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.