Servus

Mute. Move!
Words hidden inside
a locked away heart.

Noise. Silence.
Day. Night.
Invisible, laughing
without a mouth.
Crying without tears.

Work. Stop.
Walk. Go!
Here. There.
Nowhere.
Up. Down.

Starry night
and sun so bright.
Shadow lost in time.

Servus   Hi!
Slaaf     Bye!
Esclave  Bonjour!
Slave     ?Hola!
Esclavo   Dag!

Name-less
Eyes looking for a horizon.
Nighty night!
Good morning!
Hello!

Eat. Sleep. Dream.

Wings. Birds. Butterflies.

Chain. Lock.
Keys.

Servus.

Trudi Ralston.
July 31st, 2012.

This poem is dedicated to the millions of people who dutifully work every day, often in nameless jobs, with nameless dreams and ignored talents, a thousand years ago and still today. 

De Contente Mens

My father had a distinct philosophical bend, and I remember quite a few instances where he would take the time to share with me some of his points of view on life. He had a wonderful rose wood desk, and on that desk sat a most peculiar statuette in simple unfinished terra cotta. It depicted an old man in very simple peasant clothing with the proverbial worker's cap. His hands were clasped behind him, he was slightly stooped, he wore clogs, and he had the most benign, relaxed smile. I thought it was a bit of an odd statue, for its naive realism, as my parents had a penchant to collect modern art. My father must have noticed my confusion about this art piece, because he said: " Look how happy this man is. He has figured out the secret to happiness, just like the engraving on the bottom of the statuette says. It reads: de contente mens, which is Flemish for the satisfied person. This person shows wisdom in accepting his humble but satisfying fate.'' I could see that, and since that day I have often thought of my father's words and I wish I had the simple statuette. I do not know what happened to it when my parents 'marriage fell apart. To be content with your circumstances when they are satisfactory, to not always wish or want everything, to accept our limitations and limits, and those of the people in our world and circumstances, is no small thing, but a guaranteed recipe for peace of mind and genuine happiness. If only my father had been able to follow that wisdom himself. Married to a capricious and spoiled woman, overwhelmed in his ambitious career, he made some disastrous choices from which he never recovered. I have some very successful friends, scattered around the globe, and at times hearing about and realizing their success can be a bit hard, as I realize that all the chaos in my family partially numbed my own ambitions and dreams. Then I remember my father's words and the humble statuette of the content old man. It calms me down, while energizing me to keep on keeping on, as they say in my church, one foot in front of the other, each day anew, without regret or resentment, with compassion and devotion for my husband and son and all the animals who have my heart and concern, for the few friends who did stand by me through it all. I try to be that "contente mens", in good days and bad, remembering the rewards of humility's wisdom.

Humminbird Resting

While having breakfast early on the deck this morning, I heard the welcome whir of a hummingbird nearby. It was very close, getting food from the planter of colorful petunias on the patio. It seemed tiny in comparison to the large trumpet shaped petunia blooms, as it busily zoomed from one flower to the next. Then, it flew up in to the tree by the pool next to the patio, and sat down.Its tiny needle like beak stuck out against the silhouette of the tree. The hummingbird looked so small, so vulnerable. Life in the country can be very solitary, and there are times the aloneness  can get to you. Watching the tiny bird up in the tree made me realize how comfortable it was in its solitude. Most animals have a great tolerance for the necessity of being alone . I do not know if humans have lost that part of our instinct that is comfortable with the necessity to be alone at times, but it often becomes an existential concern for us, the why and how of solitude. This little hummingbird made me feel better about my solitary breakfast, and I got a kick out of seeing it resting, so very small in that big tree. Our old kitty Sneakers, who is at least 12, has an enormous capacity for enjoying solitude, in conjunction with her very gregarious personality. It makes for a very happy cat, she can't lose , either way. Tigger on the other hand, is a very private cat, who prefers being alone, or the company or attention of just one person.Our Bouvier-Black Labrador Yara, is definitely happier when she is around us, and is not very keen on being alone. My son and I are like Sneakers, while my husband is definitely a Tigger. The little hummingbird flew away a few minutes later, but it left me with a smile on my face and a renewed appreciation for my solitary breakfast time.

The Tiger and The Bee, a Fable

Once upon a time, in a garden rich and green, lived a very busy bee. All day long she went from flower to flower, pansy, petunia, daisy, morning glory, rose, lily and sunflower, gathering food for her hive. She was buzzing around, hardly having time to notice the beautiful blue sky, to rest her weary body and soak up some of that delicious sunshine. Then , one day, very quietly and unexpectedly, this tiger with big green eyes and a luxurious grin, came wandering into the bee's garden, from the forest in the back. The bee was so busy, she did not notice the big tiger at first. The birds were trying to tell her, the chickadees, the sparrows, the swallows, the mourning doves, but the bee was too preoccupied to see. The tiger now, he found a cozy place in the shade, and had a bird tickle his belly. He was the sort of tiger that was really relaxed. I guess he was on vacation from all his responsibilities in a far away jungle. Finally, one day, as the tiger was letting out a frightfully loud, but friendly roar, the bee took notice that something was different in her garden. She flew over to the tiger, but he did not bother with her, and swatted at her, like she was some pesky fly. The bee hid behind a bush, and took a good look at this visitor. He sure was big, and he had a goofy grin, but he also looked very strong and handsome in his magnificent stripes and fur. The bee decided she would see if maybe the tiger was interested in being friends, as she realized she had not taken any time off from her constant chores. The tiger seemed agreeable to the idea. "Sure," he said with a yawn, we have something in common, we both have stripes. Have a seat, take a load off, you look awfully tired." So the bee sat down and rested her aching back and wings. She looked around the garden, and noticed how beautiful it was. She noticed all the birds, the blue sky, she felt the sun tickle her tired face. It felt good, she decided. That night, the tiger and the bee had a marshmallow roast for all the other bees, and they also invited all the birds, even some raccoons and opossum. Every one had a marvelous time. The bee went back to work the next day, but she took every Wednesday off from then on, and hung out with the tiger, who it turned out appreciated her company as the bee was very knowledgeable about poetry and the tiger lover her reciting to him. So, even though they were so very different, the tiger and the bee became very good friends. He took care not to sit on her, and she made sure not to sting him accidentally. Sometimes, the oddest of friends, can be the best of friends, and things are not always as weird as they at first may seem. Kind of like you, and me.

Sunflower afternoon

A couple of summers ago, we grew some very tall sunflowers. That same summer, a whole bunch of tree frog tadpoles ended up in our pool, and we ended up with over 200 tree frogs in our garden. It was so fun. One day, I was watering the sunflowers, and I noticed a tiny tree frog sunning himself in the middle of one of the very tall sunflowers. It is one of the dearest memories I have of our summer garden.The little green tree frog looked so happy, so comfortable in his sunflower pent house.I stood as quietly as I could, and he stayed, feeling rightly he had nothing to fear from me. I so much wanted to be him or her, at that particular moment. It seemed a moment in paradise, with the warm sun overhead, the sweet south wind breeze, the glorious, luxurious silence of the summer's afternoon. A timeless moment of peace, where the universe seemed to make complete sense, even for a tiny tree frog. He seemed completely unafraid of me.Perhaps he sensed I envied his bliss at that moment. All creatures can sense intent, and my intent was to enjoy seeing him so totally at one with the afternoon, the sun, the slightly swaying sunflower that provided him with his cozy oasis.I saw many tree frogs in our backyard that summer, they were every where, but that little frog snoozing on the giant sunflower's heart is remembered in all its happy detail. That little tree frog had the ability to enjoy to the fullest that wonderful summer day, reminding me to do just that whenever I have the chance.

Who is this?

A dear friend of mine from my graduate school days in Austin, Texas now lives a world away. But there are still times when remembering his sensitivity, sense of humor and tact, still bring a smile to my face all these years later. One day, we decided to go dancing. I was very fond of him, and had bought him a tiny clay dragon creature, something small enough to put in a pant pocket. This was a person I felt very safe with, emotionally, so even though I was slightly nervous about the sentimental gift, I gave it to him any way. I put it on our table where we were seated taking a break with a drink  at the disco place. My friend looked down, saw the tiny gift, and said with a kind smile: "Who is this?" It is something I have always remembered, because most people would have asked:"What is this?" The distinction is important, because it implies the difference between indifference and respect. By asking "Who is this?", my friend showed nuance, caution, a flair for diplomacy and humor all in one. He made me feel rewarded for the courage it took me to show vulnerability when it came to him. He could have embarrassed me, but he didn't. It showed a side of him that made him very dear to me from that moment on. I have not seen my friend in 26 years, and I do not know if he would remember this anecdote. We speak on the phone and send e-mails, and he seems as humble as ever in spite of all his impressive intellectual and career achievements. Kindness and consideration seem second nature to him, so he probably does not keep track of the nice things he did then or does now. Even small acts of consideration and kindness can sow a seed that can give life to a flower of hope and dignity that is still growing many years later.

Lazy days of summer

Watching our male cat Tigger snooze in my son's sock drawer last night, looking so comfortable and snug, made me realize that the tedium of summer has a quality all its own. I have noticed often that our companion animals rarely worry about those times when things seem a bit slow and repetitive. Our old kitty Sneakers who wandered in to our back yard 12 years ago, enjoys every day with the wisdom of a savvy old Buddhist, always surrendering to whatever the day brings. If it is sunny, she will enjoy every moment of it, moving from warm spot to warm spot, as the day progresses, and easily moving to  shade if the heat becomes uncomfortable. If it is a cold day, she snuggles on a warm blanket. If it is raining, she finds a sheltered place where she can enjoy the sounds and fresh smells of the weather without getting wet. Most of us spend a lot of time complaining about such things as the weather, as if we can control it: it is too hot, too cold, too wet, we are rarely satisfied. Animals seem to find it futile to be annoyed by things that are self evident, like the weather. Time also takes on a different meaning, if you stop obsessing about it. I notice if you stop resisting its inevitability, time can be pleasant even when it is unstructured, slow, so to speak , in modern terms of efficiency. We now think it is a waste of time, to just sit on a free summer day. We feel we need to at the same time, listen to music, play with our cell phone, carry on a conversation, water a plant. It is crazy any more. I watch my cats snooze in the sun or shade, and that is all they do. They do not feel compelled to also catch a mouse, clean their coat, eat, drink water. They have the capability to enjoy one thing at a time. It is an art and a joy we are at risk of losing. As we splinter our attention, we splinter also our relationships. They have to fit in with our distractions, and we are losing the art of just talking to each other without an electronic gadget on hand. It is sad to see young parents at a park or restaurant or mall, playing with their cell phone gadgets while their young children are trying to get their attention, or are getting hurt. I do not allow cell phones or any other electronics , or the good old TV to be on, while we eat dinner together each night. There is no eating in the computer rooms, and we have tea time each night after dinner, and the same rule applies: no gadgets. We talk together, and it is a wonderful bonding tradition, one I have hung on to stubbornly for more than 25 years. I make sure we take time to just be, to sit, to talk, to play a good old fashioned card game, to eat together and to do just that, eat together, without any artificial distractions. As a result, our son is a great conversationalist, who can discuss any topic intelligently, in the company of adults as well as in the company of his friends. On lazy summer weekend mornings, we make a big brunch together, or water the garden, and in the afternoons, go swimming, or for a walk, and let the lazy, even boringly slow of the summer's rhythm sink in, allowing the rest to recharge our minds and bodies before the renewed frenetic pace of work and school that fall inevitably will bring.

Le Coeur Maudit

Le chemin part silencieusement
vers l'ocean ou reside mon espoir.

Je ne bouge guere les pieds
sur l'herbe douce de l'ete .

Oh, douce liberte ayant echappee
la main froide du passe.

Je chante, souriante,
dansant avec soin

Vers ma maison pleine de lumiere
et couleur, ou les morts et leurs fantomes

Ont ete balaye dehors avec
le printemps de mon courage.

Le coeur maudit, je le tiens prisonnier
je le soigne, sans peur ou regret.

Les ombres nefastes d'erreurs et
regrets fatales ne me troublent plus.

Je suis libre, les yeux ouverts et clairs,
L'ame legere, prete a voler vers

Le ciel chaud ou se sont
reveilles mes reves.

Trudi Ralston, July 24th, 2012.

I wrote this poem in celebration of the awareness you can leave the past behind, if you try hard enough, are somewhat lucky, and will it to be so. I know the French accents are missing, but the mood made me feel the poem should be in French. 

Diane

When my son was three, I met a woman who would have a true impact on Nicholas and me. She was introduced to me by my next door neighbor of 23 years, Karen. Diane had a large family, nine children as a matter of fact, and she welcomed Nicholas and I into her gregarious, generous household. As an only child with very little family around, near or far, Nicholas loved spending time at her house. She was always baking, and made the best homemade donuts, and her husband Chester, a prolific songwriter and self taught pianist and guitar player, also made the best cheese burgers in town. Their house was always filled with children, every one was always welcome, and every one seemed to stay all day just about every day. They never turned a child away, and every one always stayed for dinner. Diane's tolerance of the chaos the large amount of children of all ages, hers and the neighbors generated was amazing. She never complained, she never lost her temper, it was an open house for many a lonely child who otherwise would have spent the day home alone while their parents were at work. She always had a large number of children's books at hand, and she would sit down with any child who wanted her to read to them, oblivious to the chaos of scattered toys every where. She had the  patience of a saint, and respected children completely. She taught them basic cooking skills, let them turn her kitchen upside down, allowing them to make bread and cookies, and sandwiches, empowering often socially challenged children with timeless memories of empowerment. As Nicholas got older, her husband who is also a skilled boy scout leader with 25 years of experience, would introduce the boys to basic camping and survival skills. He too always displayed an enormous talent for patience and respect towards the children. Part of Nicholas' computer skills and interest he learned at Chester and Diane's house. Her husband is one of the talents a the South Puget Sound Community College where Nicholas is now taking classes and works part time as a computer lab technician. I see Diane a lot less now, but the memories Nicholas and I have of her and her children and her husband and the good times we spent at their house is priceless and imprinted on our hearts. At Diane's house, love your neighbour like yourself is taken seriously every day without hesitation and without hypocrisy. As a result, their house generates a deep sense of peace , warmth and purpose to all who spend any amount of time there. A most unusual and rare gift from a most unusual husband and wife.

Eloise

I decided a long time ago, that if I ever had a chance to choose my own first name, I would choose Eloise. I like the way it sounds, the musicality of it. It took me some time to understand that the reason I liked the name Eloise so much went back to when I first heard and saw Barry Ryan perform a song on TV by that name. It was 1968, and I was 11. I remember sitting in the soft white leather armchair in our plush living room, and as my mother was mostly oblivious to me, it was easy to sneak into the living room and watch TV undisturbed. I sat there mesmerized, with my boy cut short hair, and demure plaid jumper, and ugly dark socks and shoes, seeing this handsome guy in a white suit , on a white horse, singing passionately in English about this beautiful long haired.,long eye lashed girl. " My Eloise is like the stars that please the night, The sun that makes the day, that lights the way..." The lyrics started a fire in my heart that never went out. "Every night I'm there,I break my heart to please Eloise, Eloise"... The passion and despair in the song were so strong, the desperate plea of a man so in love, he almost loses his mind, it was a hell of a way to be introduced to the world of tormented romance. "My Eloise, I'd love to please her, I' love to care, but she's not there, And when I find you,I'd be so kind, You'd want to stay, I'd know you'd stay"... It was riveting and Barry Ryan made it so believable, so real, even though the setting on the beach in the TV video, with him on a white horse, with a white cape flowing behind him, as he belted out his despair and heart break, were a bit cheeky, it was all very convincing. To hear the song again  after all these years sent the same surge of fire through me. To be loved that strongly, that passionately, all these years later it still makes an impact and makes my blood flow hotter and faster. Eloise, she must be quite a woman, I'd like to think I came close, once or twice. Sorry, boys, just blame Barry Ryan. That is just such a damned good song. "And only time can tell and take away this lonely hell, I'm on my knees to Eloise"...Of course, I have also been on the receiving end of that type of heart break, so that makes us even, well, maybe not, if my name is going to be Eloise, some day.

Pinocchio

When I was about eight, my father's mother,whom I called Meterke, took me to see the Disney movie Pinocchio. Having been released in 1940, the movie was already old news by the time I saw it in 1965, but I was thrilled to go see it. We went at matinee time, and I remember it was a rainy day and hardly any one was in the theater. I remember being frightened by the violent whale who swallowed Pinocchio and Geppetto. Some of Pinocchio's adventures were very stressful and scary to me. But there was one part I loved very much, apart from the cute Jiminy Cricket, and that was the appearance of the Blue Fairy. I so much wanted her to come to my house and pay me a visit. She was so beautiful, sparkling with stars and light. How did she get to be a fairy in the first place? Could I maybe become a fairy like her when I was older? To this day I have a predilection for the color powder blue, which I have come to associate with feelings of peace and happiness. It was a color I looked for. One of my favorite summer skirts when I was 13, was powder blue, I had a baby doll my grandmother made that was power blue with white polka dots, a favorite make-up kit. In my house, my blinds are powder blue, and so are our winter blankets. It seems naive, but to remember the Blue Fairy still adds an  element of pleasure and hope to what survived of my child's soul and dreams. When I was about 13, I finally got to see Peter Pan, and was introduced to the feisty Tinkerbell. That cartoon character sparked a deep liking in me for spunk and resourcefulness. I have several Tinkerbell icons around the house, and just like the Blue Fairy, thinking about her adds a touch of whimsy and hope, tucked away carefully in the corner of my childhood resilience and determination.

Brenda

In 1998, when my son Nicholas started Kindergarten, I met a neighbor whose son was also enrolled that year. We became friends through the connection our sons established. It is 2012, and Brenda is still very much a part of my life. When Nicholas was growing up, she always remembered his birthday, always was kind and considerate to our family, also remembering my husband's and my birthdays and anniversary, always remembering us at Christmas time, as she knew we have very little family on both sides. When my sister Goedele died in 2005, which led to the final dissolution of whatever semblance of family I had left, Brenda was there for me. I spent many a happy afternoon at her house, just enjoying her boundless energy for every one around her. She is the neighborhood fairy godmother, watching out for every one, especially those neighbors and friends who were ill, or down on their luck. Every one is always welcome at her house, it is a home with an always welcome attitude. When I turned 50, she gave me the best birthday I ever had, with a custom made cake, decorated with chocolate dipped strawberries and orchids. She calls me every couple of days, and we talk about every day concerns and life's ups and downs.She makes me laugh, she keeps my perspective open, and she always reminds me of the importance of giving freely of our love and time. She helps me feel connected, part of an extended family, when I no longer have one myself. She has a grandson now, the light of her life, and I enjoy her stories of the latest adventures and anecdotes the little boy brings to her daily life. She is a faithful, steadfast friend,and has brightened many a cloudy day for me and many people. She is a tireless gardener, cook, nurse, counselor, sister, friend, to all who need her, and she has the talent to anticipate people's needs. Brenda also loves animals the way I do, and she and I enjoy sharing stories about the fun and frustration and also heart ache of having pet animals living with you over the years. She is also a relentless optimist, it takes a lot to get her down, and her resilience is contagious. Her husband Jim too is someone who is always there for his many friends, tireless like Brenda in his willingness to give a helping hand. When cars break down, the weather turns bad, health becomes challenged or life in  general gets you down, Brenda is always there, and so is her husband , a blessing to all who know them. .

Blue Cornflowers

In  with the pumpkins and squash, the green pole beans and sunflowers, my husband Michael planted blue cornflowers. As it turns out, they are together with red poppies, among my most favorite flowers. When I was growing up in Belgium, one of my fondest visual memories is of fields of wheat in the summertime, and seeing the red poppies and blue cornflowers mixed in with the cream colored wheat stalks. The combination of the bright red and strong blue was hypnotic to me. As it turns out, the blue cornflower was John F. Kennedy's favorite flower, and a wreath of corn flowers was part of King Tutankhamen's tomb. It is the flower for young men in love,  and it seems to be a mostly masculine flower, but I happen to be very fond of it. My father's people  were farmers, and on his mother's side they were millers, who immigrated from France. To this day, you can visit the original Dujardin bakery in Amiens. I feel closer to my father's family when I am in our garden, and see the pumpkins and tomatoes grow, and harvest the last of the red currants, and strawberries, and look forward to the blueberries turning ripe. I love being outside, early in the morning, love the wholesomeness, the sounds of the birds, the early morning breeze, the absence of mechanical noises. My heart  goes out to the farmers whose lively hoods are being threatened by the worst drought in the US in 50 years. My mother's family on her father's side were wealthy landowners and goldsmiths, and on her mother's side well educated artists and musicians. I guess my soul embraced both legacies, by being a poet and story teller who loves the country side. Somehow the blend proved disastrous for my parents' marriage, as my mother gave in to narcissistic frivolity and alcoholism, and it proved a real struggle for us four siblings. My two sisters did not survive it, my brother and my relationship did not survive it either, and we have plenty of scars to keep us hesitant from trying to reconnect. Dark blue is a noble color, a color of calm, associated with royalty, dignity. Perhaps that is part of the attraction to me with the blue cornflower, maybe by making it mine, I feel redeemed at least privately from the shame and sorrow of my family's disastrous story. The red poppies I am so fond of bring back memories of the Romani coming through my hometown when I was growing up. They represent the untamed, the wild and free part of my spirit. Perhaps seeing them together as I did in the Flemish wheat fields of my native Belgium was an intuitive way to bolster my heart and memories from the storms that were coming my way.

Romeo and Julliet

When I hear the names Romeo and Juliet, I think of a very specific memory of a very hot summer night when I was about 10 years old. I still hear the frogs' music nearby from the creek down the street, I remember the humid heat, the star filled sky and the huge movie poster of Franco Zeffirelli's 1968 Italian-British production of the star- crossed ill fated young lovers, starring Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey. The giant movie poster looked naked on the bare wall of the girls' upstairs bedroom. They were about 15 and 16,  and the oldest of the two was smoking, watching the stars quietly. Their names were Rita and Marleen, and they were the daughters of our housekeeper, Julienne. I had been spending the night for a couple of days now, an exotic event for me, coming out of a fancy suburban home. I loved already at a young age to be in environments that were different from mine, it intrigued me. The daughters were already dating, were allowed make-up, and wore the latest fashion trends. All things I knew would be forbidden to me. The  poster showed the young Romeo and Juliet partly naked, in an intimate embrace, and I could not keep my eyes of them. The whole thing was very exciting, visually speaking. It seemed like the young lovers in the poster appreciated being in a room with a large open window, that looked out at a million stars on a steamy hot summer's night. It was late, and that was exciting too, I was allowed to stay up as late as the daughters, even though I was only 10. I was also fitted with some high heels, my size, someone did my hair up, and did my nails for fun, in a bright red. I felt so grown up and slightly mischievous. I got to watch movies until late at night on the black and white TV in the small but very cozy living room. I remember watching two American love stories, where I thought the movie stars looked so glamorous in their sparkly low cut dresses. I wanted to be in love, too, meet a movie star. How awesome would it be to be Olivia Hussey, and get to kiss the handsome young Leonard Whiting. That poster and that night, where no one was talking in that hot room  while the frogs had their symphony going, and the stars sparked our young imaginations,stayed with me for good. It left an imprint of the smell and feel of longing, of dreams and feelings there but not well formed enough to be put in specific words and aspirations. It was a timeless night, one that I  remember each time I hear the words Romeo and Juliet.

The Prize

When my son was in 4th grade, he participated in a fund raiser that resulted in a gift for me that I treasure like a bar of  24 karat gold. He and my husband went door to door, and my husband sold some of the books at work, too. In the end, they had sold enough to merit the coveted prize: a small stuffed animal mechanical piggy, they gave to me. It had a battery, and when you turned it on, it would move its snout in and out, and start walking. They were so proud, and what was so touching to me, was that my son wanted not a prize for himself, he wanted me to have the piggy. To this day the piggy sits proudly on my cherry wood dresser in the living room, and my heart  feels warm all over each time I look at it. My son's enthusiasm as he would add up each day the accumulated points to see how close he was to being able to get the piggy, my husband's willingness to become part of the goal and excitement, it was so touching. My son Nicholas has always had very shiny eyes, especially when he gets excited, and I will always remember his smile, his pride and his bright shiny eyes as he gave me the mechanical stuffed toy. He is 20 now, a bright, well spoken, warm and creative and funny guy, towering above me at almost six foot six, even though I am not short at five foot eight. He calls me Little Mama, and is very protective and kind with me. It is strange to realize how time goes by, and wonderful to know the memories we cherish are not tarnished or do not age with time. They are  there for us to retrieve at any moment, any where, one of the many marvels of our brains. And our memories are tied to our hearts, because the ones that are dearest to our heart, are the ones our memory keeps closest to the surface of the treasure chest that  becomes our heart's favorite stories. The heart truly seems to have its own memory, because what does not matter to it, it will forget, but the events, emotions, people, that matter will stay there as fresh as the day they happened. And the piggy will never get old.

Romani

For my 18th birthday, my parents allowed me to commission a painting by the Flemish post -expressionist artist Raul Vanden Heede, whose  work they were very fond of and who was also a friend of the family. He had painted a watercolor of a princess coach for my sister Goedele. I asked him to do a portrait of me as a gypsy girl. To this day, I have the painting, it is in my living room and I enjoy it every day. I identify very much with the portrait, as I have always had an interest and affinity for gypsies, or Romani, to use the proper ethnic and cultural term. When I was growing up in  Belgium, Romani were only allowed to stay for a 24 hour period. I loved it when they came through our town. A lot of people did not like them, but I thought they were beautiful, with their jet black hair, their dark skin and brightly colored clothes. They would camp about 10 minutes from our house, near the town railroad tracks. I still see their campfires at night, their caravans of trailers and old beat up cars. I remember their laughter, their voices, the guitar music, the women in long bright skirts,their waist long hair, their smiles, in spite of being looked down on and avoided. They would walk to our neighborhood, and sell their services of fortune telling and sharpening knives, and fixing small appliances. One day, two boys of about 10, with massive grins on their faces, told my mother and I that they would sharpen our knives for "10 francs le centimetre". We knew that was outrageous, as one Belgian franc fluctuated between 35 and 40 francs to one American dollar. Those were going to be some very expensively sharpened knives! But my mother agreed, and off they went snickering knowingly that they had just fooled the well to do house wife, not realizing my mother just  played along. It was a touching act of kindness towards children who were treated as outcasts and with suspicion by most. Red poppies grew by the rail road tracks, and to me to this day they are a reminder of all that was left to remember the Romani had been in town 24 hours earlier, as the tracks were empty of their presence again, and the quiet poppies no longer were surrounded by music and exotic gypsies. To me, the visits by the Romani  were exciting, because to me they represented freedom. Freedom from routine, from school, regular work routines, preconceived notions of propriety and social standards, expectations. I wanted to be a gypsy. Of course , as a 10 or 11 year old I had no idea of the horrible persecutions these people had endured, and continue to endure. Just recently the former President of France had 51 Romani camps demolished and forcibly removed the inhabitants back to their country of origin. That was in 2010. And the Romani have endured persecution since they arrived in Europe around 1322. The Nazi are responsible for at least 1 million deaths of Romani. No one seems to have been kind to these people, who from the time they entered Europe through the Middle East and North Africa, were forbidden to speak their language, to wear their ethnic clothing, to play their music, to keep and ride their horses, and who were sold as slaves as late as 1852 in Bucharest. Their plight strikes me as very similar to the tragic plight of the Native Americans. My husband and son both have Black Foot Native American blood running through their veins. I am neither a Romani nor a native American, but I have great empathy for both cultures. I read "Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee" by Dee Brown when I was 16, and I can still recall the rage I felt at the systematic genocide described in the book. There is a great new article in the latest National Geographic Magazine about the Sioux Indian reservation, Pine Ridge in South Dakota, called "In the Spirit of Crazy Horse". The continuing struggle with appalling poverty and alcoholism, depression, suicide and unemployment are a sad testimony to the legacy of persecution and abuse. Fortunately, the culture is making a come back. I pray the same will be able to be said of Romani culture in the end. For now, with economic tensions world wide, it seems the specter of persecution is looming again, in the name of yet again finding a scapegoat for society's troubles.

Baby Blues

Recently I had re-injured my right knee, an old warrior wound from our days as Tae Kwon Do black belts, going back ten years now. Yara , our new young dog, is a very fast walker, and on one of those fast paced 45 minute walks I felt the familiar pain in my knee come back. So, I have to be patient the next five, six weeks, and so does Yara, as she wonders why her leash stays hung up by the front door. It does not take much to marvel at our wonderfully engineered bodies, or to experience how fragile their machinery can be. So, when my husband learned I was having a hard time painting my toes  my favorite baby blue color, he humbly volunteered for the job. I was so bummed out to feel so dependent and helpless with such a basic task, but was also happy to accept his kind offer. As I sat in the chair and he gave my toes the royal treatment, I started feeling better, and when he started  painting them carefully as the last step in his well done pedicure , I was really grateful and relieved that  would be able to wear my summer sandals and flip-flops without embarrassment. It was our 26 year anniversary that day, and even though he got me a dozen beautiful white-pink roses and a beautiful necklace, the gift I'll treasure most are my baby blue toes he painted for me when I was really frustrated with my sore and unbending knee. It made me feel loved and valued when I was feeling awkward and insecure and impatient because of it. Love is never sweeter than when it accepts us at our most vulnerable, most unlovable. You can learn to do without a lot of stuff, or deal with a lot of problems and stress, as long as you have a family who cares about you. That family was once large for me, with siblings, aunts and uncles and a lot of cousins. Now it is quite small, but there is nothing small about the dignity and care it provides my hart, body and soul. My husband and I grew up on opposite sides of the planet, in very different back grounds, and that can be a challenge, even after being together for almost 30 years, but he never fails to surprise me with his humble, warm heart.

Morning Fog

There is an enchantment unique to summer mornings that are shrouded in fog. It adds a touch of mystery, of slowed down energy to summer's exuberance. Winter and autumn fog can be deadly and therefore are often stressful, dangerous. But that early morning summer fog brings a hint of magic, of mystery to the hustle and bustle, the relentless heat , the bright light, the long nights, with their brief quiet cover, temporarily obscuring everything around us. Mystery is something we are drawn to, and mist, or fog, adds a shade of mystery to our surroundings. We can't quite see everything clearly, and as we know the day will be very bright and hot, that short interlude between precise and blurry feels comforting. As the sun starts piercing through the mist, its light plays magic with what it starts to reveal: flowers sparkle like precious jewels, cobwebs look like dazzling necklaces, the dew on trees and grass shimmer to our eyes, and all the things we thought were ordinary reveal themselves as wonderful, enchanting. By the time the full brightness of the day hits, we are all right with it as we realize that heat is not all there is to summer. I used to ride my bicycle to school in Belgium, all the years from when I was 12, until I was 19, and one of my fondest memories of morning early summer fog was discovering my eyelashes were covered in it, by the time I got to school. It made me feel like a partly other world being, maybe a forest nymph. It was a fun sensation. I also remember the sound of my dynamo that gave light to my bicycle as its ray pierced through the morning fog, making approaching bicyclists and scooter riders coming from the opposite side seem like characters out of a Sherlock Holmes movie. It made the whole mechanical experience of riding to school, and for others, riding to work, seem a bit surreal. Man's machines disturbing nature's silence and magic, adding an element of existential melancholy to the daily routine, reminding me of Plato's Allegory of the Cave, which I had to read and study in the original Greek when I was 14. Morning fog is charming to me, when I can be in my garden or by the ocean, away from the mechanical madness the world has become, or perhaps always was.

Disconnect

Taking into account the impact of losing both my sisters to traumatic deaths, one from suicide when she was 35, the other to cancer when she was 44, and the equally traumatic deaths of both my parents , my father taken by Alzheimer's and my mother by liver cancer, I am doing well. I am happy with my 26 year marriage, happy with our wonderful son, happy with our home, our sweet pets, our good neighbors and the friends that stuck around when all the family tragedy started. Compared to people who are victims of wars, or poverty, or other types of violence and destruction, I consider myself lucky. My astute therapist I saw for about a year and a half, made an observation one session that stayed with me, and that is helpful to remember on days that the old ghosts come calling. She told me it was true that I was not a survivor of a war, or poverty, but I was a survivor nevertheless. It is one thing to be betrayed by an enemy,but to be betrayed by those who are supposed to love and protect you, is very traumatic. A mother is not supposed to betray her daughters, to turn her children against their father, to dispose of her husband like a broken machine. So, there are those days when things feel askew, distorted, and a s a result, I feel disconnected. Over time, the disconnect hurts less and less, but it is still unnerving, and also paralyzing, because it makes me feel invisible. To lose your family is a very strange thing, it makes you question the validity of your existence, the relevance of your destiny. It can also make you indifferent not only to your own sadness about the loss, but indifferent to hope. Because my family got torn apart by my parents' horrible marriage, and things just spiraled out of control to take every one who got into the path and fury of the destruction. Even my brother and I who survived, were destroyed as siblings. We have not seen each other in 14 years. He has a 25 year old son whom I have not seen since he was 11. He has a 20 year old daughter I have never met. The fallout from the destruction from my parents 'Dance of Death also hurt my brother and I. Maybe we will never see each other again. All communication to him goes unanswered, it has been like that since our parents died 4 years ago, and it does not look like it will change. To have your roots cut off is a very strange sensation, you go on, you breathe, but some days you feel like an automaton, barely human. What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Perhaps, or maybe it just leaves you with a partially amputated soul.

Picking Berries

It is eight in the morning on a Saturday, and our dog Yara and I are walking around the garden. We just fed the birds, and gave them fresh water, as it is going to be another hot summer day, and we are enjoying the sparkling coat of dew on all the plants and flowers. The daisies look especially enchanting as the dew beads add a touch of elegance to their soft petals. I walk through the arbor to the fruit bushes, and start eating the red currants. The sky overhead is a liquid turquoise, and the small  currants shine red against their three part mint green leaves that the light goes through like a flashlight on canvas. I am mesmerized by the beauty of the light and colors playing with each other. The currants taste tart and sweet, and feel   minuscule in my fingers compared to the meatier raspberries and strawberries Yara and I were harvesting earlier. The rhythmic repetition of picking the small red berries, admiring the brilliance of thei light against the blindingly bright blue summer sky, the soft feel of the fresh green leaves, the gentle breeze blowing through my hair, it filled me with a sense of bliss, of being in a capsule where I was not beating time, or living it linearly, but I was time. I breathed in the sweet, quiet air, and just let myself be part of the morning garden's glory. This was heaven, or as close as I think I will come to it in this dimension. It was just me and Yara, who was snoozing among the young pumpkin plants, and it felt like paradise, with the birds happily singing around us, and an ocean otherwise, of sweet, sweet silence. Every one was still asleep it sounded like, and I knew this was my moment, before the cars started, before the unhappy dogs on the next street over started their tragic barking and howling that every one but me ignored, before my husband and son woke up, and turned on their music and their computers, before I had to go in the house and make my own noise, with the washing machine, the dishwasher, the TV as I watched the morning news, before the whole automaton syndrome kicked in for one more day. Plus, oh joy, the annual lake boat races were this weekend, when Hydro foils that make enough noise to shake our walls, terrorize the neighborhood for two days. It is of course, always the hottest weekend of the year, so it is not only a challenge to drown out the noise, but to keep our wood frame houses cool. I bet all the frogs and ducks and fish and birds that live in and by the lake hate this weekend as much as I do. But, this morning , in my garden, peace was there, and for that wonderful space in time, I was in paradise, and that makes me feel like the happiest, freest, luckiest woman alive this Saturday morning.

Immigrant's Lament

It never gets old, living in a country that is not yours. After 36 years in the US, 11 years of which were spent in Texas, and 24 so far here in Washington State, every day, whether good, bad or everything in between, the awareness that this is not where I grew up is very real. It is not my Flemish I hear, it is not the food I grew up with, it is not the measuring and weight system I grew up with, as I realize that I still am not used to yards and quarts and ounces, and it is not the political climate I grew up with, or cultural standards or perspectives. I grew up in a small country, and now I live in a very large one, that after almost forty years remains unsettling in many ways, with its ever present ambiguities and contradictions. It remains strange to me, that black Americans did not have the right to vote until 1964, that people had to die, both black and white, to achieve this. This is a country that murders its presidents, its civil right leaders, and this within my life time. I was 5 when President Kennedy was assassinated  and 11 when Dr. King was murdered. It is a country of great contrasts, with very wealthy and very poor, with a very ambiguous attitude towards education, conflicting approaches to immigration, to religion, to morality. It is a marvelous country in many ways. It is also frighteningly confusing and controversial in the way it treats its elderly, its physically and mentally ill. It is a country with a very hard edge, for all its sentimental folklore and friendliness. But, it is unique, in the way people from all over the world get along, when all is said and done. It remains remarkable to me that cultures from all over the world get along as well as they do. In every American city of any size, with all the ethnic variety, both socially, politically and religiously, it is rare that people clash, or that riots occur because of ethnic tensions. There is a great tolerance and respect for who you are. I am a member of a black Baptist church, my hairdresser is a Vietnamese Buddhist, my neighbours of 23 years are Mormon, and there seems to be plenty of room for every one's opinion and life style. There are churches in Olympia that celebrate every faith, and they are all in close physical proximity: Korean Presbyterians, African American Baptists, a Muslim Mosque, a Jewish temple, a Catholic church, just to name a few. I feel very free here, with lots of space around my soul and identity. Perhaps big countries that are democracies can afford to be generous this way, as they have a lot of resources and a lot of space. I will never stop missing certain things about Europe, but I also love very much the space that this country allows around my heart and soul.

Ce N'est Rien

There are few songs that get me over a temporary fit of the blues like the song made famous by the French singer Julien Clerc, named "Ce N'est Rien". The title translates best in English as "it's alright". The song is from 1974, when I was 17, a serious, passionate but isolated teenager and this song from the very first time I heard it has always been able to shake me out of the blues. The sensual vibrato voice of the singer, his energy, his insistence on hope in the darkest of emotions. He recently sang the song again during a 40 year celebration concert of his music, and at 64, his voice is intact, and still gave me shivers of pleasure and recognition, after all those years! The song 's moral is that no matter what you deal with, try to get past it, as things always change. Time passes, it's alright, there will be other chances, other choices made possible. Another song of his I always liked for its whimsical sensuality is "Elle voulait que je l'appelle Venise", an amusing song about a girl that insists on being called Venise by the boys. His music is sensual, he was a big heartthrob in the seventies, when he was just in his twenties, but it has also a very up beat energy, a sense of hope, no matter how distressing at times the heart break of the songs. It is strange how you can listen to music you heard more than 30 years ago, and it gives you the same emotions you had at that time. Memory can be a wonderful thing, if we can recall the sad, we can also relive the hope, the joy, both as a general emotion, or involving a very specific moment. In that sense, the gods were merciful, if there is such a thing as trauma memory, there is also the joy of recalling and reliving good memories, that all those years later can bring a smile and energy to our heart. After remembering my little sister singing the sad song "Mademoiselle de Paris", and the heart break that song predicted for her, it is good to be able to listen to "Ce N'est Rien", and get some healing for my aching memories, a morale boost for the memories that time won't heal. Hope is a many splendor-ed thing, we can't live without it, and the way Julien Clerc sings his songs, he is a testimony to that need to get beyond whatever aches, and survive, with your heart still beating, still believing in life.

Mademoiselle de Paris

One of the sweetest memories I have of my sister Ludwina ( 1962-1998 ), when she was a five year old child and I was ten, is tied to a song written by Henri Contet and Paul Durand in 1948. My little sister must have heard the tune numerous times on the radio back then, because one day, at school during her Kindergarten recess, my entire 4th grade class heard her singing the refrain of the song over and over again, mostly humming what were supposed to be the words. I looked out the window, and so did our teacher, a very relaxed woman we called Miss Regina, as everyone in my class started smiling, listening to my sister's enthusiastic repetition of "...Mademoiselle , Mademoiselle de Paris, la,la,la, la-de-la,...Mademoiselle de Paris...", as she paced up and down, oblivious to any of her play mates around her. She was the cutest little kid, with her blond curls, and big smile and wide eyes. How my heart hurts to think back on this, as I invariably do from time to time, as her birthday draws near on July 20th. She would have been 50 this year, she was 35 when she hung herself in our parents' garage in their house in Georgia, with a lasso my parents had bought at the Grand Canyon in 1973. How did she figure out how to use the lasso so deadly effectively? Our parents' garage was big, and had a second floor, with high sturdy beams, and that  is where they found her, hanging from the tall beams. How did she know how to tie the knot, so it would hold  on the first try? Did she study knots, get a book from the library? To think my sister was so desperately unhappy, that she entered that dark tunnel of despair, and wanted to die. It never gets easy to deal with, even 14 years later. Mademoiselle de Paris is a bitter sweet song, about a seamstress who makes beautiful ballroom dresses for young women, and is lonely for love herself. My sister had a series of very unhappy romances, and it makes remembering her singing the song "Mademoiselle de Paris ", so fervently at such a young age all the more devastating. It was an almost prophetic song, as far as her future unhappy love life was concerned. It makes me wonder if there is such a thing as destiny, for better or for worse. Or maybe she had a fragile heart from the beginning, one that was impacted from a very young age by a distracted and socially ambiguous , narcissistic mother.

The Pink Flamingo

To this day, I have a strong emotional reaction to pink flamingos. No, not the plastic ones in people's yards, the real bird. I can still recall the awe I felt at seeing a real live flamingo for the first time. I was about six or at the most seven, and it was a the Antwerp zoo. The tall bird was standing near a small fountain, on one foot. It must have sensed I was in awe, because I remember it checking me out, with its eyes being the only thing moving on its body. I decided to stand stock still too, and to this day I remember that flamingo and me having a staring contest. What mesmerized me about the exotic bird the most was its color, a salmon pink, that made its feathers seem almost fluid, and full of opaque light. I remember thinking that the teacher at school had been wrong. Birds were not just blue, or brown or grey,this one was tall, had a crooked black beak, had skinny pink legs and pink feathers. The world of adults apparently was not all they said it was. It was much better! I knew, because I was looking at something that seemed to have escaped a fairy tale. I wondered what else was out there the grown ups hadn't told me about. It must be pretty good, I decided, since they weren't telling me about it. Now, I learned that this particular wonder came from a far away place called Florida. That was in a place  called America. I figured the only way to beat the adults at their game of leaving me out of these wonderful things like flamingos, was to decide I was going to travel a lot. I had learned about peacocks from China a few years before, when my father had taken me to see one in a pastor's private garden. How come I was living in such a boring place, with brown birds, instead of pink ones, and where they had to bring in peacocks from China, which was even further away than America, to make our country half-way interesting? The experience probably added to a certain restlessness, and deep curiosity about exotic cultures. I found a very cute stuffed pink flamingo about a year ago, in the pet toy section of a local grocery store. I love that silly looking thing, and what I love most about it, other than that touching it satisfied a long standing desire to touch a real flamingo, is its salmon pink color, which to this day has the ability to transport me to that magical moment when I first laid eyes on that beautiful bird, that did not make a sound the whole time I was observing it.