The Otter, The Fox & The Chickadees

art source: Spruce Creek Studio

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

Certain Path of Love, Yoga Closing 2/28/20

Earth below, heaven above

Show me the certain path to love

Show me the beauty deep inside

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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

Stallion

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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

Gray is the New Blonde

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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

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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. 

Root To Crown Up & Down

art source: anon

art source: anon

Base of the spine to crown of the head is the most vital energy line.
It flows just in front of the spine.
As my students hear me say constantly,
ROOT TO CROWN UP & DOWN!
Focus on this extension throughout the day to maintain good posture.
Sitting or standing.
That intention strengthens spinal and back muscles, maintaining space between the vertebrae.
It helps keep optimal space in the torso giving vital organs room to breathe.
It opens up and lifts the front of the body countering compression from “tech posture”.
ROOT TO CROWN UP & DOWN
Simple, but not easy.
It takes practice.
You are worth it.

Tricia Schwaba

Infinite Silence, Sweet Divine Guidance

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I had this experience I’m afraid to share

For fear that you’ll think me quite unaware.

There was a man, at a time in my life

Who fooled me with presents of ego and strife.

He most unfortunately kicked my ass

I lay in a puddle of criticism and crass.

Eventually I arose when I found him to be

Not at all the problem, the problem was me.

We drove ‘cross the country, spoke barely a word

But that silence served me with all that I heard.

I’m finding “the nothing” can be so profound

While “the everything” can throw your heart to the ground.

I moved and I grew, but pretended not to know

Where I was headed, where I must go.

Truth is, I’ve always known that place

Not in destination, not in space.

But in feeling caresses from angels and guides

Momentary blessings of divine insight.

This is the move that is next on table.

Drink it, eat it, do all of which I’m capable.

This moment we share is the land that we long for

Let’s wait no more and know what we’re strong for.

This is the minute that is mine to savor.

Each one that passes makes me that much later

To the dance & the magic of humanity’s charms

To the embrace of a spirit with open arms.

The stars are aligned for my gain and success

And for helping humanity out of this mess.

I can call it my destiny, or perhaps my fate

I can try not to name it, I just can’t delay.

“I call it the next step” this guide she did say

“Take it, be grateful, be kind, pave the way.

“Others will follow when they sense your bliss

Such an opportunity you won’t want to miss”.

So that man that I drove with in infinite silence,

Was merely a conduit for sweet divine guidance.

Tricia Schwaba 2020