On This Planet

I fear for the angels amongst us
Myself included
It would appear the demons have won
Gobbling up the land
Stealing many of the riches

Humanity will no longer
In its current form
Survive
It cannot

The Earth in her wisdom
In her strength
In her beauty will always win

The suffering
The breakdown
The death that this propagated evil leaves in its wake
Is painful to witness for those of us who know

Love and compassion
And caring for each other
IS THE ONLY WAY
To stay afloat
On their tumultuous sea of greed

There are no riches that can be hoarded
Without the consequences of
Breakdown and destruction

I take these fleeting moments I have left
Here on my version of this Earth
And I look back
Now understanding that we all had choices
For it to be a heaven or a hell

The many small-minded, ego-driven, sad little men
Who think they are winners have chosen hell
They’ve done nothing but
Destruct, ruin, ravage
Every last thing that holds beauty

So little they can comprehend
Their stupidity leading the way

They haven’t won at all
They have lost

The power of the Universe wins
The Earth is goodness and compassion
And only the good and compassion lives on

The angels thrive and flourish
Dancing in the harmonious flow of the Cosmos
While the demons consume each other
Ultimately turning to dust

Thank the Goddesses and the Gods alike.

Tricia Schwaba August 2, 2026

Maria Popova from her book Traversal 🩵

“We build sandcastles of our loves and fancy them fortresses of granite, then watch bewildered as the waves of our inconstancy lap them away, along with the footprints of the builder. Each love we love and unlove alters the way we walk through life, alters the trajectory of our traversal along the shoreline of the self. The only constant is that we go on walking, that we remain pilgrims of possibility. We would not walk if we had already arrived. We would not write if we had already arrived. Out of our incompleteness and our disorientation, out of our longing and our wanderlust, arises the motive force of every love and every revolution, of our science and our art, of our creation and our self-creation. Every creative act is an act of traversal.”

Conductor by Tina Malia

“To my home in the hills
Why did I roam?
To my home in the hills
Take me back”
Tina Malia

Words from Matt Moberg

This is what the world needs to hear.

I think every human being

eventually has a moment

where they are standing outside in sweatpants

that have lost the will to be pants,

holding a trash bag, a divorce, a parking ticket,

or some other receipt from the universe

that says, “surprise, this too is part of it.”

And then the sky bruises purple.

And the air touches your face

like it knows your whole story.

And suddenly you realize:

all the real is actually unreal.

The dirt.

The breath.

The weird little bones in your hands.

The fact that we are here,

on a floating rock with pollen counts,

paying bills,

missing dead people,

loving living people

who say “leaving now”

while still fully naked and looking for socks.

And still,

the moon clocks in.

No applause.

No benefits.

No note from management saying,

“Great work being ancient and luminous again.”

Just the moon,

working nights

like a single mother with no applause,

packing silver lunches

for every dark thing

that still has to rise.

Tell me that isn’t holy.

Tell me there is a better word

than sacred

for the way light keeps returning

with no guarantee

we will actually stop and take note.

I know people who believe in therapy,

probiotics,

tarot,

twelve-step meetings,

manifestation journals,

and waiting exactly eleven minutes

before texting back

so they do not appear emotionally available,

even though their whole nervous system

is standing in the driveway holding flowers.

And underneath all of it,

every ritual,

every doctrine,

every smoothie with chia seeds,

the prayer is the same:

Please let me be loved.

Please let me be forgiven.

Please let this strange little life

mean something

before my lower back

submits its formal resignation.

What is going on?

For real tho—What is this place?

This unbearable tenderness

of being alive long enough

to watch steam lift from coffee in winter

like a soul practicing leaving.

To see your friend laugh so hard

they slap the table

as if joy is a mosquito

they are trying to kill.

To hear a child say “pisghetti”

and, for one shining second,

realize language

has finally been improved.

I know I already noted this in the first piece,

but the older I get,

the less use I have for certainty.

Certainty has never made me pull over

because the sunset looked like God

dropped a jar of peach jam

across the whole midwestern sky

and decided to be lazy

and not clean up.

Certainty has never made me gasp

at rain on hot pavement.

Certainty has never found me

in the cereal aisle,

holding Captain Crunch,

suddenly remembering

that everyone I have ever loved

was made from stardust,

hunger,

and a series of decisions

we probably should have slept on.

No.

It has always been awe.

Awe was the first church.

Before steeples.

Before committees.

Before men got involved

and started making rules about skirts.

Awe was there

with its wild hair

and muddy feet,

saying:

Look.

Look again.

Look until looking

becomes love.

Awe, and soup.

Awe, and someone rubbing your back

when you are sick.

Awe, and old couples at Target

arguing gently about avocados,

as if marriage is not one vow

but ten thousand errands

performed beside the person

who knows exactly

how you like the cart pushed.

Maybe gratitude

was never meant to sound elegant.

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Damn.

That woodpecker is trying

to beat that tree from itself.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you, body,

for continuing to drag me through this world

despite the many slim jims

I have done to you

at gas stations.”

Maybe gratitude sounds like:

“Thank you to the dogs

who lose their entire minds

when we come home

as if we have returned from war

and not Walgreens.”

For me, that might be my gospel.

That joy that does not wait for us

to be impressive but only needs us

to come through the door.

Because the truth is,

this life is devastating.

And ridiculous.

One minute you are 22 and invincible,

driving too fast,

eating gas station nachos

with the confidence of a Greek god.

The next minute you are googling,

“Can sneezing cause a hamstring injury?”

and the answer is,

apparently,

“Welcome to the second half of your life.”

But even now—

even tired,

even grieving,

even emotionally held together

by iced coffee, playlists,

and one very specific wolves hoodie—

we keep finding reasons

to stay soft.

We plant tomatoes

even though grief is real.

We bake bread

even though the news is on fire.

We send photos of the sky

to people we love

with captions like,

“LOOK,”

as if beauty is an emergency

and we are all volunteer firefighters.

We keep saying,

“You have to see this,”

because wonder

is the oldest form

of resurrection.

So here’s to the believers

and the atheists

and the agnostics

and the people whose entire theology

is just trying not to cry

in the DMV line.

Here’s to the people clinging to faith.

Here’s to the people clinging to Xanax

and oat milk

and the one group chat

where nobody pretends to be okay.

Here’s to the tender-hearted weirdos.

The accidental mystics.

The ones who can contemplate mortality

for six straight hours

and then become emotionally attached

to a perfect peach.

The ones who know

despair has a mouth,

but so does laughter.

May we never stop being drop-kicked by beauty

in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

May we never become so polished

that we forget how to stand

in the Starbucks line of existence

with our dumb, gorgeous hearts open,

feeling the enormity of it all

rattle around in our bones

like thunder

looking for somewhere to laugh.

And may we remember:

whatever else this is,

whatever mess,

whatever miracle,

whatever cosmic group project

no one was prepped for—

all’ve it is astonishing.

that we are here.

that we have loved enough to be ruined.

that the moon keeps showing up.

that bread exists.

So pass it on.

Tear off a piece

with your bare hands.

Take it in as you take it down.

And then go outside and look at that moon.

MM

(Poet and artist Matt Moberg)

Thanks to Jeanette Vigne for sharing this.

United in Song, 1000 Musicians, Rebel Rebel by Bowie

You won’t regret it!

All At Once

I am a woman of the Earth

a mother deep in the core

Solid

Nourished by minerals

that push me forth

I grow like an Aspen

the many facets of my self

shimmering in the sun

awaiting acknowledgement

as I stretch towards individuation

I am a man in the sky

a father dancing in the heavens

keeping angels awestruck

I hover seeking soft earth

to plunge my root deep

harmonize strength and vulnerability

I am both

I am neither

All at once

Tricia Schwaba 2026