Puppets

When I was about eight, my father had a friend of his build a small wooden puppet theater for my brother , sisters and I. He bought us a couple of puppets to go with it. There was a blond princess in  a light blue gown, a prince in a red hat and cape, a wolf, a huntsman, Red Riding Hood, a witch with a big crooked nose, and Snow White. The puppets' faces and hands were made of a soft plastic that had a lingering smell to it, and their clothes were made of a satiny fabric. On rainy summer days we would play in the cottage in our backyard, and wile away the hours acting out imaginary scenarios with the odd ensemble of characters our puppets made up. The huntsman would be a loving father, Snow White was the mom, the princess their daughter, the wolf was their pet, and even the ugly witch became a loving grandma in a pinch. I remember the thrill of getting behind the puppet stage, and putting the puppets on my hands and bringing the story to life. Sometimes the puppets would get in to arguments, and hit each other, which was always cause for excitement and laughter. Of course, we would also argue with each other, as to who got to be the prince, or wolf, or Snow White. It is a cold and very rainy day today, and having recently had a birthday, always a reminder of all the family I lost, a certain nostalgic mood brought back to mind a time when I had a brother, and two sisters and we were children together in innocence and love. There is something very compelling about a puppet. They have no control, no will, no power, until some one's hand and voice bring them to life. On difficult days, I can feel like a puppet, when the sorrow takes over, and I feel I am not in control of what happened to me. Will is what always turns that around, and the realization that I do have a loving husband of 27 years, and a wonderful 21 year old son, and some very steadfast friends, near and far. Perhaps that is why puppets mesmerize adults and children alike. They convey a certain helplessness, and also a certain magic, since it takes a set of physical steps to bring them to "life". In a way puppets and our fascination with them reveal our at times desperate attempt, full of poetry and art, to make sense of our human condition, one that is a riddle with its mortality and enigmas of war, suffering, illness, cruelty, as well as beauty, love, courage, joy and magnificence in science and the arts. Puppets are hypnotic, they intrigue us, enchant us, because when we watch them act out our own dilemmas, our own comedies and tragedies of life, we briefly believe that all will be well in the end, if we just keep laughing and crying at the right time.

Waiting

It was a quiet Friday, cold for the time of year, only in the upper forties Fahrenheit, with lots of showers and rain. Yet, because of all the green of the evergreen trees all around, and the bright colors of spring flowers,and the concert of spring birds,there was a certain abundance to the day. I felt quiet inside also, in tune in a pleasant and peaceful way with the quiet of the day around me. I started thinking of how quiet can at times imply waiting. Today, the idea of waiting seemed very pleasant, like the appetizer before a good meal. We live in an increasingly impatient world, where waiting for anything is considered a waste of time. But to me, waiting can be a healing, productive and revealing experience. I realize one type of waiting is not like another. Waiting in line at the DMV is probably not something as pleasant as waiting in my backyard, while listening to the birds. I am talking about the kind of waiting that implies active participation in its quiet and silence. Waiting as a form of meditation.This type of waiting requires patience,and a tolerance for our and others imperfections. It is the kind of waiting that paints a picture as it figures out where to take your mind next. It is like having a cup of tea with your deeper, quieter self that often gets lost in the daily shuffle and busy repetitiveness. It requires also that you listen, so you can hear the not so obvious, see the not so visible, understand the not so transparent, embrace the not so evident, breathe slower, with more joy, more appreciation, more respect. This kind of waiting is active and creative,and as pleasant as a walk on a beautiful beach. It creates an oasis deep in your heart and mind, that allows you to rejoin the required modern pace with a clearer, happier attitude and energy. As the rain started to come down in sheets, drenching everything around me in a tropical like symphony, I smiled, as the quiet waiting all around me had just turned into a loud party. Nature had decided my waiting for now was over. I went back inside, relaxed, refreshed, carrying the fresh air of my waiting reverie like a fresh, fragrant fruit.

The Place Where My Sorrow Lives

The place where my sorrow lives is very quiet
the kind of room where you might fall asleep.

The place where my sorrow lives is dusty
with muted colors and shy shadows.

I go in that space on tiptoe, and try not to cringe
when I see the broken pieces scattered on the dresser.

If you listen carefully you can hear a beautiful song
amidst the high pitched chimes by the window.

There is a faint scent of incense, Dragon's Blood
dripping its red onto the floor.

I do not go in to this place, so utterly secluded
unless trying to remember where to go from there.

The place where my sorrow lives is very quiet
where smiles flutter like busy butterflies.

The place where my sorrow lives is warm
with a hot cup of tea waiting just for you.


Trudi Ralston. 
 This poem is a reminder that we all carry wounds and that they make us as much who we are as our triumphs and joys. True friends are the ones who are not afraid to enter that place of sorrow with us.

The Law Needs To Change

It was about 2:30 A.M. and the howling started once more. The two poor caged dogs behind our property  just one street over. This has been going on and off, for several years now. I finally got Animal Services in town to go check out the situation but the owners were not home. The investigating officer did leave a notice, and as I found out today, they talked to the owners by phone. So, with a heavy heart, overwhelmed by the persistence of the cruelty these neglectful owners make their two dogs endure, I called the number once more for Animal Services. I was lucky, I spoke with a very caring person, a woman, who listened to my tale of frustration at this miserable situation for two dogs who are kept in kennels for years now, without hardly ever being let out. Food is brought out to them, once every 24 hours, no gentle words are spoken, and like prisoners, their kennel cage is locked again, and that is it. When they cry out, maddened by the boredom and stupefying isolation, without anything to do, without any chance of exercise, fun, socialization, or anything to look forward to, they get yelled at to shut up. Why the hell do these people have two big dogs? Why are they allowed to have dogs at all, since they condemn these animals to a life of loneliness and despair?! The woman at Animal Services agreed with me, and then she said: "The law needs to change". I was so grateful to have someone agree with me, I briefly felt that maybe, someday, the law would be changed. I will look into writing a comment for our local newspaper, and check out the ALDF web page, since they are directly involved with animal laws and improving them. After the phone call, and a guarantee before it ended, that an officer would re-open the already existing file on the two dogs in question, I wished I was head of an animal welfare philanthropy, or part of a larger group connected to these issues. I felt encouraged, but very much alone. Where to start? How to impress on people the seriousness of this reality? If it is wrong for Tony, the tiger in a cage at a truck stop in Louisiana, then why is it not wrong for the countless dogs across this country? I felt like an ant trying to start a climb up Mount Rainier. How to make this issue visible? But I will try. It took TWO YEARS of persistent calls, documentation through photos and logs to get the abused dog that used to live next door help and deliver him from his cruel owner, so that gives me hope. That case was easier to document as the dog was very visible from our back yard, and the abuse callously blatant. This is a slippery slope, as the intention to get the neglectful confinement noticed by the law has no precedent and is lawful, for dogs, not tigers(!) under the current laws. But even when you yell in a desert, you have a chance someone will, eventually, pass by and hear you. Here's to that eventually.

The Root Ball

We are busy getting flowers planted, enjoying the warm spring weather,cleaning up the garden in the process. There was a small tree that did not make it through the winter, and our playful dog had uprooted it. It looked sad, just a few skinny, naked branches, but when I saw the beautiful root ball, my heart felt pity. It was a beautiful, strong jumble of roots, that looked like a big ball of strong , dark twine. I was trying to understand why I was reacting so strongly and emotionally to the sight of the roots of this otherwise sad looking dead little tree. Then, it came to me. We all are like trees. We are rooted to the earth through our challenges, heartaches, battles, efforts, limitations, and often, what can be seen with the naked eye can be a pitiful sight. But, underneath, only to be seen with the heart, are our roots, that are often quite more beautiful, stronger and more fascinating than what the surface of us would reveal. All around us, in our own family, in our street, on the road, in our larger group of family and friends, are beautiful, strong souls that often go unnoticed because we only see what is above the ground, so to speak, visible with the physical eye. It is good to remember that most of us are far more interesting on the inside, we all have our story, it is just a matter of standing still, scratching a little deeper, past the plain, the gruff, the irritable, the defensive, the anger, the aloofness, even the constant laughter, and find a human being to be treasured, discovered, appreciated and not only liked, but loved. I am so glad our dog Yara dug up the little tree, because she made me stop and think of how important it is to look beyond the seemingly obvious. The strong roots also reminded me to be kind to myself, that I am stronger than what my frame would claim. We all go through times when we doubt ourselves, our resilience, our importance, our heart, our skills, our relationships, and when we look in the mirror on those days, we probably only see the skinny, naked branches that we think make up who we think we are, and we conclude, what a pitiful sight. But, remember your root ball, that is the true strength and beauty of you, and how it anchors you, sustains you, and is the true essence of you, not what you happen to be able to pull together for the day. The root ball thus also reminded me to be kind to and proud of who I really am, a strong and worthy person, able to see the strong, worthy people all around me.

Courage Under Fire

A few years back, we had next door neighbors who were very loud, at all times of the day and night, with seemingly endless traffic of partying friends who drank hard with them,and also did drugs very enthusiastically. They mistreated their dog, which I took care of,and after an exhausting pursuit of two years with Animal Services and the Sheriff's Department, the dog was finally rescued. The boyfriend at the house was also abusive, and there were two small children living there at the time. One night, when he and the girlfriend were both drunk and high, he got to hitting here outside in the yard where I could hear what was going on. I did not hesitate and called the police who came over very quickly when I told them I was concerned about the small children at the house. I gave my name to the police because I wanted the neighbor to know it was me, that I was not afraid. I will never forget the look on his face the next day when he saw me. He was more ashamed than anything else. Apparently domestic violence often goes unreported, because people "do not want to get involved". What the hell does that mean? We are all connected, and cowering to bullies who take it to the next level and start using their fists is crazy. I stand up for the abused animals in our neighborhood, so why would I not stand up for an abused woman, man or child? That is why the case in Cleveland, Ohio is so encouraging. The three captive women and the six year old child got out because a brave neighbor was not afraid to get involved. Charles Ramsey acted with his heart, which is what all of us should do. He was twice the brave man, because he acted on his own, before police got there or were involved. Often the most frustrating part of taking action is the indifference of people around you. What are we so afraid of? That we say no to violence, to abuse, to cruelty and neglect? Good for Charles Ramsey, to remind us of what it is all about! He saved the lives of four people, who had been living in hell for years. What is more important than that? We can all make a difference , in our home, in our street, in our neighborhood. Give it a try. It feels really good. The case in Cleveland, Ohio is an extreme case of abuse, a horror story in broad daylight. Most of us will never have to show the courage Charles Ramsey showed, not even knowing what agonizing hell he was freeing those four people from. But there are instances of neglect and abuse all around us all the time, so open up your ears and eyes. One person living in fear, maybe right next door, is one too many. Pay attention, get to know what is happening around you. Get involved!

The Trash Man Cometh

Evergreen Shores in Olympia is an older mostly quiet working and middle class neighborhood, that is charming because of all the older evergreen trees and the access to a park and pool. In recent years though, an element of white trash attitude has crept into our residential area, leading to some unpleasant behavior, like vandalism and trash left in the streets and also dumped onto the more deserted streets, giving some of the streets the look of derelict neighborhoods, with a feel of slimy unease and raw discomfort. So, to combat the trashing of the area, some brave neighbors take it upon themselves to go around collecting trash. My friend Diane is such a neighbor, and recently I have seen a man also collecting trash, not taking this depressing vilification of our living space. I do not know who this neighbor is, but he always cheerfully waves when we drive by, like he is having a good time doing this good deed. It is so uplifting to see this good citizen daily doing his part to make the world a little better in his unselfish, quiet and apparently very happy way. There is so much wrong with the world, far and near, but as long as there are people out there who do not take no for an answer, hope stays alive, in small ways and big ways. Helping to free a neighborhood of unwanted trash in its streets seems insignificant enough on a grand scale of things in the world, but to live surrounded by this kind of ecological emotional violence is depressing, and to see my neighbor cheerfully pick up the trash on his daily walk through, lifts my soul, and on those days that things are a little harder than comfortable, that lift can make all the difference. It also makes me feel connected to my fellow man, and may make me try a little harder myself to make a difference, in however small way I can. So, bless you, Mr. Trash Man, it is always good to see you walking my way!

Cruelty as a Matter of Convenience

We are having an amazingly warm weekend , with temperatures in the low eighties, it may even get to 85 on Monday. I was sitting outside on the deck at eight this Saturday morning, with the air smelling sweet, not a cloud in the turquoise dome of sky above me, birds and little cabbage moths and orchard bees busy all around me. I felt like this is what a morning in paradise must be like. And I thought with a sense of dreadful anticipation of the poor dog two houses over behind us, who is always in her kennel cage, and desperately tries to get her callous owners attention, to please let her out for a while , and acknowledge her existence and needs on this beautiful day. The cries of the dog during the day when she can let go of her despair are heart breaking, and in the winter, on those cold dark days, the howling tears my soul apart. I have tried to communicate with her owners. I have sent Animal Services over there, but the owners are never home. And I thought of ALDF and their campaign to free Tony the tiger in Grosse Tete,Louisiana, where he had been confined in a cage at a truck stop by a cruel owner for 10 years. The charismatic and caring actor Leonardo DiCaprio got involved with the case and it got a lot of media attention. It was a great story. But I cannot help but think of the thousands and thousands of animals confined in kennel cages, some just about 24 /7, and I see no legislation to try and do something about that. I wrote to the President of ALDF, a man who does animals in need an apparent world of good, but he never answered. It is a matter of awareness, that people should realize that a dog is not meant to be put in a kennel cage and then forgotten for years at a time. That is cruelty, no less, no more. It is a cruelty that is so pervasive that a lot of people don't seem to care when you bring it up. When I called Animal Services here in Olympia, I asked them if they let their pets out that are waiting to be adopted during the day. Oh yes, was the cheerful answer, an hour each day. So why is this not being enforced in pet owners? No answer. It was just too close a question. Cruelty is a sly beast, and insidious when we do not pay attention. If an organization like ALDF put their weight behind at least the awareness that this is a terrible problem for way too many dogs in this great country of ours, then maybe slowly people's attitudes would change, and with that change of attitude would come a change in action. As it is , cruelty in this matter is just a matter of convenience. It is too convenient to do anything, people just shrug, what are you going to do ,right? Awareness is the first step in changing bad situations, in getting a conversation started, to realize that it is NOT all right, that it is NOT OK to be indifferent, because it involves an awareness that this type of cruelty should stop. If it is wrong for Tony, the tiger, it is WRONG for the endless number of dogs languishing in kennel cages. If you are too busy to pay any attention to your dog, DON'T GET A DOG!! I sure wish a reputable organization like ALDF who are savvy about legal issues when it comes to animals would get excited about this. It would take years, maybe decades, but are there no knights in shining armor left, who believe in a very challenging cause? The poor dog behind our house who just woke up to another day of isolation and despair sure hopes so, if she has any hope left. COME ON!

Candy Land

On the way to taking my son to work early this afternoon, taking the same route we do each and every Tuesday and Thursday. The traffic steady and predictable, the lanes clean and pleasant on this sunny early May day, but also hypnotic and numbing. Suddenly, the game Candy Land came to my mind. The game where, as the rules explain, "the players never have to make choices, just follow directions". This seemed to mirror my mindset today, as I not just emotionally, but also intellectually, felt controlled, programmed to just follow the routine road to where I needed to take my son. Visually, the cars started looking like toy cars to me, on a toy track, like a life sized set of the game Candy Land. That the game is a game designed for small children only reinforced the emotional helplessness I was feeling. Yet, as the imagery connected to my reverie was tied to very pleasant memories of playing the sweet board game with my son and his friends when they were so very young, there was a certain amount of comfort, not unlike the drowsiness before a nap, that filled the visual fantasy. I was just in this large cardboard game, on this track, with these life size toy cars, all bright and shiny, along these pleasant streets with pleasant buildings, in my pleasant toy car. There was an innocence to the delusion that held at bay some of the hidden shadow thoughts of how a different angle to this emotional construct would be a nightmare in broad day light. A lament of disconnect, of a survival story having to try too hard to make sense of what is left of its dignity, where the mechanics, like putting clothes on a skeleton, are the only thing that make me still believe I am not in some play gone wrong, but part of a life that will break free from the wicked witch's spell. A spell brought on by the disintegration of my family and its shattering effect on my sense of identity and purpose. I am on that recovery road, cautiously, slowly, and today is another one of those days where the spell's strong pull was all too close and I had to make a concerted effort to break its hold. I got home, took a deep breath of the sweet spring air, and smiled. My parked red car had stopped looking like a toy car, now that it was sitting in our driveway. The spell was broken, for one more day.