Mending Fences

This past weekend we spent long hours going around the 8000 square feet of our backyard securing and restoring fencing we had put up almost 20 years ago. We did this because our new pet member of the family, Yara is a young energetic Black Lab-Bouvier and we wanted her to have the run of the property. To me, the whole process was as much one of rediscovering the back yard as it was a rather lengthy project. Our garden is wild, a jungle of seemingly endless bushes, flowers, trees. and our fence is the same way, part wooden, part chain link, part wire supported by large bamboo, it is just a fun medley of resources and materials, all edged by large evergreen trees, most of which we planted as small Christmas trees years ago. Now they tower over us like gentle giants, giving endless pleasure to the squirrels and birds, and us, with their beauty and shade. We ended up going over every inch of the backyard fence, top to bottom and it was wonderful to spend that time outside as a family, stepping around the large sword ferns that stand solemnly guard all over the edges of the property, adding a touch of extra camouflage and poetry to the rather banal necessity of a fence. Yara was running around like a shiny miniature horse, just galloping in excitement, chasing birds, sniffing every spot in her new territory, just happy as can be. I went with her, to every corner, appreciating the bees in the wild huckleberry bushes, the fragrance of the lilacs against the chain link section of the fence, the hazelnut bushes by the older wooden fence near the front of the house, the bamboo clear on the other side of the yard, with an ecstatic Yara frolicking alongside, as she gathered  lilac blossoms and buttercup petals in her thick, curly shiny black coat. We got a whole new perspective on the size of our garden, on the deck and patio smothered in 16 different types of pansies, on the pool, the shed, the house, and it all added up to a renewed appreciation of our home, our living space, ourselves within that space. We were mending fences, my husband, my son, and Yara and myself, and we learned we are blissfully happy with our small house in this big bucolic backyard, that has also two cats, who slept through all the work of hammering , restoring, adding extra feet and height and length of fence and afterwards did seem glad we too sat down, content with two long, successful days of work. Sometimes the best treasures to find are the ones we already had, just forgot to notice them over time. What started as a project to ensure the joy and safety of our new dog Yara turned into a renewed sense of awareness of how blessed we are to have a peaceful house and garden we and our pets call home.

Tante Lieve

There are some people in our lives who seem to have an impact that lasts a lifetime. They have a strength and integrity that seems to help shape our character, views, and resolve. They also seem to add a measure of joy and hope because of their presence in our lives. In my case, some of these people were around when I was growing up, others became friends in college and graduate school, others still are friends I met after I finished my studies, got married and started a family. My friend Catherine in Paris, my friend Dottie in Texas, Ellen in Chicago, Driss in Morocco, Eduardo at Berkeley, Brenda and Diane here in Olympia, and a lady in Oostende, Belgium, my father's youngest sister, Tante Lieve Desender. When I think of strength of character, intelligence, determination, compassion, and a very clever sense of humor, I think of my aunt Lieve. As far back as I can remember, she was someone I looked up to, still do. She remained single and had a stellar career in social services in Oostende, Belgium, where she made a difference in hundreds of people's lives. At 71, she still works tirelessly as a volunteer on several committees for the advancement of senior citizen rights. She still knows a ton of people, still makes a difference with her charitable works and character, on a daily basis. I want to be like her when I grow up, I smilingly admit to myself. I respect her strength and independence and after my family fell apart, she became a true and tried friend. I call her on the phone about every two, three months, and always look forward to our marathon conversations that cover everything from family to culture to politics and religion. She has a unique perspective on life, on people, is a great story teller, has a vast psychological insight into people and their motives, and is fiercely loyal to her family and friends. Her friendship proved invaluable when I was going through the healing process after the death of both my parents and sisters and the permanent estrangement from my only surviving sibling, my brother Bart in Texas. Her compassion combined with her intelligent insight were as solid as my therapist's at the time. My therapist, a very smart woman, was glad I had the friendship and support of my aunt in Belgium, as it seemed to speed up the closure and healing process. My aunt has known me my whole life. She remembers coming to the hospital with my grandmother after I was born, in 1957. She was at my first communion and my confirmation, she remembers my graduation from high school, she remembers me getting ready to leave for the US in 1976. She knew my sisters up to the time of their deaths, was my father's youngest sister and was at his bedside when he died. She met my husband Michael after we were first married, she met my son Nicholas at my parents' house in Georgia in 1996. She has known me longer than anyone I can think of in my life, and she knows me still when I am 55. Her presence in my life is an invaluable gift, a treasure. She is a true part of my heart and mind and soul, and I am so grateful for her support and love, as she is there now to have seen my son's picture at his graduation from high school, to see him tower over me at almost six foot six at age 19, to hear how well he did in high school and how well he is doing in college, to have received Michael and my 25th wedding anniversary picture. She has always been there for me, a treasure trove of wisdom, friendship, and love.

In Memoriam Willy Van Parys ( 1936- 2011)

I am not sure what prompted me to look up one of the best history teachers I ever had, a man by the name of Willy Van Parys, who taught history and art history at my high school  Ave Maria in Izegem, Belgium. I was there from 1973 through 1976, and have very fond memories of the energetic, enthusiastic teaching style of Mr. Van Parys. He instilled in me a life long passion for history and its importance. Being  this was at the time an all girls Catholic school, and he was a still young handsome teacher at 38, I am sure I was not the only student who had a crush on him. It is so nostalgic to think of that innocence now. At 17 he stirred feelings that later in life would allow me to fall in love. He was a wonderful teacher, charismatic without being pompous or arrogant, patient, bright , with a great sense of humor. I remember one instance where a very sincere older nun came into our homeroom, and asked Mr.Van Parys to please "kill the lights", in view of an effort at energy conservation. The phrasing must have tickled his funny bone, because without hesitation, Mr. Van Parys answered: "Right away, Sister, should I use a gun or would you rather I use a knife?" The elderly nun was not amused, but the whole class burst out laughing. I also have fond memories of our senior high school trip by bus to Italy. He was so knowledgeable about art, and had a real passion for Renaissance. It was wonderful to tour the cities of Florence, Venice, Rome under this enthusiastic teacher's guidance. His death made me sad, I had always hoped to make it back to Belgium and look him and his wife Chris up, so I could introduce my husband Michael and our 20 year old son Nicholas. So much has happened in the last ten years that made me lose touch with two dear high school friends, Kaat Finbow-Desmet and Katrien Decombel-Jacques. I miss hearing from them, and I know it was me who stopped trying, too busy making sense of all the people dying in my family, Ludwina in 1998, at age 36, Goedele in 2005 at age 44, both my parents, it was crazy. I hope Kaat and her friend Catherine Duyck, and Katrien were at Mr. Van Parys' funeral. It is strange to think of him being gone. I sent his wife Chris a sympathy card, as the address on the obituary notice was still the same it was when I was in high school. I hope his wife Chris will find support in family and friends and in the knowledge that her husband was a wonderful teacher who still could stir deep emotions of respect and gratitude and fondness, like in me, almost 40 years later. Rest in peace, Mr. Van Parys and thank you for your gift and talent as a teacher. You were one of a kind.

Yara

Two days ago, a wonderful thing happened, a beautiful black Labrador and Flemish Bouvier mix dog named Yara became part of our family. We had been looking to give another animal in need of a home a chance, after our beloved Lafayette died on March 28th. I did not want to wait too long and settle in the heartbreak and loss, but focus on continuing to give shelter animals a second chance like we have been doing now for 27 years, since before my husband Michael and I were married. We checked several dogs at Animal Services here in Olympia, and then through the internet came across Adopt-A-Pet in Shelton. They are the only no kill shelter in the area, with all volunteers. So we checked them out, and found several dogs that sounded promising. The day of the appointment came and we went full of hope and a bit of nerves, too. The dog we were to meet turned out to be very anxious, suffering from extreme separation anxiety and would require a home with lot of acreage so he could slowly build safety in his surroundings, as he liked to escape when left alone even for brief amounts of time. So, we asked about the other dogs, and fate led to Yara. She is a big girl, strong, agile, with a beautiful, shiny black coat and the warmest dark eyes I have ever seen in a dog. She is a three year old female, whose one owner she had since a tiny puppy is now very ill and could no longer care for her. She obviously loved Yara very much, as is evident it the 3 page write-up she has about Yara's personality, story, and likes and dislikes. We fell in love with this strong, calm animal who is already friends with our 12 year old female cat Sneakers, and who is trying very hard to win over our 3 year old boy cat Tigger. I love early mornings and Yara wakes me up by 5:30, and we go listen to the wonderful bird concert in the backyard, such a peaceful, spiritual time of the day. I could make out the sound of six different birds, not counting the mourning doves that visit every day. I heard and saw a bird I had never noticed before, it made a sound like running water from a carafe. It was stunning. Yara  is healing my sorrow over Lafayette, by reminding me that life goes on, and everywhere love is to be found and appreciated, like in her big, peaceful, warm heart. My son and I and my husband Michael take her for walks now every day, which is great exercise for all, as Yara too loves that. Hearts break when they love, and they start to heal when they go beyond the mystery of sorrow, get up and love again. Thank you, sweet lady who took such good care of Yara, thank you, Michael for finding Adopt-A-Pet, and thank you, Adopt-A-Pet for having such a loving, caring shelter with great staff and very well cared for animals. Yara is already filling our hearts with such love and joy.

Hitman

In  2007 the talented actor Timothy Olyphant  played the lead character, Agent 47, in the movie version of the stealth game Hitman. He did a great job with that role that brings out the best of his magnetic combination of sheer sexual energy and flawless intelligence. The movie is violent, but the brutality is well, necessary in the context of the story. There should not be anything likable about a killer, but Timothy Olyphant brings out a philosophical quality in Agent 47, who despite his intentional anonymity manages to provoke deep emotion in his character and surroundings. As I was watching the many fight and killing scenes, it somehow triggered some existential musing. Agent 47's violent actions were very much visible, loud, lethal. I thought that each of us in his or her own way, is a hitman. We may not carry sniper riffles, or handguns, or kill people with our bare hands, but we are all killers by the time we are well into our life story. We kill hearts, dreams, hopes, aspirations, longings, all around us each day in varying degrees, with our arsenal of meanness, indifference, sarcasm, ridicule, cruelty, insinuation, ... just to name a few. I found the violence in Hitman honest, non judgmental even, perhaps because in the hands of a skilled actor like Timothy Olyphant, the ease with which he executed was so well practiced. He was a well trained technician who made no mistakes. We are all very good at our technique of hurting others equally flawlessly, because we leave no evidence, no marks. Right? And we think we are so smooth, but the bullets we let go from our invisible weapons leave scars that can last a lifetime. We scar our partners, at home and at work, our friends, our neighbors, our relatives, total strangers, and worst of all, our children. Yes, Hitman is a very violent movie, but I like it. It reminds me to be more gentle with my own finely honed, tuned, ready to fire, invisible arsenal of weapons that we all keep loaded, ready to go, each and every day.

Happiness

The wind's softness
Touches my face
With invisible fingers of delight.

Doves coo bringing
Sparkle to the forest's flight.

Shamelessly lazy
My cats doze in the shadow
Of a barely moving day.

Dust and clutter
Are all around my yawning house.

But I do not care
And flutter about humming anyway.

My soul feels light
All worries far away
Songs all around me
I'll let them stay.

Spring is here
I feel strong
All darkness' claws and grip are gone.

Trudi Ralston.
March 21st, 2009.

No crisis lasts forever, no pain lasts endlessly, all things, good and bad, come to an end, eventually. I wrote this poem in a moment of insight that if you just endure, your struggles will, one way or another, come to and end, and you will find peace.

Winter's Flowers

They stand so quiet
Like cemetery stones.

All that's left now
Is the essence of their bones.

No longer do they sway
And brighten the garden
With their yellow petals
And green gracious stalks.

Like forgotten soldiers
On an empty battleground
They dream and yearn
For the spirit's peace.

In their humble sorrow
My own pain finds some ease.

Trudi Ralston.
March 9th, 2009.

I love revisiting this poem, because I learned that nature has no problem accepting loss, death, decay. I found beauty and dignity in the Spartan somber quality of some dead sunflower stalks in our garden. I was in the middle of coming to terms with terrible loss in my family, and the quiet, dusty, colorless, and dead presence of these flowers who once had enchanted me with their wild honey like scent, their bright golden petals and rich green stalks and lush leaves soothed my aching, exhausted heart and mind. I sensed no resistance, even on a pure organic level, to the inevitability of the passage of time and its resulting decay. That realization was liberating and very healing.

Bird on a Wire

Bird on a wire above my roof
One moment stone-like solid, then,
Like a shadow, gone
The wire heavy with the loss.

Summer's heat
Warms my face.
The song of the bird on the wire
Rings sharp as does
the flutter of its furtive wing.

Now the wire is empty
Snow is all around.
But summer once more will come.
I will see the bird again.
And  I will savour its energy
and joy.

Trudi Ralston
February 25th, 2009- May 2nd, 2012.


I wrote this poem after I started therapy, at a moment when I realized the nightmare was over, and that I would eventually be alright. I recently reworked the original poem, as a testimony to myself that grief is a living thing, and something that never leaves us. We just get better at learning to live with it. 

Julienne

There is a channel now on television that is very nostalgic, Antenna TV, and it has shows that take me back twenty, thirty years. I also have come across shows that are nostalgic to my husband who is eight years older than me at sixty-three. One of these shows,  along with Dennis the menace, Leave it to Beaver, is Hazel, about a maid in a well to do household. I found myself wondering why I became interested in the antics and wisdom of Hazel when I realized she created a sense of nostalgia in me for a wonderful woman who was an important part of my and my siblings' childhood, Julienne Fiew-Donatus. She came to our house as a housekeeper-maid-cook-nanny, when I was eight and was still in my parents' service when I left for the US  at nineteen. She rode to our house on a motor-scooter, and eventually bought a Carmanghia car in bright orange. She was always in a good mood, had a great sense of humour, was bright, patient, kind and a great storyteller. I loved going to her house, that was only about fifteen minutes from ours and have great memories of spending a week with her family one summer and going to the fields with her to harvest potatoes, which she did in the summer for extra money. I look back on that now, and remember scooting along on my knees with the other women and girls, feeling the burlap sack scratching my knees, and the heat beating down on my back. The women would laugh and sing, and all eat lunch together on their break. If my knees hurt at the end of the day, at age ten, I wonder how Julienne's knees felt at age fifty. Her husband had a rabbit hatch and a vegetable patch and knew his way around killing and plucking chickens. She had two daughters and a son, and a granddaughter, and later on her two daughters married and each had a son. I remember going to her oldest daughter Rita's wedding reception. Julienne was as much family as she was our housekeeper. The one thing of value Julienne left me with that has lasted a lifetime is an appreciation of how hard humble people work for a living, how much tenacity and unspoken wisdom it takes to keep a family together, financially, emotionally, socially, culturally and spiritually. Even though my mother treated Julienne well, in private to us, she would complain of  "working class" people as lacking "sensitivity artistically speaking", making us feel like Julienne and "her kind of people" lacked important qualities as far as she was concerned. I was rather drawn to Julienne's "people", and I think often of her still, as I feel to this day that some of the commonsense wisdom, knowledge, compassion and practicality were and are important survivor lessons for a person like myself who was sheltered unduly when growing up, making me an educated but socially awkward teenager up to the time I came to the US at age 19. The neighborhood I live in is modest and very working middle to lower middle class, much to my mother's chagrin always, but I just smile when I think of Julienne, and how what I learned from her made  and makes me feel at ease right where I am here in my home in Olympia with very loyal friends and neighbors that are my wonderful "kind of people". My mother always looked down on me once I married, and probably before that, because I failed to impress her with important social and monetary connections, but happiness is peace of mind, true dignity and heart, and those are not for sale at an exclusive boutique. In the end , her illusions did not make her or any one following in her footsteps, like my father, very happy. Julienne was real, and so was her world, and I love her for it to this day. My mother taught me mostly to feel inferior to her worldly ways of sophistication and luxury and it took a lifetime to finally become free of that inferiority complex. Julienne was my fairy godmother, without ever even realizing what a soothing and positive influence she was and remains, long after her death almost 20 years ago now at age 70, from breast cancer. To me, she remains very much alive in my heart and its memories and when I think of her I feel warmth and gratitude.