Legacy

As summer starts to fade, and the scent of flowers becomes more faint, I find myself turning more inward, and returning to my small tapestry and embroidery projects. My husband and son are both computer game aficionados, an interest I respect , but that eludes me. My father's mother and his two older sisters are skilled seamstresses, and on my mother's side there are several painters, her mother, and her two older brothers. I decided to combine both legacies and do embroideries of my own design, as a way to pass on both art forms for my son, who also has an interest and talent for art, especially pencil and ink drawings. My husband has a solitary nature, which can prove to be a challenge for my gregarious personality, so embroidery became a way to embrace our quiet life style, and in a way that part of Michael suits my basically Buddhist perspective on solitude. Michael has always been intrigued by Australia, especially the outback, and I can see him there, because his tolerance of solitude is impressive. My embroideries take a long time, anywhere from six to nine months, and the stitches are minuscule, so it takes an excruciating amount of patience, making the experience transcendental and very meditative. Most of the poems I was finally able to release and write after my family fell apart, were written carefully in my head, while working on an embroidery project. In a  world of instant technical gratification, needlework seems outdated , and belonging to a different space and time. But that is precisely why I like the challenge it presents. I am an anachronism doing my painstakingly slow needlepoint, while I hear the noises and sounds from my son's and husband's computer games. I am working on my 7th project, and each project presents a new technical challenge, depending on whether I am working on flowers, animals, an abstract design, depending on the thread I use, and since I draw each pattern myself in pencil on the canvas, that too presents a different challenge each time. It is in a way, like creating a painting, but with needle and thread. I love choosing the colours, the dimensions , choosing the design. It is interesting to be inundated in the language of computer games, much of which I  do not understand, and to have my son and husband attend the PAX video and computer game convention in Seattle for the 4th year in a row, as I work on my embroidery project of a family of red eyed tree frogs, and smile at how our family literally sometimes lives in different worlds.

Manatees

In the Defenders of Wildlife 2013 calendar, there is a picture for the month of November,of a mama manatee happily swimming with her baby. The picture conveys happiness, contentment, peace, but it filled me with sadness, because I thought of my sweet Basset hound Lafayette, who died on March 28th of this year. I loved her passionately, and the last two years she struggled with a bad hip and arthritis. She was no longer able to go for her loved walks, and it broke my heart, as she became heavier than she already was before, her body becoming a prison to her. Her sweet and patient disposition often reminded me of a manatee, and when I saw the idyllic picture in the calendar, I wished for her to be a manatee in a next life, so her big body would be able to feel freedom in the comfort of the water. Like a manatee, Lafayette was very sweet and harmless, often the brunt of jokes at heartless commentary from friend and foe alike. I miss her every day. I am so glad she died peacefully at home when her heart gave finally up on her cumbersome body. I hope animals have a spirit world too, where they are free from the suffering and trials they endured while in their physical bodies. The blissful picture of the manatee family also reminded me of how often cruelty is hidden in its suffering. When we say something hateful or hurtful to an innocent creature, the blow does not show, but the pain is there, in their eyes. The world must be full of blind hearts, because I have seen and see a lot of animals with pain in their eyes that seems invisible to their heartless owners.

Silk Ribbon

I love late summer, when the heat simmers down without losing its warmth, and the sky turns a blinding blue, with a sweet south-western breeze. Our sunflowers tower above us, the morning glory Heavenly Blue trumpets  put on their best and last showing, and there is a silence of peace and acceptance in the air that seems to come with only the last of summer's glory. This morning, the sky seemed a huge liquid silk blue ribbon, stretching over my house and my garden. I thought of a friend of mine, far away, and for a brief, magical moment, it felt like our worlds were next door to each other. As if my friend was able to reach up and touch the same silk ribbon sky as it undulated majestically past his window. It was one of those rare artistically-visually enchanting moments , silent, mesmerizing. When I was a young teenage, thirteen or fourteen, I drew and painted, before I started writing poetry and stories at age 17, and the visual beauty of the mirage of the blue silk ribbon sky reminded me of those days when my favorite way to express myself artistically was with a pencil or a paintbrush. The moment reminded me also of a visually stunning movie, set against the unlikely background of the carnage in Nanking in 1937 during the second Sino-Japanese war. "The flowers of War", directed by Zhang Yimou, and based on "13 Flowers of Nanjing" by Geling Yan, is a cinematographic jewel as it tells the unlikely alliance between an American mortician and twelve prostitutes who risk everything to save the lives of thirteen orphaned schoolgirls who found temporary refuge from the slaughter going on in Nanking by the butchering Japanese troops, where not even children are safe from murder and rape. The courage found by the mortician and  the displaced prostitutes in the face of destruction and brutal death is filmed in a stunning way, and manages to convey hope amidst constant fear and despair. They come up with a cunning and risky plan to guarantee the survival of the orphaned girls by dressing the prostitutes up like young innocent girls to save them from rape and death by the predatory officers. While the prostitutes play the role of the teenage girls, the mortician gets them out of Nanking with an old repaired truck, eluding the Japanese. It is a beautiful film, in story and vision. The cinematography by Zhao Xiaoding is gorgeous, leaving us enchanted by the ability to find beauty in the starkest of realities, war. By focusing on enhanced perception of daily circumstance and objects surrounding the characters as they navigate through the hell of their city's annihilation,  the viewer becomes both a witness and a participant. When I looked at the sky this morning, I too felt both a witness and a participant, albeit of a much more peaceful place and circumstance. By the way, Christian Bale as the mortician and Ni Ni as the de- facto leader of the prostitutes are both brilliant, so is the young actor portraying George Chen, Huang Tianyuan, who plays the young boy becoming in disguise the extra person needed to give the Japanese soldiers the number of girls they expect.                  

The Luncheon

For many years now, my friend Diane has made a gracious habit of having me over for lunch. I usually walk to her house, as it is only two streets over uphill, and makes for a nice stroll. Her house is a quiet place in spirit , even when many people are around. Diane exudes peace at all times, and is a great listener. When I spend time with her, I always feel lighter, like she lifted some invisible burden I was not even aware of. She sets a nice table, and always has something interesting prepared. We talk, share, and I always feel I am in the presence of a very spiritual and wholesome person, who makes me want to be better than what I am. Few people have that effect on me, but Diane does. She lives to serve others, in a quiet, modest and self-effacing way. She is a small person, but is imbued with a relentless spirit of devotion and compassion. Children love her, and she has had and continues to have a healing and loving influence on all the children that come through her house. She does not judge people, she sees the best in very one, and you can trust her with your darkest fear or secret, it will stay in her heart. So lunch at Diane's house is a spiritual experience, because she has such a deep respect for every human being she comes in contact with. She is the closest I think I've come to be around a real modern day saint. If I told her that, she would just laugh in disbelief. But I remain convinced she is, for every one's life she touches, is better for it. She spends her whole life helping others, whether they are grateful or not, and I cannot think of any one else I know that has such a peaceful and loving heart, truly seeing all others as brothers and sisters who she will help at a moment's notice. She really lives the ideal of a gentle humankind, never deterred by the odds or challenges.   

Sunflowers

Each year my husband and son plant sunflowers from seed. They put the seeds in little seed pods in our green house, and I water them faithfully, and when they are big and strong enough, Michael and Nicholas transplant them in our vegetable and flower garden next to the greenhouse. It is one of my most favorite flowers of  summer, the sunflower to me symbolizes the height of summer's glory and generosity. As they grow taller and stronger, and surpass my height and then my husband's and then my son's, who is almost five foot six, I fall in love with these gorgeous flowers time and again. Their hunger for the sun's light and warmth, their gracious stalks, their fiery petals and abundant hearts that allow the bees to feast themselves in to a bacchanalian stupor, and their scent. A friend of mine, years ago now, said about sunflowers: " I like the way they smell." Ever since then I go and smell my sunflowers, and they smell like wild honey, a very earthy, sensual scent that always makes me miss my friend. When my husband and I were camping through Europe on our honeymoon in 1987, we passed by a huge field of sunflowers in southern France. It was visually an ocean of tall flowers, swaying in the gentle southern breeze. Beautiful, overwhelmingly so. As the summer wanes, and the other flowers fade, the sunflowers are still going strong, and the bees  swarm them, eager for their sweet blossoms. Then fall comes, and cooler weather, and the majestic sunflowers start to droop their magnificent heads, their petals dry, their leaves turn yellow, the bees too, fade.  The birds come, small and large, and start devouring the brave sunflowers seeds, tearing at what remains of their glory and beauty. By the time the birds are done with them, the sunflowers hearts gape white, and empty, and their stalks start slumping to the earth from which they grew. Winter comes, and we cut heir skeletons down, and now they give a brief warm fire, before all that is left of them is the memory of their glorious height and color intoxicating summer's warmth and joy. And I start longing, as snow covers the backyard, for spring and the planting of the seeds in the greenhouse, and I long to see the tender sunflower seedlings transplanted by my patient husband and son, so I can start watering them, and see them grow, tall, beautiful, strong again, to grace the summer's rich gift of warmth and renewal.

Tuareg

When I was about twelve, I was going through my father's extensive collection of National Geographic Magazine, and I came across a picture that stayed in my mind and memory to this day. The photographs in the magazine are world famous for their impact and quality, and I remember seeing a close-up portrait of a young geisha that mesmerized me for a lifetime. I remember a photograph of a newly wed couple in Kolkata, and to this day, I remember being transfixed by the abundance of 24 karat gold jewelry, the beauty of the bride and groom, and the striking colors of bright white and red in their garments. I also have a vivid memory of a picture of a young Tuareg warrior, in the dark blue turban many of their men are famous for wearing. He had the most amazing eyes, as his face was mostly covered, and I found it fascinating that their women were not required to wear veils, and enjoyed a high status in their nomadic pastoral culture. He was tall, looked strong,and even though I could only see his eyes, I thought he was very handsome. I have always been drawn to the idea of a nomadic life style, close to nature, and free of the trappings of a sedentary life. The geographic area of the majority of the Tuareg people, whose name means " noble and free men", is in Niger, Mali, Burkina Faso, Algeria and Libya. There is also a small community in northern Nigeria. I will always remember the first time I saw a friend of mine who is from Morocco. Before I even was introduced to him via a mutual friend in graduate school, I was struck by his height and features and was taken back to the picture of the Tuareg warrior. I do not know where my friend's family originated, as there are some Tuareg also in Morocco, but my friend struck me by a unique dignity and left an impression long before we even met. This world is such a fascinating place, and I feel fortunate to have had an opportunity to travel and study abroad,and meet people from all over the globe. I was exposed this way to many cultures, and many languages. As an undergraduate, I had a Nigerian roommate for a year, Cordelia O., a bright woman from Lagos who was getting a master's degree in economics. It was fascinating to me to hear her speak her native language when she called home, to learn about her village, her family, to taste some of the food she grew up with. In graduate school I had a Korean roommate, and the following year a Japanese roommate, and a Bolivian and French roommate. It was fun when Yoko would get a call from her boyfriend in Tokyo, and to hear them speak Japanese for sometimes hours on the phone. I was around Hindi through my good friend Raj from Trivandrum in southern India. I was around Arabic  through my friendship with a woman from Nebraska, Lesa P., who was married to an Egyptian man, and through our mutual friendship with a friend from Morocco. Now, I have a hairdresser who is a good friend from Vietnam, and I spend hours hanging around her and her extensive family at their beauty shop, listening to the melodious sounds of the Vietnamese language. I am Flemish, so I was taught French at an early age, and German and English. When I came to Texas for college, I decided to learn Spanish and ended up getting a Master's degree in Spanish and Latin American Literature from the University of Texas in Austin. I love languages, because it is a way to connect directly to another culture, and learn what unites us, rather than what divides us. I remember the gentle sounds of the Mayan language in the villages close to Chitzen Itza in Cozumel, the sounds of Lingala when I was in Kinshasa a few years later. I remember my uncle Frederic Minne, son of Baron Georges Minne, who was married to my aunt Agnes, my mother's older sister. He had spent 10 years near the Kivu Lake before the revolution of 1964 in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. He spoke fluent Swahili, and would tell entire stories in the language, and then translate. I would listen to him as a twelve year old, transfixed by the exotic sounds. I am learning about the language of the Magreb region of North Africa, Tamazight, and am fascinated to learn it is one of the oldest languages of human kind. I recently was introduced to the Indonesian language through a fascinating 2011 movie, called "The Raid- Redemption". I was intrigued to learn Indonesian, which vaguely sounded to me in part like Portuguese, has a 1,000 words borrowed from Arabic. And there are hundreds of languages out there. My father once quoted a saying that always validated my travel hunger: "The world is a large book, of which those who never stir from home only read a page." I am glad I still have the fever to learn, to travel, to understand, and to continue to be amazed at the variety of cultures and languages on our planet.

The haircut

For a number of years now, my hairdresser has been Yvonne, a very sweet and energetic Vietnamese young woman who together with her parents and sister Yvette, run a nice hair and nail salon on the West side of Olympia. Over the course of the years, I became friends with the family, and always look forward to get my hair done. Yvonne is a wizard with style and color, and it is always fun to see how she changes my hairstyle just a little to keep the experience fun and delightful. She and her family are very close. I was invited to her wedding, went to Yvette's engagement party, just got invited today to Yvette's wedding in September. I love visiting with their mother, a calm and kind woman about my age. Yvonne just had a baby girl, and I know her husband Richard, and also their young son Andrew. When I go there, I feel part of the family, and briefly forget the pain of no longer having a family of my own , other than my husband and son, and a distant few in- laws. I get to hear about the wedding plans, see the latest pictures of Yvonne's baby, get to share some hot tea and fruit and cookies with Yvonne and Yvette's mother, and they make me feel wanted and welcome. For a  couple of hours, I am in a loving home of an extended family who care about each other. I love the musical sounds of the Vietnamese language, the incense by the Buddhist altar up front, the chanting of the Buddhist monks music tape, the paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. It feels like home, because when I am there I feel happy to be included. If I want to go "home", I go get my hair done. Sun Hair and Nail Salon on Cooper Point Road here in West Olympia. Check it out if you pass through town, and need a good haircut, and a feeling like you just stopped by a happy home.

West Nile Virus

Leonardo da Vinci once famously said :  "War is the ultimate madness." Watching the reports on the West Nile crisis in especially Texas, particularly the Dallas- Fort Worth area, feels a bit surreal, because my only surviving sibling, a brother, lives there. We no longer stay in contact, and it is strange to see the images of the planes flying over the area dumping chemicals to kill the deadly virus carrying mosquitoes. I  cannot ask him if he and his children are all right. I cannot ask him what it feels like to deal with something like that. I cannot tell him it worries me to see those images, on top of the horrible drought Texas is also dealing with. I cannot. Because our family had a war that tore everyone apart, like a war would with bombs, our relationships were destroyed, and the bridge that allowed for the free flow of communication was destroyed. Leonardo da Vinci knew about war, he was around it enough. He knew it to be the "ultimate madness". It certainly was for our family, because it is madness that I cannot talk anymore to my brother, even when it is important. War, big or small, distorts everything. What once was normal, natural ,  becomes numb, dumb, cold, twisted, and ultimately, just dies. My brother is 54 now, and maybe, at this rate, I will never see him again. I'll just find out , maybe, that one day, he died. Just like in a war, where people find out sometimes years later, what happened to their family. Family is everything, when you treat each other right. When you don't, it quickly becomes a nightmare, a quicksand of broken dreams and despair. A war zone.

The Raid

There is a wonderful Indonesian movie, released on September 8, 2011, called  "The Raid: Redemption", by Welsh director Gareth Evans that truly deserves the international acclaim it received with the Midnight Madness Award at the Toronto International Film Award in 2011, the Dublin Film Critics Circle Best Film and Audience Award at Jameson Dublin, and the Sp!ts Silver Scream Award at Imagine Film Festival in Amsterdam in 2012. The acting by Iko Uwais, Joe Taslim, Donny Alamsyah, Yayan Ruhian, Pierre Gruno, Tegar Setrya and Ray Sahetapy is superb. This martial arts movie is a fine piece of cinematographic art, flawless and stunning in its stark beauty, in spite of the seedy subject of drug violence and police corruption. I had never even heard spoken Indonesian, but was riveted in spite of the initially distracting subtitles. I felt like I vaguely recognized Portuguese in some of the words. It turns out Indonesian is a language that is Malay and borrows heavily from a number of languages, like Sanskrit, Persian, Arabic, Dutch and yes, Portuguese. It was fascinating to be so riveted by a language I had never even heard. The stark setting of a run down apartment building controlled by a local ruthless drug lord, who is being raided by a special forces police team, is brought to full power by the adrenalin fueled Indonesian martial art of pencak silat. I knew I had never seen anything like it in fierceness and deadly effectiveness. It made me vaguely, briefly think of Kung Fu, because of the very close contact and technical finesse and complexity, but I knew this was something very unique. As black belts (Tae Kwon Do), my husband and I had seen a variety and large number of martial arts movies in different styles, but this Indonesian style was the most impressive and interesting I had ever seen. The actors were incredible in their energy and control. I liked the way the camera was so close to the audience at all times, drawing us in, but without judgment, like a witness, a tolerated observer. The story too, of two brothers finding each other again after years of estrangement only to realize they are on opposite sides of the law, is done very convincingly and very soberly. I thought it one of the best movies I have seen in a long time. Sure, it is very violent, but it is a movie about drug violence and a vicious drug lord and his ruthless minions, so of course it is violent! If violence in movies is something you have a problem with when it comes to the world of drug trafficking, watch something else. This movie is very graphic, but very convincing in getting the message across of the malevolent nature of big time crime. It is a world of kill or be killed. The energy of this movie is amazing, the stamina, also emotionally, is impressive. Hats off to the director and all the actors for a true piece of film art.

Bandits in the Orchard

I love the ease of summer, as I go out each morning before 7:00 and start watering the plants, flowers, trees and bushes in our 1/2 acre piece of land. The greenhouse was already watered, with its tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries and cilantro. I had finished watering the many patio and deck plants, the petunias, the nicotinia, the pansies, and calla and day lilies, and had put out the seed and water for the 7 or 8 different types of birds that come around from little tit birds to Mourning Doves, to sparrow, finches, and Blue Jay and even crows, and was ready to water our tall sunflowers , pole beans and squash and pumpkins, before moving on to water our Asian pear and hazelnut bushes, when I heard the familiar squawking of the squirrels, and the busy rustling of the foliage in the hazelnut trees. Those little bandits are very crafty and athletic, and they must find me quite daft for smiling at their clever thievery while I am watering the trees they are raiding. In the last years, my husband and I have seen a marked decline in the number of butterflies, dragonflies and bees, and Michael came up with the idea of orchard bees, with some success.Our backyard is wild and abundant,and free, a safe haven for birds, squirrels, snakes, opossum, raccoons, and quite a number of stray dogs and cats. We grow a ton of flowers, and are therefore very popular with bees. It makes me feel good we do what we can for the natural world on our piece of this beautiful green planet we seem so bent on destroying with our indifference and willful ignorance. I love how our free spirit garden brings me to remember on a daily basis, that we are part of a large, beautiful ecosystem, and that to forget this is to lose a large part of the joy and beauty of living on this very special planet that has so much to offer when it comes to the natural world.

Requiem

Angry eyes looking
away
from my regret.

Hurt in your language
as you walk around
in my clouded dreams.

Can I just talk to you?

Fear, sadness, pain
costumed in Halloween
absurdity.

I try to find you
among the monsters
of despair.

I miss you, awake,
asleep- outside of time,
that does not heal.

This gaping, forever
fresh, deep wound
that is the absence of you.

Trudi Ralston.
August 15th, 2012.

This poem is for a very dear person I loved and lost in the terrible family war that shredded all illusion of being part of a group of people that cared about each other. JTW, this is for you.

Suspended

Like the Morning Glory in my garden,
suspended on the strings
of its planter box frame

my soul reaches for the
freedom of the air and sky.

With their blue petals
looking upward,
my flowers
wind away their leaves
from their roots beneath
in the moist, dark soil.

I breathe, I look
to the sweet expanse
of sky above,

while my feet
feel the wet morning grass
below.

Trudi Ralston
August 14th, 2012.

This poem was written because of the realization that at times there is a startling similarity between our destiny and frame of mind, and the seemingly sympathetic  destiny of the plants we surround ourselves with.

Heavenly Blue

In our garden right now, we are growing many different flowers, and the most stunning of them is a large light blue Morning Glory, called Heavenly Blue. Morning Glory as flowers are incredibly fragile, their petals whisper soft and delicate. Yet, they thrive in heat, and are able to sustain their large trumpet blooms with just a climbing vine, that at time seems suspended in thin air. I marvel at their strength, their determination. With proper care, they are a marvel of beauty and elegance. It seems that it is hard sometimes for us as humans to give consideration to the efforts needed to maintain our hopes and aspirations. Regardless of how big or small we dream, those dreams matter to us, and the least those around us could do is to respect that attempt. How often has a child been discouraged in a budding talent because a parent or teacher carelessly cut down their efforts. How often has an enterprising adult been discouraged because of a heartless remark by a wife or husband, or friend? Every one's dreams matter, to them regardless of how we may feel about it. The Morning Glory succeeds because it is given a chance. That's all we need to do, give each other a chance, some space, some freedom! So, the next time you feel like criticizing some one's efforts, at whatever it may be, stop. Say something encouraging, you might surprise yourself, it may make you feel good. and maybe, just maybe you are giving someone you say you care about, and sometimes even love, a fighting chance at something wonderful . Each time I look at those stunningly blue Morning Glory, I pray that the next time I try something worthwhile, I will get a word of praise, not indifference or mockery, or jealousy. I hope you will too.

Freedom

It was so uplifting to watch the London Summer Olympics, from the spectacular opening ceremony to the excellence and joy of all the competing athletes, to the exuberant closing ceremony. For me, the emotional and intellectual highlight was the song by George Michael,"Freedom". It was an appeal to human decency, to respect, on an individual, group, country and international level. In an era where many democracies are fighting for survival, it was a timely message. To see the word "FREEDOM" flashing in white bright letters across the entire stadium, was exhilarating, moving and very hope giving. Freedom is closely linked with dignity. You deprive a person, persons, or an entire people of their freedom, and they quickly lose their dignity, and soon after that their humanity. Any type of dictatorship, be it to the right or left, has left and leaves gruesome reminders of that lethal threat. The Nazis in Europe come first to mind, because I grew up in Belgium, and the people in my parents'generation were directly and deadly affected by that monster of tyrannies. People in North Korea, China, just to name two obvious countries, suffer the lack of basic freedoms on a daily basis. The people in Russia, for now, enjoy a measure of freedom unheard of under the Stalinist terrors. The song by George Michael also was a reminder of the danger of the loss of individual freedom in every day human relations. Perhaps the reason that dictators world wide are so adept at their brutality, as we witness daily in the tragic reports on the bloody repression of freedom in Syria, is that they are quite aware that part of human nature has a dark side that enjoys being a bully, and depriving another from their respect and free will. Domestic violence against women and children runs across all political systems and cultures. The horrors animals endure at the hands of barbaric humans worldwide is a daily consternation for animal rights activists. The violation of basic human rights in prisons of all political convictions is a continuing battle for brave organizations such as Amnesty International and even in proud democracies such as the United States brave men that speak out for freedom and dignity end up murdered , like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968. Native Americans did not have the freedom to practice their religions freely until 1978. So freedom is a challenge, to obtain and to keep. Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison struggling for freedom for all people in South Africa before becoming victorious as the first black African President of South Africa. Scores of brave men and women were tortured and killed in gruesome fashion, while the rest of the world looked elsewhere in denial. Freedom is a precious and precarious commodity. The song reminded me that it is up to each and every one of us to make sure that we respect each other''s right and need for freedom, in our relationships, in our convictions and commitments. The best part of the Olympics to me was to realize how humans can achieve excellence when working together for a beautiful cause. In that sense, hearing John Lennon's song "Imagine" was a wonderful way to give the message of freedom George Michael wanted to convey its proper dimension and importance.

A Patchwork Quilt

I was excited to realize I was entering my one hundredth entry, and asked my son for a good way to make it special. He is a bright young man, and suggested I explain the name of the title of my web page, and its meaning. I had planned to do this later on, but thought it a very good idea. The meaning of the title is two fold. There is a reference to a lioness, and a reference to exile. I am Flemish , and the symbol on the Flemish flag is a roaring black lion rearing against a bright yellow background. I am female, so I chose the word lioness as the first part of the title. I am out of my country of birth, out of my culture, language, and due to tragic circumstances, out of my blood and family. Hence the word exile, as I feel very much isolated from everything familiar I grew up with, especially the chance to speak my native tongue, which I only do now by phone with my loving aunt Lieve in Oostende, once every two or three months for a couple of hours, and once in a blue moon with my cousin Marc in Koekelare, also in Belgium. He is the son of my father's oldest sister Denise. My brother Bart who has lived in the Dallas-Fort Worth area for the last 34 years no longer wants contact so I no longer speak my native tongue with him either. Both my younger sisters are dead, and so are my parents. So the word exile seems quite appropriate. As far as the structure of the web page goes, I designed  it like a patch work quilt. It can be read as a whole, chronologically, or it can be appreciated for its individual stories, which each take no more than  five minutes to read. So, like  a quilt, you can appreciate the separate pieces, at your leisure, or appreciate the whole of the stories and poems as they unfold. Like a patch work quilt, the poems and stories grew out of a life time of experiences, and lived in my heart and memory a long time, before I was finally able to release them. Some of the poems and stories were written in my heart over a long number of years, so like a patch work, I pulled the memories together in a pattern of remembrance to hopefully create a piece of writing that will both entertain and teach.

De Vliegende Koffer

One of my most favorite fairy tales was a pop-up book, with beautiful art, called "De Vliegende Koffer". That is Flemish for "The Flying Trunk". It was the sad and exotic story of a Turkish magician who had a magical traveling trunk that could fly him wherever he wanted to go. So, naturally, he flies all over the world and has many exciting adventures. Then, one day, he flies to India and sees this beautiful princess sleep on this magnificent bed, in this gorgeous palace. In the book, since it was pop-up, you could carefully swing the princess on her exotic bed. The magician falls in love with the princess, and she returns his feelings. But, as the magician is rather addicted to the excitement of travel in his flying trunk, he asks the princess to be allowed one more adventure before he marries her. The princess reluctantly agrees, and off he flies, leaving sparks behind. In the book, this part is quite fun, because his arms and legs stick out, and really add to the realism of the crazy flying traveling trunk. Then, tragedy strikes. It turns out the magical trunk only had a limited amount of spark to fly, and in the middle of his last escapade of bachelor hood, the trunk runs out of fuel, for good. The distance to recover his princess is much too large, and they are forever separated. The last three dimensional picture was so beautiful and sad: it shows the princess in a gorgeous shimmering light blue wedding gown, crying on the balcony where she first met her adventurous lover, wondering what happened, under a crescent moon and starry sky. I never forgot that image, nor did I forget the sad picture of the open, broken trunk with a terribly regretful magician mourning his tragic foolishness. I absolutely loved fairy-tales when I was a child, and that one left a deep impression on me, the excitement, mingled with the visual beauty and the terrible sad ending. This was definitely not a "and they lived happily ever after". The tragedy was not caused by an evil step mother, or a witch or an evil dragon. No, this tragedy was wrought by foolishness. At age ten, it left me with a rather dim view of the world of love and adults.

Mon Amie, La Rose

Years ago, Catherine B. who was one of my roommates in graduate school in Austin, Texas, who is French and has worked in Paris for many years, sent me a cassette with North African music. I have a beautiful big, red rose in my garden that I nurse each year as I have for the past 23 years we have lived in our house. The rose has become a symbol to me of the will to thrive, to survive under trying circumstances, and I have become quite fond of it over time. On the cassette my friend sent me, there was a song that blew me away with its beauty and passion. It is called "Mon Amie, La Rose", " my friend , the rose". It is a fantastically beautiful song about this woman's love of her favorite rose, and the deep sadness she feels on the day she finds her rose dying. The song was sung both in Arabic and French by an Arabic speaking woman with an incredibly beautiful, poetic and powerful voice. The song is based on a poem, and is one of the most beautiful love songs I ever heard. I received a letter yesterday from Catherine and want to ask her if she remembers what the name of the singer is, as I really want to hear that song again. I do not speak Arabic, but I have never been so moved emotionally and aesthetically by a song and a voice. Catherine and I share an interest in North African music, and to me , whenever I listen to music of the Maghreb region, I feel a deep longing stir in me connected to a longing for freedom and dignity. I remember the first time I heard the music of the Egyptian singer Fairouz. I felt I could have listened to her all day. That was many years ago, but I can still recall the power of her voice, its range and beauty, ringing in my ears. It is fascinating to me how we can love music , be profoundly moved by it, and not understand the words or even circumstances. Maybe it is because music is the language of the soul, of emotions in ourselves, in our joy, or grief, that are so strong , we have difficulty articulating them, we can feel them, but cannot, or dare not, speak them. In that sense, listening to emotions expressed in a musical form, in a language we do not understand, or even know, can bring relief to our own emotions, as we feel a kinship with the singer through the universality of the human experience in its often confounding complexities  of both sorrow and happiness.

Church Bells

A nostalgic memory from growing up in a small town in the Flemish part of Belgium is the sound of the local church's bells calling people to Mass. I remember it as such a cheerful sound. We lived within walking distance from the nearby village church, and I have fond memories of being about eleven and putting on a pretty dress to get ready to walk to church, as the church bells kept on joyfully ringing. Our family did not do this very often, so it was a treat, to walk relaxed, on a warm summer's Sunday, together, talking, laughing, to church with my parents, sisters and brother. It was all the sweeter during the two month long summer vacations, as we did not have to worry about school the next day, so getting up early for church was all right. The sense of community, of belonging, brought about by a group of villagers walking to church, and to be part of that happening, still makes me miss that. I belong to a wonderful African American Baptist church, where the music is wonderful, but there was something so sweet and special about hearing the church bells ring, telling you it was time to get going for Mass. Maybe that is why the sound of the call to prayer coming from a mosque in the occasional movie I may come across set in the Middle East or North Africa, fills me with nostalgia.I feel a close spiritual connection through our private and abundant back yard with its numerous trees, bushes and rainbow of flowers, and half a dozen of different types of birds, but the feeling of spiritual peace and elation at hearing the church bells is something I will always miss. I imagine my aunt Lieve in Oostende, Belgium, walking to church each Sunday, as she has done her whole life, hearing the sweet sound of the church bells. It never ceases to amaze me what things you miss as you go through life as an immigrant. Becoming an immigrant makes you party to a very specific lens, through which you see things from the unique perspective of someone who forever has kaleidoscopic vision. Very beautiful at times, very confusing at others, because often you are alone in remembering what you left behind, and explaining it  only makes you more keenly aware of the specific challenges of the outside insider as a first generation immigrant you face on   the best of days.

Heart of Gold

There is a song by Neil Young on his album "Harvest" that is called "Heart of Gold". I hear it once in blue moon on an old rock station.His voice always gets to me. It has a sadness to it, a deep awareness of much of the futility of human conflict and circumstance. There is a haunting quality to his ballads, to their deliberate measured pace and concerns. His music makes me ache to understand , to belong , truly , with heart and spirit to this large country. Thirty-six years into the adventure, I still feel very much an outsider. Whenever I hear a song by Neil Young, I am reminded in a knife to the stomach sort of pain, that the America he sings about, is a place I rarely see and know. Perhaps it is that way for him too. His songs have a beauty to them that is tinged with tragedy, and always make me feel truly melancholic. "Old Man", "Long may you run", "The Needle and the damage done", all incredibly beautiful songs that make me feel my heart is being turned inside out. His songs fill me with the undeniable realization that there is an inherent loneliness to the American psyche that is disguised, camouflaged, but always just barely hidden, in a quick to friendliness spirit, in an obsession with competition, and success. This country does not lack poetry, I see it every where, and daily, in my garden, in the simplicity of a close to the country life, it is just that the emotional stoicism often detracts from the ability to truly live the poetic aspects of life here, both in circumstance and relationships. The attempt to eradicate the native American cultures perhaps added to this psyche bent on individual drive. In my African American Baptist church, I feel at home emotionally. There is a warmth and passion in the spiritual experience, in the music, in the joy that makes me feel I belong. Perhaps this country comes across cold to me at times, because it is subdivided into so many sub cultures and ethnicities, that for me to feel I belong, I feel the need to identify with specific ethnic groups in order to feel at ease. My husband is part native American, my church is African American, my hairdresser is Vietnamese, and I am happy about that. Perhaps the American experience is too vast to comprehend in one generalized swoop, can only be appreciated in its vast cultural variety, especially by someone like me who has a deep interest in different cultures. Maybe I should not try so hard to understand this country but rather enjoy its complexity that continues to confound me. The next time I hear Neil Young 's "Heart of Gold", that realization might   make the song more optimistic, more hopeful.

Water

This weekend the weather got really hot for this side of the mountains, in the 90 Fahrenheit range. The house, in spite of window fans expelling heat from every room, was still 84 degrees at ten o'clock last night. It hit 110 degrees in our greenhouse. Thank fully, we have a pool. One of those 15 feet in diameter, four feet deep circular pools you can buy in a box at Costco and set up yourself. We have had one for years, and what a treat it is to get in it and swim, and get saturated in nice, clean cold water. I love it. Water. It is something a lot of us take for granted, the availability of it, the plenty of it, the just turn on the faucet and there it is of it. I love how it brings such pleasure and refreshes both the body and soul on hot days like this weekend.Last night, we were enjoying a nice barbecue dinner after having cooled off in the pool, and the calm of feeling fresh, added more pleasure to the beauty of all the bright flowers on the deck and patio, to the ability to enjoy the sweet summer breeze, the food, the joy of being a family. Every morning, I am out in the garden by 6:30, watering the many flowers, on the deck and in the windows, all the hanging baskets of fuchsia, the plants in the green house, the sunflowers , pole beans and pumpkins. It's such a sweet joy to water the garden, and see everything grow, and turn a lush, rich green. Water, without it, there would be no pool, no garden. My heart goes out to the people living through the terrible drought in the heartland of America. It hurts to see the pictures of entire fields turned to dust. The lack of water in the Horn of Africa is turning people's lives there into a nightmare, furthered by years of civil wars. Of course, too much water turns into a nightmare as well, as the people of Australia know, and Pakistan and China, and large parts of Europe and Russia. Water in the throes of too much power is terribly destructive. Tsunami and hurricanes are nothing to be desired. But water that flows just right, freely and abundantly, means life, prosperity, abundance, peace. Countries that know how to access the power of their mighty rivers, thrive. It is such a blessing to have water so plentifully as we enjoy it here, we should never waste it or take it for granted. And when we have the opportunity to be compassionate to those who are denied clean, abundant water, we should be, with every fiber of our grateful being.

L'Espace Entre Nous

L'espace entre nous
est grand et ouvert,
un printemps, une riviere.

C'est une chanson
joyeuse, d'un oiseau
beau et libre.

Une espace gout sale
d'un ocean
ou un vent provencale regne.

L'espace entre nous
restera peut-etre
toujours ainsi:

Un repos hors du temps
et ses chagrins,
un sourire doux et lointain.


Trudi Ralston.
August 5th, 2012.

This poem is dedicated to the uncanny ability some friends have in our lives to create space in our soul. A most freeing feeling.