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.