Dragonfly Eyes

It is wonderful to see in all directions
at the same time, free to see past the
bluest of skies, the darkest of nights.

The breeze sweet on my wings,
the air sheer and strong,
I can go wherever my sight allows.

The only thing that is a concern
is that no other compound eyes
are around, I can't seem to find
my fellow mosaic patterned friends
anywhere in light or storm.

It is what happens when you travel
so many shores with just one ticket
to come and go, and silence's flute
the one companion that does not
flinch in rest or flight.

Dragonfly eyes taking me wherever I go,
brilliant and deep, no stopping
the colours and movement they show.
How marvelous the perspective,
how unique the show that keeps me
wondering out here mesmerized, amazed
and always so far away from any familiar shore.  


Trudi Ralston.
December 23th, 2015.

Inner Pocket

Deep under the ground
down deep below where only
I can go.

There where it is bright and warm
where no harsh wind can blow
no ice can reach my heart.

Rolled tight in scented blankets
of wool and care, soft and safe
that is where my soul hangs out.

Far away from all cares, all noise
and fear, far away from harshness
and far away from pain.

Deep, deep under the ground
down where maybe you too can go
I will keep a sweet place
and there forever more we will belong.


Trudi Ralston.
December 17th, 2015.

Clary Sage

It is winter outside, but never you mind,
I will be alright.
As long as there is a single drop of moisture
out in the air, I will pull it into my soul
and survive, oh yes, I will.

The ground may be dry and my roots may be weary
but never you mind, they will hang on.
One more drop of sweet water, one more
soothing breeze of wind to my heart,
and I will shine, bright and green, you will see.


Sweet as honey on a summer's night,
soft as the grass I dream beneath my feet,
I will pull that water drop to my soul,
and keep the song of my dreams alive.
You will see, I will survive.

Never you mind the cold outside,
never you mind the brittle dirt
between my toes, I will go on,
that road is only as hard as it seems.
Oh, sweet clouds above, don't you give up
on me now.

Trudi Ralston.
December 15th, 2015. 

Souffle de Mandarine

Un espoir rouge me suit comme une chanson joyeuse
et la lumiere du jour chasse ses nuages gris de mes yeux.

Ce souffle parfume de mandarines touche mon sourire
avec des ailes de soie comme des petits echos mouilles et chauds.

Un eclat d'etoile m'echappe du soupire delicieux qui suit
l'ombre de mes pas aujourd'hui.

Comme est doux le toucher de ton amitie a l'autre bout du monde.
Que m'importe que tu es si loin, quand ton coeur bat autour du mien,
que ce soit la nuit dans un reve ou le jour quand la pluie danse ses refrains.

Que ce soit esprit de camarade ou illusion ephimere dans ma tete,
ce bel espoir rouge me suit comme une fee qui peint
de couleurs brilliants mon monde; je suis contente comme une enfant aimee.


Ton soleil brille sur mon visage, sur ma vie qui, avec ton amitie
jouit de cette isle chaude et discrete ou vivent mes poemes et mes contes
loin du froid tuant de mes chaines mordantes. 


Trudi Ralston.
December 11th, 2015.
pour D.O.
Une seule etoile fait briller la plus noire des nuits.

Les Cailloux

Si  j'avais un chemin que je pourrais traverser silenceusement
la ou tu reves et respires, je mettrais des souliers blancs et legers.

Je mettrais un chapeuau rouge et des gants de laine, un manteau nouveau
et je me mettrais en route avec ma valise pleine de papillons et oiseaux joyeux.

Si j'arriverais a temps pour voir la lumiere dans ta maison
je me mettrais a trouver des petits cailloux lis et discrets.

Comme une enfant desesperee et devenue impatiente, je jettrais
mes petits cailloux dans ma poche dechiree vers ta fenetre.

Une petite musique d'un ritme insistent danserait son retour
dans l'herbe muette et ma main bavarde.

Et peut - etre, la musique des petits cailloux impertinents
te reveilles, et ton sourire m'invite de laisser dehors mon jeu
avec les etoiles et les illusions de la nuit, et tu me pardonnes
mes soucis et mes questions et je sais que tu vas bien.


Trudi Ralston.
November 30th, 2015.
Pour D. O. 

Gathering Flowers

When I turned 18, my parents commissioned a painting for me by the local Gent area artist Raoul Vanden Heede. I chose a gypsy as the subject and it turned out to be as much a self portrait as it was wishful thinking about a group of people I always felt very drawn to. I left Belgium at age 19, and have felt like an outsider, much like a gypsy, in many ways, socially, culturally, intellectually and linguistically. Two nights ago I had a dream that Raoul, who is deceased now, and who was a close friend of my parents for many years, was bringing me flowers, simple flowers of the field. He told me to not get discouraged, to keep writing, to keep making my tapestries. His plea was very emotional and left an impression on me that lasted into the waking hours of the next days. While Raoul was talking to me, bringing me several bouquets of field flowers, I noticed there was a huge tree, towering at at least 50 feet, with many strong branches and roots, but bare of leaves. My husband walked up to it and started planting the flowers Raoul Vanden Heede was bringing me. That was interesting enough, but what was unsettling was that the huge tree was missing a big chunk out of its left side, like someone had taken a very large chainsaw and removed a sizable chunk that gave the  mighty looking giant a hurt and diminished look. My husband seemed undaunted by the enormous scar on the tree, and I remember staring at him and the flowers he was planting and the hurt tree, puzzled, concerned. I woke up not being able to shake the image, wondering how it connected to Raoul's admonition not to give up. I felt like the dream was giving me a glimpse of something I was supposed to understand, but so far its meaning eludes me... I do believe the dream was telling me that my quiet husband is supportive of my efforts, and that the presence of a now deceased artist friend from many years ago, who had to struggle to establish respect and success as an artist, is a hopeful sign. Perhaps the scarred tree is a symbol for the tree of life, my life, that has wounds in, that are significant, but not big enough to keep the tree from surviving, albeit it with some difficulty. My husband planting the flowers Raoul gave me is a sign I think that all beauty is worth preserving, that my efforts should be continued even though it may seem I am going it alone. I am not, says the dream, your husband is right there by your side. It may take time to understand all the dream has to offer, but what it does give up so far is loving and hopeful.

Way Down in the Hole

Recently I dealt with the death of a long time neighbour only a few years older than myself. She had been ill for a number of years and even though her death was not unexpected when it happened , it still threw me for a loop and brought back the untimely deaths of both my younger sisters. I had a hard time concentrating on my art or on my writing, when I came across the superb HBO TV series that ran from 2002 to 2008, "The Wire", a crime drama set in the city of Baltimore. This series grabs you like a Charles Dickens' novel, the way it is so richly complex in both characters and storyline. The violence and heartbreaking poverty and misery it chronicles seen through the eyes of both the criminals and the police made me take notice. It is hard to believe that kind of abject poverty exists in a number of cities in what is considered the wealthiest nation on earth. Apparently, " with freedom and justice for all " is taken with a lot of liberties. What is encouraging about the show is its focus on the humanity of both the offenders and the victims, on the hope that with relentless effort, kindness can make a dent in the face of staggering challenges against corruption, despair and poverty. Parents who neglect and abuse their children, because they themselves are stuck in a cycle of hopelessness and isolation, passing the cycle of resulting violence and dead end lives to their children. One adult character stands out, "Bubbles ", played with Shakespearean dignity and intelligence by Andre Royo. Every time he is close to breaking his addiction and loneliness, another tragedy sets him back, but he never loses his human dignity or heart. The drug lords are hard, cold beyond what one would think acceptable in a civilized country, the children working for the drug gangsters break your heart. They never had a chance at innocence or dreams. The teachers working in the broken and broke inner city schoolsystems try with Sisyphus like courage to roll the boulder of futility back up the hill of glimmers of hope and chance,while the politicians both crooked and straight, try not to get stuck in either the quagmire of their corruption, or the odds of decency winning the game. Watching this series, it really feels like you are in the company of masters of the genre. All the actors are superb, just like in a well written novel. Dominic West, Idris Elba, Sonja Sohn, Wendell Pierce, Lance Reddick, Clarke Peters, John Doman, Deidre Lovejoy, Seth Gilliam, Dominick Lombardozzi, Jim True - Frost, Michael K. Williams, J D Williams, Chad L. Coleman, Robert Wisdom, Aidan Gillen, Tristan Wilds, Jamie Hector, Chris Partlow, Felicia Pearson, Robert F. Chew, Wood Harris, Larry Gilliard Jr. , Chris Bauer, Pablo Schreiber, James Ransone, Paul Ben Victor, Tristan Wilds, Maestro Harrell, ... an impressive list that gives justice to the novel like depth and scope of the series. The writing is nothing short of brilliant in the hands of David Simon and Ed Burns, and there too, the additional list is extensive : David Mills, Richard Price, Dennis Lehane, George Pelecanos, William F. Zorzi, and  Chris Collins. I mention them all, because the baroque like richness of the story and characters deserves mention of every writer involved. The theme song written by Tom Waits is very appropriate for the Dickensian struggle between the poor and the well to do criminals and politicians who perpetuate the misery. "When you walk through the garden You gotta watch your back... Well, I beg your pardon Walk the straight and narrow path If you walk with Jesus He's gonna save your soul You gotta keep the devil Way down in the hole ... He's got the fire and the fury At his command Well, you don't have to worry If you hold on to Jesus' hand We'll all be safe from Satan When the thunder rolls We just gotta help me keep the devil Way down in the hole...  All the angels sing  About Jesus' mighty sword And they'll shield you with their wings And keep you close to the lord Don't pay heed to temptation For his hands are so cold You gotta help me keep the devil way down in the hole... Down in the hole, down in the hole Down in the hole, down in the hole Down in the hole,down in the hole You gotta help me keep the devil Down in the hole"... The song is worth writing out in its entirety because it speaks to the crux of the dilemma in the series, the timeless battle to keep the evil men do at bay. TV has gotten a lot of bad publicity over the course of the years, but this series is definitely a shining star in that often beleaguered firmament. " The Wire " is a melancholic yet simultaneously upbeat testament to the efforts of man from way back at the dawn of his appearance on this planet to make life's struggles worthwhile in spite of his conflicted nature and instincts. In this case, it is the highly lucrative drug trade in the inner city districts of Baltimore. Watching the series is a Dantesque like descent into the hell the dope trade perpetuates, its deadly grip on both the sellers and the users, give or take a few years in favour of the first; the destruction of its young users' future, bleak as it already is because of the suffocating poverty it targets. The acting done by the teenage actors and young children is first rate, their ability to convey the despair and bitterness of the cycle of poverty, addiction and violence is truly moving. The series speaks to our conscience and leaves an imprint that makes us question the moral fabric of our big cities, and how they in turn reflect on a culture of greed and calculated self importance. " The Wire " is like touching and looking carefully at a very complex and intriguing piece of art that surely will stand the test of time. 

L' Accueil

Comme est belle l'impatience quand on espere revoir un ami.
Je me l'imagine souriant et fier, fatigue du voyage, mais content.
Il marche vers moi, et j' anticipe son embrasse comme une enfant heureuse,
les gens autour de moi n'existent plus, ni le bruit des machines brillants sur le tarmac.

Bonjour, bonjour! Laisse moi te regarder, tu as l'air vraiement bien!
Tu as faim, je connais un bistro sympat pas trop loin.
Il y un bon hotel pres de la maison, ou tu seras confortable, tu verras.
Il fait froid, je sais, mais on promet du soleil demain.

Je sais que tu n'est pas vraiement la avec moi,
que je reve encore une illusion belle et ephimere,
comme les nuages bleus dans le ciel blanc ce matin,
comme la chanson joyeuse dans ma tete aussi.

Cela n'es pas evident, ces trucs du temps que la vie m'envoie.
Ce train que j'attends sur ce chemin ombreux est bien en retard,
et voila, il part encore et je devrai retourner mon billet une derniere fois.
Ah, mais tu sais, ce n'est pas bien grave, je comprends tres bien.
Bon voyage, peut -etre dans une autre vie on se retrouvera.


Trudi Ralston.
November 23th, 2015.
Pour D. O.
Il y a des moments ou les illusions sont gentilles
quand la vie trouble ses intentions. 

Le Couteau Doux

Le silence danse dans l'herbe de mes pensees,
trampees du ritme sonore des arbres sifflants
avec le vent qui traverse le couloir de mon espoir.

La musique de mon coeur se rappelle un moment bref
ou la joie de te connaitre etait grand comme un ciel bleu,
blanc comme ses nuages et etoiles brilliantes.

Le temps passe, faisant ses circles de fantome,
et tu restes loin, tres loin quoique la chaleur
de ton haleine me suit dans les ombres de mes heures.

Comme un couteau doux, la blessure me reste et la gene
de ne pouvoir couvrir le rouge qui me suit dans mes reves.
C'est tout ce qui me reste, ce couteau sauvage qui se cache a peine.

Doux comme un soupire, doux comme un sourire,
tu restes cache derriere les coulisses de mon theatre,
le couteau lis, pret, chantant le refrain qui applaudit
ma voix et mon courage.  


Trudi Ralston.
November 11th, 2015.
Pour D. O. 

Do Not Linger

Do not linger by the edge of the forest
of your mind.
Do not stare into the abyss of its gnarled trees and dark paths.
You might forget the sun above if you do, and the birds singing
by your side.

Do not watch the shadows gathering by that forest at night.
Resist the smell of past sorrows and regrets as you
teeter by its sickening call.
Do not try to remember all that happened to you there,
or might happen still if you but heed its whispers.

The monsters in that forest were there long before you
and will be there yet when you are but a memory of
a melancholic tune buried where you cannot hear.
Do not linger where past tears might drown your path
you still need to explore.

There are no answers to be found, no healing to occur,
no redemption brought to you who search so desperately.
Do not linger by the edge of the forest of your mind.
Turn around, walk away, with measured confidence
and pride. You have done all you can if you made it this far.

Do not linger, lest the nightmares there show up in your days
and no amount of vigilance keeps the ghosts where they should stay.
Sing out loud, bow and arrow close at hand, to track and kill
the screams hiding where your feet were almost touching ground.
Laugh out loud, then run, run, and leave the past and its ghouls behind.

Trudi Ralston.
November 9th, 2015.

Blue Bird, Blue Bird

Blue bird, blue bird, won't you come back for me?
My friend is someplace I am not so sure of.
He let me know he needs my prayer and thoughts,
but I do not know where that place might be.

You know his heart, you know where he is,
you know where he might be for now, or where
he might be going later on.
So, come to me, tell me how he is.

I heard you sing this morning a song I had not heard before.
Come here, blue bird, rest a while, and talk to me,
and take me with you, at least for a spell,
so I can know you will be there for him.

Blue bird, blue bird, don't leave me here alone.
But if you must go, promise me when it is my turn
to travel where I do not have previous steps or flight,
that you will come for me, so that when I get to
where my friend may have to travel now,
I can find him by your song that will guide me there.

Blue bird, blue bird, why must you go?
I will miss your sweet song, your bright wings
by my side, by my mornings and nights.

But if you must go, promise me, promise me,
you will come and find me and take me to him,
so that I will know he will always be alright
with you by his side.

Trudi Ralston.
November 4th, 2015.
for D. O. 
In mythology, the blue bird is a symbol of happiness.
That is what I wish for my friend, beyond all barriers,
all limitations of space and time.
The poem is meant to be sung, as it came to me that way.  

Cause there's a million things to be : Reflections on Cat Stevens' brave call for happiness

The other day the TV series "Ray Donovan" had an episode end with him singing the Cat Stevens song , " If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out" to his teenage daughter who was stressed out and remembered him singing the song to her as a little girl. It was a touching moment, but I forgot about it until this morning. I had a dream last night in which my son was a baby still, and we lived in this house with hundreds of aquariums filled with tropical fish of all sizes, from ridiculously small to eerily large, and of all colours. In the dream, the water levels in a number of the tanks was getting dangerously low, so I was busy adding more water to them. I was holding my son the whole time, who got a particular kick out of one small aquarium that held very brightly turquoise and lavender colored small fish who were getting very anxious about the low water level. One jumped out, and my son and I were busy getting it back into the tank, him laughing heartily the whole time. It was a busy and colorful dream, and it was interesting to me that this morning the Cat Stevens song came back to my mind. "Well, if you want to sing out, sing out. And if you want to be free, be free. Cause there's a million things to be. You know that there are... And if you want to live high , live high. And if you want to live low, live low. Cause there's a million ways to go. You know that there are... " The memory of the lyrics sung by the father and his distraught daughter touched a deep core in me, one that made me temporarily feel very melancholic. My son is 23 now, and perhaps the dream of me holding him as a baby, laughing with him, as we were dealing with the stressful situation of adding water to the scared fish in so many of the tanks, was a hope that as a mother I had been doing a good job, and wanted to keep being there for him. A wish for him to be able to fulfill his dreams and his talents, as an artist and a budding writer. " You can do what you want. The opportunity is on. And if you can find a new way. You can do it today. You can make it all true. And you can make it undo..." The chorus repeats with a new challenge : " Well, if you want to say yes, say yes. And if you want to say no, say no. Cause there's a million ways to go. You know that there are..." The song ends appropriately with the chorus repeating one more time about singing and being free : " Well, if you want to sing out, sing out. And if you want to be free, be free. Cause there's a million things to be. You know that there are... " It is a simple song on the surface, with a straightforward, catchy refrain, but it speaks of a determination and wisdom we all want to have when it comes to life and its challenges that can get in our way, and we all want our children to have the energy and resolve to face life's challenges with optimism and courage and confidence. I will share this song with my son, and what I  saw in it, as far as my wishes for him are concerned. He may be 23 now, but I think it will make his sensitive, creative heart feel good this song made me think of his efforts to make his way in this world. I will share the dream too, it is nice to hear as a child that your parent can be emotional and a bit confused too, about their abilities and effectiveness when raising a child. Now that I wrote about the dream and the emotions the song brought up, somehow the melancholy shifted to the upbeat intention of the song, and it is now playing in my head as a happy admonition, full of kindness and grace. 

On my side

My neighbour Karen's funeral was last Friday, less than a week ago. It feels like it was a year ago, and there are flash seconds where it feels like her funeral was just a few seconds ago, and like my husband and I are still there, crying, hugging her son we knew so well as a child. The famous song by the Rolling stones, " Time is on my side, yes ,it is, time, time is on my side"... ran through my head like a refrain, both haunting and comforting. Time is the ultimate enigma in this construct we call life. You see what it does, to buildings, as they slowly crumble, whether it be over a period of decades or hundreds or thousands of years. You see what time does to people, as they show signs of aging, or illness, or the ultimate signature of time having run its course in a human, as they lay still and ice cold in a coffin. Time is the ultimate magician. It eludes, speeds forward, slows down, it nearly drove Einstein mad with its confounding trappings for most of his life. Time can heal, it is true. It can heal wounds, both physical and emotional. It can cover great distances, on land, on sea , and nowadays in space. It is a great artist, shaping the colours and scents of our memories. Absence makes the heart fonder, as the saying goes. But it is not the absence, it is the time the absence dresses itself in that changes our perception of events, of people that left an imprint on our heart or soul, whether for better or for worse. There are days I feel like time is on my side, like I will be able to traverse the distance from the wasteland of my dreams to the oasis of where I can pick up the pieces of those dreams and make something beautiful with what I could retrieve. Other days I feel like time is a mirage that laughs at my stubborn steps forward. Then there are days where it feels like time just is someone hanging around, like a house guest you are slowly getting tired of, and are tiptoeing around politely, dropping hints about when they might move on. Time. The ultimate ninja. The invisible god who steals our resolve, our strength, our health, our loved ones. OK, time can and does add wisdom to those who heed its lessons, it does add grace, kindness and insight when we let it. It gives perspective through its passage in human history, it can calm rage, pain, impatience, doubt, fear. But to me, time is a complete mystery, and like all mysteries it has more things about it that are unknown than known or knowable. and because time is shrouded and will not let us see its true face, we tolerate it, hoping it will eventually reveal itself completely. Until then, time will continue to mess with our existence, in small ways and devastatingly big ways, as we convince ourselves that it is and will stay on our side.   

The Funeral

A few days ago my husband and I attended the funeral of a neighbour who together with her husband and their family have been living next door of us ever since we moved to our house 26 years ago. The funeral was a celebration of our neigbour's life, of her devotion to her family and her faith. There were flowers everywhere, pink lilies and pink roses, surrounding the beautiful white coffin at the viewing, at the altar and near the refreshment table at the entrance. There was a spirit of optimism in the face of loss, a focus on the abundance of family, friends, on the comfort and strength faith gives at times like these. I have lost a lot of family, so the emphasis and presence of so much family with children, grandchildren, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles, cousins, nephews made an impact. The songs were uplifting, as was the message of love and connections beyond death and loss. I was deeply moved.
It got me to think about the importance of ritual in our lives, of how rituals help us accept the profound mystery that is the human predicament. I was raised a Catholic, and still remember the strong scent of the incense during mass, the richly embroidered robes of the priests during important religious holidays, like Easter Sunday. This funeral was LDS, and I loved the emphasis of family, on families meeting again in the heavenly realms. I learned about Hinduism and Buddhism from friends in college and friends on the path of life after college. I remember being profoundly impressed when attending a Jewish synagogue, so rich in its intellectual and historical depth. I remember Muslim friends of mine in graduate school speak with deep devotion about the Koran. All major religions are steeped in traditions,in rituals to maintain and celebrate these traditions and their attachment to convictions about life and death. I have been a member of a black Baptist church for over 20 years, I go long stretches in between church visits, but each time I go back, I am deeply moved by the soul moving beauty, depth, and mystical power the music and energy and joy creates. It is always a powerful, life affirming spiritual experience. I am a spiritual person who finds nourishment for my soul in being close to nature, in solitude, in the restorative power of prayer in the quiet of my heart.
I am also an agnostic, very much aware of a healthy dose of suspicion towards a belief system that denounces intelligence in exchange for blind faith, which in extreme cases of course leads to the dissolution of the separation between church and state, like what is happening with extreme Islam now, and extreme Christian fundamentalists, who reject scientific facts and findings such as evolution and global climate change. Blind faith tied to extremism leads to horrific crimes, of war and genocide in the name of perverted and twisted convictions. But this funeral was serene and very beautiful, very heart warming. I realized that it does not matter that we as humans have doubts about the meaning of our existence on this earth, with its challenges and heartbreaks, its cruelties, its wars and horrible diseases, with poverty, addictions and despair and hunger. Religion and its faith are a way to come to terms with all of that, some more enthusiastically than others. To me, as one who is interested in the spiritual process and its ability to enhance compassion and kindness in the best of cases, but not blind to the weaknesses and abuses of organized religions,spiritual rituals are fascinating. We celebrate births, baptisms, marriages, even death, in so many different ways depending on our churches. Whether all there truly believe in these rituals seems unimportant to me. To me what fascinates me is the phenomenon, is the fact that we try. And I think the most beautiful expressions of these rituals and their context are often seen in those with a healthy dose of skepticism. It is our vulnerability as humans, spiritually, that keeps us sincere, strong, wise and loving. And that makes sure we do not become arrogant and dangerously judgmental about matters of faith. because when we do, we show a most despicable part of our hearts and beings. And when we stay humble and open minded, we show the best and most hope giving part of ourselves, the part of our being that transcends and connects us all in a loving, inclusive way. 

The Sopranos

I had heard of course of the well known and highly praised series " The Sopranos", but somehow had never taken the time to watch any of the episodes. I am not sure what prompted me to change my mind 8 years after the series final season. Perhaps it was James Gandolfini's untimely death, perhaps it was just curiosity after hearing so much about the series from other people. I guess I finally decided I wanted to make up my own mind. I am about halfway through the 6 season series, and I am fascinated. There must be thousands of movies about the Mafia out there, but the genius of James Gandolfini capturing the complexity of human nature when it comes to nuances in good and evil is completely mesmerizing. The tension the search for balance creates in the Tony Soprano character as a Mafia boss so flawlessly and precisely portrayed by James Gandolfini is sheer brilliance. He is not a mindless brute bent on power and wealth, he is a complicated, highly intelligent, highly intuitive man with a master's touch for strategy and leadership. He is ruthless with his enemies, and kind and generous with his family and friends. People fear him, but they also love him and want to be loved by him. The sessions with his psychiatrist, played so exactly by Lorraine Bracco, are really, really interesting. His complex and infuriating relationship with his mother gets all of our sympathy, so does his endless effort to come to terms with his love for his wife and his appetite for volatile girlfriends. Tony Soprano is larger than life. His robust physical presence only enhances his charisma, furthering the conviction this man can shoulder anything ,and he does. You root for the guy, you want his redemption, you want to see him walk away from his criminal enterprises intact, a new man, wiser, stronger , kinder. At this point, I do not know if that happens, but I sure hope so. It is always tempting to view the Mafia as clear cut evil doers, but this series completely disarms any notions of preconceived conclusions. One of my favorite characters is Tony Soprano's wife, Carmela, played by Edie Falco. Carmela is a resourceful, strong, patient, kind and decisive mother and spouse, who constantly tries to focus on the good in her husband, without surrendering her own identity. She fights for their son and daughter, for happiness, for dignity, even for the inconvenience of the truth in her marriage, in her social standing. She wants her children to be free of the dangers of the life her husband is involved in and so does her husband. Their marriage is complex, and again, you want them to succeed, for each other, for their children. The stress the duality creates in Tony Soprano when it comes to his illicit business and criminal life is very believable. You see him having panic attacks, you see him lose his temper in anguish and frustration, you hear him talking to his therapist, you see him at home, with his wife and children, trying  to make sense out of the chaos he is surrounded by on a daily basis and that he fiercely tries to shield from his family. His struggles are totally believable, you feel you are in his shoes the way he is able to so closely reveal his heart and soul. I am thoroughly enjoying the Sopranos marathon I am finally indulging in. There are also brilliant touches of humour, which only enhance the humanity of the story regardless of the often ruthless context and circumstances. 

La Goutte D' eau

Doux et chaud, le temps passe, passager muet
sur le chemin avec ses fleurs et arbres qui accumulent les heures de notre vie.
Le soleil et le vent taquinent les araignees sur leurs ponts dansants.

Tu restes la, dans un coin deguise de mes yeux,
imagine, reel, perdu, present, riant, soupirant.
Je te touche avec les doigts de mes reves,
ou coulent les rivieres de mes espoirs.

Chacun dans son coin du monde, ton haleine le ciel
ou on se retrouve dans les machines du futur.
Comme la goutte d'eau sur le rocher lui penetre,
le dessin de ton voyage sur cette terre laisse sa signature
a cote de la mienne, a cote du mystere du destin.

La distance un ritme dans notre tete, le parcours ou
on pourrait se trouver se vide comme un desert mort et perdu.

Je mange la goutte d'eau comme tu bois le sable
qui s'accumule entre nos pieds, tetu et dur.

Trudi Ralston.
October 5th, 2015.
Pour D. O. 

Approaching Earth : Lord Baldwin's Bold Poetry in Motion.

It is not the first time I am excited to write a review of Chester Baldwin's musical talents. The skilled songwriter and pianist has added another album to his series of musical works, this one entirely instrumental, titled " Approaching earth". The album caught my attention right away because of the beauty of its imagery, the poetry with which the music is imbued, saturated even. There are hints of Yanni's energy and passion, of deep melancholy and reflection. I found myself closing my eyes to appreciate better the nuances of the melodies. I also felt hints of Pink Floyd, which I think would not be easy to achieve. Now, mind you, Chester Baldwin is a very verbal person. His songs are carefully thought out and crafted ballads, stories. It was a bold move to put out an album that is entirely instrumental. As an artist, to take a chance like that takes vision and courage. The opening instrumental " Approaching earth ", is beautiful. All the instrumental songs have poetic titles that encourage the listener to open up his or her mind to the mood of the artist. "Spec - 67" and "Coming back" evoke waltz like movements and invite meditation. The whole album is infused with a spiritual longing, perhaps for a better world, for peace in these troubled times. The music of this album is perfect to listen to outside at a good volume, on a clear, bright and starry night. I also felt the urge to move with  the music, to create a choreography, to move like a dancer would in a ballet. There is something very relaxing about all the songs, something very personal, yet universal that inspires a gentle sense of hope. The album feels like a story. I hope that Chester is thinking of a part two to this intriguing musical interlude, one where his voice tells the story of his poetic exploration of the universe he shares here boldly and fearlessly, outside of the comfort zone of his iconic ballads that are very concrete and very grounded in daily life and its challenges. In "Approaching earth", Chester Baldwin steps outside himself, his world, and reflects on the larger picture out there, beyond the sky and stars, a daring move, not every artist is confident enough to take. But Lord Baldwin did. Successfully so. The album is lyrical, precise, touching, reflective, technically well done. If you had a hard, frustrating day, quiet yourself and your surroundings and listen to "Approaching earth". You will be transported to a different, beautiful, peaceful world.    

Ni hablar De la Suegra : Pope Francis and his message of hope

It seems these days the world is becoming increasingly polarized. There is an air of both blissful indifference and wanton abuse of the environment, the poor, the unfortunate and there are few voices out there among world leaders that bother. Pope Francis is a welcome and bold exception. If an alien civilization were to watch us from space somewhere, they would breathe a sigh of both relief and appreciation for the pontiff 's fearless approach to the huge problems of inequality and violence that are darkening our planet. The humanitarian tragedy of the millions of Syrian refugees fleeing a seemingly endless and brutal civil war in their country is reason enough to be concerned. So is the posturing and hesitation on behalf of well to do countries worldwide who show an attitude of chilling indifference. The fact that worldwide the poor are getting poorer, and the rich are getting richer, even in the US, is very disturbing, and the circus the election of 2016 is already turning into, is not cause for reassurance. The visit of Pope Francis to the US added a sudden feel of hope and warmth, a desire to be inspired by the pontiff 's humility and positive energy, his willingness to speak unpleasant truths and to call for humanity, for compassion and kindness, for generosity by the well to do, for tolerance, for peace, for cooperation, all virtues that seem to be slipping from the world stage. It was good to see that the concert for Global Citizen awareness coincided with the Pope's visit here. The internal politics of strife, narrow mindedness and selfishness that are dominating the news here the last years are very discouraging to the younger generation. The old guard seems to want to turn the clock back to a time when there were no civil rights for women, minorities, the poor and the elderly. We seem to have gone backwards to a despicable time when the wealthy were convinced that if you were poor or mistreated or infirm, it was because you were too stupid to be otherwise. Pope Francis is a wonderful reminder that Christ said to take care of the poor and the infirm, the weak, the disenfranchised. A whole different brand of so called Christians are trying to turn compassion and fairness on its head in favour of a tyrannical and cynical philosophy of might is right, and whoever disagrees is my enemy, very much like dictatorial regimes. Tyrannical regimes have no sense of humour, no nuance. They rule by fear, by force. It is not very hopeful that some of the elements in our own Congress seem to favour that approach. How unsavory and embarrassing. Which brings to mind the pontiff 's great and nuanced sense of humour. His empathy with family life is telling : "... A veces los platos se van volando. Los ninos traen dolores de cabeza, y ni hablar de la suegra ! ", " ... Sometimes dishes will go flying, children can bring headaches, and let's not talk about mother in laws !" That kind of humanity, that kind of ability as a world religious leader who inspires people to be kinder, gentler, fairer, while at the same time staying in touch with the reality of every day life is precisely what makes his words, his message so hopeful, so feasible in spite of overwhelming odds. Pope Francis is one of those rare human beings who makes you want to be a better person, who makes people believe they each on an individual basis can and should make a difference. I think the temperature of all of our hearts here warmed several degrees while the pontiff was here, and I think it dropped significantly when he returned to Vatican City. One journalist, a woman, said she felt Pope Francis was so effective in reaching people with his message because he is  ruled by his heart and thus, he is free. Ruled by the heart. I can only hope the condition is contagious for all those who were blessed by the pontiff 's presence, prayer, words, love and kindness. Perhaps like the Grinch's heart, his influence will grow the world's heart a size or two bigger. Greed, power, selfishness, cruelty and brutality are shrinking our planet's heart and soul at an alarming rate. Pope Francis knows it and is doing everything he can to cure our world of a deadly epidemic of stone cold numbness and indifference.  We are signing our own doom if we let the fires in our hearts, our capacity for compassion, courage and fairness, go dormant and die.   

Mighty Rivers

I grew up near the ocean. Its sounds are a part of my soul and heart. After having lived in Texas 10 years as a college student, I am glad to be living in the Pacific Northwest these last 27 years. One of my favorite places to visit each year is the Oregon Coast, specifically Cannon Beach which my husband and I discovered through a friend of his when our son was just 9 months old. He is 23 now, and we just got back from a very relaxed week there. I never tire of the enchanting place, with its dramatic coastline and iconic Haystack Rock. I always come back from our time at Cannon Beach feeling refreshed, recharged. The road there from Olympia is interesting to me, because it allows us to cross over the mighty Colombia River. I recently read a fascinating article in the latest National Geographic Magazine about the Congo River, another one of earth's giants among waterways. The Congo Basin encompasses an area half the United States. The DRC government does not harness the river's enormous hydro - electric possibilities and so the river is used as cargo transport for overloaded outdated barges that become even more burdened and dangerous by the addition of up to 600 passengers that spend up to 8 months reaching various destinations in Central Africa. I envisioned one of these large precarious barges on the Colombia River, as we passed through Astoria, a town that bears witness to the wealth the river and the lumber business brought to the area in the 19th century, as is still evidenced by the dozens of Victorian mansions that litter the hills above the river. Seen from above, our earth must always be bearing witness to the importance of its mighty rivers. The Congo, the Nile, the Mekong, the Yangtze, the Yellow River, the Amazon, the Orinoco, the Colombia, the Mississippi, to just name the ones that stick out in my mind. I thought how my father would have loved to cross the Astoria bridge spanning over the Colombia River into Oregon, how he would have been fascinated by the history of the lumber being carried across this giant. He was fascinated by the history of this young country, and I miss his knowledge and input on these matters. It was his birthday yesterday, he would have been 85, and I thought it was appropriate he was so strongly on my mind. I owe my thirst for travel and history, for learning to him. I smiled at the thought also that he was not too keen on beaches and oceans, too crowded and commercial for him. But it is nice to think he would have made an exception for Cannon Beach, as long as he got to glimpse the power of the Colombia River, and got to share with me all he knew about the Mississippi River that so intrigued him as he showed me the books he surely would have bought about the history of the Colombia and the towns it winds itself through.

The Ladder

Summer is at its end, you can hear it leaving
in the muffled sounds of the breeze and birds.
The sun becomes soft in the shadows it creates
gentle in the steps it guides across the yard.

Autumn comes with a heavy heart.
It never gets easier to let go of summer's butterflies
and brightly colored flowers and skies.
My smile hovers like a dizzy bee past the last hot star.
 

I notice that the shadow of my steps hit the ground
before my feet do, on the invisible ladder before me
that life unfolds each and every day, as I struggle
to see the way up and out of the maze around my eyes.

I hear the sound of my shoes echo like water waves
across my mind, as I reach and touch beyond the line
that crosses from yesterday to tomorrow,
a soft chalk path across my beating heart.


Trudi Ralston.
September 16th, 2015.

 

The Sheer Imperfection that is me.

Warm like this morning's breeze our hearts breathe quietly
as the Blue Jays in the garden feast on sunflower heads and seeds.
I watch you sleep, sunk deep into our pillows, your closed eyes
a million miles away from my smile.

I walk outside, and inhale the sun's first rays, as sweet bird songs
follow my footsteps across the yard.
Spiders scramble for cover as I loosen their threads to prevent
harm to the bees and dragonflies.

Faerouz's powerful voice rings through my silence and I think
of you, and the sheer imperfection that is me.

Transparent like the liquid blue of the sky above me
there is no way to hide the wounds and scars that I wear
like a bullet proof vest as you reach for me and try
to touch my proud, torrential heart.

Faerouz's melodious words carry my soul where my steps
can't walk and I feel light in spite of these heavy wings
that scrape along my path, and I know that you see
right through the sheer, bright imperfection that is me.

But you hold my hand anyway, and even though you are not sure
and I am not sure, you push away the spider silk that follows me
like a cloak and covers this burning, clear, so sheer imperfection
that is me.

Trudi Ralston.
September 12th, 2015.
For Michael. 

L'Ombre

L'ete s' echappe avec chacque coucher du soleil,
pendant que la chaleur du jour danse encore
autour d'un ciel dormilon.

Un vent doux accumule la poussiere de nos jours
et nos sourires, lentement, une chanson dans son haleine.
Les etoiles brillent sur le ritme de nos reves.

Ton bonjour lointain traverse la terre,
temoin de la technologie geniale qui nous entoure,
et ce bonjour me suit comme une ombre.

La pluie soulage le soif des oiseaux et animaux de la foret,
cela fait plaisir d'entendre leur chanson et delire.
L'automne annonce ses contours et couleurs chauds.

Et comme est l'ame des ombres,
ton ombre me suit en silence,
et me rapelle notre amitie.

Qui se balance entre le passe et ce qui reste du futur
encerclant la danse de la vie qui nous cherche comme
un air de violon dans les mots de mes poemes.

Et comme est l'ame des ombres,
on ne peut toucher son coeur,
qui avec chacque pas se cache dans ce qui reste de la lumiere.


Trudi Ralston.
September 9th, 2015.
Pour D. O. 

Summer Photo Gallery 2015

Who We Really Are

Words connecting us on our walk through life
reminding us how to find our way.

People meeting us eye to eye, listening to our hearts
as we follow the music of our hopes and dreams.

Steady, rhythmic as the beat of the ocean's timeless waves
life drums out a story, of light and shadows patterned to the fabric of time.

I know you, why would I not, we know each other, how could we not.
Friends, family, neighbours, we all are one.

Yet I wonder, who we really are, as we dance our steps
as best we can and try to keep the song in our hearts strong.

There is only so much the mirror can tell us all,
and we never see ourselves at all, only the light bouncing silently off each other's souls.

Who we really are is dust off the gods' magic wands
as the stars align to the light and the slumbers of our nights.


Trudi Ralston.
August 17th, 2015.

Nobody Wins - A lesson in caution

The summer heat continues on, it is often too hot for people to be outside long until the evening hours when the sun's heat is fading behind the tall evergreen trees. My son is at a friend's house and I feel his absence in the quiet house as the AC unit drones on and my steps echo down the hall way. The isolation  of our small family can hit hard. Suddenly, a wave of sadness gripped me, and the powerful song I first heard at 22, " Nobody Wins", by Elton John started singing in my head. I heard it the first time I realized my parents ' marriage was turning into a nightmare, and we were all going to pay the price as their four children :
" They must have loved each other once
But that was many years ago
And by the time I came along
Things were already going wrong
I felt the pain in their pretense
The side they tried hard not to show
But through the simple eyes of youth
It wasn't hard to see the truth"...
The chorus is heartbreaking, and chills me to the core, to this day:
"And in the end nobody wins
When love begins to fall apart
And it's the innocent who pay
When broken dreams get in the way
The game begins, the game nobody wins"...
By the time my mother was done tearing her marriage apart, my youngest sister committed suicide, my other younger sister died of cancer at age 44, my brother's marriage was destroyed, my father died alone in an Alzheimer's institute in Belgium after she kicked him out 7 years before that, my brother and I became permanently estranged, and she died from complications of a lifetime of alcohol abuse. I struggled with the trauma of loss, betrayal, anger, and the fear I would not be able to escape my parents' awful marriage, and my in- laws disastrous marriage. My husband and I have been married 29 years, and it remains difficult at times to believe we are OK, as the ghosts of his and my parents haunt us off and on, the doubt, the fear, the sadness.
Elton John goes on in the sad ballad to show the fruits of love gone wrong:
" They must have loved each other once
Before the magic slipped away
And as their life became a lie
What love remained began to die
I used to hide beneath the sheets
I prayed that time would find a way
But with the passing of the years
I watched as laughter turned to tears"...
I remember my mother screaming at my father in her drunken rages, when I was already an adult, 26, taking a semester break from graduate school, to try to help my parents' miserable relationship. It is horrible when children get torn apart, no matter what age, when their parents' marriage turns to dust and ashes. My mother roped me in, and manipulated me into her narcissistic games, it was exhausting, and in the end , she threw me away like I was a used Kleenex tissue. It was devastating to my already shaky self confidence. I put myself back together, for the most part, with a lot of time, and a couple of years of therapy, but the damage, though invisible, is real. The hardest part remains to stay vigilant and make sure I do not set up traps for myself , my husband and our 23 year old son, that get us stuck in the same swamp of my parents' and my in-laws marriage disasters, keeping our love for each other alive and healthy:
" We used to love each other once
With all the passion we possessed
But people change as time goes by
Some feelings grow while others die
But if we learn from what we see
And face the truth while we still can
Then though the passion may be gone
Some kind of love can still live on"...
The song is a strong reminder to me to stay alert, to be aware of my own weaknesses incurred under the regime of my parents' sick marriage. The chorus is powerful, and reminds me of how important it is to be determined to break those chains from the past, to make sure the damage to my son remains minimal, because it is so devastatingly true that " And in the end nobody wins
When love begins to fall apart And it's the innocent who pay When broken dreams get in the way
The game begins, the game nobody wins"...
Elton John's song is a powerful, powerful message, one anyone caught in that web of parental marriage dysfunction can learn from. 

Whistling Winds

This has been the driest and hottest July on record for our state, and now that August is here, the feel of a cold breeze this morning felt like a delightful and welcome change. It felt like an early September this morning, the kind that makes you reach for that sweater you put away last autumn.
Last night I was enjoying a stroll through our backyard when I heard our neighbour Mark calling across the fence to our dog Yara and me. It turned out he wanted to hand me a bag of golden plums a friend of his had extras of in his orchard.The hot, dry summer has made all fruit and vegetables here grow abundantly, as Mark and I both commented on our own gardens. Mark and his wife of 43 years have lived next door from us since we moved to this house 26 years ago. They raised 4 children, we all saw grow up and get married, and they now have 13 grandchildren and another one on the way. Mark's wife, Karen, who is 62, was diagnosed with bone cancer 5 years ago, and has been battling this devastating disease ever since. Mark is out early every morning getting his bicycle ready to ride the 3 miles to work. I believe it really helps with the stress of his wife's illness, which is progressively getting more debilitating. She is now in a wheelchair. I asked how she was doing, and he said the doctors were getting ready to update her medicines, since the current generation had run its course in stalling the cancer. It sounded like the pain medicines too needed an upgrade. I am so glad Karen and Mark have such great children, and that their children live close enough that they can visit on a regular basis, so that the grandchildren too can bring a welcome boost of hope and energy. Talking to him over the fence so casually about such grave matters made me grateful we live in such a friendly neighbourhood where people feel comfortable enough to check each other's mail and water each others plants when out of town, and to stop by to borrow a cup of milk , sugar or flour when out of these while making a recipe or dinner. I thought of my friend Catherine, whose long time and former boyfriend bravely battled bone cancer for 10 years, until he finally succumbed to the disease at age 50 a couple of years ago, leaving behind a young wife and 5 year old daughter. At least Karen has the satisfaction of having lived a full life, having celebrated a long marriage, having raised and see marry all four of her children, and now enjoying a large troupe of grand kids. Life seems so random at times. Some people live to be a hundred, others never make it to adulthood, or die as children. You have to enjoy every sunrise. That is one of the things I really enjoy about living in a country setting. I love the feel of being close to nature, to its rhythm and wisdom, and  its acceptance of life as it unfolds on good and bad days. As humans we tend to think we are the only creatures on this planet, and we forget we are surrounded by animals, plant, sky, wind. We get so absorbed in our own importance that we forget we are part of a larger system, a larger mystery. Nature has a way of reminding us of that, as we experience here with the enormous wild fires in California right now, and the terrible drought in Texas, the very strange heat here this summer, and that is just in our own backyard. Being close to nature keeps me calm, realizing this planet is billions of years old, and that whatever is coming its way, no matter how dire things may get, it and humanity will probably get through the upheaval one way or another. I do have to admit the climate globally is a bit oppressive, also politically, and that too, I hope will pass and leave hope for our children and their children.
My husband and son believe the universe is a random sequence of events, and that there is no such thing as destiny, human or otherwise. I am not so convinced all matters human or otherwise are just an accident that evolved over time into what we now see or perceive as reality. I am thinking of the pictures I took this morning of a very dedicated bee that fearlessly dove into a large Morning Glory's narrow heart and it was a tight fit, but like an expert spelunker she manged to get in there without tearing up her wings or legs. That confidence and determination is what life is all about, whether you are a bee or whether you are me taking the picture. I heard Mark's footsteps echo away as he walked back to his house, and I walked past our greenhouse back to our house, where my husband and son were eagerly awaiting me finishing the BBQ. pepper jack burgers I had started to cook for dinner.
Joni Mitchell has a song called " Both Sides , Now", where she has a line that says " Well something
's lost, but something's gained in living every day". It felt that way tonight, in a very real and concrete way.
.Maybe that is one good thing coming out of this global climate change we have going on. Whether we are next door neighbours or live half a planet away, the weather makes us relate, at least on that level, as if we were we all living next door.

The Recipe

If I give everything I have, everything I am, was and can be,
will it stretch my soul far and wide enough for you to see its light coming through?

If I swallow the words I want to scream, and chew them quietly like my morning cereal,
will your words find a way to my heart, and will I be able to listen without choking on their silence?

If you give everything you have, everything you are, were and can be,
will it stretch your soul far and wide enough for me to see its light coming through?

If time could slow down just for a while, and help us find the smiles we dropped like crumbs
along its path, would it be enough to see tomorrow's river touching our searching steps?

If for one moment we could reach up to the stars above our nights, and touch their fire
would they lead us back to the dreams we tossed up in to the sky like sparkling dust for our eyes?

Soft like a summer's breeze, our steps together mark their prints in destiny's sigh
and together we walk, together we search, for that dawn where all hesitation falls away.

A touch of pepper, a pinch of salt, I think this dinner turned out allright.
The candle is lit, its lilac scent delights the moon watching over the story of our lives.


Trudi Ralston.
August 3rd, 2015. 

The Shore

How delighful to lose sight of the familiar shore, to feel the wind in your hair
as the waves and water swallow up any land that held the eye.
New horizons to explore, new sounds, colours, scents to enchant the heart and mind.
Time flowing easily around the new boat so eagerly stepped on, a small suitcase casually
strapped to the boat's energy and new found trails and path.

As time goes by, the yearning for the well known lights of the home shore stir unrest
and a longing to turn the boat around, takes over any thirst for more adventure,
and when it turns out the road home cannot be found, the heart sinks as were it itself the boat.
Circles in the water, circles in the drowning soul, matching the circles under the eyes, that compete
with the salt of the water for tears, swept up in the whim of the winds.

A lifeboat comes to mind, as the old boat creaks and wears under time's strain and weight,
the shore might still be found, time and again, so it is thought, until it becomes clear the voyage
on the boat no longer may include the possibility of reaching the home shore.
Travels continue like a song, deepening the soul's reach and strength, acceptance
the boat's breath and sail, a rhythmic journey of courage under foreign skies and stars.

Only in dreams is the familiar home shore found, and laughter and joy of reunion abound.
Because even when the home shore is once reached again, all familiar faces are gone, tossed
to the wind and seas beyond, as home never really was the safe harbour after all,
but a dance of death only one step behind the boat you boarded so long ago, all smiles and hope.
In the end, the only kindness found is the one that required you to leave your name behind.


Trudi Ralston, born Geertrui Wilhelmina Desender.
July 28th, 2015. 
 

Shadows and Shade

The night is cool here right now, a welcome change after yet more scorching heat. The moon looks like a crisp piece of crystal in a darkening sky, the fresh air feels soothing and the light sweater I am wearing adds a touch of casual ease after the stress of finding the heat controlling everything from sleep to food to mood. I shiver with a certain delight, the sensation one I missed all the previous nights this month as the recent heat wrapped itself around every flower, every plant, every breath, every step. The stars sit encrusted in the velvet dark above me, and I welcome the silence of their sparkle. There are days like today, where it feels like I must always have lived here in the US, and that I am almost able to convince myself that I was born here, and the person who grew up in Roeselare, Belgium, is just someone I conjured up to amuse my mind. I remember an interview with an American survivor of a Japanese concentrationcamp during World War II. He was a prisoner in one of those death camps for 5 years, and he said there were times where he felt that the life he knew before his imprisonment was just something he'd imagined, it seemed so far removed from the reality he was in while in the camp. Of course, the comparison with my 40 years in the US are absurd, but the words of that soldier hit a nerve emotionally,because I remember them well and the sensation they provoked was one of identification with the impact of what he was conveying. It has been a rare occasion indeed, and remains one to this day, where I can speak freely of what it is like to live outside of your country and language and culture of birth for so very long. You develop a secondary vision, one that makes you view the world around you as were your eyes looking always through a kaleidoscope, where there are layers from all the worlds you have absorbed blended in with how you see things, layers that are invisible to the eyes of those around you, because you feel everything in Flemish and English, and everyone around you feels it only in English, and you are one layer removed form them, because there is no one around you that also has the Flemish perspective. My Peruvian friend Maricela has those double layers too, of Spanish and English, but all the years she has been in the US, she is surrounded by other Latin Americans and speaks more Spanish than she does English. The same with my Vietnamese friend Yvonne, who speaks Vietnamese constantly with her mother and sisters, each and every day in the beauty shop where they work together. My perspective is unique, and that can be very exhilarating and charming, but being away from any one who speaks my language all those years also makes for a sensation of being in a space where the intimate parts of my identity and being are invisible to an often dehumanizing degree. My art and my writing are a way to combat that, and my love for animals, who also often are without a voice as to their existence and emotional reality. There are days it feels like I am a shadow in the shade, irrelevant, here, but not seen. One thing about that condition of exclusion so to speak, is an almost pleasant sense of detachment, and a sharpened sense of intuition, that rarely fails me, especially when it comes to those in close proximity to me, either  physically, or emotionally. I often think of the character Russel Crowe plays in " Gladiator ", general Maximus, who through betrayal is reduced to being an exile and a slave and who overcomes his limitations through will and integrity. I have seen that movie half a dozen times, and each time I come across it, it sends chills through my heart because I know what it is like to have to reinvent yourself in a world not your own. It is fascinating at best, infuriating at worst, and most of the time, it feels like you are a monk without a monastery, because it takes so much faith to keep going and to keep hoping. It did not help that I lost what ever family I had, and that Michael too has no real connection to his small family. The best part of this exile has always been the interesting people I got to meet, and sometimes know, friends from all over the globe, who in time though, all went back to their country. Catherine went back to France, Driss went back to Morocco. Everyone went back home. Michael gave me a second home, and Nicholas made it a family with him, and for Michael too, this country is a strange place, since he is a stranger to his family as much as I became one to mine. We both are shadows in the shade. Nicholas is free of that, for the most part, but he is quite aware of my tragic family history and Michael's bizarre family story. Over the years , you develop a thick skin, one that accepts that you are an outsider, culturally, emotionally, and intellectually and philosophically. So, being an artist makes it all acceptable, even interesting some days. Heaven to me would be a place where I get to be around all my favorite friends, who would all live within a few hours distance, and we get to celebrate life together, on good days and bad, and laugh each in our own language, and in the language we have in common. In real time, those friends all live on the other sides of the planet, and I see them in my dreams, and I talk to them in my mind,  briefly and happily erasing the boundaries of space and time, like I do when I miss Catherine, or Driss, or my aunt Lieve in Oostende. 
  

Sealed in Time : Musings on the unparalled Chauvet Cave.

The Smithsonian is a wonderful magazine. I anticipate its articles each time, and this week I found myself revisiting the article from April 2015, "Dream Machine", about the Chauvet Cave and the marvelous efforts to preserve intact what is considered the most spectacular find and collection of Paleolithic cave art in the world. The cave in the Ardeche department of Southern France depicts at least 13 different animal species, many of them predatory animals like cave lions, panthers, bears and cave hyenas. The most famous paintings are in a part of the cave that is called the Gallery of Lions. The lions look so modern and real in the artists' rendering, it is spellbinding to look at the images. I felt myself drawn in by them, and wondered what compelled this masterpiece of Upper Paleolithic cave art. Some of the answers will perhaps forever elude us. It seems that at best anthropologists can ultimately only speculate as to the final truth as to what the deeper significance of the Chauvet Cave means when it comes to its purpose and function, other than concluding it must have been a place of ritual and spiritual importance. Since there was no way to leave a written explanation behind by the artists who created this marvel, we will always be left partially in the dark. But that only enhances the mystique of the cave,at least for me. There is apparently evidence of human hand prints and even a child's footprint, which may be the earliest known measurable human footprint to date. It fills one with questions and a hypnotic kind of wonder. The cave was sealed off by a rock slide that occurred 29,000 years ago. That alone is mind blowing. What are the chances? It was sealed in time 29,000 years only to be discovered in 1994. Did the artists know the weightiness of what they were doing when they were creating this Stone Age wonder? Did they feel a sense of urgency, of focused drive, hoping their artwork would survive? They would have had no way to even imagine it would take 29,000 years for their work and effort to be discovered. It is good that every so often the seemingly blurry line of human existence gets turned on its head by marvelous discoveries like the Chauvet Cave. Somehow I feel better about humans today, that sometimes it takes an enormous amount of time, patience, faith for things to fall into place. I find inspiration in reading and learning about the art of the Chauvet Cave. It is giving me a renewed sense of hope for my own small life and the patience it requires me to work through it as someone trying to break through anonymity while pursuing my writing and my tapestry art. I often feel so invisible and insignificant, isolated and alone, wondering if any of my art, stories, poems will ever be remembered or read on a significant level. I can wait, and maybe that is just what I will have to do. I am hoping it will not be 29,000 years, because by then, it seems humans will be deep into another ice age or other comparable calamity. But, who knows, ice preserves well, right ?  When all is said and done, the artists of Chauvet Cave painted with a deep passion, and it seems from history that artistic fire is often enough for the gods to grant the survival, ultimately, of artistic efforts, from Paleolithic times to Postmodern times. Here's hoping. I have plenty of fuel for my passion to write and create art, and I am counting on that fire to outlast any chills coming my way. But what the hell, it seems even an Ice Age can trigger fabulous art. I can just imagine the hint of a smile on the artists' faces as they worked their skills in the depths of that large, willing cave in Southern France, perhaps marveling that the opportunity presented itself considering the inhospitable climate of the times. Modern humans should take heart. We are apparently quite resilient. I certainly feel resilient today.    

The Jacket

The summer heat can be taxing in all its exuberant glory. It is a challenge to keep the house cool, and I look forward every day to going swimming in our pool that my husband keeps sparkling clean and refreshingly cold. The sunflowers sway in the occasional breeze, already partially drooping a bit, heavy with the strong sun this summer season. The grass looks scorched, reminding me of the lawns in Texas. Our garage is definitely the hottest place, a blast of heat leaving it every time we go in there to get some cool juice or soda out of the extra fridge we have down there. As the heat becomes an accepted challenge, a certain melancholy creeps in, wondering when a bit of cooler weather and rain will bring some relief. When I went into the garage a few days back, I brushed against an old jacket my husband keeps in there, hanging up on the back of the door, to wear on cold days when he does maintenance on one of our cars. Perhaps it was really the heat, perhaps not, but the sight and feel of the old, battered jacket stirred a sense of loss and sadness. I was reminded of a deeply touching scene in "Brokeback Mountain", where Ennis, played by Heath Ledger, finds a shirt of his killed lover Jack, played by Jake Gyllenhaal, when he goes to Jack's house. He picks up the shirt and smells it, and the emotions ensuing are obviously very powerful for him. What is it about touching something that belongs to someone we love? My husband's jacket is old and worn, but just seeing it hanging there fills me with a bittersweet realization that understands time is something that cannot be stopped, it moves forward meticulously, without hesitation or mercy, and when we are gone, the things that made us who we were, remain behind. Clothes, books, pictures, artwork, cars, tools, pillows, blankets, wallets,... ordinary things that identified us as individuals, and that are left behind, like emotional skeletons, soft and eery. Like pieces of a mystery we cannot solve, we leave behind clues that only reinforce our helplessness when it comes to loss and death. We do not understand the necessity of our demise and the demise of those we love, and no matter how we treasure the things our loved ones leave behind, they do not add any pieces to the puzzle of human existence. They do give us some comfort ,the temporary illusion that the loved person is still near somehow, in a faded scent or touch of a favorite sweater or piece of jewelry or picture. There is no insight, no hint, only a sense of being a detective at a case where there will forever be questions and no answers. The only thing we can do is breathe deeply the gift of each day, grateful that our loved ones are still with us, alive and well, for hopefully quite a number of years.   

On Death and Kindness : Thoughts and reflections on viewing "True Detective", Season 1.

Every so often, a series comes along on TV that restores my faith in human intelligence. The creation "True Detective", written by Nic Pizzolatto is nothing short of genius in its intellectual depth and emotional scope. The acting by Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson as two fiercely dedicated and determined detectives digging into a series of macabre serial murders in Louisiana is sheer brilliance. As detectives Rustin Cohle and Martin Hart their 17 year odyssey to resolve the seemingly bottomless pit of deception and illusion surrounding the baffling case, they go also on a journey of deep introspection, loss and self discovery. I was drawn in from the first second. The eight episodes kept me spell bound, and triggered many a deep emotion  surrounding family and the scars, demons and profound existential dilemmas it can cause. One of Rustin Cohle ( Matthew McConaughey) 's many profound insights concerning human existence and its frailty when it comes to happiness is the observation that "... as with most dreams, there is a monster at the end of it..." talking to a fellow investigator in the thorny case involving brutally murdered young children, who would never sleep the sleep of innocence again. The series also connects very beautifully the personal demons in Rustin and Martin, who goes by Marty, 's own lives, not the least one of which is the death of Rustin's young daughter in a freak accident, and Marty's struggles with alcohol and infidelity. Through it all, they persist and a deep bond develops between two men who initially brushed with animosity and suspicion in their professional and personal relationship. Their desire to get justice for the dozens of women and children who were slaughtered in some twisted pagan sacrifices supersedes their own needs and even costs Marty his marriage, and in the end the head monster of the slayings and kidnappings is finally killed in a chilling final showdown that puts a strong emphasis on evil in all its ugliness. Matthew McConaughey 's character left a profound impression on me, as he struggles to embrace the emptiness of his personal existence after the loss of his wife and daughter, with great courage and stoicism, and ultimately, acceptance. Woody Harrelson too, comes full circle, realizing that he cannot really recover from losing his marriage and his relationship with his two teenage daughters, and he too, sobers up and comes to a point of peace and self acceptance. What the two men are left with is their friendship, and they decide it is enough. The acceptance is what stayed with me. These two men are isolated in the loneliness of their destinies, but they are not broken by it. I can relate to that. I too have come to a point where I realize that the loss of my family which made being an outcast with them official, isolated me to a degree where it will be very hard to recover from it completely. But I am at peace with it, and that is one of the reasons I felt such a strong connection with the characters Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson portray so convincingly. Acceptance sets the heart free and opens it to kindness, the ultimate wisdom. Rustin and Marty risk their own lives to give redemption to the slain women and children, connecting them to a purpose beyond the limitations and bitterness of their own existence steeped in loss, weakness and doubt. There is such strength in the writing, such integrity in the acting, such cohesion in the story line, this is a series not to miss, if you have ever dealt with loss and its wounds. I sure wish season 2 still had the same actors and the same strong soul.    

Scents of childhood

By all accounts it will yet be another hot day here. What used to be the exception of hot summer days, is now quickly becoming the norm. The heat, the bright skies, the sun, the pool and the flowers all take me back to my childhood that was spent in the summertime either at the seaside or in our backyard pool. So, as it turns out, hot summers are a point of comfort. This morning I started thinking back on how much quiet time I spent as a child. Sure, I would of course hang out with my younger brother and sisters in the pool and backyard, but I spent a lot of time alone. Time spent reading, exploring the flowers and plants in our backyard, listening to the birds early in the morning, smelling the air and feeling the comfort of the dew wet grass under my feet, full of ladybugs, and butterflies and bees, as our lawn was strewn with daisies. I would collect daisies and put them in my little plastic wallet. They are still one of my favorite wild flowers, as Michael knows. I love it when he picks them for me on his way home, from the side of the road. I have some sitting on my table right now he brought home last week. As a child I was fascinated with textures. The texture of a blade of grass, a flower petal, the skin of a wet frog, the touch of a butterfly wing, the texture of a favorite sweater, or little leather purse. I suppose that tactile delight still shows in my love for doing tapestries these days. I was also fascinated with scents, the smell of spices, of honeysuckle, of a rose, of my mother's many expensive French perfume bottles I would sneak in to secretly smell. To this day I love fragrant shower soaps, and treasure my few French perfumes myself, my most favorite being the powder soft and sensual Anais perfume made by Cacharel, a perfume I first wore when I went to Kinshasa. So, now, it always reminds me of the exotic experience of my trip to the heart of Africa. Good fragrances make me feel more in tune with the things around me, and they also delight me. Food that cooks rich with spices, a casserole, or BBQ., a pie, a piece of ripe mango or peach, or pineapple. So many things to delight the senses. I think that is why I love summer. Even the air and water smell good to me. People smell good, fresh from the water, the pool or the ocean, smelling of heat and salt, I love that sensual quality of summer. I have always liked incense and fragrant candles. Incense of course, I first smelled in church during Catholic mass growing up, and over time, incense became popular during the sixties and seventies, and I love it still, its quiet, strong fragrance now available in dozens of scents.Then there are the candles of lavender and cedar wood, vanilla and rose. We have a candle lit on our dinner table every day of the year. Ah, summer, the time of year we feel 21 again, as the sun tans our faces and makes us feel young again in body and heart. Summer seems to loop time for me back to the beginning, when I was a child, when time was endless and all around you, not linear and tied to adult schedules. It is lunch time here,  I think I will eat a great smelling, crunchy apple with some whole grain toast with sweet smelling honey and a glass of  rich smelling creamy milk. I love honey, and it delights me to no end that we have so many flowers for the bees to enjoy and pollinate. When I water the garden in the mornings or at night, I love hearing the bees buzz by as I water our sunflowers and Morning Glory and sweet peas, and I smile at seeing the bees covered in golden yellow pollen, and I am grateful that my heart can still thrill at the sight of such simple yet deeply satisfying pleasures.