Waiting on the Cold White

The stark, icy cold of winter— the whiteness, the no-complication, the no-contour, the many shades of white layered on various shades of gray has yet to grace the north— I see remnants of autumn with its breakdown and hollowness but I feel a void of expected seasonal change— the uncertainty of the Oaks as they hold tight to their few remaining leaves, the green mosses shine chartreuse, confused though brilliant, shrouded in a near-blue frost as they await the chance to rest and lie dormant. Today they still feel the heat of the Earth warming their tiny roots and reaching towards the suns periodic kisses on the tips of their beings.

I remain in hope that starkness will arrive ridding the landscape of the complication of muted hues and lake water that still moves under the too-thin layer of uncertain ice. I cling to the hope that the presented landscape will once again offer me a blank page on which to spew my new aspirations and my, as yet recognized, winter-oriented insights.


I’ve always appreciated, even needed, the starkness of winter and its simplicity. The freeze offers opportunities— a snapshot moment but for months on end, allowing nature to slow and stand still. In other seasons varying, vibrant colors are on display, swaying in both graceful and severe movements. Scents grab us and throw us into the past, our eyes are tempted into the spectrum of hues and the birds awaken us with their symphonies of sound. The eyes, the ears, the nose, can be caught in a sensual whirlwind. But winter is less demanding, offering time to hibernate, even contemplate about where we’ve been and where we are headed. We can dream about the blessings of warmth, appreciate the slow thaw and its accompanying new growth, small eruptions of green on the thinning blanket of white, bubbling over with possibility.

Time, space and quiet are conducive to the creative energy reset, a re-contextualizing, an embracing of the heat of new perspectives after which we can once again honor the words— “Hope springs eternal.”

Tricia Schwaba, December 26, 2023

Waiting on the Cold White

The stark, icy cold of winter has yet to grace the north— the whiteness, the no-complication, the no-contour, the many shades of white layered on various shades of gray. Today I see remnants of autumn with its hollowness. I feel a void of seasonal change— the uncertainty of the Oaks as they hold tight to their few remaining leaves, the green mosses shine chartreuse, confused though brilliant, shrouded in a near-blue frost as they await the chance to rest and lie dormant. Today they still feel the heat of the Earth warming their tiny roots and reaching towards the suns periodic kisses on the tips of their beings.

I remain in hope that starkness will arrive ridding the landscape of the complication of muted hues and lake water that still moves under the too-thin layer of uncertain ice. I cling to the hope that the presented landscape will once again offer me a blank page on which to spew my new aspirations and my, as yet recognized, winter-oriented insights.


I’ve always appreciated, even needed, the starkness of winter and its simplicity. The freeze offers opportunities— a snapshot moment but for months on end, allowing nature to slow and stand still. In other seasons varying, vibrant colors are on display, swaying in both graceful and severe movements. Scents grab us and throw us into the past, our eyes are tempted into the spectrum of hues and the birds awaken us with their symphonies of sound. The eyes, the ears, the nose, can be caught in a sensual whirlwind. But winter is less demanding, offering time to hibernate, even contemplate about where we’ve been and where we are headed. We can dream about the blessings of warmth, appreciate the slow thaw and its accompanying new growth, small eruptions of green on the thinning blanket of white, bubbling over with possibility.

Time, space and quiet are conducive to the creative energy reset, a re-contextualizing, an embracing of the heat of new perspectives after which we can once again honor the words— “Hope springs eternal.”

Tricia Schwaba, December 26, 2023

Turtles & Spirit Guides

art source: anon

The turtles are crashing in to one another, demanding my attention as the winds gust and the gray clouds over the bay threaten to move in and drench the Earth. The 5 wooden turtles are the hanging ornaments on a wind chime that dances in my front yard. They hang from a thin log on varying lengths of jute cord, their constant, intended collisions offering up pleasantly hollow percussive beats. It was purchased, and hung, in honor of my mom who had an unexplained love & fascination of turtles.

I look up Turtle in my Animal Spirit Guide book and see the following excerpts and possible connections — “seek self reliance, slow down and pace yourself, you may have an increased sensitivity to the earth’s vibrations, shield yourself from distractions”. I contemplate the shamanic characteristics of my mom’s favorite creature. They make sense, my mom having bore eight children, subsequently becoming a grandmother to 17 and great grandmother to 18+. She was not left too much time to answer her dominating creative callings. Pacing herself was near impossible, and distractions were constant. Her sensitivity to the earth’s vibration were apparent, reflected in her demand to be in the woods and on the lake every summer. Our ritual of traveling north to escape the city every summer mingled with her need to be closer to God.

Upon random sightings I often consult my Animal Spirit Guide book to see what revelations might lie on the page. While some people find them BS, I don’t and, in fact, I seek out connective meanings in the characteristics of the animal sighted, or dreamt about, and the proposed mystical meaning the animal has historically represented to the seers and the shamans that sought spiritual guidance from nature’s bounty, specifically in animal encounters. I would not say the passages are concretely prophetic, but most of the time they shine a light on an avenue of insight I would not have considered, revealing a strong, sometimes remarkably prescient, bolt of coincidence surrounding my immediate emotional and/or physical circumstances.

My mom didn’t need to know what the meaning of the turtle was to a distant shaman. She was a clairvoyant herself though not many knew this. She trusted she was guided. She loved watching turtles in both, the fresh water north woods lakes of her summer home, and in the waves of the Atlantic ocean that she, for a while at least, dove into yearly around the time of Spring’s arrival. She connected to them on a spirit level and her ability to flow through any body of water with a grace unparalleled made a possible past life camaraderie come alive in my mind.

I have inherited my mom’s draw towards mysticism. I strive to define this life in non-physical terms, seeking spiritual meaning, often futilely, in everyday occurrences. My mom knew when I was conceived, then born, that we were spiritual peers. Because I was a “late” baby I grew up in a different way from my 7 siblings, if only defined by the time I spent with her one on one. Many evenings we sat at the table overlooking the lake, just the 2 of us, sharing a meal discussing how it feels to be a soul in a human body. We covered heaven and what might happen when we leave the physical body. She revealed her frustration with the patriarchal hierarchy of the Catholic church that had formed, then dominated, her God connection soaking her in notions of shame, guilt and projections of what evil may arrive should she not follow their teachings. I knew it was the time of my conception that shifted her. Another baby, but this one would be the symbol of her crumbling religiosity and of her own true spiritual birth. Her connection to God would no longer be defined by another human. It was now all hers.

Some might interpret these conversations too heavy for a young person, but I understood. It was a sharing that I knew was a freeing up for her, a stating aloud that which had before been trapped and festering. I felt the release. For me it was permission to think outside the confines of an organization and create my own distinct connection to the divine. When the number of people in our the house would swell I would sit on the giant boulder that sat adjacent to our house in the trees, hidden from all eyes and I would find calm by watching the lake lap at the shore and my imagination would soar. My appreciation and respect for the random animals that would trot through our yard grew as I began to see them not as things to fear or dominate, but as beings to share the Earth with. I read about the callings of the original Americans, the indigenous peoples of this land and their perspective that animals lead us towards the deeper parts of ourselves, the non-tangible part, the part that has, since the time I landed on the Earth, been my north star.

I consider the wind chime turtles demanding my attention this morning a sign that my mom is with me. She is in the turtles, in the wind, in the rippled waters, the gray clouds hovering and the blue sky beyond. She is calling me to that place deep within, as she has done ever since I can remember,
“C’mon in Trish, swim like the turtles, the water is beautiful”

Tricia Schwaba May 17, 2020

From O to 59 In No Time

Isn’t it interesting that when we talk about aging it’s really all about what happens to the physical body after 50? Guess what, we start aging the moment we are born. And a lot of it is really good stuff, what with the talking and the walking and the discovery and the joy. Inevitably mixed in are the pesky disappointment, heartbreak, adolescence and fucked up relationships, but hey there’s a lot more positives than we give credit for. I understand we all have it differently and I grew up in the luxury of privilege with the skin color that would pretty much keep me safe throughout my life (with the exception of that night when I was 17 but that’s a different essay). 

My point is — collectively the aging process is based on what goes wrong with us, not with what goes right. Hell, if we are going to focus on what goes right, what would all the advertising executives do? How would those poor guys make a buck? How on Earth would they convince us all that we are actually sub-par and in need of the latest cream (It only costs $125 per ounce!) or worse yet, in need of an injection or a face fix via the knife (where the end result might make us look good, but just so we know may make us look freakish, or possibly like a swollen post-surgery patient for the rest of our days, but thank God it’s available because that is so much better than a few hard earned lines).

59 is the day for me today. So I have survived 59 years of aging. As you can see in the pictures above, my face has changed quite a bit. In all honesty I could have posted an “I woke up this morning, have no makeup on and have placed the camera in the worst possible light to capture all my lines and flaws” shot, but I’m not quite that mature yet. You get the idea. This was my face, and is my face and as it goes I’m okay with both. It seems one of the main things you can take from these photos is that my hairline has filled in and I no longer dress like a Mormon.  

So as I venture out into my day, one that is blessedly filled with sunshine and warm temperatures, I am grateful for all 21,535 days I have opened my eyes, stretched my arms and legs and wondered “What the hell is going to happen today?”

Tricia Schwaba May 2, 2020

Facets and Hues

The sun is shining through strongly this evening. It comes from behind our house and shines onto the bay in front highlighting the trees on the opposite side of the lake making them appear nearly fluorescent. The easy wind picks up occasionally and the glass-like water gives way to a cluster of ripples, a choreography of facets and hues. Then glass again. “Our” deer family, all females, have returned looking now, not for the corn we bestowed upon them in the depths of the icy winter, but for the natural resources beginning to sprout from our front yard, a yard of soft mosses and still undetermined shoots, life sustaining to these graceful, skittish, creatures. They are hyper aware, like me, searching for predators, hearing the softest sounds, with pairs of tall ears twitching, quick independent directional movements each on their own wavelength. They see my slight movement from behind the picture window some 20 yards away. The alpha stops, staring me down looking right through me, then relaxing her jaw shifts right and left breaking down the good fortune of the nourishment she has found. Empathically I still myself. I too am sensitive to predators on the move in this particular humanity. I watch in wonder, sending out the gratitude I feel every time they visit. She  goes back to foraging. I breathe deeply. Her long legs are thin, belying her power, one that can catapult her over an obstacle 4 feet high with graceful confidence. I hear a loud noise from the south. All 4 deer heads rise in unison from the ground they were inspecting, and turn towards the sound. I stretch to see if I can see anything and my movement causes the 8 huge doe eyes to take one last look my way, then bolt in a line, towards the western woods, 4 white tails waving goodbye.
This is my ongoing project, watching the ice melt, the creatures forage and anticipate the coming of spring, that in some years past, I was certain would never return. And yet here it is, a lifeline. This beautiful, sunny warmth I can feel in my heart is much appreciated and ignites my hope that humanity can indeed heal.

Tricia Schwaba April 26, 2020

The Otter, The Fox & The Chickadees

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

Gray is the New Blonde

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.

Essay: What Will Be Bestowed

I saw a group of deer walking across the frozen lake this morning, heading towards sustenance wherever that may exist. There isn’t much out there this late in the winter. They, like me, await the thaw and the blossoming of the next season, the one of colorful possibilities, maybe even revealing new sources of nourishment. This season, of whites and grays, bones cold and stiff, starkness erasing all distractions from the frivolity of life, hits hard and lasts long. This season in the north. There is a domination of openness that calls, even invites. Underneath, unseen lies many layers of hardened sod covered in ice. To tread one needs a layer of metal underfoot to grip the uncertainty, to avoid feet in the air, hips hitting hard. Traversing the tribulations of the icy Earth. Conversely, the momentary spectrum of color that same ice creates when the winter sun hits it just so, gives me firmly planted feet and hope for what is to come. 

I’ve heard many compare a lifetime to the seasons, the winter of one’s life being that last go around before the mystery is solved. No one really knows about that, though some speak as if they know, that they have solved the mystery, that they have a direct line of communication with God, just because they say they do, not understanding that that very claim negates everything they preach. 

I have read of those asserting random unexpected connections with the divine, even death then a returning. They, all races, all ages, all genders, their lives indelibly changed. I for one believe them. Most are skeptical of those people, more so than the preachers who say they know, and request money to divulge their secret messages from on high. 

For me, the divine comes, not in messages from others, but in sparks of insight at the most unexpected times. In the prism that floats across the room when the sun hits God knows what at just the perfect angle, or when walking in the zero temperature, all body parts covered except the eyes, led down a pristine path of white into which I forge my own footprints, breaking the blanket of snow with each step and I see diamonds dancing all around on the white layer, me walking through this one time only choreography, performed for this audience of one.  

God has been whitewashed by the utterings of those who claim to know the way others should live to achieve what they themselves, can only imagine. Surely most, if not all, reside in the root of their own insecurity sinking into the desire to get, to usurp, to control, those motivations that I, in this lifetime, am transcending, hopefully with no connection to what will be bestowed. I seek to connect to the mysterious, often fleeting, power that is only mine, unique to the timing of my spring, my summer, my autumn and my stark winter.