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.