the durable thread & needle he would need. Not surprisingly he had already located a site to purchase the required thread and he let me know it might take a while to arrive what with he supply chain issues, and that as soon as it did we would connect for the project. 


Finally I asked him, “Would this be something you want to do on your own? Have you ever used a sewing machine? Do you want my assistance, or would you want me to do it?” 

He replied, “Maybe we could do it together."
 In both our minds it was scheduled on an unknown date.

A few weeks passed and it popped into my head. I wondered, did the thread come? The sailboat seat project, planned but never begun, dangles in my mind.



As I lay here today staring at the sky, I want to know what happens when we pass. This has haunted me since I could think. What happens to the essence of who we are? I understand the physical breakdown. I witnessed in real time life leaving my dad and with my mom, I saw her body minutes after her transition. I saw life leave my dog Marley in the briefest of moments this past May as we chose to release her from her physical body which had become too great and heavy a burden. In each instance I stared seeking— hopeful. Please give me a clue, but while the bodies were in tact no one was home. 
 


I go back to that party night often, the music, the laughter and Jim so content and peaceful in the moment. I thought of the love he had found with Haidee, this place he loved to be— the North Woods, the professional work that he thrived on, the love and devotion to Robert & Bridget, the stately Boxer Hana who had captured his heart in the way only a dog can do, the love he felt for his cousins and friends. I thought of his quirky ways that truly fascinated me. And I thought of all the people that loved him.


On the night of the party I was going on and on about a spider we had living by the water’s edge who had created an amazing pod in which I could only assume her future baby spiders were incubating. The pod was the size of a fist and sat at the very top of several gathered 2 foot tall weeds. The mother clung to the outside of it, cradling it, nurturing it and even as the tender weeds blew in the breeze she was unfazed. And she was big— so big she at once freaked me out and completely intrigued me. I had tried to get people to be interested, to inspire the beauty of the spider but to no avail. Then from the cloud of indifference I heard Jim say, “I’ll go”. 



We walked down to the waters edge, flashlight in hand, and I directed the powerful beam at the pod. There she was all 8 legs encompassing her legacy with intentional protection. Jim observed with his analytical eyes and his scientist mind and I exclaimed tritely, “Isn’t that cool?!” He gave me a micro-nod then went back to his examination with moves very Jim-like. Then we headed back to the fire. 



That night is vivid in my mind— seeing Jim completely content, volunteering to look at the spider with me and earlier in time him requesting my assistance with his sailboat. Those memories hang in my mind and because of the circumstances of Jim’s passing there will be no more seeing his physical body. I take solace in the fact that he may visit occasionally, maybe giving me an ethereal ray of hope, reminding me of what’s important, perhaps in a vision. Or maybe I’ll see that spider next summer or one of her gigantic offspring and I’ll think of that united witnessing and how amazed Jim & I were at that stunning sight that the other partygoers shunned. 


Jim Flanagan has flown. He has hit the true skies, broken the sound barrier— flown into the sweet mystery that is the unknown. Not another human alive can tell us what that means. Jim now knows. I am confident he lives on in all of us. I am hoping that my vision of him as I looked up that night is how he might feel now— content, cigar in the right hand, bourbon in the left hand, crossed legs, looking peaceful and truly understanding that he was an integral part of all of the beauty.




Tricia Schwaba November 2021
 




When I Am Among the Trees, Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

by Mary Oliver

No Obstacle Too Tall

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During the moments when I am connected to all

Nothing seems impossible, no obstacle too tall

Then I flip back, to all possibilities end

Crying pitiful tears, praying for amends.

But on I go, testing fate, seeing if I can steal a taste

Of any flavor that can re-kindle my faith.

Tricia Schwaba, 2021

Whole Grain Blueberry Muffins

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Truth be told I’m not a big muffin fan, BUT I have been making this recipe for years and they are fabulous. Everyone seems to love them. Even the kids in my life. They are my go to if I want to make something for someone who needs a lift or just to show my love & appreciation. They have no eggs, no butter and while they do contain buttermilk (yogurt is a viable sub) they could go vegan with some insight.. These in the photo just popped out of the oven. They are for my beloved yoga students who will be in attendance at my last in person class. I hope you give them a try.
Namaste—
Peace, Love, Joy & Play
Tricia

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Tricia's Words, Void of Content

Art Source: Duy Huynh

Art Source: Duy Huynh

She has withered, 

Becoming a human sheath, 

Void of content.

Blown by the wind,

She hopes, at each momentary landing, 

To be filled with insight,

Once again buoyantly grounded.

But her spiritual angst 

Has become impossible to unwind

She is pared down to the essentials

The struggle of light versus dark 

Is endless, until it becomes 

A struggle no more.

Tricia Schwaba, September 2021

Gradual Baptism

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The rain falls blessedly onto my heaven bound third-eye.  Drop by drop it cleanses my stubborn and controlling vision. It’s difficult to see what the Universe has planned around all the visions I have created for myself. The tiny splashes offer a gradual baptism, a clarity. I finally drop the reins.  

Tricia Schwaba, 2016, From the Archives