Sweet Substitute

Poise down into the marrow, you glide noiselessly
through the shadows of my dreams.
No need for words, your voice fits like a glove
in the ease of your presence and savvy cool.

I smile even though the Fata Morgana of you
cannot last, it is but a construct of my breath,
my mischievous yearning to know, to be
just a bit more than what was given to me.

You talk to me anyway, with a casual kindness
 that vibrates a slight pity in the boundless horizon
of your clear eyes as I struggle not to sigh with
trepidation and restraint at your patience and concern.

You are not annoyed, just a bit perplexed, you too
are after all slowly getting a bit older ,too.
I like that you don't care about wrinkles making it easier
on the embarrassment of mine.

You are a superstar, I am just a bit of stardust,
but perhaps it would make you smile just a little bit
to know that to me on certain trips to my dreams
you are a sweet substitute for what ails my drifting heart.

You remind me of a time when I could look into eyes
very much like yours and see the reflection of me
soaring free like an eagle above the limitations of my fears.
Yet, it is kind of sweet that you should be the illusion

That somehow makes the loss at times easier to bear.
In a script small and forever unknown to anyone but me
you are  a kind, forgiving substitute, smiling quietly
at my child like longing to fly, fly and be free.


Trudi Ralston.
February 27th, 2015.
For the inimitable Hollywood legend,
Mr. Brad Pitt. 

Skin tight

My eyes reach for the quiet light in the pale morning sky
wondering if the silence that keeps us apart will ever fade to sound.

I breathe in the warm, soft air through the window of a new day
all around me people move to their destinations with rhythmic flair.

You feel skin tight pulsating invisibly through my thoughts and memories
as I walk away slowly from the chance to reach out and find my way.

My way back to a place where words came with ease and grace
now you are fading away and I am too tired to care.

Still, the pleasure of feeling you skin tight to my breath and scent
as your smile and intelligent eyes, the light touch of your hands

fall away, bring a small smile to my face, as I realize I miss you
even though you have run away, and even in my dreams

There is no trace of you, my footsteps sound hollow looking
for space and time that might show you coming back.

There is nothing left of you, but the heat of you 
skin tight wrapped all around my airy light loss of you.  


Trudi Ralston.
February 26th, 2015.
For A. T. 

The Warehouse

The colours reminded me of a cheap eighties disco, in nauseating pale greens and sickly pinks, alternated with a stale, damp darkness. It was weird, because I did not feel ill at ease. On the contrary, I felt right at home. As it turned out, I realized, I was home. I was in the hallway of the cavernous apartment building I was living in with my husband and son. I smiled. That was OK, I was just dreaming anyway I figured out with relief. How did we get here? It seemed we were a couple of years into the future. We were waiting for one of the shaky elevators to take us to our apartment on the second floor. The apartment looked like a warehouse storage space. It was a large, tall ceiling ed one room space, with tall windows way up, that allowed us to see a rather spectacular red sunset as we walked into what apparently was our home. All the sounds seemed magnified. I remember whispering to my husband and son : " Are you guys hungry?" as I looked around to what semblance of a kitchen there was in a modest sink and stove against one of the walls. There was a big rectangular table in the middle of the room,with a cheerful dark red cloth with fringes, and there was a simple glass vase with a big bunch of daisies on the table. My husband loved to bring me daisies, it must be summer in my dream. The room was cool, pleasantly so, and the tall open window brought in the sweet scent of a warm evening. The beds were neatly arranged against the wall opposite the window, and behind a  curtain under the window was a door, leading to a closet size bathroom that to my relief had a shower with a tiny window. I heard a frog through the small window opening, there must be a pond in the back ,or a creek. I realized that something major must have happened for us to live here now, instead of in our cozy home with its spacious garden and greenhouse and pool. I was glad I was dreaming, but relieved we were all together, as apparently our son was living with us. The atmosphere was one of a dystopian melancholy and silence. I woke up and understood that the silence in the house was rivaling the silence in my dream. It was later in the morning now, and most of the birds were quiet. The silence in our street can be heavy, like when my cat sits on my chest. Not unpleasant, just a bit disconcerting. Over the years, the silence brought about by losing my family, my clan, has moved from frightening to oppressive, to the point where I am now, a place of acceptance, of solace, almost a sacred place, where there are large spaces for my soul to breathe and roam. My dreams seem to have become an extension of that space, a place where I do not feel alone, but rather a part of everything, from the sky to the trees, the wind, the bird songs, and whatever people wander into that dream space, often friends and loved ones both from the past and present. And a fair number of strangers, who seem to populate both the past and what seems, the future. My dreams make me realize we are all part of everything. Our loneliness is caused by the loss of understanding and the loss of the knowledge that we are all connected, whether we are gathered in bunches, or alone. I am no more alone than the stars are or the frogs croaking in the creeks behind our property are alone. To realize this, to feel this down into my bones, fills me with elation and a deep sense of both happiness and belonging. So, I smiled broadly as I woke up in my bed in our very quiet house with my still sleeping son in his room down the hall as I listened to a solitary bird finishing up the concert of bird songs I had fallen asleep to, my heart feeling grateful for the luxury of a nap with my cat and dog on a day where my son did not have to go to work or class. The small house felt graciously open, relaxed, like it was a large space in the middle of a capacious, friendly meadow, as I effortlessly stepped from my dreamworld into my waking reality, anticipating a cozy late breakfast with my son. The space and silence all around me felt like a large, loose diaphanous robe, airy, filling every cell of my being with the relaxed easy feel of its silky touch. 

When Everything Is Not Enough

I was thinking of you the other day, my mind wondering what you might say
as I recall the good times and the bad,
it sure is true, that love hurts
when everything you give is not enough.

We bravely sailed the storms and repaired any wrecks
tried very bravely to salvage what made it to shore
and it seemed it was to no avail, and all we did
was tear each other to shreds in our despair.

Oh, love hurts so bad
when everything you have to give is just not enough.

It looks like you found your way to another shore
figured out how to navigate a different approach,
and from your smile I can tell love no longer hurts
and that what you give is quite enough.

Because love for us sure hurt
since neither of what we had to give ever seemed to work.

I too found a way to get back home and navigate a safer shore
so, you can see my smile is returning to my face
as the sun finally has reappeared, and oh, love feels right
in every way.

Because love hurts way too much
when everything you have to give is not enough.

Trudi Ralston.
February 24th, 2015.

The Skeleton

The wind and sky were a smudgy grey, both scent and colour blended
together in a slightly nauseating texture.
The day felt weak like pale light blinding discouraged eyes.
I walked along the road, trying to find some energy in the rhythm of my steps.
But all I felt was the barely noticeable mass of my sad heartbeat.

That's when I saw him walking alongside me, whistling a mocking medley
as he clunked along like a xylophone out of tune.
His hollow eyes and too big teeth, his clumsy skinny frame
he laughed at my despair I tried to cover so deftly with my bright red coat
and hat, my red cheeks and peppy chatter.

The skeleton invisible to anyone but me walking alongside me
singing now a cheery tune from a childhood cartoon.
No wonder I felt so spineless today, like putty in the hands of
a mischievous wood sprite, I seemed a boneless marionette longing
for its strings and puppet master, neither to be found.

To leave the past behind can be a dark and lonely path,
when indifference meets fatigue and sorrow.
The skeleton my longing for a future substance took my hand
and together we shuffled home whistling a tune that made
the wind shudder and retreat, perhaps our laughter was too much to bear.

The skeleton and my doughy spirit made it home,
with grass and mud between our bony toes,
and suddenly I realized he was my friend, in spite
of his bitter smell, his embrace tasted sweet to my tired soul.
The empty sound of our steps together now swift and strong held a bit of sun and hope.


Trudi Ralston.
February 22nd, 2015.

Dream Walker

I woke up this morning feeling quite stressed. My dreams are always vivid, and what is interesting is how often I am alone in my dreams, walking, walking seemingly for hours at a time, trying to get home. Home in the past of my dreams was always, Roeselare, Belgium, where I grew up. Lately, home in my dreams has shifted to trying to find my husband and son, who live here with me in Olympia. In those dreams as of late, I end up being separated from them, and cannot find my way back to them, the same theme of my dreams in the past, where I would end up being separated from my parents and siblings. The one who would at times succeed in getting me home was always my father. In the dreams in the past, I was often waiting at a train station, waiting for the train that would take me home. In my recent dreams, where I am looking for Michael and Nicholas, I am always walking. Walking along freeways, with cars whirring past me, oblivious of my presence. I am walking in Austin, Texas, where I met my husband and where we both went to graduate school. Last night, I seemed to have been dream walking in the south somewhere again, maybe Texas, that part was not clear. In the dream I had been visiting a friend of mine who turned out not to be home, and I was walking back from her house, trying to find my way back to the house where Michael and Nicholas and I live. I kept losing my way, and ended up in a Chinese restaurant where the lady owner invited me to stay for lunch and meet her very extensive family who had all congregated to eat together. I remember being inundated in the very musical Chinese language sounds, and very glad to join in the gregarious, loud gathering. It seemed to take me forever to get out of the large restaurant after the elaborate lunch, and by the time I made it outside, I found myself lost once more, this time in a huge field full of enormous farmhouses and brand new log cabins. There were people everywhere, I felt like I had fallen into a spontaneous country fair. People were laughing, playing music, hauling hay, rounding up cattle, talking, building, chopping wood, and no one seemed a bit interested in my attempt to communicate my desire to figure out where I was and how to get back to my husband and son. I was hoisted onto a large tractor, asked if I wanted to stay for dinner, and the last thing I remember is trying to yell over the noise of the tractor engine, asking how to get back to the main road. It seemed very odd to wake up in my quiet house, and see my husband asleep and hear the soft snoring of my son in his room. The yard was quiet, and the sound of some enthusiastic early morning birds was very welcome. I felt like I had just fallen through an opening in the sky, in some kind of time warp. As loud as it was in my dream walk, as quiet was it in my house. As busy and crowded it had been in my dream, as quiet and solitary was it at my house. It took me a good half hour to get my bearings fully aligned again. It almost felt like I had really been to all those busy places in my long and quite frustrating dream walk. I felt physically tired, which made me smile. How odd was that. What would Carlos Castaneda and his guide into other worlds say about my dreams? And no, contrary to what a friend of mine suggested, I do not drink alcohol or do drugs. It does feel like a journey though, these dream walks of mine, that became much more regular and intense after my family fell apart and I went solo, refusing to be patronized or cajoled into submission at the expense of dignity and peace of mind and not least of them, freedom from lies and manipulation. These dreams do give me a very unique perspective on my relationships and my weaknesses and strengths. They also reveal quite a bit about how difficult it is to go rogue. These dream walks also reveal how vulnerable I feel since the loss of my family, so much so that now I dream I cannot find my husband and son who live with me and share my life daily with me. Post Traumatic Stress Dreaming... maybe that is what I am dealing with. Maybe one of these dreams, I will be allowed to make it home. I certainly am very determined, my tired feet this morning will tell you so.

Driving Solo

It was a gorgeous morning. The lake to the left of me looked energetic and sparkling, with a sky that was quickly opening to a full bright blue expanse. It was hard to believe that it was mid February, the forecast was for 60 degrees Fahrenheit with full sun. Ha! This was a few degrees warmer that it was in Dallas, Texas! I was happy with this non- winter in this part of the country. We had our share of bizarrely cold and snowy winters with up to 3 feet of snow, this was a fun break form the norm. I thought of my friend Driss, and how his communications just stopped after this New Year, and the intellectual and cultural connection I had so enjoyed with him led me to think of my father. For some reason, I thought of both of them often when I was driving by myself. My father loved driving through the US, loved traveling in this vast country as often as he could. He felt traveling through it was the only way to try to understand its complex history and soul. It was odd how little traveling I had done since moving to Washington State. My husband is close to retiring age, and he often talks about how nice it will be to be able to travel both in the US and abroad. I look forward to that time, and I know it will bring my father's memory to the foreground, and that will be bittersweet, since he is the one who made it possible for me to study here and make this country ultimately my home with my American husband and son. My father died in Belgium, after having lived in the US for over 10 years, when my mother decided to abandon him to a fate of loneliness and isolation until his death in 2008, after a battle of 7 years with the devastating illness of Alzheimer's. The man who engineered our ability to live here, died alone and estranged from his American dream. That can really make me sad at times, and feel both bewildered and numb. My father grew up during World War II, and saw his mother and sisters struggle after his father died suddenly in 1943, when my father was 14. He was suddenly the man of the house, which he apparently handled with mixed enthusiasm, something I only learned of very recently. I guess it should not have come to me as a surprise that my father was a flawed human being. It however does not change the fact that I often miss my father, not emotionally, because we were never close that way, it was not within him to say " I love you", not even once, but I did have a good intellectual connection with him, and I learned my love of books, history and traveling from him. I wish he had enjoyed a good marriage to my mother who was a nightmare for him in his later years, and I wish he had lived to a ripe old age, healthy, feisty, able to live and travel through the US he loved so passionately. It was not to be. By the time my mother was done with our family, he was wasting away alone in an Alzheimer's center in Belgium, cared for and watched over by his three sisters; my mother had succumbed to delusions of grandeur and alcoholism; my youngest sister had committed suicide; my other sister had died of cancer at 44 under very stressful circumstances in her marriage; my brother and I became permanently estranged under the fallout of my mother's divide and rule empire. So the idea of thinking of my father talking to me about a trip he was planning for us is deeply moving to me. A fantasy I know, but fantasies have their place, and in this case, it is a bit of medicine, a bit of healing for my heart and mind, to think of my father and I just hanging out with my husband and son, as I was driving home and I imaginded us planning a weekend excursion together. I know, we would have to put up with his picky palette and his at times annoying habits, but I would take those any day, just to see him one more time, just to talk to him one more time. Not about our disastrous family, but about the many books on the American West, on Native American history, and legends, and art he had read and pass a pleasant afternoon together just picking his vast and intelligent mind. As it was, thinking about a time like that with him was in the past and in my memories, it was no longer a thing of the present or the future, I was deeply aware, as I drove home on this beautiful morning that felt like spring in the middle of winter.

The Portland Rose

This weekend,my husband and I celebrated the 30 year anniversary of our first Valentine Day together. I wanted to get us a different kind of gift, a gift that celebrated us as a couple that has stuck together through thick and thin. I decided on a photograph by the Texas artist John Carlisle Moore, who lives and creates his paintings and photographs in Fort worth, Texas. The photograph is a gorgeous almost neon pink rose,sensually frilly and fully in bloom, for whom I chose a gold leafed frame, that perfectly suits the romance of the flower. I hung the frame right when you walk into our room, and its vibrant colours add just the right note of beauty and elegance I was looking for. The picture is 11 inches by 16 inches in a frame that is 16 by 20 inches, large enough to be noticed but small enough to still create a sense of intimacy and romance in the diffused light of our bedroom. The new addition to our wall added a sense of hope to my heart, a hope for a very intimate and passionate weekend for my husband and I. The flower answered my longing, and its good mojo realized itself in one of the happiest Valentine weekends for us that reminded me of our first year together in graduate school in Austin, Texas. I sent a message to Mr. Moore letting him know that the Portland Rose was already working its magic. It got me thinking, a thought I shared with him in my communication, that as long as there is art out there that encourages couples to rekindle their love for each other, the world will be alright. It is one of the thousands of functions of art, to help people believe. Each time I look at the Portland Rose, I smile, because she makes me feel pretty like her, since she will always remind me of the wonderful Valentine night I shared with my husband. His smile this morning said it all, it said to me : " Girl , you still got it, you know you do, and you know he knows, mercy!..." It is a wonderful feeling. All marriages go through dry spells. Ours is no exception, and we were well on our way back to the joy of passion, when the Portland Rose put her spell on us and made it official. That picture of this very pretty rose in its proud gold leafed frame is not just an elegant and skilled photograph by the versatile and intriguing artist John Carlisle Moore. His photograph is now a part of the story of my marriage and its continued quest for love, joy, hope. It will be forever a part of us. That is what good art does. It becomes part of your heart and soul, it endears itself to the journey of your life and adds a measure of delight, beauty, purpose, understanding, connection and belonging.   

If it is all the same to you...

Weather is unpredictable they say, it'll change just when you think
everything is OK.
Come to think of it, you are that way, rarely bringing sunshine
to chase away the grey.

You are my fair weather friend, gladly taking the light out of
my sunny days, hoarding all the raindrops when my heart is parched.
Always finding a reason to steal my thunder,
never around to lend a helping hand.

If it is all the same to you, just be on your way,
clear my tidy porch, get on out of here
and take that slick grin with you,
I am so tired of your game.

You are my fair weather friend, running quickly
the other way when I am in distress, so good
at ignoring any luck that comes my way,
shining up that mirror that you can't live without.

So, if it is all the same to you, just be on your way,
get your boots on out of here, you are messing up
my new floor, grab that flashy hat and that suitcase
of cliches, and get, get, on out of here.

Happy trails, my fair weather friend, I am sure you
will find someone else to lead down your winding,
slippery trail, some day, however, you will come
face to face with that empty heart of yours.

If it is all the same to you, please be on your way
and close the door, I want to feel the emptiness
you are leaving behind, sweep it up into the yard
where the wind can take it laughingly apart.

You are my fair weather friend, running quickly
the other way when I am in distress, so good
at ignoring any luck that comes my way,
shining up that mirror that you can't live without.

Trudi Ralston.
February 10th, 2014.

Threshold

We know each other so well, it seems
we have been together for so many years.
The tenderness intact, the camaraderie bright,
we walk together in this space life allows us
to call home.

We tread softly between the spaces where
our hearts long to breathe with ease and joy.
There is no such thing as self - evident in
matters of love, as shadow and light play
hide and seek with our dreams.

I love you, that much is clear, you love me
as you are so near, holding hands still on
good days and bad, yet it can be a steep
climb to reach the place where our words
find the song we are both yearning for.

On the threshold so often of deeper understanding
and belonging, we try to reach across that great divide
so still, so opaque, that holds the pathway to where
we both can belong without hesitation or regret,
where our nights and days can sing and not offend.

We know each other so well, it seems
we have been together for so many years.
The purpose strong, the friendship kind,
we laugh and cry together in this space life
wants us to give a try. 

Trudi Ralston.
February 9th, 2015.
for Michael.

Just Right

A very dear friend of mine has always inspired me with her indomitable spirit. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer 8 years ago and beat it beautifully, never doubting she would. Now she has one more chemo treatment for spinal cancer and her optimism is untainted. We have been friends for 20 years and each year we celebrate the anniversary of our first meeting, Ground Hog Day 1995. I spent the afternoon at her house yesterday, and we watched the movie "Ground Hog Day" with Bill Murray and Andie McDowell. I had not seen that movie since I watched it with my son many years ago, and was struck by the wisdom of the story. Living in the moment and giving that all your love and energy is indeed  harder than it would seem at first. It sounds simple enough. Live in the moment. But, what that really means is that you have to accept that moment in all its positives and negatives. In the movie it turns out, that Bill Murray's character was his own worst negative, so much so he projected that negativity onto everything and everyone in his path, leaving himself exhausted and bitter. By having to relive the same day over and over again, Ground Hog Day, he slowly begins to realize that if he could find compassion and kindness in himself and others, time would move forward again and he would get out of the rut of self pity and selfishness he was stuck in. He surprises everyone, including himself, and wins the heart of the woman he secretly was in love with. It is a great story, and Bill Murray does a great job showing irritation and impatience during the process of redemption. It was the perfect movie to watch with winter nearing its end and spring around the corner, as I felt a longing for new beginnings, as did Diane. One more chemo treatment and she would be done, her hair would start to regrow, spring and the sun would come out, one more battle would be won. As I was walking home from her house with my husband and our feisty dog Yara, I noticed the warm wind and a beautiful blue sky full of vibrant white clouds. It made me think of Diane's spirit, always so full of love and warmth, and I felt what I always feel when I spend time with her : more space and more peace in my heart and soul. I could not think of any other friend whose wise soul makes me feel that way : free to accept myself in every way, and to fly with the wings I was given, regardless of the weight attached to them. Free. It was an awesome feeling, an awesome gift from this mother of 6 sons and 4 daughters, this brave, kind woman who is my friend and who always makes me feel everything is going just right when I leave my ego and its tantrums behind.

New Soles

The incessant rain the last days has saturated our mossy lawn into a spongy carpet that made my shoes squeak like small rubber toys. The sound made me smile, as I watched a squirrel dash away nimbly out of our dog's Yara's bark and reach. The backyard seemed unusually silent, in spite of the unseasonably warm temperatures, perhaps even the birds thought it was just too wet to bother with their springtime like singing from the other day. I looked at my wet sneakers, and started thinking about how like my soul searching for renewal, their soles were a bit weary. Soul. Soles. It can take a lot of courage for a soul to start trekking to where it wants to go, like shoes, the soul needs a path to walk on, and a way to take that journey. For feet, it is pretty evident, to start walking effectively, you need a good pair of shoes, with a sturdy sole. For a soul, that walk is not a physical one, so good soles won't do. Yet, in a symbolic way, our soul needs some guidance to find its way, like shoes need soles to be effective. Today, my soul felt very much like a shoe longing for a good, reliable tread. I felt clueless, like the rain hypnotized my ability to see through the connection between my walking feet and my walking soul. To me, the soul , or spirit that inhabits our thoughts and heart, always felt stationary, and it was for the first time it felt like my soul was actually taking a journey along side my physical being. It was a weird sensation, one that left me a bit lost. Like my feet were waiting for my soul to make up its mind and heart as to where to go next. It felt satisfying, like the sated feel of having finished a great cup of tea, and seeing the cup empty, realizing the cup was only empty because now the tea was ingested and warm inside of me. Emptiness felt never more freeing, more hopeful. It felt like I had come full circle, and here I was, face to face with myself, and it felt peaceful, it felt good. I felt a door opening inside of me, that was letting in fresh, clean air, moist and full of promise like the rich scented rain. It felt like time was slowing down in that moment of realization, and I sighed deeply, not in sadness, but in understanding. New soles take time to feel comfortable. This new sensation of the newness of my soul, in spite of my 57 years, would also take time. I was ready to do just that.

Part Two : The Long Way Home. Introduction.

The poem " The Leaves " written for my friend Driss Ouaouicha, concludes Part One of " Lioness in Exile ". It is a truly satisfying feeling to have completed the over 360 stories and poems. Writing is a way for closure, if not physically, then certainly emotionally. The inward journey of trying to understand, retrace, and make sense of what happened to my family and to me within that tragic tale, has been as therapeutic as my therapist had anticipated. It gives me a sense of liberation, of the relief of having been able to become a phoenix rising out of the ashes of the devastating fire of my family's unraveling. I feel like I made it to the top of a steep mountain and can now start the descent into the peaceful valley I see ahead of me. I can now start the Long Way Home, which is the title I choose for Part Two of " Lioness in Exile ", which will express the longing to get home, that is home to the present, and home to a view for the future, now that the past is starting to fall away, a part of me, but no longer tearing me apart. The past feels now a part of me, as I made that dark journey back to the light of hope. A friend of mine in Texas once told me after reading part of " Lioness in Exile " :
" ... few people choose to sleep with their goblins... ", and I appreciated his admiration for my courage to go through that dark tunnel by myself, it was the only way I saw out of it effectively and completely. It took 3 years to finish Part One. I look forward to Part Two, and to where it will take me. I have always loved traveling. This is proving to be a very exciting journey, one that is allowing me to meet healing and renewed purpose along the way.