Angel of Montgomery

There is an amazing song by the American country, folk and progressive blue grass singer John Prine, called " Angel of Montgomery ". He wrote it in 1971. I did not hear the song until 1985, when my husband pointed it out to me. I was 28 at the time, full of hope and life, and was not impressed by the song. In the last couple of years I have heard the song a number of times , and was surprised how it touched me to the marrow. Its lyrics of loss and alienation speak deeply to me now. Its simple yet haunting words seem to speak of my own struggle against anonymity and melancholy in the face of overwhelming loss and heartache. I am 56 now. When my husband introduced me to the song, he was 36, and it was very meaningful to him ,and had been for a long time. At the time, at 28, I just didn't get what was so special about that famous country song. I get it now. All too well. Life has dealt me a blow or two, and whatever pride or arrogance I might have had that would consider a country song not worthy of my finer tastes is long gone. The version of the song done by Bonnie Raitt is all the more touching because the song is about a woman trying to hang on to meaning in her life as she faces old age alone. If someone had told me that the day would come where " Angel of Montgomery " would deeply touch my heart and fill me with empathy and melancholy for the character in the song, I would have been incredulous. I never would have thought that I would someday understand all too well the anguish of the line "... believing in this living is just a hard way to go..." I have a strong spiritual core, and have always believed life is a matter of both purpose and destiny. I still believe that, but there have been times where adversity wore down that conviction and I doubted that my life made any sense at all. Losing as much family as I did under such creepy circumstances definitely put a dent in the self confidence I always had about life and its meaning. "There was a long time No matter how I tried The years they just rolled by Like a broken down dance." These words when I read and hear them now pierce through me with recognition and relevance that cannot be denied to my heart and soul. I now know those moments of despair where I would just pray for " Just give me one thing That I can hold on to ", where I would have to pick up my soul from the floor, or even from under the floor, some days. To me, now,  " Angel of Montgomery " is a profound poem, as meaningful as any poem I so treasured by Verlaine, Rimbaud, Tagore when I was a privileged adolescent in Belgium. I think I am a better person for the trials I have had to overcome and still struggle with, sometimes daily. Now " Angel of Montgomery " brings tears to my eyes and heart, and I am glad. 

The Art of Imperfection

It was one of those days. You know the kind, where you feel no matter how hard you try things just feel annoying, off balance. The sky in its moodiness seemed to feel the same way. One minute it was bright blue, an hour later it was windy and over cast, another hour later it was warm and sunny. The changing sky was in perfect harmony with my chameleon like mood, and it seemed to go hand in hand with my eyes finding all sorts of visuals to be irritated by. The leftover winter clutter in the yard, the leaky faucet, that even when I could not hear it, annoyed me with its drips, the windowpane in the bedroom that needed replacing, the old kitchen cabinets. It was a good thing we decided to take our dog for a walk, the wind in my face, even the rain, would do me a world of good. I needed to lose that irritable mood,and it would help with the 20 pounds of extra weight I had gained over the winter. Walking every day was one step in the right direction, I decided. I was right, within minutes of walking along side my son with our dog, I found myself breathing deeply, releasing the tension, and making jokes to cheer up my son who was preoccupied with a creative writing assignment. The sky started looking brighter as my mood lightened. Somehow the idea came to me of imperfection as an art. Art is a way of looking at the world. And I was looking at the world and saw it as askew. I needed to change my perspective. Imperfection is a fact of life. In ourselves, in those around us, in our daily challenges, in our aspirations and even in our hopes and dreams. But, in that imperfection can be found the seeds of great courage and love. To know the imperfection of our lives, and yet to move forward any way, determined to see beauty in that imperfection, the beauty of kindness and tolerance, both for others and ourselves, can help us time and again to turn the corner on those days where we otherwise might surrender to negativity and bitterness. My husband was fighting a miserable cold. He insisted he was starting to feel better, and he proceeded to water the new flowers he had planted last weekend in the window boxes of our kitchen and bedroom. He also made fresh sugar water for the two humming bird feeders. I knew he was not feeling good, but he found the will to do something he knew mattered to our garden. If you are going to live well, you have to master the art of imperfection. We are all flawed, no matter how much we would like to think we are pretty special and unique some days. The truth paints a far different picture. But through the eyes of humility and kindness, quite a number of seemingly unlovable people become very acceptable, including ourselves. Imperfection. In a world that would have you believe perfection is where it is at, the delicate art of imperfection is quite misunderstood except by those with warm and wise hearts.  

The Treasure

I have very few pictures from when I was growing up in Belgium. I keep them in a small purse I bought in Brugge in 1970, a small shoulder bag with a big butterfly on it, very trendy at the time. I keep it in my closet, and get it out once in a while. I love to smell it, the leather scent I was always so fond of, and I go back in time. I am 13 again and back in Brugge, where I bought the small bag. I open it up to reveal its humble contents: a small amount of pictures from the early seventies. Some Polaroid shots of me and my parents and sisters and brother in Rothenburg, Germany. Some pictures of me in Chicago in 1973, some nicely preserved shots from the Thousand Year Celebration of Brugge we attended as a family in1975. A lone picture of me in Cozumel in curly hair and a new Caribbean blouse, from 1980. Some postcards from my French girlfriend and former graduate school roommate, Catherine. Two New Year's cards from 1991 and 1992 form my recently re-acquainted graduate school friend Driss in Morocco. A black and white picture of our boxer ,Gorki, from 1971. A Christmas picture of my brother and sisters and I in our pajamas on Christmas Eve by the Christmas tree in 1967. A picture of me in Innsbruck, Austria in 1971 also. A picture at my desk in my room in Roeselare, Belgium, a picture my sister Goedele took in1972. I handled the pictures and mementos like they were precious diamonds. I love these pictures. There is also a picture of our family aboard a ferry in Rotterdam, in the pouring rain, a black and white Polaroid shot from 1972. These pictures are to me like pieces of a puzzle, and like the pictures are just fragments , so the puzzle is incomplete, because both my parents are dead, and both my younger sisters are deceased. These pictures are all that is left from some happy days that eventually turned dark and scattered our family apart like leaves in the wind. But, when I look at these pictures in my little purse, I feel only happiness at what once was, and still remains, intact in my heart. I was part once of a family who loved each other. And for those brief, occasional moments when I revisit these few photos, I am right there again, and it feels so good. That is why I always know where my little purse is, both in my closet, and in my heart.

Some musings on the creative process

My son is taking a creative writing class this quarter at his college. His initial enthusiasm is meeting with frustration at this point, as he is trying to come to terms with re-writes of drafts. I saw his frustration, as he was working through the process of a draft which did not seem to satisfy him ,neither in style or content. We started talking, and I was trying very hard to keep up with his list of concerns. Nothing I had said so far seemed to encourage or comfort him. We seemed to be going around in circles, much like his story, he concluded. Finally, this idea came to me, as we were literally laboring through some attempt at resolve and consensus. I said, listen, writing, or the creative process in general, reminds me of giving birth. You have done your part to take good care of your "baby", you made it all the way, and your water broke, and now you are going to go through labor, and deliver that "baby" as best as you can. It is going to be born. You can breathe ,and push, and things will go from there, with a lot of effort and  good will. Now, every "baby", every story in your case, is different. Some stories will come easy, other will fight you all the way, yet others will be complicated, and will require a lot of assistance to make it. Others will be stillborn, no matter your efforts. You will have to trust the process at one point to get you through, and accept the results. No story is like any other, and your disposition will change, as will your energy, and will, with each. Work hard, but learn to trust your instincts and your strengths and talent. With each story, a certain amount of confidence and experience will come. Also, remember to enjoy the process! There should be an element of fulfillment and joy in the process and its completion. How it will be judged should not be of paramount importance, not to the point where it stifles your creativity. You are taking a writing class, I reminded him, not a re-writing class. You are a perfectionist, and that is admirable, but do not throw out the baby with the bathwater, so to speak. I am not sure if any of what I said sunk in. Perhaps it was weird to be telling this to my son, who, after all, will never get pregnant and have a baby, but I was hoping the imagery made sense to him. At least, it had him listening and calmed down. I am hopeful, and he seemed so too. In my case, my poems are the ones I agonize over. I write and rewrite them in my head over a period of sometimes years, before I finally let them go and write them down in a process that is both nerve wrecking and exhilarating. I am sure every artist has their demons to contend with, and their way of taming them. I found mine, and I wish my son, as a young aspiring writer, all the best in finding his way. 

Fly Paper

Spring is a time of renewal, we see it all around us, it seems. I see the white beauty of our cherry blossoms, and blue cabbage moths flit about deliriously in the sun today. The humming birds whir by our feeders in their metallic rush. Yesterday, two majestic Bald Eagles flew over our backyard, low enough in their giddy excitement looking for a proper nesting place, that I could see their powerful yellow golden beaks and imposing white heads. I had heard their alluring high pitched call and knew they were near. It is always such a thrill to see these impressive birds close by. Our little seedlings in our green house are thriving, the sunflowers and the Morning Glory. We have new Blueberry bushes ready to go in the ground. A playful wind throws loose cherry petals around like confetti. Spring is here, and it feels wonderful. Yet, it also reminds me of vulnerability, perhaps because of a recent setback with a long time friend. What is new, and fresh is also vulnerable. Fly paper came to mind. Not a very pleasant image , I know, but perhaps the image came to me in a desire to protect some bruised feelings recently. Sometimes it is hard to tell who put the fly paper up that gets us stuck, we ourselves, or the so-called offending party? In my case, at least this time, I think I set the sticky trap myself. And for sure, there have been many times I ran into the sticky mess of life's fly paper on account of some ill-intentioned person or persons. This time, I sure did a number on myself. The thing about fly paper is, that if you realize what you are up against and move fast and light, you can get free. But, as we all know too well, the fly struggles, and in the process, gets stuck too hard to be able to pull itself free. In my case, I was able to save face, and pull free, but the sticky mess will follow me around on everything else I touch, so to speak, for some time to come. Sometimes, in spite of the best of efforts and intention, we end up with some egg on our face. I wrote a poem about it, "Le Sentinel" today, and that gave me some relief and perspective. It is funny, I thought to myself, I always felt that with age would come wisdom, but sometimes with age the only thing that comes is a sudden irresistible desire to make a fool of ourselves,perhaps in a longing to perpetuate the spring in our lives and postpone the inevitable slip into its late summer and autumn. There is no fool like an old fool, I reminded myself, and I was certain many a person had felt the same way I feel today, for one reason or another. So the melancholy subsided, and the resolve to feel renewed with spring returned with a determination that included a sense of humour at all too familiar human weaknesses and faults.

Le Sentinel

Reveillez-vous, ma fille
il n'est pas bon conseil de dormir debout!

Le jour se leve, et le soleil est deja haut
dans son ciel bleu et frais.

Qu'est ce qui te passe, ma fille,
que je te vois perdue sur ton chemin de jour.

C'est joujours risque de rever les yeux ouverts
la nuit est pour l'enchantement des veux.

Je sais que tu ne pleures jamais, mais ton sourire
me parait mal a l'aise avec ton ame blessee.

Tu n'aurais pas du laisser s'endormir le sentinel
qui garde si gentillement ton coeur et ton esprit.

Reveillez-vous, ma file
il n'est pas sage de laisser ouverte la porte
ou tu gardes tes espoirs.

Ne t'en fais pas, tu es nee seule, et ainsi
tu resteras.

Tu as le coeur sauvage qui fait courir
tous les gens qui touchent ton feu brulant.

Trudi Ralston.
April 14th, 2014.

Chemin de Retour

Il faisait froid ce matin. Il y avait un vent coupant et dur, malgre le soleil brilliant. La voiture etait bien chaude et je jouissais de la chaleur et de la musique Kabyle d'Idir. Une vague de melancholie m'enveloppait d'un coup, et je m'imagineais sur une route qui me menerait vers toi. Il y a tellement peu de gens avec qui parler de mes poemes. Tu restes tres loin, et cela ne changera pas, mais il y a des jours ou il est beau d'imaginer une visite avec toi.

C'est sur ce chemin de retour que je te rencontre, toutes ces annees
n'importe la saison, n'importe le temps.


Il fera chaud bientot. Il y aura un vent doux et frais, adoucissant le soleil fort et persistent. La voiture sera bien fraiche avec l'air conditionne, et la musique hypnotique de Rachid Taha. Une vague de tristesse m'enveloppera d'un coup, et je vais m'imaginer sur une route qui me menera vers toi. Il y aura tellement peu de gens avec qui parler de mes poemes, surtout ceux en francais. Tu resteras tres loin, et cela n'a jaimais change, mais il aura ces moments encore ou ce sera beau d'imaginer une visite avec toi.

C'est sur ce chemin de retour que je te rencontrerai, toutes ces annees
n'importe la raison, n'importe le chagrin.


Trudi Ralston.
April 2nd, 2014.
pour D.O.