Cutting Edge

The early afternoon sunlight struck a beam of golden glow onto the kitchen table and the apples on it I had cut up for my lunch. The warmth of the almost rainbow colours playing on the sliced fruit belied the bitter cold outside. I thought about the old saying, " sharp as a knife ". My son had just left for the weekend, and I felt his sudden absence like an unexpected cut, probably more intense because of the almost complete absence of family all together around the Holidays. A few days ago I had dropped a small glass jar, and the shards had scattered like pellets in a freezing rainstorm. Now I found myself shaking off the sudden emotional pain of my lonely feelings like so many small pieces of broken glass. It hardened my resolve, as the sting of tears threatened to break through. I was fine. It occurred to me I was in danger of cutting myself on my own pain. It was a strange sensation, and I was determined to quickly get past the feeling of helplessness that I had not planned for. Our cat Tigger was sleeping, snoring deeply on his blanket on our bed, he too bathing in a golden glow of afternoon sunlight. I was not alone, he was there, and so was our dog Yara, who was all too happy to go feed the birds and squirrels some seeds and apple pieces. She barked with great authority and importance, which brought a smile to my face. The sharp edge of the knife in my heart was fading, steadily with an unfaltering logic and precision. I had much practice with this, and was delighted to notice how quickly the sadness melted away, like ice in warm water. The warm water was my self confidence that over time had gotten much stronger and much better at disarming any sneaky attacks of sadness when feeling helpless or alone. I had noticed this Holiday season that for the first time in many years I had truly enjoyed Christmas and all its associated and expected cheer. Today was the first time I heard a small tear happening into the fabric of my hard won resolve. A sense of calm and acceptance took over as the sun faded on the last days of the year. I sighed contentedly, anticipating a cozy dinner with my husband, and a fire in the fireplace. Cutting edge. It sounded elegant. I no longer felt the sharp edge of the knife, only its logical precision that reminded me to stay alert,to stay grateful.

Story laundering

The subtleties and nuance of human nature and its endeavours to make sense of life and the human condition can be a source of both wonderment and amusement. Listening to people tell stories is definitely one of those occasions. Stories are open to interpretation, it seems, not only interpretation by those who listen to the story being told, but apparently also interpretation by those who are telling the story. In comedy sketches, there often will be a complicity between the comedian telling the story and his or her partner on the stage. Complicity in story telling can also be tragic, in theatre performances, where the dialogue takes a somber turn, often superbly exemplified in opera. But the story telling I am thinking of is the one we participate in daily with our family members, friends, neighbours. The story line is often quite simple, a minor happening or incident, such as a retelling of a frustrating trip to town dealing with Holiday traffic, or the retelling of a conversation with a long lost friend, or the news of an illness or other distressing event in the neighbourhood. Telling the story rarely revolves around the basic facts. Like knitting a sweater or painting a picture, the yarn and colours and brushes we start out with, rarely are the only ones that go into the process and the finished product. In the case of knitting or painting, no harm done there. In the case of story telling... not so. But it seems we can't help ourselves. Instead of five cars jamming the freeway, it turns out it was well, at least twice that many. I have found myself embellishing the most innocent of recounts, and it makes me smile. I have also noticed that funny stories turn out even funnier, and sad stories either become real tragedies, or, they turn into instant fairy tales with amazingly good endings that leave everyone surprised if not suspicious at the marvelous turn of events. It occurred to me that humans do this not because they are deceitful by nature or inclination, but because we so want to feel a sense of control over what we do not understand, and enhancing events, thus turning them effectively into stories, gives us a sense of proportion, of measure, even if that sense is quite off balance. Now, some people are cut and dry. They tell stories like it is a weather report. " Yeah, it was awful. He got the diagnosis and three months later, he was dead. Oh, well, that's the brakes. Gotta run! Have a great day!" Most people, thankfully, are a bit more subtle. But then again, therein exists the problem. Where to draw the line, where does a story become just a recounting before it turns into a small fiction pamphlet? Sometimes, it seems the facts are treated like unwelcome visitors. We barely tolerate them, and it seems the less accurate information we have, the more tempting it becomes to embellish the event. We cannot stand a skeleton of a story,no, that won't do, we feel an almost instinctive desire to add muscles, and flesh, and clothes.Sometimes we get so carried away, we change the skeleton's costume half a dozen times, trying to find the style in hat, coat , shoes that will best fit our mood, our perception of what we think happened. Because that is a big part of it, working with what we think happened. Diplomacy turns these endeavours into an art form, where people can carry on entire conversations for hours based on perceived information, turning that in turn into tangible evidence and action. Diplomacy is the art of knitting sweaters with invisible needles and see through yarn, hoping that by the end of it all, you have a warm wool article of clothing. Our every day lives can be that complicated too, not because of circumstances so much, but because of the perception of these circumstances. This way, a network rivaling a major freeway intersection, occurs in the nuance of our interactions where even between people who have known each other for years in intimate quarters carry on conversations that seem more like dueling sessions carried out by musketeers. Attack, block, retreat, advance again. It can be amazing how few words are exchanged, or how very many, and how little is understood or resolved. We launder our words, like criminals their money, and we are equally guilty of altering reality as a result. Because in either case, deception is a means to an end. Now, in the case of story telling, the deception is often innocent, a way to close the gaps between what we perceive to be true and what we can live with. I find that with time, I love to listen to people talk and tell their stories, great and small, sad and funny, slow and fast, because I am learning that the space and time between the words are as important as what they say. The silence I give them in listening is sometimes cathartic, and allows some people to realize they need to either turn down the details and their veracity, or embellish a bit more, to heal whatever wound they are sharing, whatever joy they want to relive, whatever surprise they want to understand. The listener is the water in the machine, where they put the laundry of their life's stories, and they themselves are the soap. As listeners, we can ease the process and add more water with our appreciation and tolerance of the story, just as we hope our soap we put into our stories will get the added benefit of some extra water from a kind and willing listener. Story laundering is not about deceit, not very often that is, because most people are pretty decent and sincere, it is about coming to terms with what happens to us every day, in big and small ways, in awful and great ways. So, the next time Joe Big Mouth irritates you with his tall tale, relax, and give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps someone will return you the favour the day you are obviously enhancing a story. In the end you both are trying to make sense of reality as you know it. 

Once

There is a song by the super band "Pearl Jam" that gets to me every time I listen to it. "Once " is a very powerful song shared in a very powerful way by the lead singer of the band, Eddie Vedder, who is known for his strong vocals and lyrics. The song is about a man's descent into madness as he becomes a serial killer. The way Eddie Vedder sings this controversial ballad is impressive, with a voice raw with passion and power. It is simply chilling. As the Holiday season takes hold and with it its seesaw of emotional elation and blues, the song is cathartic to me, a tonic for the heart and soul that like an effective hangover potion gets rid of any self pity or delusion I was nursing at the time. We are all complex, contradictory, often infuriating creatures that can drive our loved ones and ourselves to distraction like toys that come with all the wrong instructions. "Wind here, put this screw here, pull this lever to the left for full motion". Yeah, right. If only it was that simple. I know I am not put  together that smoothly, or kept together that smoothly either. Kind of like mannequins you see in store display windows, where you see the best side, and not the awkward pins in the back holding the striking outfit the doll is wearing together. We are all like Janus, one side very pleasing, the other side of us, not so much. The rage Eddie Vedder is able to generate when he sings " Once " makes me feel more accepting of my own shortcomings, thus making me more accepting of the shortcomings of those around me and with me. Our society is so desperate to polish, gloss everything, from our wrinkles to our personalities, that ugly is no longer acceptable. But ugly, weak, struggling, revolting even, are part of the human condition. We don't have to deify it, but we are not doing ourselves and anyone else any favours by whitewashing all kinks in our systems. Maybe that is why I feel so drawn to the voice of Pearl Jam's lead singer, he embraces passion in all its uneasy and often contradictory expressions. He is not afraid to tackle depression, fear, alienation, madness, rage and channel them into amazing songs that touch to the core. I saw my family torn apart by deceit and power, illness, death and selfishness. Very ugly traits indeed, that left me in a dark tunnel for nearly 10 years. On the other side of that tunnel now, I can see that accepting my own rage as well as the rage of those around me was an important part in the healing process. It was about at that time that Pearl Jam's songs started to truly deeply resonate with me. When I am by myself at the height of the sweetness of the Holiday Season I like to listen to " Once " and sing as loud and powerfully as I can along side Eddie Vedder and cleanse myself of any illusions that I am anything more than a very confused human trying to make sense of my life and life in general, and that if I need anything at all this Christmas it's an extra dose of humility, kindness and compassion.

Happy Holidays

The rain has been coming down steadily this past week, making for a balmy rather warm Christmas season. I love rain, it makes everything smell so earthy and fresh, and for some reason, it makes me feel safe, secure. One of our live Christmas trees on our patio has brightly colored lights on it, casting a pleasant, warm red glow at night, which our big Bouvier Labrador dog seems to enjoy as she likes to sit outside and cool off after dinner. I feel light and comfortable this Christmas, a welcome sensation after years of feeling melancholy and anger after all the tragic deaths in my family in the last decade. All the angry monologues to my dead mother are finally silent, and a deep sense of acceptance and peace has taken over in the last two years, which makes me take a deep breath of both gratitude and almost giddy relief. I finally have reached the end of that long, dark, lonely tunnel of coming to terms with the infuriating past. My Christmas will be quiet, with just my husband and our son, but it sure will be cozy, with great food and a profound sense of happiness with our small but very loving family. I cannot deny that it is not hard still emotionally to see neighbours and friends talk about all their family get togethers with brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, cousins, nephews and nieces. But over time, the hurt is making space for the memories of being a child in Belgium who did know a large, gregarious family, before it all started morphing into disconnect and alienation. For those of you who have large families that you get to visit over the Holidays, enjoy! I know, they drive you nuts half the time, but family is everything. Take it from someone who no longer has one. The hole that leaves never closes, you just get used to the winds blowing through it, the gusts of loss, chafing your soul down to its sinews. But, I am used to that empty feeling. I have a few friends who have no family near for the Holidays,and who live alone, and some who live alone and have no family at all. Their resilience sure makes me feel wealthy in my little cozy home with my husband and son, as we cook our delicious turkey dinner, and my husband and son make my husband's famous biscotti as a crackling fire in the fireplace warms the heart and soul, with our trusty dog Yara and kitty Tigger snoozing in their baskets nearby. Happy Holidays. Gratitude that becomes a habit sets the heart free, brings peace where before torment raged. And that is a wonderful feeling. A feeling of acceptance that brings the gift of peace. Peace that is defined not by the absence of wounds and regrets, absences and losses, but a peace that is there right alongside those challenges, a peace called consistent abundant inner freedom. I find it to be the best Christmas gift you can give yourself and those around you. Peace on earth, and peace to all of good will. That is what I feel now when I say or hear the words "Happy Holidays", and my heart skips a happy beat.

The Key

Frost has made way for grey clouds and rain,
muffling the sound of my feet on wet leaves
slippery under my quiet breath.

Frost brings relief with its blinding light and sky
numbing memories of my soul soaring in the fire
of your eyes and the heat of your skilled touch.

Passion your artist's brush, you made me feel reborn
breaking the frozen spell on my smile and soul,
like a key releasing me to be free.

Oh, the rush of joy, the wind of your energy
blowing life into the spell that had left me asleep
unaware of my identity and strength.

Time ceased to be, as euphoria wrote a brand new song
that took us to a land before sin, before fear and shame
birds flying as one under Eden's forgiving skies.

But like Icarus, we got too close to the sun and its rule
burned our brand new wings, and fell into oblivion's pool
losing the key that set us free.

We lost our way back, only to wake up strangers
no longer able to soar high and free, mute, deaf
as indifference threw its cloak of slumber unto our hunger.

Forever asleep, we no longer have a voice, no longer have
the reach to touch, holding hands across the firmament
laughing like children, with the key of life securely around our proud necks.

All that is left is the uneasy feeling that perhaps it was all a dream,
a spell we just imagined as you go around on your prescribed path
invisible next to mine, eyes blind that once saw paradise in mine.

Trudi Ralston.
December 8th, 2014.
for J.

Break Me

The fifth track on the rock band Pearl Jam 's debut album "Ten " ( 1991), is a song written by vocalist Eddie Vedder with music by guitarist Stone Gossard, titled "Black", and to this day it is a love song that just stirs me to the marrow with its heartbreak and passion. This is a poem inspired by that song, and like " Black", the poem is a soliloquy, remembering an absent lover.
My poem is called " Break Me":

Break Me.

The icy wind howls through my ache for you
as my rage at the loss of you burns away my tears.
I crave the scent of you, the heat and sweat of you
as my breath screams in silence for your touch.

Where are you? Why can't I see your dark eyes anywhere?
You broke me, so decidedly, right in half, the noise
now haunts me at night as you roam my dreams
like a hungry naked rider on a saddle less horse.

If I scream, and yell, like the broken hearted man in " Black ",
will you come back? Will you reach for me, will you kiss me
and hold me tight one last time? Will you forgive, hold my hand
and cry with me, just this once?

Break me, come and break me, and let me be done with this ache
this wound that won't let me be. Why did I meet you, when you
could not be mine without regret and shame?
I scream for you, and no sound comes out.

Only when I listen to " Black " does my voice come back,
as I realize every fiery heart has a story just like mine,
as I am hoping against all hope that you are driving home today
listening to the power of Pearl Jam's song as you scream my name.

Trudi Ralston.
For the dark eyes that drank my soul like night a full moon.
December 2nd, 2014.

Glow

My husband and I were busy preparing the Thanksgiving turkey dinner, my husband focusing on the fresh cranberry - orange relish, and his delicious stuffing, while I made the candied yams and green bean casserole. Macy's Thanksgiving Parade was on, showing cheerful floats and very spiffy high school bands from all over the country. I love Thanksgiving, it is my favorite winter Holiday. Maybe because it is such a festive transition from fall into winter, and because it is not so long as the Christmas Holidays, that do seem to go on a bit. The dinner preparations proceeded very smoothly, and the food turned out great. I slept so well, I remember smiling before I dozed off. When I woke up this morning, I was still smiling, I noticed, and mused about how cool it is that turkey meat has tryptophan in it, that stimulates a sense of well - being and relaxation, as it releases endorphins. How great is that, the turkey has my vote as the coolest bird ever. Who says it's all about looks! I started thinking about how accomplishing something minor like a good holiday meal that goes off without a hitch can make us feel satisfied, content , happy even. It does not seem to particularly matter what minor feat we pull off, something about it gives us a sense of purpose, of belonging and peace. Some people of course achieve great things, that benefit millions of people, through a cure for some awful disease, or the ending of political tyranny at the hands of some twisted dictator, or bring joy to millions more through the sharing of their gifts as musicians, painters, architects, poets, dancers. The feeling of euphoria these geniuses must experience has to be out of this world. The sense of making a difference on a grand scale must be awesome. Hope is such an important element on a human's path through life. Perhaps that is why accomplishments of any size on any scale add a measure of fulfillment. Yesterday, for me, and my husband, it was cooking a delicious Thanksgiving dinner. My husband is a very good cook, and it gives him great pleasure when my son and I enjoy his dinners, and desserts. He is also a poet in his garden, creating an abundance of beautiful flowers for us to enjoy throughout the spring and summer, giving me in turn the chance to share my photos of our flowers, which gives me a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment as well. Small measures of joy that is shared, when we can share our talents,  however minute on a grander scale. The joy does not seem diminished by the smaller scale, perhaps a mercy by a benevolent great spirit somewhere. It certainly seems merciful that the baking of a great pie can fill a heart with a sense of pride and satisfaction as much it seems as the applause a famous conductor receives for a splendid performance. The only requirement is to use our talents, whatever they may be, however great or small, ordinary or extra ordinary, and to share them, generously, copiously, every chance we have, to guarantee that most beautiful glow of deep,glorious satisfaction.

The Face in the Clouds

It was a starkly cold morning, with a blindingly bright sun in a pale blue sky. I was driving home along the lake boulevard that runs all along the way to our house. The sun slowly was easing its light into some soft grey clouds that started to gather high above the lake. The process caught my eye, because the sun morphing into the clouds gave it a shape of a long moon like face, with features reminiscent of an ancient warrior. The face evolving looked strained, proud. I liked it. Autumn is always a transition for me emotionally, and I longed for the face in the cloud - sun as were it a long lost friend. I was surprised at the intensity of my reaction. There was something instinctual about it, a timeless primeval yearning to connect to the mystery of creation, to the mystery of life, my life. Odd how a vague sensation can bring into focus something so specific. The face the sun was showing through the lens of my musings was sad looking, but also wise, and at peace. Instead of fighting the deep melancholic response to the artistic vision I was mesmerized by, I decided to accept it like an unexpected gift. Instead of intensifying the sadness, I noticed accepting it, softened the pain, and eventually it faded, just like the stern but beautiful face of the cloud shrouded sun. It was a cool experience, one that somehow lifted my own acute sense of aloneness into an awareness of profound acceptance as to the inexplicable intricacies and contradictions of our individual lives. I felt a oneness with everything around me, as if my breath was part of the wind I felt through the slightly opened car window, part of the sun light, part of the clouds, the sound of a solitary bird swooping by, part of the oncoming season of winter. Beyond words, beyond meaning, I realized I was a part of everything around me, not just a solitary observer ,but a participant, however minute in the scheme of things, however invisible, however quiet and overlooked, but a part nevertheless. All sense of sadness left me, and I started singing along with the song on the radio, and I smiled, and reached over to gently pat my sleeping dog Yara in the backseat, understanding with strong conviction that she had figured that oneness bit out already a long time ago.

The Loom

It is a nice thing, those crispy, freezing cold days stretching almost luxuriously under a blindingly bright blue sky and warm, golden streaks of sunlight. Even without ice or snow on the ground, the sounds outside are pleasantly muffled, adding a sense of well-being and belonging to my solitary day. I missed seing the spiderwebs. As someone who enjoys working with fabric and needle, I have great respect for the hard working spider and her flawlessly and patiently constructed  webs. My upbeat mood made me smile. I thought of the cautious, loyal support a long time friend of mine brings to my writing efforts. An exceedingly busy person, this friend still finds the time to read my stories and poems, and sends encouraging words of appreciation my way. His encouragement the last two years have had an inspiring and energizing influence. Today, it brings the image of a loom to mind, perhaps triggered by the memory of seeing beautiful spiderwebs. My poems and stories live in my heart and mind often for weeks, sometimes for months, even years, before I feel ready to let them go, giving flesh to the invisible threads of the loom kept carefully in the treasure chest of my memories and experiences. The loom stays well oiled and cared for, in part because of the support of my quiet, gentle friend. Half a planet away,he somehow manages to make a difference, somehow keeps watch over the invisible loom , that like the dwarf in the chess machine keeps my spirit's inspiration and creative energy not only alive, but happy and healthy. Antoine de Saint - Exupery said that the most important things in life are invisible, and that is remarkably so. No one can see the threads on the loom in my heart, they are invisible to everyone, even to me at times, until I start writing and the threads work together to become a visible story or poem. I love my friend for this gift. He is a companion to my muse.Physically very far away, he often feels near like a heartbeat, inspiring me to keep believing in my dream to share my writing. The loom of hope. Sometimes to keep it going strong, it takes just one kind, compassionate friend. I should know. Merci, ami fidel.

For D.O.

The Suitcase

Out of seemingly nowhere, the mild summery feel of a relaxed weather autumn just vaporized into freezing air. Apparently, the aftershock effect of a massive typhoon in Asia locked Canada and the United States in a bone chilling cold. Our tender pink and brilliant red fuchsia flowers hanging motionless in the silent icy afternoon, the sky a blindingly bright blue, I walk to the wooden table in the back of our yard and crumble several thick pieces of whole grain bread for the birds and squirrels. It seems sentimental to feed them perhaps, but the food is always gone within an hour or two, and it makes me feel good I lend a helping hand to my friendly forest buddies. I feel the cold air stripping through my warm pants and coat like an unpleasant and sticky smell, and as my gloved hands fumble with the shredding of the bread, the memory of reading at age 22, " One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich " comes to mind, one of my all time favorite books by the Russian literary giant Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. I know nothing of being a Gulag prisoner but I did relate, as I still do, 35 years later, to the raw emotional nausea of the exile. It is never far away, and only became more acute after the loss of my family under such infuriating and tragic circumstances. Feeding the birds on this surprisingly cold, silent day somehow alleviated the familiar emotional ache, that like a mugger in the dark attacks at random and without warning. I saw myself as a child, holding a suitcase, pretending to put important items in its hold, for an imaginary, exciting trip : a plastic pink teapot, a baby blue mirror , a teddy bear, a magnifying glass, my book of favorite fairy tales, a lipstick, a small perfume bottle, a pretty handkerchief. I felt like that child today, still trying to load a suitcase that would magically take me to a magical land, where there was no such thing as isolation and the ache it brought. I was amazed how persistent some themes are in my life. Solitude and its ever faithful companion, isolation, have been like shadow puppets in that suitcase. No matter how many times I try to load that suitcase up with different items, the puppets of isolation and solitude always end up in my surprised hands, ever since I was about 8. As a young child I was drawn to Charles Dickens and stories written by Mark Twain , so stories involving basically lonely sorely tried individuals, albeit not without resourceful spirits. To this day, on cold days, both physically and emotionally, it seems I am still trying to load that suitcase, trying to figure out what will get me to that magical land where my spirit will thrive and feel truly at home. I have tried to make this vast country my own emotionally for almost 40 years now, and some days, I feel close to reach that border where I will get entry to full belonging, but a lot of times, I still feel like an outsider, patiently waiting for those Neil Young harmonica blues to fade away for good.

Entre Nous

C'est super de se revoir, non?
apres toutes ces annees, je le croirais
guere possible, je vous dit.

Asseyez-vous, voila une tasse de cafe,
avez -vous faim, vous etes fatigue?
Votre chambre est prete, on va diner
ensemble, ce sera si sympathique.

Je n'arrete pas de sourire, je sais,
laissez- moi vous regarder,
vos yeux clairs, votre sourire
tolerante; et laissez- moi jouir
de votre voix qui ferait jaloux
a Charlton Heston jeune homme.

Mais peut-etre, je reve en cet instant.
Le telephone meme a l'air muet.
Ce n'est probablement que mon imagination,
vraiement, cela fait tant de plaisir de vous revoir.

Le silence me regarde d'un air mefiant,
ce n'est pas grave, la nuit arrivera surement.
Et dans son pays de reves et etoiles,
je vous retrouve depuis toujours.

Trudi Ralston.
Il y a des amis qui nous restent proche au coeur,
malgre qu'une vie se passe sans se voir.

Pour Dr. Driss Ouaouicha.

Child's Lament

Bright like the golden autumn sun
are my hopes and dreams of belonging
and being free, crisp fall leaves
twirling giddily on the chilly breeze.

The heartache that won't go away,
I was a child playing, and you pushed me aside
like a spoiled soul tired of my innocent spirit

that wanted your love so very much.
Oh, mother, what were you thinking,
trading your daughter's life for a pair
of smarmy eyes ?

You locked me in a tidy toy chest,
far away from your selfish pride,
mocked my yearning for you
with laughter and contempt.

Underneath your seductive lipstick smile
you hid a knife that cut my dreams in  half,
you stood by like a wolf smirking at the bleeding lamb.

You threw me away, like an ill fitting shoe,
one that offended by its softness your stiletto thirst.
I loved you so, but you sold my innocence to the highest bidder
for your own peace of mind.

Queen of the realm, you poisoned our king,
and made chambermaids out of your daughters' talents.
Oh, mother, what have you done, trading my sisters and
brother and I for season tickets to smarmy eyes and sighs?

You cast me adrift on an ocean of despair, branded like
a criminal with the mark of your arrogant display.
Forever intoxicated with your own self-importance
you scattered your children like ashes to the wind.

I am awake now, mother, and it is only once in a while
on a cold day like today, that your icy presence makes
my resolve shiver down to your absent bones.

Trudi Ralston.
November 10th, 2014.
I know. But it was just Halloween after all.
And her ghost is one of the creepier ones in my chest of disturbing
slumbers and quiet screams.  

Below the Belt

The noise grows steadily stronger, metal on metal
pushing past my resistance as my anger puts up
a good fight.

I will not cry, are you kidding me, who do you
think I am, a doormat to your sharp knife's command?
No, this sadness will not win this round.

The sky watery and grey like my stinging eyes,
I push back, trying not to feel the deep ache
that has no blood, but hurts just as bad.

Go away, you clouds of darkness, wipe that sick
grin off my tired heart and soul, get back, get back
You are not welcome here today.

Below the belt is where your aim goes every time,
and like a coward, you hit me when I'm down,
but not this time, not this time.

My sword of resolve is fighting back, pushing back,
so, get on out of here, leave me be, I am stronger
than any sadness you could ever bring.

Steel on steel, you will not win, I will not wince,
I will not bow, I will not break, I will not cry.
But I will thrive, I will survive, no matter what
fire you throw on my path.

Trudi Ralston.
November 4th, 2014.
Fall seems to bring with it melancholy and rains
heavy with sad musings. Not that they ever get to have the last word.

De tant t'aimer / For loving you so

J'ecoute les fantomes autour de ton coeur
ou les goutes de sang s'acumulent des blessures
trop visibles dans le blanc de ta peine.

J'ecoute ton silence qui hesite a chacque soupire
que j'essaye de suprimer, je crains ta tristesse
pire qu'une maladie dangereuse.

De tant t'aimer, tes blessures sont les miennes,
des ombres trop tiedes qui me coupent l'haleine,
mon sang qui se vide dans la riviere turbulente

de tes espoirs et talents. Je te parle, je te conseille
et mes mots tombent comme des cailloux durs
sur la plage de tes reves et tes rires.

De tant t'aimer, je cache mes mots genes
de leur presence si nonchalante entre les murs
brouilles de tes energies et ta jeunesse.

Rassure-toi, prends courage, n'aye pas peur
de ce qui pourrait se passer demain, tu as maintenant,
c'est tout ce qui te faut pour croiser tes incertitudes.

De tant t'aimer, mon coeur se brise, pour vu que
ton sourire s'enva volant, un bel oiseau bleu de joie et bonheur,
chantant sa musique nuit et jour, clair et pur.

Trudi Ralston.
November 3rd, 2014.
This poem is for my son, Nicholas Ralston. I wrote it in French and translate
it here in English, a testimony to my determination to transcend all hesitation,
culturally and emotionally:

" I listen to the ghosts around your heart, where the drops of blood
accumulate wounds too visible in the white of your anguish.

I listen to your silence that hesitates with every sigh, that I try to suppress,
I fear your sadness worse than a dangerous disease.

For loving you so, your wounds are mine, shadows too stifling
that cut my breath, my blood that runs into the stormy river

of your hopes and talents. I talk to you, I counsel you and my words
fall like hard rocks on the beach of your dreams and laughter.

For loving you so, I hide my faltering words casually between
the shadowy walls of your dreams and youth.

Take heart, take courage, do not be afraid of what could happen tomorrow,
you have now, it is all you need to overcome your uncertainties.

For loving you so, my heart breaks willingly, just as long as
your smile flies free, a beautiful blue bird of happiness,
singing its music night and day, clear and pure."

Trudi Ralston.

Ne me touche pas si proche - Don't touch me so closely

Il faut beaucoup de force pour resister le courage
que ta tendresse m'apprend apres tout ce temps.
Est ce possible que je me suis perdue dans les rigeurs
de tes amours?

Nulle part est le point de depart ou je te retrouverai,
les bras ouverts, tes yeux bleus clairs fatigues
de tous mes reves invisibles qui me suivent
comme des petits oiseaux affames.

Tu sais tres bien que je t'aime, mais je t'en pris,
ne me touche pas si proche, la blessure de mes defenses
a peine est guerie, et il me faut du temps pour accepter
ton innocence, feroce comme elle est.

Promene -toi pres de mes ombres, pres de mes soupires,
accepte mes silences, mes rires et mes poemes, mes contes
d'une enfance perdue, ecoute-moi et mes mots camoufles,
et un jour je te chercherai pour que tu me touches trop proche encore.


Trudi Ralston.
October 29th, 2014.

Sometimes poetry is a matter of disguise.
This one is about love, love over a long period of time.
I wrote it in French, because that was part of the disguise, emotionally.
But I translate it in English, just in case the person for whom it is written
finds they want to read it without the disguise.
Happy Halloween, my love:

"It takes a lot of strenght to resist the courage
that your tenderness teaches me after all this time.
Is it possible I got lost in the rigours of your affections?

Nowhere is the point of departure where I will find you
with open arms, your clear bue eyes tired
of all my invisible dreams that follow me like hungry little birds.

You know very well how much I love you, but I ask you please,
do not touch me so closely,the wound of my defenses is barely healed,
I need time to accept your innocence, ferocious as it is.

Walk closely to my shadows, closely to my sighs,
accept my silences, my laughter and my poems,
my stories of a lost childhood, listen to me and my camouflaged words,
and one day I will look for you so that you will touch me too closely still. "

Trudi Ralston.
For M. C. R. 

Pool of Silence

Rippling smooth, soft water rolling
back and forth over my face, my arms
my legs, waves warm and windy
breathing heat like a sun above me.

Soundless steps follow my muted shadow
hopping alongside me on this bright afternoon,
 a slight hesitation in their rhythm, speeding up
my heartbeat with a suppressed unease.

Silence a sleek costume disguising my dozing fear
a child playing hopscotch on a deserted street,
rainbow colours matching my rainbow socks,
where did all the other kids go?

Breathe in, breathe out, smile wide, laugh loud
all the way to the outer limits of quiet despair,
no worries, no problem, all's well, then and now
as silence pours its spell all over my soul.


Trudi Ralston.
October 29th, 2014.

Raul se va para Istanbul

Ya tiendra Raul listo a su maleta, me la imagino grande
como los viajes que tiene costumbre de preparar,
parece vivir mas en el aire de los aeroplanes
que en su casa, o su carro.

El Japon, la China, el Brazil, o Espana, Israel, Raul
accumula los viajes como yo suenos de libertad
cuando me acuerdo mi libro de nina de un viajador
exotico que vivio en Istanbul.

Y Raul se va para Istanbul, y me imagino leyendo
mi libro con dibujos exoticos del hombre misterioso
que se fue por todo el globo en su alfombra magica.
Su linda princesa tan feliz viajando con el en noches brilliantes.

El hombre perdio a su maleta donde guardaba su alfombra que llevo
a el y su enamorada y nunca mas podian verse o viajar juntos.
Yo perdi a mi querido libro pero no al sueno de viajar, en el pasado
y el futuro, si encuentro de nuevo a mi alfombra magica y a su maleta.

Pero mi hermano Raul no tiene estas restricciones, se va como rey
viajando por toda la planeta, con su maleta, con su alfombra que el
nunca pierde y que yo quizas recuperare en mis suenos de noche
cuando yo tambien ire volando libre como un pajaro hacia fronteras exoticas.

Que cosa, que yo estoy aqui, y que mi hermano esta viajando
con su maleta repleta de sonrisas, vino y sol, mientras que yo voy
escribiendo mis cuentos y mis poemas, llenos de anhelos para alas que me llevarian
lejos haciendo viajes exoticas llenos de cielos azules y cantos alegres.

Disfruta, hermano Raul, llena tu maleta de carcajadas y sorpresas,
y guarda en un rincon una estrella para mi.


Trudi Ralston.
0ctober 21st, 2014.
For the one and only R. Jimenez
who I have long suspected of being a distant cousin.
Happy trails!

The Tether

Time passes cast between the rhythm of shadow and light
my own steps and yours a world apart.

Time a structure solid and stern, a bridge unmovable
across a vast expanse measuring carefully our paths.

As we each follow our measure in destiny's hands.
Time a general with a solid, steady plan.

For many years I found myself searching for a way
to be allowed entrance to the gate the bridge held fast

Jealous of each stone and window in its imposing mass.
Silence undecided as its guardian when nighttime dreams

Would allow me a stolen glance along the bridge's windows
and their visitors within, you among them, a stranger

To my voice and eyes.

But time got weary and softened its granite hold,
As now our messages pass freely like doves

Taking delighted flight between the castles
that divide the bridge's grasp, now time

A friend, a fellow passenger tolerant
of the gentle tether that has been allowed.


Trudi Ralston.
October 14th, 2014.
For a friendship that has stood the test of time.
For D.O.

The Dinosaur Above

As autumn settles in securely bringing its measure of welcome rains after a hot, dry summer, the falling leaves and musty scents soften the sounds of bird and man alike in our backyard and the forest behind it. Hummingbirds still come around but now fewer in number, and the bright colours of Morning Glory and fuchsia make gracious way for the orange and red of fruit bushes and tree leaves. Ours is a quiet neighbourhood, and the sight of a jet plane overhead is rare. When it does occur, I find myself stopping in my tracks like a surprised child marveling at the roar of machine power in the sky. I used to travel a lot a lifetime ago, and even though my life with my husband and our son brings me great peace and happiness, a longing always escapes me like a silken sigh when a jet flies over our house and yard. It has been 14 years since I last flew, when we went to San Francisco for my husband's grandmother's funeral. When I saw a jet fly over our house a few days ago, I looked up and the image of a dinosaur came to mind, the way it flew so seemingly slow and the way its large body cast a strong shadow. I felt like I was in a time warp, looking up an an object I had never beheld close- up. Memories of airports so often visited for across ocean flights came to mind : Atlanta, Chicago, New York, Miami, Brussels, London,... I remember smiling, because I had the memories, so, I must have flown up there at one time, over a house , a backyard, even as far away as Lagos and Kinshasa, and Mexico City and Panama City. The lessons I am learning now are different and not unpleasant, and I am glad I had the chance to travel as much as I did as a college and graduate student. The dinosaur above felt like a visit from a well known friend, one perhaps out of grasp for many years now, but still very close to my beating, reminiscing heart. And even so, here in my garden, and here in my cozy house which is now my home I am still quite the traveler being so far away, thousands and thousands of miles, across an ocean, or two, from where I started as a Flemish woman a world ago. All around me, even after 38 years here as now an American citizen, with an American husband and American son, my world still remains a strange and often foreign place of strange tongue and custom, where I have made my way and blend in unnoticed to most but never to my own heart and mind.

The Kilt

When I was in the 4th grade, a friend of my parents gave me a kilt that had belonged to their daughter when she was a child. These friends traveled a lot and had purchased the kilt at Harrods in London, which I was to visit two years later when I was 12. The kilt was heavy and wool, the colours of Tartan blue and green. I had never seen a real kilt before other than in story books and on television,  I was very excited, but unsure how to wear it. So, my 10 year old mind ended up wearing it to school backwards, with a bright turquoise leather jacket I had also inherited from our friends' daughter who was in her twenties by then. I was very lucky, in that a girl in my class, who did not particularly care for me, told me to turn the kilt around, so the pleats were in the back, not the front. She said this as a matter of fact, without contempt or judgment. I was very grateful. My parents were non plussed, but my story of where the pleats were to be, was confirmed by my parents' friends. In spite of the awkward introduction to the kilt, it became my favorite garment for a number of years. I liked its heavy feel and I liked that it was Scottish, having read several stories depicting heroic and very romantic characters dressed in very beautiful kilts, riding horses through the mysterious Highlands, hair blowing in the wind, swords at hand. I was smitten by all things Scottish. I recently watched the first season of a show called "Outlander", about a woman , a war nurse, who accidentally time travels from 1943 to 1743, during a visit to the Highlands at the occasion of her second honeymoon. The emphasis on family, on clan, on belonging and loyalty, strikes a deep chord in me. I realize how important family is, and how much happiness comes from being part of a clan, a family, and how hard it is to live without it, or at the edges of it. It seems I still wear my kilt backwards, struggling very determinedly to build securely my small clan with my husband and son. The woman in "Outlander" literally fell through a time warp into a very protective and caring Scottish clan, and in real life many a bride or groom has fallen happily into a gregarious clan. It was not my destiny, and it was not my husband's destiny. I have several friends who were born in trying circumstances or born without a family, abandoned at birth. A very difficult path, I know from their testimony and witnessing their life. I have some friends who chose to immigrate, like me, to a different country and that takes courage, to walk away from your clan. Some of my friends have done so very happily and successfully, others not so much. I am not sure if luck has anything to do with it, or character, or circumstance or destiny, or a bit of all of these factors play a part. I certainly have no clear insight into my own circumstances as to my life as an immigrant, other than in part I have been extraordinarily lucky in my marriage, and very sorely tried by my own family. There is no denying that to belong to a supportive, nurturing clan, a family, is a key ingredient to well being. That clan can be blood family, or an adopted clan, it can be a group of friends who think alike artistically, or intellectually, or even simply socially and emotionally. To go it alone takes great stamina, resourcefulness and a fair amount of grace to guarantee happiness and purpose. True, some people are loners by choice, but to be a loner by edict, so to speak, can be a difficult and painful way to go. I have found great joy in opening up my heart to the building of a secondary clan by adopting homeless pets for close to 30 years now, as neglected and abused animals too are victims of finding themselves without a clan to protect them. I never realized just how deeply I feel about that until recently, because it is a way to give animals back a home that betrayed or eluded them, the way I was betrayed or led astray by deceit and twisted interests. When I watch or read a story about the Scottish Highlands and the history of the clans, I wish I still had my kilt. It seemed to have been willing to give me a second chance at dignity, at belonging, tolerating the backwards insult the way it did. I did get a second chance, and it is cool to think about the kilt, that perhaps was a mysterious sign that backwards or not, if you hang in there, and with a little help, things can work out allright, in the end and in some measure, you get to go home again. 

Hoist the Black Sail

The day started out bright and sunny, with a surprisingly bright blue sky for early October, making the many tall brightly yellow sunflowers look very festive and cheerful, and a bit odd, with the musty scent of fallen leaves and wet grass and trees. It was Saturday morning, a day for chores and preparations for autumn and later winter. Ordering firewood, skimming the leaves off the pool and putting on the new cover that was delivered just two days ago to replace the old one that had been patched up one too many times and no longer kept out the dirt and rains. Cleaning out the fallen leaves and debris from the gutters,cleaning out the chimney, trimming the fallen sunflowers, putting away the rest of the lawn and deck chairs and tables. Inside the house, there was the need to take out the window fans, wash them and put them away, get out Halloween decorations for the house and windows and front door, and the usual chores of vacuuming and washing the dog and the bedding, and making beef stew for dinner. I looked around my small, cozy house that always reminds me of an overstuffed,friendly curio shop, and I felt like a proud captain of a small but very secure pirate ship, my pirate ship, that I had secured at great cost. I had no black flag hoisted to my rooftop, but as a black sheep, I sure had managed to survive and thrive in a secure location, now an outlaw from my own family. It felt strangely good this morning, strangely rebellious, and free, a somewhat privileged child from a very comfortable upper middle class family thriving in a working class neighbourhood, isolated but free from interfering relatives and preconceived notions and assumptions about status and happiness and place and purpose. I was free, finally, to be me, to the best of my ability, to write, to create my small tapestries, to run my small household with my steady and resourceful husband and clever son. We were a small island, a small group of pirates, living by our own laws, and as lonesome and unnerving as that sometimes was, I could honestly say this morning that I was happy and found my husband and son to be happy, too. There was no denying that being an outlaw , so to speak, is not without its hardships of judgment and isolation. But once that ship of freedom is on the open seas, so to speak, the feel of the wind and adventure in our hair, the satisfaction of writing your own laws, setting your own course, as awkward and unsavory even at times it may require to be, is thrilling and so well worth the painful break from the prison of compliance. I did not comply, I did not break, and now I am free, to live life on my own terms. I am a rebel at heart and rebels have to fight for their freedom as did I. It made me an outcast, but I don't care, who wants to be part of a group of relatives that judge you by money, as my mother did ? She was ashamed of my small house and my neighbourhood, and made sure no relatives ever made it here to see her disgrace. It makes me laugh now, but there was a time it hurt and made me sad. No more, I am happy to notice, inner freedom is a beautiful thing. I do not like to be controlled, and told what to do, what to think, and breaking free was scary, for sure, but if I walked away with just the clothes on my back, and lost all family loot, I gained a treasure in experience and insight, and those things cannot be bought. As hard as it was to say " fuck you" to everything that had kept me bound and afraid, the pleasure of the freedom it secured me was priceless. The pursuit of happiness sure was well worth the perilous journey. Because for me, security and happiness without freedom are just illusions. Arr!

Erasable

Soft lines play shadow puppets along the sun's light
As I breathe slowly, rhythmically, a dancer on grass and stone.

You are nowhere to be seen, as I smile and dress my tears
In rainbow colours and crystal sparks, so cleverly, so quietly.

Pencil to paper, life draws me cautiously, leaving scratch marks
On the page.

My eyes wait patiently, windows looking out to the path where
My feet will walk free. Perhaps by then, two or three will walk

With me. Until then, I will remain erasable, no matter how steadily
I redraw the lines where I can keep a steady step, one, two, one, two.

Soft lines, soft smiles, shadow puppets in the sun's warm day
I write, one step ahead of the eraser's grasp, a poem full of resolve

And quiet rage.

Trudi Ralston.
October 2nd, 2014.

Electric

Flying high past the grey skies, I go high up into the blue beyond,
the winds blowing in my hair and eyes.
I laugh as I fall upwards like an electric guitar sparkling and wild.

I sing loud with fingers and toes spread out imitating an eagle's roar
and pass above the buildings and trees below.
Nothing is stopping me now, it does not matter where I am going,

Or even where I have been, I have wings to keep me going,
don't call me, I am out of here, my high pitch screams
a song of freedom and soul repair.

Watch me, watch me falling upwards like a bullet in the sky
I am free, dancing high up here with the birds and clouds
and thunder, all is light and air around me.

Come up here with me, leave your fear behind, hold my hand
feel it tremble with the thrill of abandon as we laugh and cry,
soaring, soaring, free, strong, a burst of electricity here way up high. 


Trudi Ralston.
September 27th, 2014.

Bavarde

Voyons un peu, arrete-toi de parler , personne t'ecoute,
comme tu es bavarde.

Je suis heureuse, laisse-moi te raconter cette histoire tellement
amusante, comme j'ai rigolee, je te dis, on a passe un bon moment.

Mais vraiement, arrete de parler, tu m'embete avec tous ces mots,
personne t'ecoute, comme tu es bavarde.

Je me sentais si triste apres ce que lui est passee, ou elle trouvera
son courage, je ne sais pais, j'ai pleure de frustration, je n'en pouvais pas.

Tu parles encore, ca va pas non, arrete avec tous tes mots, tu me donnes
mal a la tete, personne t'ecoute, comme tu es bavarde.

La nuit, je fais des voyages, ou je retrouve des amis et des etrangers
qui m'ecoutent, qui me parlent, et je me reveille plein de joie et d'energie.

Quand je dors, tout le monde me parle, dans les villes et les villages,
on se rit, on danse, on se parle, et personne me dit que je suis
trop bavarde.

Trudi Ralston.
September 27th, 2014.

Roper Blues

Chemistry is a strange and fascinating thing. It affects attraction between people, or repulsion between them; cooking recipes and how they turn out cannot escape the importance of chemistry; chaos in its primal beginnings owes a continuing debt to chemistry. Humour too, seems a matter of chemistry. When I was in my twenties, a hilarious sitcom was a way to distract from the stresses of being a foreign student at TCU, it was called "Three's Company". A spin off was started in 1979, called "The Ropers", starring Norman Fell and Audra Lindley as the notoriously unhappy Mr. and Mrs. Roper, the landlords to the apartment complex were Jack ( John Ritter), Chrissy ( Suzanne Somers) and Janet ( Joyce Dewitt) shared an apartment in "Three's Company". The spin off with the Ropers only lasted a year, and it also starred the outrageously funny Jeffrey Tambor. Short lived as the spin off was, and thus unsuccessful, I became captivated by the character of Helen Roper, played by Audra Lindley. She plays an energetic, enthusiastic, intelligent woman trapped in a dusty marriage to a dull and self centered man, Stanley Roper, played very effectively by Norman Fell. Their marriage was kind of sad on "Three's Company", but on their own show, "The Ropers", the funny sadness takes on a deeper melancholy, one not devoid of a palpable existential flavour, that I found and find to this day, vaguely disturbing and unnerving. I am trying to figure out why. It is probable because my parents and my in laws both had such desperately unhappy marriages, full of frustration and stupor. Mrs. Roper fights so valiantly for every scrap of hope, laughter, joy, excitement. Her husband is not a bad guy, he is just a lousy match for her, and she for him. Lousy chemistry experiment gone sour. Perhaps that is why the show quickly failed. It was too real. Comedy is fun, because it makes us forget our trouble, it makes us feel better about them at least, because we can relate to the characters and their problems. But Audra Lindley is so good at her role as the frustrated Helen Roper, that she crosses the line over to our daily reality, walks right in to our living room, and sits down. And that makes us uncomfortable. Audra Lindley was too good, and we didn't like it, because her melancholy becomes our own, and ours becomes hers, and we can't swallow it, a matter of chemistry again. I always walk away feeling slightly nauseous from watching a rerun of "The Ropers", not because I think it is awful. Quite the contrary. I feel the same melancholy when I think of Anton Chekhov and his desperately sad plays. OK, I know, the comparison between the two is perhaps sacrilegious and absurd, but remember what the French say : "On se hate de rire , de peur qu'on ne pleure", "we hurry up and laugh, afraid we might otherwise cry". Humour and sadness go hand in hand, they are twins, separated at birth, and sometimes they remain uneasily co-joined, and we squirm with unease as we have to decide whether to laugh or cry at their predicament. I was sad to learn that Audra Lindley died of leukemia, a tragic end to a woman who was so full of determined laughter and energy. Here's to you, Mrs. Roper. Thanks for the sour mixed in with the sweet of the cocktails of laughs you left for us to sample and try.

Spider Silk

Tenuous bridges across shaky breaths and fingers
as the daylight fades into the shadow play of night.

I run into a spiderweb my eyes failed to see and struggle
to free my hair from its sticky threads, impressed with
her handiwork's effectiveness and strength.

I think of how with patience and cautious use of time
our friendship too, though invisible at first,
like a spider's silk, can grow strong to cling to fiber and heart.

Distance, and suspicion fading in the pattern of the sturdy web,
our connection grows slowly stronger, more rhythmic and sings
a muted but audible song, not unlike the excited moth nearing
the spider's home.

Resistance trembling as it flies into the spider's silk, my feet
walk towards the moment where you and I will meet,
afraid no more of the stranger to each other we might still be.

Spider silk will guide us, silently, patiently, onto that web
so beautiful that will bind us to its spell where a look, a smile
like a drumbeat will let us know the void has been traversed from two to one.


Trudi Ralston.
September 24th, 2014.
Friendship is a dance of chance, will, and in some cases, destiny.

Si par hazard

Si par hazard, sur ton chemin accelere
tu croises mes pas dans le sable et l'eau,
dis - moi bonjour avant de continuer ton voyage
sur cette terre.

Si par hazard, mon telephone sonne et j'entends ta voix
repose- toi un peu dans ma presence, raconte- moi un peu
de tes histoires et leurs circonstances, malheurs et joies,
fais- moi rire un peu.

Si par hazard, entre avions et horaires, tu as le temps
pour un cafe longue distance avec moi, n'hesite pas,
copain fidel dans le ciel electronique de nos correspondences,
au moins ta voix serait physique, concrete.

Si par hazard, tu as envie de chanter une chanson ensemble,
et oublier le chaos de la vie de tous les jours, telephone-moi,
peut-etre on sifflera quand on ne se rappelle plus les mots
d'un air populaire, " ce n'est rien, tu sais bien, le temps passe,
ce n'est rien", Julien Clerc nous aidera avec notre malaise.

Donc, si par hazard, sur le chemin des rencontres plus rares,
tu as le temps de stationner un peu ton sejour, appelle-moi et on pourrait
se rappeler la musique et les mots de notre amitie passee et futur. 

Trudi Ralston.
September 23rd, 2014.
pour un ami fidel, pour D.O.

Double Lining.

Sighs bouncing crisply like dry autumn leaves
fall onto my beating heart's soft path.

Folded into the pleats of my breaths, like a sleeping moth
at ease, my solitude quietly slumbers on.

Only once in a while does it stir and lets fear agitate its fragile wing
as I tiptoe away from the screams I cannot bear.

Double lining muffling the despair, I wait until the uncertainty fades,
and the pause button lets up, bringing movement back to its easy pace.

Few sleep with their goblins, a cautious friend said about me once.
I smile and walk towards the summer's sunny breeze.

After all, Geertrui, my Flemish name, does mean the brave one
with the spear. Fear is just a bit of spice mixed in with my story

and my dreams.


Trudi Ralston
September 11th, 2014.

Soft Shadows

There is a silence that hums like a well known song
when walking with a loved one down a well known road.

There is a kindness that remains mute like a pastel sunset
on a late summer night when clouds are whispers stuck gently on a dozing sky.

The familiar scent of you walking next to me, we are a family
and I can count on you, and I am there for you.

The heart has its own words, folded like soft shadows into the colours
of our souls'journey on this earth, so quiet, so strong, we hold on.

We are here, we are one, no words need to be spoken as we walk along.
You and me, us together in this simple song of a home where we belong.

Soft shadows, taking us where we need to to go, light guiding us
as we bravely stand together, closing rank on the darkness that now is far behind.

Soft shadows, soft eyes, blue and green, blending into autumn's call,
we walk, smiling towards tomorrow satisfied as the day turns to a peaceful night.


Trudi Ralston.
September 10th, 2014.
For my husband of 29 years, Michael, and for our 22 year old son, Nicholas.
 

The Stairwell

Dreams are an interesting window into our mind and its very stubborn efforts to come to terms with our existence 's quirks and inconsistencies, anxieties and frustrations. My dreamworld has always been very elaborate, and my dreams are like full length full colour Hollywood movies, incredibly detailed and peopled with both familiar faces and strangers. Last night was no exception. In my dreams I am always on foot, by myself, trying very hard to get "home", either to Roeselare, Belgium where I was born and lived until I was 19, or Austin, Texas, where I went to graduate school and met my husband. Last night I was trying to get to Brugge. That at least, was different. I have a niece that went to boarding school there, but other than that, no connections other than many a visit, of course when I  was growing up. In my dreams I often walk near highways, with fast traffic just roaring by me as I walk very determinedly wherever it is I think I am going. Often my parents are in my dream. My mother as a haughty, indifferent observer, my father as a concerned friend and helper. In the dream last night, my mother was super busy buying clothes with my sister Goedele and they both just brushed my pleas for help off irritably. My father tried, but had, as usual in my dreams very little power to effect any outcome or change. I was inside this huge university building, with dizzying tall staircases that had no railings, and made me very dizzy and afraid. I was trying to get to a geography class, and never did get there. So, I tried to get down the stair cases and manged to get back outside, where it turned out I was on the outskirts of Brugge. The streets were jam packed with people, almost to a panicky degree, which made me hide inside a quiet house. It turned out that it was the house of an artist, a Native American young artist, with a very calm face and flowing long black hair. He was painting watercolour pictures when I got to his house. My panic did not bother him at all, he just handed me some brushes and paint and a piece of paper and invited me to paint also, which delighted me and really calmed my anxiety. I felt at ease, safe, and that is where the dream ended.
Two days ago, I dreamed I could not find my husband and son, until they finally showed up walking next to me on this busy highway going into Austin, Texas. I was so glad to see them. And so relieved I did not have to deal with any staircases, as I did the following night. Some people would get upset at the intensity of the kind of dreams I have, but to me they have become an extension of my daily reality. A reality I feel at ease with and am intrigued by ,and that allows me an extended family of both friends and strangers with whom I have a story to live.

Itsy Bitsy Spider

Spiders are amazing creatures. Resilient, determined, strong, incredibly athletic, hard working and patient. A few mornings ago when I was looking up at some geese flying overhead, I noticed a very nice spider web way up in a 50 feet tall evergreen tree in our back yard. I was stunned. Apparently spiders are also amazingly creative engineers, not intimidated by any challenge. From the bottom of the tree, to the top where the spiderweb was in all its splendor, seemed like if I was a spider, I had decided to start in Seattle and put up my spider web in New York. I was awed by the spider's incredible determination. It really cheered me up. I figured if a spider was able to be so focused and successful in its projects, I could certainly be optimistic,too. " The itsy, bitsy spider climbed up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out...Out came the sun and dried out all the rain, and the itsy, bitsy spider climbed up the spout again..." I remember singing that song with my son's Kindergarten class. It is a great song about determination, resilience, strength, all qualities I really admire. Spiders are not deterred by their web being destroyed by wind, humans, rain. They just move over a bit and start over without moping around. They literally dust themselves off and get going again. Rather impressive when you have ever taken the time like I have to watch a spider build a spider web from start to finish. You would think she would say, well, the hell with this, I spent way too much time on this perfect web to start over again, like ever. No. That is not what happens. No self-pity, no ego wound, no anger, no sadness. Just get up and five, six, seven, eight, ... go! That is so cool. Of course, the standard response to my enthusiasm and appreciation for the spider is invariably, well, of course, the spider gets right back to building, it is instinct. All I can say is hooray for instinct. I hope mine gets me as far as that spider got. She sure makes me think and smile and try even harder.

Coup de Grace

Like water colour lines cannot hesitate
my heart beats steadily and does not
fear as shadow and light dance around
the path of life that is mine to walk.

You know my strengths, my weaknesses,
my struggles and my triumphs,
the tears that hide behind the ready smiles.
Yet you remain, a sentinel quiet and kind.

It is no easy task to love a stormy heart
to temper your insights, your command
and strength, you never waver or give in
to the easy way out, the mercy kill.

A friend on good days and bad, you walk beside me
and adjust your step to ease my own.
Like an ocean could easily drown the visiting seagull
and ignore its need for whimsy and gentle squall,

You stay your power and gently listen to my song.
You are a refuge, a comfort and a joy. You never claim
anything but the dignity and the hope we both can share.
I thank you for your patience as the years move on.

As youth surrenders to the slower rhythms of our seasons' life
your steady step along side mine brings time and again,
hope and purpose to a journey that often is not one of ease or apparent track.
Thank you, my friend, for being there, so far, so near, to help me count the stars

That you have helped me count on more than one otherwise bleak winter night. 

Trudi Ralston.
September 4th, 2014.

For all my faithful friends over the years, far and near.

Apres Toi - Vicky Leandros

It is always interesting how a song can trigger emotions we had not thought about in a long time. In 1972, the beautiful young singer Vicky Leandros, representing Luxembourg, won the Eurovision Song Festival with the song " Apres Toi ". I was 15, and the song sent shivers down my spine the first time I heard it. My adolescent heart was spell bound. I am not sure what made me think of the song all these many, many years later. I listened to it just this week, and it still has that spell binding effect on me. As it turned out, my heart's history can relate to the content of betrayed love on more than one level, considering my family history, for one. But the song also still draws me in, on a purely musical emotional level, which made me smile. The heart apparently does not age, even if the rest of us has no choice in the matter. When it comes to being moved at an early age by certain songs, it is almost a spiritual experience, like our heart knows ahead of time that it will be challenged, betrayed and broken, guaranteed, at one time or another, hence the chills down the spine. If we are lucky, our hearts also get to experience the happy side of love and life, as I have, and we feel the circle complete as our lives progress. In that sense, "Apres Toi " is a song that still moves me, but that now also brings a contented smile to my face. And I am grateful for that. Melancholy seems to be an inevitable ingredient as summer comes to an end and the first dry leaves start twirling down on a chilly breeze. So, I am grateful that as my life progresses that with the bitter is also the sweet, as I sing along with the sad and beautiful lines of the gorgeous song that moved me so deeply 40 years ago. "Apres toi, ... je ne serai que l'ombre de ton ombre... apres toi". I am glad I found my identity back, but there is no denying it was a hard and lonely way back to the sunny side of the street.

Summer Photo Gallery

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(All Photots by Trudi Ralston)

Sunflower Blues

To me, the height of summer and its joy and energy is symbolized by the sunflower. We grow them every year from seeds, that get transplanted from our green house when the seedlings are about a foot tall. This summer we have 33 of these gentle giants all over our garden, swaying in the soft August breezes holding their beautiful golden petaled heads into the reaches of the turquoise sky above. Their sight thrills me with an almost intoxicating delight. The bees love the sunflowers generous heads allowing them to gorge themselves on their honey scented richness. And then, as happens each year, that morning arrives, when the scent on the wind announces that first musty chill, letting us know summer is about to end. The sunflowers magnificent heads and bright yellow petals start to look brittle and hang slightly downward. It is a sight that always breaks my heart. I can hardly bear to see these proud and beautiful giants that tower 3 feet above my 5 foot 8 inches height become weighted down like exhausted guardians. Because as they fade, they take on an air of spiritual sentinels, watching with a measure of wisdom and acceptance their inevitable demise in the nature of things. It feels like I am watching friends die slowly, kind friends who seem to symbolize the mystery of existence. I love all flowers, and we have a great variety of them : roses, petunias, begonias, pansies, viola, Morning Glory, Mirabilis, sweet peas, fuchsia. I accept them being temporary without any problem, or sadness, but then there are the sunflowers. I physically feel a pain of loss every late August as they start to fade. When they are almost completely down, the Blue Jays and crows start to pick their seeds and leave them blind, helpless, but still proud and strong. I have no idea why sunflowers affect me that way. Maybe it is because they are so tall, and their heads are so big and strong, which makes them look like they are standing on feet like people. Maybe the fact that their stature is so human like and they stand so proud, like guards on duty, or soldiers on a battlefield, makes it so hard to say good bye to them each year. Because I know I won't see them again, unlike a tulip or a lily, or a rose, that at least makes us feel there is a permanence in their appearance each year. It is almost like the sunflowers know they only have one chance, regardless of their height or strength. It sunflowers weren't so tall, it would be easier,too. When I walk among them, I feel strangely secure in a delightful, whimsical Alice in Wonderland way. Walking among them is a bit of retrieved childhood magic coming to life. It is wonderful. So, yes, by the end of summer, I get the sunflower blues, and I have not found a cure. It is just going to hurt through the melancholy of the shift from summer to autumn. Mysteries are beautiful, and they apparently can also hurt quite a bit. I think of the song " We had fun,... we had seasons in the sun... Good bye , my friend , it is hard to die, when all the birds are singing in the sky..." sung originally by Jacques Brel in 1961, under the title " Le Moribond", the "Dying Man". The English version " Seasons in the Sun " was written by the poet and singer Rod McKuen. To me, watching sunflowers die is hard and painful, I am not sure why. Maybe because I had two younger sisters die young of horrible diseases, or because I lost my father to Alzheimer's and I was cut off from being there for him. Maybe they are a reminder of my own mortality, I do not know. Or a reminder of how much I love summer and hate to see it go. Sunflower Blues, no treatment, no cure.

Two Star Nights

Sometimes things happen in small increments. I was thinking of an artist friend the other morning while musings of purpose and destiny floated through my head like so many capricious clouds. This one friend lives far away, and is cautious about communication and judgements. I guess you could call him a sceptic. We have an intellectual connection I value and as I tend to be quite verbal, there have been times where I know I test his Spartan temperament. Over time, that terse nature of his has had a fruitful influence on my determination to keep on keeping on with my writing, my tapestries, my poems and photography. His dedication to his art is inspiring, that is for sure. I remember how my at times passionate attempts to breach his defenses would exasperate him, and I recall how in spite of that, he viewed my temperament with very generous words. He called my will to surpass obstacles as "fierce", and my mind as "brilliant". I cannot think of any person past or present, teacher, friend , lover or otherwise, who ever gave me two such awesome labels. On dark days, those two words flash in my mind like two bright stars guiding night into a new day. Aesop once said : " No act of kindness, however small, is ever wasted." I think my far away friend may never fully realize what his patience and kindness at a particular difficult moment did for my self confidence and determination. It is an amazing thing, the courage to give, to be kind, even when you don't really feel like it. You plant a seed, however tiny perhaps, that with some luck and spit may turn into a flower of hope. I think in a way this friend of mine does not even particularly like me, but he is the only person I can think of who had the balls to give me a charge when I was really insecure. Our connection is awkward at best, but there is a certain grace and tolerance to his crusty demeanour that I respect. He makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland, slightly dazed and confused, but very, very determined. I think he is not the rabbit, nor the wise caterpillar, nor the Cheshire Cat. Rather, he is the artist in charge of the magical garden down that rabbit hole. I feel I am always learning something new and unusual. Thank you, Don Juan, for those two star nights. 

Imperceptible

The heat this summer has been pretty much relentless, with a few days here and there of mid to low 70's F weather to allow us to catch our breath from consistently upper eighties and mid 90's F dry heat and sun. It is pleasant enough for the most part, if unexpected and unusual for this area of the Pacific Northwest. It is late august now, and like clockwork, the warm summer wind has a scent in it of the oncoming autumn that inevitably follows summer's ease. Our 9 feet tall sunflowers are swaying gently in the breeze, their bright yellow heads searing into the bright turquoise sky overhead. They are to me the height of summer's ecstasy and energy, and yet , in their magnificence towering over me, I smell the subtle but unmistakable fragrance of fall's melancholy. That dry, warm perfume that carries in it the seeds of the sadness that another summer that seemed endless is almost over. It seems to be the crux of the human dilemma, that time passes no matter how hard we want to believe it can be slowed down or temporarily stopped. The honey bees around me buzz by our brightly coloured fuchsia and gorge themselves on the generous sunflower heads, and in the beauty and joy of the sight, an unmistakable sadness brushes my heart. It is quiet, almost imperceptible, like very soft pencil lines on a large bright piece of paper. I think the sadness is connected to the realization that if nature is circular, human life is not. Our predicament is one of linear proportions. Our lives are not circular, and nature is, and therein lies our sadness. Our large plum tree and cherry tree, our tall evergreens will live longer than we will. The sky and clouds and wind, and sun, will be there thousands of years after we are long, long forgotten and dust in the air somewhere. We paint, write, sing,love, build, war, but it is to no avail. That is why autumn's melancholy can be so bruising, and why we don't speak of it, except in passing, or a quiet sigh, because it hits close to the ribs, close to the heart. Relationships are gems in this human condition. They tie us to each other, to our common destiny of complete bafflement as to what the hell it all means in the end, as we sit together roasting marshmallows by a crackling fire, being amazed at the millions of stars sparkling in the black velour sky above us. Imperceptible. We can't stop time from moving forward, from dying, from losing each other to time and mortality, so we inhale summer like a cure all high, hoping it will be the antidote to fall and winter's shadow slowly sneaking into our psyche as we feel that first morning chill.

Flaming Star

It seems the brilliant actor and comedian Robin Williams met his flaming star earlier than we thought he would. His death hits close to home for me, because I had a youngest sister who battled manic depression and addiction and who committed suicide by asphyxia , that is hanging, just like Robin Williams did. He was 63, she was only 35. The media is going on and on now as they will for a week or so, and then they will never talk about Robin Williams death again. Right now, they are treating it like a wildfire, all hands on deck. It is both exhausting and disrespectful. Depression is a serious illness, with devastating effects for those afflicted and all those around them. My sister's death destroyed whatever thin threads were holding my parents' marriage together. I still have haunting dreams at times about my sister and my inability to protect her. Death is devastating enough, but when brilliant people like Robin Williams take their own life, it is baffling and very disheartening. He was a genius, who had so much love and passion in his heart and soul, it seemed he would never really get old or die. His family, his children must be devastated. I kept thinking of the song that Elvis Presley made so famous, " Flaming Star ", a song that seems to fit the restless genius that the world knew as Robin Williams. "Flaming star, don't shine on me, ... keep behind me, flaming star,keep behind me, flaming star,...One day, I'll see that flaming star,over my shoulder And when I see, that old flaming star, I'll know my time has come...". Robin Williams'fire burned so bright, his flaming star caught up with him ,it seems. That is sad, for sure, but at the same time, he lived his passions to the fullest. The French poet Charles Baudelaire wrote : " Il faut toujours etre ivre ", " One must always be intoxicated ", meaning specifically that one must be intoxicated with life. True, Baudelaire had his issues with drug and alcohol addiction, and Robin Williams too battled addiction in a very honest and brave way, but brilliant people often are also very much intoxicated with life and the passion of being alive, so much so that it can burn their resources and energies to the ground. It seems to be the price of being a genius, that their own talents and uniqueness can overtake them faster than their hearts can run. They seem to be the mystery they themselves in the end cannot comprehend or contain. It is heartbreaking, for sure. We should celebrate the flaming stars among us, because we never know how long they will be among us, and when they do take off, like rockets into that void, we should remember the joy and amazing energy they brought us, and we should also cry. The media has no problem overdosing on the joy and talent that Robin Williams brought millions of people. They just have a hard time accepting the sadness, yes, the tragedy of his death. But we should embrace both the joy and the sadness, because life at its deepest, most outrageous, most amazing, most infuriating, most awesome, is both. Robin Williams would agree with that wholeheartedly. He would want us to laugh, and cry, and watch that flaming star of his streak across the sky one last time.

Tu N'es Pas La.

Tu n'es pas la,
plus que le temps s'enva.
Je te cherche parmi le foret
de mes mesages electroniques.

Mais il ne reste que l'ombre
de notre amitie,comme
le fantome d'un reve familier.

Tu n'es pas la,
et je te cherche partout.
Il me reste seulement le souvenir
de ta voix sonore, qui me suit
comme le vent, dans mes jours
et mes nuits brumeuses.

Tu n'es pas la.
Je crie ma peine qui tombe
dans le silence comme
sur la sable de tes deserts.

Ton amitie avait le gout d'amandes
et l'haleine d'une rose a l'aube.

Mais tu es nulle part, comme
le cifre, le zero, tout ce qui me reste
est le cercle de ma solitude.

Je t'ecris des poemes qui eux aussi
se perdent parmi les etoiles froides
de ma nuit noire et eternelle.

Tu n'es pas la.
Il m'avait pris dix-huit ans
pour te retrouver.
Est-ce qu'il prendra dix-huit autres
pour te trouver encore, un ange
parmi les cieux?

Tu n'es plus la.

Pour D.O.
August 7th, 2014. 

Crossbones

This past week I watched the 2014 television series "Crossbones", dedicated to the pirate Blackbeard starring John Malkovich as Blackbeard . The series was exhilarating and thoroughly enjoyable. John Malkovich was brilliant as were the other actors, like Richard Coyle as Tom Lowe, Claire Foy as Kate, and Yasmine Elmasri as Blackbeard's second wife, Selima El Sharad, David Hoflin as Blackbeard's second in command, Charlie Rider, Chris Perfetti as Tom Lowe's faithful assistant,Tim Fletch,and Tracy Ifeachor as Nenna Ajanlekoko, Charlie Rider's comrade at arms.The series is set in the 1700's, the golden age of piracy, on the island of New Providence, in the Bahamas, the stronghold of Blackbeard, pirate captain Edward Teach. It is an excellent period drama, and it rekindled in me my childhood passion for pirates and pirate lore. The first book I ever bought was at age 10, when I emptied my entire piggy bank to purchase a book on pirates. I read that book until the pages looked like fragile furled up autumn leaves. Watching the series on Blackbeard and his pirates on their stronghold island made me understand for the first time how much I can relate to their fierce determination for freedom. When I broke free from the dysfunction of my family and its miserable web of lies and deceit and contempt, I became an outlaw, and sought refuge on the island of my dignity. That freedom is precious to me, even though, just like a pirate's, it came at a hefty price. In my case, the price was solitude. I walked away to safe guard my freedom and my dignity, and I have had to defend them both fiercely. I never realized until just now why that series spoke so deeply to me, and perhaps as a child I intuitively was drawn to pirates, because maybe I felt in my heart I was going to need their fierceness of spirit. I certainly have.Standing up to my mother and a very arrogant cousin woke up the fierce heart in me, and served me well. I remember going through my pirate book as a child, over and over again, becoming enamoured with the pirate's dominion of the open seas, their camaraderie, their skill and fierceness as fighters and shipmates. It enthralled me as a child and thrills me still. I also liked their intelligence, resourcefulness and maddeningly clever ability to outsmart the pursuits of clever military men and powers. In the series "Crossbones", that military might is very well portrayed in the character of William Jagger, the British Commander, obsessed with tracking down and killing Blackbeard and played superbly by Julian Sands. Tom Lowe, the British spy who initially sets out to infiltrate Blackbeard's crew, and falls in love with Kate, a refugee from justice under the protection of Blackbeard, embodies the heart that decides that dignity and freedom are more important than blind obedience to the powers that be. My heart can so completely relate to that important realization, and relate also very much to the struggles and courage it requires to obtain that dignity and freedom. At heart I am a gypsy, a wanderer, and I am a pirate, like Tom Lowe and like his love interest Kate. Fierceness of heart and spirit in the name of freedom, justice and dignity are virtues to me that I have gladly sacrificed for, and I enjoy my pirate island in all its stark solitude with relish and pride, for it is a garden of Eden as much as their Caribbean island ever was to Blackbeard and his crew. Incomprehensible and perhaps intimidating to the outside world, but home and fortress and sanctuary to me and mine. And I will look you in the eye.