Joe

Joe & Me, 1971ish

When I saw you last I noticed the lag in your step, the hesitancy of your golf swing, historically fluid and power-driven. I saw, as we tossed the frisbee, the stagger in your follow-thru as the disc went straight to the Earth rather than spinning loftily and floating down easily to its destination.

I hurt at the notion of your weakening self— waiting for the blank stare to give way to your essence. I wait for my older brother to show up, the one who laughs easily and has the eternal preppy handsomeness of a Ralph Loren model, flashing a toothy smile, taking a swig from his longneck beer asking me stealthily “Hey you got any weed?” Wait there it is, your essence breaking through the haze.

The globe spins on, time rushes forward, the evidence blatant on my face. Lines etched, expressions easily marked from the spectrum of emotions displayed, seeing around me the haunting signs that I am on the flip-side of my expected lifespan. My brother’s body is failing him and I reach in and feel around for some previously experienced joy to remind him— he is still him and I am still me. Do I see my future self in him? Possibly, yes, minus the detrimental effects of repression of emotions which so many men of his generation experienced. I’m not a repressor possibly too much of a releaser. There is no doubt the voice must rise and release and if it doesn’t the pressure building goes somewhere.

What of the other side? What happens when the physical is shed, spirit flowing unencumbered? Is there a recognition— an examination of what was and why, or is it a freeing process with all understood in a different context, a state so all omniscient that examination is redundant? I won’t know until I shed the weight and maybe not then.

In frustration my hands shake, I am hesitant and uncertain in movement at times despite my religious practices of deep breathing and calming perspectives. I honor these signals of break down albeit sometimes until they knock down my door. Will the warriors, the core work, the extensions and compressions spare me a similar fate? No way of knowing. I continue to steady myself physically and emotionally as I’ve always done. I practice finding center and feeling it all— the pain, the joy, the uncertainty, the frustration. Is that my divine prescription? I will not know until that day when I too am nearing the reckoning of all I have chosen to “be”. Being kind, feeling buoyant. Being someone I don’t like and feeling heartbroken. Being someone I love and showing her to the world, Being uncertain, plodding forth clumsily. Being in line and flowing with grace.
It’s all me. At least it’s me this time around. Because I sit with my intention to heal myself and help others find practices to calm the chaos I do more than the average reflection. My DNA will not be left to a younger more perfect version of myself. I will not see the fruit of my divine connection in the cherub face of a curly haired toddler. I, with my own actions and choices, on my own curving, sometimes rocky and intensely inclined road, walk steadily, stopping at appropriate markers to sob voraciously at the choice I just made, or the choice I made 35 years ago, or the thing that I don’t hold, or the attribute I see in someone I admire that I cannot seem to manifest in myself. I, who at times sees so clearly, my divine beauty shine forth so powerfully that I must, at that very moment, bow in humility. I who spent my life being the critical, abusive partner to my curious and loving other self, pushing her down as I soaked in the master class society had modeled. In my Autumnal Equinox I see and nurture that shaky uncertain, silenced beauty that pops it’s remarkable energy by knocking on my door— “Hey remember me? Can I come in?”

The leaves are dropping but a wondrous display of reds, oranges and golds hang on to the still strong template of my struggling humanity. I place hope in the notion that if I assist others, help them excavate a beautiful piece just striking enough to let them glimpse their own beauty with such clear focus that they cannot deny their own spectacular potential will that help?

I write to free my own unbridled potential, hoping I can see, in myself, the potential that still runs free across the landscape of my physicality, ever strengthening. I fight my mind’s conclusion that I too will succumb to a severe physical breakdown, my stubbornness reigning as I refuse to believe that it has to be the way I’m told it has always been.

All of us, on some unpredictable day in the future will fade. For some it will be a long span to finality— as in Joe’s case— for others it may be in a divine flash. I wish I could predict that day for me but I can’t, so I will continue to practice living this day and seeking out as many reasons as I can to love life up.

Tricia Schwaba, 2022

What Do You Do? -- A Revelation

So what do you do?

I’m a teacher. 

Right, but what do you do?

I teach.

Ok well, let’s put it this way, what do you do for yourself?

I’m not sure what you mean. What do I do for myself?

Yes.

I go to the health club.

And what do you do there? What do you get out of that?

Well I go on the treadmill, then I lift some weights and I go into the sauna sometimes. 

I guess maybe the question I want answered is who are you?

I don’t know what that means? Who am I— I don’t get it. 

Ok, what do you believe is important in life. How do you nurture yourself?

Well like I said I go to the health club.

Ok, have a good day. 

Now that? I understand. Ok I will, you too. 

Tricia Schwaba, from the archives

Finishing Her Cry-- A Short Story

A woman sits crying, heavy head in hands— heaving sobs of release.

Another woman with similar appearance approaches questioning, then demanding flippantly “Oh what’s the matter now? Stop your crying!”

The crier lifts her head. “Why would you demand I stop doing the very thing that will help me most?  You don’t care about me. You can go fuck the fuck off.” She finishes her cry, dabs her eyes and walks away smiling.

Tricia Schwaba 11/22

Mary Oliver-- Trees

Art source: anon

“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.”

The Love In All Eyes

Hats and pearls and 2 beautiful girls
in the infancy of their promise
Time takes its toll but also bestows
a grace that it truly time-honored

Their crowns are strong, they were all along
their tresses were wild— like fire
They couldn’t be tamed, why should that be the aim?
It’s their wildness conducting the choir 

They’d met long before— it’s cosmic allure—
knowing something harmonious would rise
Truth, contemplation, no sticky stagnation
And savoring the love in all eyes

The pearls hung with care— little beads of prayer
round the bright blue voices they owned
Speaking their minds with strength redefined
surfing the vibes they belovedly honed

They’ve donned their hats— released hooks from the past
each using their hands to heal
From heart centered truth— each a hopeful recruit
on the mission towards divinity’s reveal

Tricia Schwaba 2022— Heartfelt thanks to Natalie Grace Craig for inspiring these words.