The Intention

Brushing past the softness of red and pink fuchsia flowers
my fingers tingle with their petals' gentle feel.

The day is cloudy, quiet, cool under a sky filled with sleepy
grey-blue clouds, and a breeze that bounces off the whir of insects buzzing by.

All colours subdued, all sound muffled, even the roar of a jet overhead
I find myself looking for words that could easily be said, and understood.

Words of closure, and new beginnings, words that heal and bring a smile
and open doors, or at least a window or two.

But no words come, as the day goes by, and sunlight brings some warmth
to the silence all around me, and inside my heart that hums a lullaby.

How are you ? Oh, I am just fine. Nice day we're having, I know, it sure is nice,
as we plant flowers and water our yard, and laugh at the cat and dog chasing each
other around.

Words like musical notes just float right by, and bring a smile to our eyes
as we go about the day and its pleasant affairs, we blend into the rhythm of
things unsaid.

I love you, you love me, what more is there to know, as the rain adds its music
to our search for what it is we want to say, while we watch what remains unsaid
drift away like letters in the sand when the tide comes to shore.

Oh, it's all right, words they come and go, always changing, always the same,
like the wind and its directions, that keep us entertained,
the intention is there, and the silence remains, soft, simple
like footsteps on grass. It's OK.

Trudi Ralston.
June 27th, 2014. 

Moving Pictures

Motion is a fascinating thing. I was watching an episode of  " Three's Company " the other night. Don Ritter sure was a funny guy, his body language as hilarious at times as anything he said. The show was so light hearted, it is still delightful to watch sometimes after all these years. It started thinking me about motion's opposite : stillness. Motion delights us, its rhythm, music, pattern, even predictability. The motion of a carousel, a pinwheel, a bicycle, a wind chime, the wings of a butterfly hovering by. Stillness is often unnerving. The stillness before a rainstorm, the stillness after an argument, after tears, the stillness of sleep, and its unwelcome cousin, death. Stillness invokes intrigue, respect, awe, reflection. The stillness of museums and their art pieces, where people shuffle or walk by in a reverent quiet. The stillness before the beginning of a symphony, a movie , a play. The stillness before vows are taken, before a verdict, before a declaration or conference. Stillness. Motion. One makes us often nervous, the other brings relief, energy. Cities are full of motion. Deserts full of stillness. Most of us are very comfortable with motion. Most of us get unnerved when things become too still. Puppets and mannequins live somewhere in between, in the twilight of the mystery of both the phenomena of motion and stillness. We are comfortable with the idea of manipulating a puppet, or a mannequin. It gives us a certain amount of power, to bring stillness to life. That is why every child loves a wind up toy, or a battery operated toy. The stillness comes to life, becomes motion. It is delightful. Machines are stillness manipulated. When the motion stops, is when it can get eerie. Because it questions the whole existence of motion's vulnerability. Why does it stop eventually? Our hearts beat, but why do they eventually, irrevocably stop? Why can't we permanently control stillness and its gaping void? We prefer motion, because stillness brings in the mystery of mortality,not just the physical part of it, but the why of it, intellectually. That is why cities are full of people, and deserts are empty. Only those who can accept the inevitable outcome, stillness, can tolerate the desert and pitch their tent there. People who accept stillness in the midst of motion are very peaceful, are very comfortable with silence. They grow gardens, or paint, or live out in the country, or in quiet neighbourhoods. They have easy smiles, quiet voices and big, steady hearts. The older I get, the more at ease I feel with stillness. I have no way of knowing what kind of person the talented actor and movie director Clint Eastwood is, but I do know he is a person who is comfortable with stillness. It shows in the movies he directs, like " The Bridges of Madison County ", and " Changeling". Both movies deal with stillness in the middle of chaos in a very real and beautiful way, allowing the actors and their surroundings to absorb the wheels of motion and change through a deep understanding of stillness. I don't think that as a real human being, you can come to terms with life in general and your own life in particular without embracing the unsettling stillness in your soul, that has to walk along the tension between that stillness and the motion that circumstances , both sad and happy, bring continuously. Some people blame the constant presence of technology on the inability to be still anymore. I don't think that has anything to do with it. The ability to accept stillness in the middle of all the motion, is an act of will, and awareness. Whatever gadgets surround us, are incidental, not causal. I always loved puppets, both the hand puppets, and the marionettes, on a string. I had some of both as a child. It always filled me with incredible sadness to have to put the puppets and marionettes down, when the theater we were playing was done. I sensed from an early age on, that our desperate attempts to bridge the stillness with motion were forever going to be illusory and ephemeral at best.

Cloud Whispers

Noiselessly, your wavy oceans drift above me, soft as silk
to the feel of my eye.

Music box to wishful dreams, the sky draws rhythmic curves
of white into your expanse.

I look up giving wings to my earthbound sighs as a Bald Eagle
dances luxuriously through your airy mind.

Giant blue, your soul flits past me, past the cotton gowns
you parade like a king before my longing heart.

I join you, my feet hesitant on the hot grass,
and surrender to the white fire blowing on my trembling face.

Flutes and mountains, dragons full of rage
Laughing children cavorting on your soft woolly belly.

The sun drenching us in its blaze, the cloud symphony
slows down, just long enough for a contented cry.

Crashing, heavy with the coming rain inside, the cloud waves
ride above the quiet country side, and just for a moment
bewitch the merry go round of human time.

Trudi Ralston.
June 19th, 2014.
for D.J.

Serpentine Rhapsody

A comment an artist friend of mine in Texas made recently concerning the importance of integrity in art found me looking for my copy of Antoine de Saint Exupery's gem " Le Petit Prince". This Texas artist's devotion to his art, on good days and bad, somehow drew me like a magnet to the story of the Little Prince. The innocence of the story illustrated with the gentle drawings done by the author himself, re- awoke the poignant melancholy I felt when I read the story for the first time for a middle school assignment when I was 13. The story inflamed my heart and I have hung on to the copy I read then ever since. It has traveled with me from Belgium to Texas, first to TCU in Fort Worth, and then to Austin, for graduate school at UT. Then, after I married, the copy went with me to Washington State. The story lodged itself in my heart and has remained there ever since. Reading the story once more, I now look at it from the point of view of someone trying to break free through writing my stories and poems. The Little Prince was an exile, and so am I , living far away from the continent where I grew up. The heart breaking message of the loss of innocence and meaning in modern life, and more acutely the loss of purpose without the presence of love and friendship, is one that is timeless and doubly touching, because the author takes the position that only children know how to live and love, and only they know what is important. They and the animals who are also still in touch with the soul of existence. That is where the artists come into the picture. It seems that artists are grown ups who refused to surrender their childhood innocence, hence, they refused to let go of what matters most : the ability to enjoy each moment of beauty, and the ability to love. Artists, like children, suffer because they want to show the world the disaster that becomes life when we as adults become numb to the magic of beauty and love. Some artists go mad with the agony of the attempt. I think of Vincent van Gogh. We seem to understand his message now, because now his paintings hang in the most famous museums of the world, and are worth millions of dollars. The Little Prince would be most upset with this hypocrisy. The Little Prince tried to understand the world of the adults, and in the end, it almost cost him the love of his life, his precious Rose. Actually, maybe he never did make it back to his planet. Maybe he never saw his Rose again. Only the serpent knows for sure. The serpent took pity on the Little Prince, but in exchange for that pity the Little Prince sacrificed his soul, just so not to lose his heart. A true artist will die many times over each time he or she must compromise in order to survive, both the world and its vapid capriciousness and their own soul that tries not to be vanquished by the trickeries of the serpents that slither by from time to time. The Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran, in his wondrous book of aphorisms, " Sand and Foam ", says : " All great men have two hearts. One beats, the other tolerates. " It seems the Little Prince too had two hearts. Let's hope one of them got him back to his planet and his Rose. I wish the same for all my artist friends out there, and I wish the same for my soul as well.

Bride's Brooch

A few months back, our Asian pear blossoms after a rainshower look like a fancy bride's brooch. 

A Poet By Any Other Name

It ocurred to me the other day that my husband is a poet in his own way. Not the kind of poet who uses words, because he is quite reticent. In our relationship, I am the verbal one. Michael is very spartan with his words, not unlike Clint Eastwood in his iconic movies, like " A Fistful of Dollars". It is at times quite amazing to me that we have been together now for 29 years. Opposites attract is definitely a theme with us. The way Michael expresses his spirit is through his garden, which is an abundance of flowers, bushes and trees of all colors, shape and variety. We have flowers just for fun, we have fruitbushes, such as blueberries, raspberries, red currants and strawberries and hazelnut bushes. We have plum, cherry, apple and Asian Pear trees. All give fruit that we enjoy tremendously. We have polebeans, and squashes in the garden, and we grow tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers in our greenhouse. We even grow a modestly successful Moscato grape. It allows us to enjoy fresh fruit and vegetables well into fall. There is nothing like it, to eat outside on our deck that my husband and father built 20 years ago, and eat the produce from our own garden. It is so satisfying, and to me, so poetic to live so quietly and peacefully here in a quiet neighbourhood in Olympia. I look around my patio with its overflow of petunias, and pansies and rockroses and fuchsia, and look forward to the beautiful tall sunflowers we will have again this summer, and I feel like we have eked out our own small piece of bucolic bliss, thanks to the garden skills of my husband and his devotion to maintain it all these years. On the days where I might get frustrated that he does not easily express himself verbally, I look at my backyard and remind myself his soul is full of poetry and beauty, it is just not in words. In wintertime, Michael builds a roaring fire in our fireplace, with the wood he chops and gets from our woodpile, and makes a delicious beefstew or lasagna to keep the cold outside and out of our souls, as winter greys envelop us in sky and temperatures. Little may be said, but the warmth created by his generosity makes up for it easily. Some of us are poets with words. Some of us are poets in deeds. I think the world needs both. I know my world does.

Botanical Textures

I was intrigued by the fabric like texture of these fernleaves in our greenhouse. The young sweet pea flowers bring a touch of softness to the pattern.

Dress Rehearsal

Enjoying our spell of sunny, warm weather, this whimsical Torenia flower in our backyard looks like a kid dressed for a school play.

Pink Fuchsia

Opening to the warmth of sun's light, these pink fuchsia look as much as finely crafted bells as they do flowers, and seem to wait for a gentle breeze to start their tune.