Spring Cleaning

It was one of the first warm, sunny weekends and my husband Michael got the project bug. So he went into the garden to see what he could do.There was no shortage of possibilities and he settled on taking down some old trellises, planting pansies and petunias, getting rid of old planter pots, cleaning up the green house, and he seemed very happy doing these spring time chores outside. I looked at my closet in our bedroom. It looked like an overstuffed bag, bursting out of the invisible seams of the available space it was violating. It looked ridiculous, time to get this mess cleaned up, no matter how much I enjoy the lived in look. I found things I had forgotten about for many years, as I decided to strip my closet space to the bones, everything out, onto the floor. I found a ton of pictures, going back 20 years, old letters, books, a ton of my son Nicholas' elementary school art projects, and in the midst of all of these sentimental treasures, I found a book of poetry, in French, written by  my maternal grand mother, Agnes Tinel, back in Belgium, in 1909. I found copies of photos of the private East Asian art collection of a German philanthropist, Dr. Kurt Herberts, a very wealthy industrialist and senator, who had an extensive private collection of art, among them also paintings by Frans De Cauter, my mother's oldest brother. I wish I had the book with the pictures and stories behind Dr. Herbert's East Asian art, because I looked at it so many times, and when I saw the photos in the leaflets from the exhibition my father attended, I recognized the glossy brightly colored photocopies like old friends. I found some never used, still in their wrapper oak frames, and carefully measured my favorite pieces from 19th century Japan, and put them in  the frames, dreaming back to the time when looking at those pictures transported a solitary teenager to exotic and romantic places. Where did 40 years go? I was amazed at the intensity of the nostalgia the sight and touch of these art pictures evoked and I smiled gratefully at the memory of my father's passion for art, and how he instilled that curiosity and passion in me. Even though my mother felt superior to my father because of her mother being a Tinel, a name associated with art and creative talent of significance in Belgium, and because her father was a De Cauter, a name at one time associated with wealth, my father was the one who had the knowledge and passion for art and intellectual pursuits of all nature, from history, to literature and photography. Why my mother despised my father and his family so remains a mystery. Her father was raised by his grand parents, because his father had gambled and drank away the family's rather extensive fortune. Any way, my father did a lot to promote my mother's brother's art, and introduced him to Dr. Kurt Herberts and also to Dr. Maurice Boyd, a history professor at TCU in Fort Worth, Texas, who arranged for uncle Frans' paintings to be bought for the permanent exhibition at the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort worth, and who wrote a wonderful book on Frans De Cauter's life and art. My parents had hundreds of Frans' paintings, I ended up with three... and the memories of spending time in his art studio when I was 16, where uncle Frans taught me the basics of drawing with pencil and oils. I still remember the wonderful smell of all the paint, and his gracious wife, Ina, who was a marvelous cook. Today it is raining like crazy, and my spanking clean closet feels very satisfying, as do the memories of my father's intellectual astuteness and my uncle Frans' art. I put several frames together of pictures of my son at different ages, with me and my husband, such a sweet walk backwards into time. Spring cleaning is good for the soul.

Pablo en Manneke

I keep my first teddy bear I ever got in our bedroom, as one of the very few relics, together with some pictures, of my childhood in Belgium. I got this bear when I was about four, and my brother, who was a year younger than me, also got the same kind of teddy bear. I called my bear Pablo, perhaps in reference to the exotic name of the famous Spanish artist, Pablo Picasso, of whose art my parents were very fond, and who must have been a favorite topic of discussion. To a small child, Pablo was an intriguing name in a Flemish household. My brother named his bear Manneke, literally, "little man". The bears were identical, but my brother and I always could tell who was Pablo and who was Manneke. I felt a twinge of sadness looking at my bear, wondering if Bart still had Manneke. The bears are more than fifty years old now, the oldest toy I have. Innocence is such a precious commodity, there was a time when my brother and I played together with our bears, happy, unaware that a time would come where our parents' awful marriage would make us drift apart to the point where there no longer is any trust, any communication. I haven' t seen my brother in 14 years, since Ludwina's funeral in Georgia, after her suicide. Pablo en Manneke, Pablo and Manneke, a sister and a brother, now thousands of miles apart, in distance physically and emotionally. Bye, Manneke and Bart, Pablo and I are still here.

The Monster in the Closet

There's a monster in the closet,
I don't quite know what to do.
I can hear it belching, sniffling, snoring.
I think it is by my shoes.

There's a monster in the closet,
I've seen it, it's green and black
and slimey blue,
it's got bulging eyes and crooked teeth,
it smells bad, too.

How did it get there, I wonder.
I hear its belly grumble,
so I feed it twice a day
and hear it slurp the water
I put there before noon.

Sometimes, I hear it laugh.
Sometimes I hear it cry.

In the winter I make sure
it has a blanket and a pillow, too.
It is sure to get bored,
so I sneak it toys, balls and story books.

I thought of chasing it away one time,
but it is a dark, cold world out there,
and what is a monster to do?
I hate to hurt its feelings,
even though it scares me to a shiver.

There's a monster in the closet,
and I've seen it watch the stars
at night, and sigh.
Perhaps it's got a home somewhere
and misses those it loves.

There's a monster in the closet,
don't disturb it, it is sleeping now.
I will keep it, I know,
for a very long time,
because that monster up close
looks a lot like you and I.

Trudi Ralston
April 14th, 2012.

I wrote The Monster in the Closet as a humorous, and also, somewhat sad reminder,
that we all are tainted by life's experiences, and that those we love are only flawed as badly
as we turn out to be. 

Footsteps

The poem Footsteps was born out of the painful, deep awareness that relationships we value can tarnish over time. Sometimes life itself, and the merciless passage of time, intertwined with habit, rhythm, necessity, and the annoyingly persistent tendency of people to take each other for granted out of sheer repetition, can bleach the most passionate and most tender relationships.

Footsteps

I live in the hallways of your mind,
hearing doors open, close,
Only to get to the next room
and find it empty.
You have left me behind.

Perhaps if I left a trail
of crumbs to
Crunch under your step
You might notice
Someone was there.

Perhaps I should ring
the doorbell, and wait outside.
But what if you lock the door,
change the key,
And I lose the chance
For magic to break the trance?

I live in the hallways of your mind,
hearing doors open, close
Only to get to the next room
and find it empty.
I have left you behind.

Trudi Ralston
July 10th, 2010.

Wound

This poem too, I read the same night at the Olympia Poetry Network gathering downtown Olympia at Traditions. It is a poem dedicated to the people I lost in the chaos of my family falling apart: my father, my brother, two sisters, a good friend named Jeff. It is a poem that to me reminds me of the destructive power of hope, dreams, trust and love gone wrong.

Wound

Ne pleure pas la bouche pleine,
My great grand mother used to say.
Don't cry with your mouth full.

I don't know anymore where you are
But I'll always know where you'll be.

On the beach of my dreams
Roaring your laughter
Against the crashing waves,
as I watch you forget everything
About me, even my name.

Don't cry with your mouth full,
I remind myself
as I watch you and the night sky
Disappear.

Trudi Ralston
June 24th, 2010.

Request

This poem too I read at one of the readings I participated in of the Olympia Poetry Network. I wrote this poem at a moment of insight therapy was giving me about the bittersweet experience of loss coming to terms through healing.

Request

Embrace these bleached bones
Of my soul,
the clattering hollow
bruising my steps.

I want to make chimes
with these silences and clutter
That make up the story of me.

If you but touch this makeshift
Instrument,
It will sing, it will sound.

Trudi Ralston
June 24th, 2010.

Blue

Jeanne Lohmann encouraged me to read a few poems at the readings of the Olympia Poetry Network of which I was a shy and somewhat reluctant participant, at the encouragement of my therapist a the time. Her encouragement led to me read some of my poems out loud, in front of an audience, for the first time in my life. I wrote this poem for her, to remember that moment she asked me to read some of my writing. I actually read this poem, too, with her permission, at the reading.

Blue

You looked at me, smiled.
I noticed your eyes, ablaze in blue.

Blue, a cornflower's petals
Against the sky.
Blue, a cabbage moth's wings
fanning summer's heat.

Blue pathways full of
Breath and light.

Like a benevolent breeze
On a most unlikely day
Your smile and blue eyes
Moved my soul, to the next spot
On the road, I wish to
Untangle, define.

Trudi Ralston
June 30th, 2010.

Peacock

When I was about five, my father took me to see a peacock that was living at a local pastor's garden. The memory is very vivid, it is the only memory I have of my father holding my hand. I also remember how excited he was to show me this amazingly beautiful animal, and how quiet we were in that damp shadowy wood, on a cool summer's day.

Peacock

It was a cool summer's day.
You held my hand as we
Slowly walked to the peacock's
Shaded yard.

A dazzle of bright green and blue
A huge fan, a rainbow of feathers
Strutting its imperial magnificence
Its beak and eyes cold, dark and sharp.

The peacock let out a piercing, unsettling call
Shattering the hushed silence we'd
Held with our breath.

Trudi Ralston
June 23rd, 2010- April 12th, 2012.

Family Crest

This poem was written at a poetry work shop I attended at Jeanne Lohmann's house.My therapist had introduced me to the local Olympian poet, and this poem coincides with the time I was in therapy after our whole family unraveled after the death of my second sister, in 2005.

Family Crest

We wanted courage, we wanted hope
Instead we got muffled answers, sneering remarks.

We must keep up appearances
Stare emtiness square in the eye.

This is our family, our legacy, our time.

Focus is a must, just think of its reward.
There is no room for honesty, honor,
Or trust.

We wanted courage, we wanted resolve.
Instead we got shadow games
Clowns dressed like monks.

We can and will redress time.
Everything will come up smelling roses.
Just try, we must try.

We wanted courage, we wanted hope.
Instead we got illusions winding
Down empty roads.

Trudi Ralston, June 19th 2010.

Mirror

Betrayal always hurts, especially when it goes on for a lifetime, and it comes at the hands of your mother, which is exactly what happened to my siblings and me. But  by the time we figured it out, both my sisters were dead. In therapy, with the capable guidance and wisdom of Judith Bouffiou, I learned that betrayal from a parent hurts so much, because it is not expected. Through therapy, I was able to verbalize deeply hidden hurts, and able to express it through poetry, which helped me to release the deep sorrow at our mother's betrayals, that came carefully camouflaged in a web of lies , by writing this poem that takes me back to a childhood memory, that reveals I was aware already at a young age,before I was ten, that something was very wrong at our house and with our family, no matter how picture perfect it looked to the outside world.

Mirror

The days that are the hardest
Are those when I look in the mirror
And I see you.

I disappear, where is my smile, my innocence,
my youth?

Your eyes haunt mine
with their trained deceit
You smile with that so familiar
fatal smirk.

And I am nine again, and watch you
Line up your boxes of  expensive Italian
stiletto shoes, your eyes full of irritation
And contempt, for my child's bewildered gaze,
intuitively sensing your shame and intent.

So many men, so little time.

There are days now, I can look in the mirror
And it is only me I see, and I can turn off
The light, without pain or fear.

Good bye, mother,
It feels so good not
To have you near.

Trudi Ralston,
June 25th 2009- April 12th 2012.

Traffic Sounds

Spring is here, and I am happy to open up all the windows and doors to let in fresh air. We live about 15 minutes from town, and the white noise of the freeway traffic is almost a constant during the day, with the exception of early morning weekends, especially Sunday morning. Intruding mechanical sounds are a fact of most of modern life in many places. There are times it is definitely annoying, but I have come to realize there are also mechanical sounds out there that I welcome. When the front door or windows are open on nice, warm days, the sound of a scooter, like a Vespa going by, is filled with nostalgia for me. Having grown up in Europe, in Belgium, scooters were everywhere. Our nanny rode one to come to our house, kids rode them to high school, people every where rode them to, in, and from town, to work, to friends' houses, on dates. They were everywhere.When I hear their sound, I am immediately transported to another space and time, often happy memories, of scooters whirring by on a nice walk at the seaside. Scooters were in abundance at the seaside, as a cheap form of transportation for teenagers on summer break. I never had one, but several of the girls in my high school in Roeselare, my hometown, rode them to high school, in fun colors, like baby blue and tangerine. Scooters were full of promise to me, of fun, freedom, they were symbols of free time, romance,summer dreams. Whenever I see one now, I still am filled with youthful longing, and I can smile happily recalling how my husband Michael and I went everywhere on his Yamaha Virago motorcycle when we were dating in graduate school in Austin, Texas. So, even though I did not ride my own motorcycle or scooter, riding on the back of Michael's Virago at neck breaking speeds on the freeway, was good enough revenge for me. Some mechanical sounds also bring twinges of pain, for reasons perhaps misunderstood, or not understood at all. Sometimes, the sound ,simple as it may seem, of a car driving by, hurts, when I feel very vulnerable or sad. Perhaps the fact that emotional pain is something stationary, that is going nowhere until it heals, makes a moving vehicle, like a car, that seems to be going without hesitation from point A to point B, seem like salt on an open wound. Another sound, one that is not particular to spring , but to autumn, is the sound of a jet flying over. In spring time, the sound of a jet, or small airplane going over, is delightful. But something happens when those same airplanes and jets fly over our house and yard in the fall. The sounds by then are muffled in the quiet of drying and falling leaves, that give that all too familiar scent of dying earth, and so the powerful sounds of the jets mingle with the decaying earth, and a deep feeling of time gone by overwhelms us. A jet in summer holds all the euphoria of summer's abundance and seemingly endless hold on time, as nature all around us puts its glory on display. Nothing could be more ordinary than a lawnmower, but who can resist the feeling of hope their sound gives us each spring, as we realize we got through another winter, and life is giving us one more summer to enjoy? Mechanical noises, from small, like the ping of a cell phone message, and the ring of our land line phone, to the spluttering of the coffee machine, the droning noise of the washer, dryer, and our ever present computers, they all are a reminder, in the end, that, for better or worse, we are here, connected, on good days and bad, by a common desire to make sense out of this experience called life.

The Garden of Eden

Winter is over and I feel like saying "Glory hallelujah!" I like all seasons except winter. I do not enjoy the wind storms, the loss of electricity that often comes with it, the snow, ice, hazardous roads, gray skies, and excessive rain. So when spring makes its appearance again, I am delighted. Today, the sun was out, there was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds, all the birds were singing, it seems in agreement with me at the joy of another spring having arrived. So we decided to eat lunch outside. We had all been battling colds, and were finally starting to feel better, every one had the day off, and so we could have our first outside meal, on the deck in our backyard. All the windows in the house were open, the front door was open, the backdoor sliding glass door was open, it felt wonderful, all this light and fresh air coming into the house on a sunny Monday afternoon. Michael had put up the large deck umbrella, and I put a fresh bouquet of daffodils from the garden on the glass table out there, got out the plates, silverware, glasses, napkins, the honey for the cornbread muffins, the sweetened butter, as the chicken fried steak and red mashed potatoes were warming in the oven. Our orchard bees were happily buzzing in and out of their wooden houses Michael built them, the two cats were eagerly sitting near the deck table, in anticipation of a bite of steak. Then, everything was ready, we loaded up our plates and headed outside. To eat outside always gives me such a deep feeling of contentment and joy. What is it about eating outside that is so satisfying, especially when you are surrounded by nature's beauty and bounty? We have flowers everywhere, by the time summer rolls around, there are lilies, pansies, petunias, hyacinth, sunflowers, carnations, begonias, roses, peonies,...and the abundance of strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and the vegetables in the greenhouse: tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, lettuce, radishes. It truly feels like the garden of Eden , as there is also an abundance of trees, bushes, ferns. To sit on the deck and look out, while eating a good meal is so satisfying, it just makes me feel very happy. Perhaps that happiness comes from a deep longing in our mythology to be reconnected to paradise, to Eden, the garden of Eden, where abundance and peace in complete happiness were an apparent constant reality. Perhaps when we are sitting on our deck, surrounded by nature's bounty, this deep, deep longing has a chance to be fulfilled again, just briefly, but ever so sweetly.To eat outside is to experience the possibility of making our way back to Eden as tangible, and real, and maybe that is why eating outside just feels so good.

Abundance

Thinking of what my husband means to me made me think of our son, and what joy he continues to bring to our lives.When I think of Nicholas, who I named after Nicholas Nickelby, the courageous young hero of the Charles Dickens novel, I think of abundance. At almost six foot seven, with his long curly hair, broad shoulders and baroque girth, he often reminds me of the musketeers. His sharp, wicked humor, keen intelligence and artistic abilities go with endless energy and enthusiasm and a very insightful, sensitive heart. He also has his father's stoicism, perhaps a Native American trait they inherited through grandpa Ralston. Passion is another word that comes to mind, often vigorously demonstrated in Nicholas' eloquent discussions on a myriad of topics, from politics, literature, astronomy, religion, video games, computer technology and art. He is the gentle giant, who worries if I am sad about something, who becomes very quiet when you inadvertently hurt his feelings, who becomes incensed at any injustice. In some ways, he looks like my brother Bart, who lives in Texas, in other ways the way he gestures when he debates a point, reminds me of grandpa Ralston, and so the past and the future blend together in him, and to me it spells hope. Nicholas is a great storyteller, and paints a vivid picture with great attention to detail, story line, suspense, humor. He often has us roaring with laughter at his anecdotes. I can see him as a stand up comedian, a very effective defense attorney, a video game designer and commentator, and also a loving husband and father, as he is loyal and kind. He calls me "little mama", because even though I am five foot eight, I am dwarfed in size next to him, and I love that. He too, is a person with whom I feel very safe. I hope I get to grow old, so I can be part of his life for many years to come, because the happiness he brings I want to be part of for as long as possible. Two mourning doves just landed on our table in the back of the yard. They come in the early evening, as I put out birdseed every day. They always come together, and their gentle cooing is one of my most favorite bird sounds. Listening to them makes me wish that the world Nicholas will inherit will be one of gentleness, hope and peace, so that the abundance of his heart and spirit can find true expression and fulfillment.

Papa Bear

When I was growing up, I read hundreds of fairy tales and story books, and one of my most favorite books was about a family of bears. It was a story book, with the bears living in a cute little house in the woods, and the Mama bear wore dresses and a necklace, and Papa bear wore a sweater jacket that was green, and Little bear would bring Papa bear his slippers and pipe after dinner. Little bear would sit in the lawn, blowing bubbles, while Mama bear would hang the fresh laundry on the line. That image of simple happiness and contentment, somehow made a deep impression on me. I would get out my sketch book, and draw the bear family, and seeing them come to life again, with my simple pencil, on white paper, was very satisfying. At the time, I was no longer a small child, I was twelve. But for reasons I will perhaps never completely understand or unveil, that story book and its drawings gave me great comfort. I wanted a family like that, simple, content, loving, and above all, happy. When, many years later, when I was in graduate school in Texas, in Austin,  I met the man who would become my husband, I was twenty seven, Michael was thirty five, and within six months of us having started to date, my favorite nickname for him became Papa bear. Somehow, it was not awkward or weird, Freudian or silly, it just felt right. It still does. We have been married twenty six years this coming July, our son will be twenty, and every day still, I find myself saying: "OK, Papa bear, dinner is ready!" It just feels good, safe. Maybe because I lost my entire family to lies and intrigue, tragic death and illness, having a Papa bear around just is so soothing , so safe, makes me feel secure and happy as a child whose trust has not been violated. My parents had a marriage that became more bitter and emotionally violent as the years went on and it turned our world upside down, until it became an all too real reenactment of Strindberg's Dance of Death. To this day, when I think about their horrible marriage, I have to fight nausea. To be married to a man who in all his masculinity and good looks and intelligence reminds me in tender moments of the Papa bear in my story book, has been absolutely wonderful in its healing aspect. Michael knows my need for innocence and has tolerated this childlike need for an emotional refuge with great respect and humor. Our son is familiar with the story behind the naming of his dad as Papa bear and seems to enjoy the old fashioned tenderness of it. That is not to say that Papa bear does not frustrate or hurt  or exasperates me at times, or just makes me plain angry, but the tenderness, in the end, the generosity of spirit, always wins me over, and safely brings me home to the small house in the woods, where it is always cozy, and love is alive and well.

Everything Must Go!

In one of my posts, I speak of a cozy Saturday, where my house felt like a well-stocked curio shop, in its abundance of stuff. A week later, after the death of our beloved dog, Lafayette, the well-meant clutter gained a new dimension, as we were doing some cleaning around the house that was painful but necessary. Washing Lafayette's blankets and beds after she had become ill before she died was heartbreaking. At one point in the fourth day after she passed away, I became overwhelmed by all the stuff, the dust, the cleaning, and a deep sorrow welled up to hot tears streaming down my face. I let it happen, not fighting the grief or chaos around me that was really quite ordinary, but somehow, that day, felt looming in its size. Then , just as I thought the irritation of all the mess around me would make me want to scream, I looked at my husband calmly making waffles for us, dealing with a pile of dishes, and not minding the laundry that was stacking up by the washer,as I was trying to deal with our and Lafayette's laundry. All of a sudden, the whole scene became comical to me, and I told my husband and son the house looked like we were having a "Going Out Of Business" sale. "Everything must go!" I laughed. "Let's put a sign in the front yard." They laughed with me and I relaxed, releasing some of the stress of my sadness. I like things to be orderly, and tend to be a bit obsessive-compulsive. It occurred to me right then, that order can be very restrictive, very confining at a time when stress is already taking its toll. Looking around my chaotic house, I felt a rare sense of comfort in the disorder, the disregard for neatness and logical order, and the chaos felt , well, good at that particular moment.The universe is in constant flux, stars collapse, planets get swallowed up, asteroids collide, and out of this enormous chaos and disorder continues to grow a very orderly universe with predictable patterns and repetitions, all constituting life as we know it. Chaos is what makes order possible, and this realization somehow felt healing, soothing. Everything must go, everything, but the heartache of my loss. The physical chaos was a reminder to allow myself the emotional chaos of my sorrow, that cannot and should not be swept up, vacuumed, washed, stored, but felt and lived, every chaotic, painful, irrational, unpredictable speck of it, until the dust of the pain settled and and a new moon, or planet was born in the universe of my life's experiences.