Chanson de Soupires

Si par hazard tu existais dans mon monde
si tu pourrais toucher mes mots et mes contes
si tu etais quelque part pres de mon ombre,

Je pourrais chanter avec toi le noir et la lumiere
ou je reve, et tu pourrais visiter la maison
ou tu ouvrirais les portes et fenetres.

Si par hazard je te rencontrerais sur mes marches
si tu me parlais de tes voyages, moi, je pourrais
te dessiner mes horizons et son arc en ciel.

Je danserais avec toi jusqua ce que tu te fatigues
et tu re rirais de mes blagues enfantins et innocentes,
avant de lire mes histoires et mes poemes.
 
Mais, par hazard, tu n'existes pas dans mon monde
et tu ne touches pas mes mots et mes contes
ni es tu pres de mon ombre.

Je ne chante pas avec toi, ni de nuit , ni de jour,
et mes reves sont un desert ou tu t'enfuis sans excuses
dans ta maison ou tu fermes ta porte et tes fenetres.

La seule voix que j'entends est la mienne,
qui se rappelle un soupcon de notre amitie et ses espoirs joyeuses
avant que s'est echappe ton sourire que j'avais cache si soigneusement

Dans la valise ou vit seul... mon courage.

Trudi Ralston.
pour un ami qui me manque intellectuellement, enormement.
pour D.O.
Ar tufat.
March 31st, 2015. 

Refracted

I woke up to a warm foggy morning with the light hanging like awkward gowns between the still naked spring trees of the back yard. The cat was nuzzled on my chest and I watched his rhythmic breathing move his furry coat up and down in almost comical little gasps. The birds were singing their euphoria at winter being gone, half a dozen different songs mixing in a delightful cacophony. I felt drawn in by the moment and without warning, I found myself thinking back on the year of my 16th birthday, when I had become enchanted by a book my father had recommended, Le Grand Meaulnes , the only novel written by French writer Alain_- Fournier, about the mesmerizing threshold from adolescence to adulthood, in a language wrought with magic and mystery. The book had a lasting and profound effect on me, a solitary, isolated teenager whose parents had a very busy social life but were completely oblivious to my and my siblings social needs. Two more books would have an equally deep impact on me around the same time, also both recommended by my father. If he was unaware of my social needs, he certainly compensated by amply feeding my intellectual and cultural curiosity. Joseph Kessel's novel, The Lion, which I read in the original French, blew me away, and started from the time I read it at age 14, until today and beyond, a life long passion and empathy for animals, large and small. The book by A.J. Cronin, The Spanish Gardener, which I read the same year in a French translation, equally impacted me very deeply, because of its heartbreaking focus on social prejudice and injustice, as seen through the eyes of a small child of wealthy parents who befriends a humble gardener in his parents' hire. The memories of all three books flooded me all at the same time, as the sunlight was breaking through the morning mist and filled the bedroom and my eyes with a bright white light. I felt like my mind was looking at a beautiful large crystal into which was being reflected three different streams of light, casting a rainbow into my memories, putting them on display like refracted theatre onto the white bedspread. The moment lingered far longer than I would have thought possible, it held a warmth and pleasure that surprised me. It was like time had been erased and I was 14 again, and 16 again, and now at 57, I still held those delightful memories and they were right there in front of me, dancing like rainbow crystals before my eyes. The minutes which seemed to endure into half an hour, made me smile, because they brought my father to mind, who passed away on the other side of the world, far, far away from me, in 2008. Perhaps it was a slow day in the spirit world, and this was his way to visit the time again when I was a teenager hanging on every word he taught me about books and the magical days he recommended I read Le Grand Meaulnes, Le Lion and Le jardinier espagnol. He reached up to the shelves of our voluminous books in our living room in Roeselare, and handed them to me , like handing over a treasure. I was so pleased he thought I was grown up enough and smart enough to read them in French, considering our native tongue was Flemish. It was one of the few times he treated me as an intellectual equal, and perhaps that is another reason why the memory is so dear to me. It also continues to fascinate me to realize he chose three books of the hundreds I was to read in my lifetime, with which I deeply and permanently fell in love.

The Soft Lines

The rain whispers its echo of liquid sighs
leaving shadows without silhouettes.
I feel its scent glide across my eyes
in touches of moss and light.

It does not matter today how far away you are
the past holds no bitter seeds to be mixed in
with the sweet of your presence in my beating heart.
Today time tap dances gracefully with no stumbles or sharp turns.

How can I stop smiling when you are around each corner
painting shy pastels wherever harsh colours might hide?
I hear you laugh like glass shattering on a marble floor
as you teach me how to skate across the forest of my dreams.

Lines crisscrossing on a sheet of paper the size of the endless sky
life moves in circles with a beat and wings no one really understands.
Scattering, gathering, beads looking for the string that will hold it all together,
you and I move in colours and shapes far deeper than the rhythm and the dance.

Family blood lines etched alongside the bonds of camaraderie
the Atlantic and Pacific oceans both a glue and a song,
the future, the past, the now, shells curvy and strong singing on
the beaches where our ships gather to rest and feast.  


Trudi Ralston.
March 25th, 2015. 

The Thumbsized Salt and Pepper Shakers

A number of years ago my long time neighbour and friend Brenda gave me two tiny salt and pepper shakers no bigger than my thumb. Their shape is adorable, the salt shaker being a tiny white house that looks like a two story little chalet, the pepper shaker its red version. The tiny chimneys are just too cute. I decide not to use the tiny items, but glue them on the top part of my stove, like tiny houses maybe little sprites would visit. Every time I look at the tiny gift, I smile. The other night I was up late, and as I stood getting a drink of water, the tiny houses took on a deeper meaning. I saw my house, which is red, and I thougth of how the nearness of my friends' houses had made such a difference in my life, so far away from my native land and so far away from any blood family. Brenda's home, Diane's home, Maricela's home, all homes where over the past 20 years I have enjoyed many a happy meal and happy time. My next door neighbour of 25 years, Karen, made a small cross stitch with two similar looking little chalet style houses with the inscription " A good neighbour is a blessing". In my case, truer words were never spoken. My neighbours and friends became my new family. The tiny shakers are glued to the top of my stove, and may look like just a bit of whimsy, but to me my neighbours and friends became the glue that gives a deeper meaning to my immigrant experience and that made bearable each time the loss of native language, culture and clan. It is tempting at times to dismiss the so called knickknacks people, including me, gather and display in their homes. But I know that sometimes what looks like a naive or just silly item can hold deep meaning and purpose. I have items like that all across my small house that really does look like a well organized and busy curio shop, but those two thumb sized salt and pepper shakers mean the world to me. They remind me I have a cozy home, and that I am welcome in other homes. They tell me I matter enough to break bread with others in their home, to be invited in, to stay a while, to laugh and talk a while, to return to my own home refreshed, reassured. When I was growing up that kind of experience was common and often therefore taken for granted. As an immigrant who made this country my home, the experience of going to a neighbour's or friend's home, to eat, to linger a while ,to visit, to celebrate, to share, is a treat each and every time. That is why I display the tiny gift in such a visible place, and why they make me so grateful each time I look at them.

The Drive by

Several years ago, by the side of a road I drive by daily, on a stretch that is part open field, part electricity transformers, a house was slowly being built. I thought at the time, gee, that will be a sorry sight for the people building there, all they will have to look at is a side of the road and its incessant traffic on one side, and a group of tall alien looking electrical towers. As time went on, the house took shape and actually was a pretty structure, with a bright colour of paint on it. The first Christmas when the people moved in, they hung a large bunch of very pretty lights. In spring, a bunch of hanging baskets full of bright red flowers went up. In summer, a patio was added, and a deck,and more flowers were added, and trees, and a pretty wooden fence, that I am sure added a buffer to the drive by noise from all the cars, and privacy. Then I noticed a shed was being built, and a pretty awning with more lights and flowers that went over the front entrance went up before fall, and when Christmas came around again, more sparkling, bright lights were added all around the house and yard. I enjoyed watching the process of how this property and home was turning into this bright, vibrant place. I felt like a child that had been watching an invisible hand build this pretty large toy structure, it had been fun. It made me think of how by now the bare surroundings had disappeared, and the electrical towers seemed to fade in the background, it was really something. What had started out as a rather sad looking project, had turned into this beautiful home and backyard. It seemed a metaphor for life, how sometimes you just have to refuse to be intimidated by odds, and how if you just keep adding more positive elements to your attitude eventually the good will outweigh the bad. The people who bought that piece of land had a vision. Where others, including me, saw only a piece of waste land, they saw a place they would call home and would make their own with patience and time. Now it is one of the prettiest  houses on that road, and I always look forward to see what flowers and colours they are adding, and what fun lights they will add to their Christmas display. We all have bleak spots in our history and lives , but when I think of how sad and lonely that house initially looked, I thought that perhaps the way we structure those spots, the way we view them, display them in our own minds and to others, can make a difference. Perhaps the way we can add some beauty and colour there too is simply by our attitude. An attitude that chooses to see some lights and flowers from lessons learned, rather than just an expanse of bleak emptiness and loss. The best part about an approach like that is that not only are you doing yourself a favour, by prettying up your own mind, but you will have something positive to share with your friends and family : the beauty of a bright outlook on whatever life brings your way.

The Understanding

Only when I slow down time does it start to chafe
as long as I keep moving, I don't feel the rocks bumping
the underside of my soul.
So, I just keep going, because the numbness gets rid
of the burning pain.

Before me I see a glowing sunset, the colour of my eyes
in eyeliner of charcoal grey smoldering in reds and smoke the fire
of my dreams.

Only when I turn off the sounds all around me do I 
feel how heavy breathes my longing to escape this cage
strapped to my spirit and to my heart.

Marching like a soldier believing in a cause
I resolutely step up the pace, as the horizon seems to gather near.
Birds overhead soar towards the endless sky.
My cry blends with theirs in
one smooth stroke of destiny's daze.


Trudi Ralston.
 March 5th, 2015. 


 

Sticking Point

It never ceases to amaze me how as humans we let certain people and things get to us, time and again. We chafe under their acidic words, or their neglect or at the way some people make an art out of ignoring us, either out of spite or impotence. The whole process brought to mind a video game my son used to enjoy a few years back, Katamari Damacy where you would roll this this ball that would absorb everything in its path. It made for a very funny visual effect, because you could make everything stick into your ball as it rolled around, houses, pets, cars, other people, it was very entertaining in an absurd sort of way. I thought of Buddhism and its philosophy of detachment and how opposite it is to the idea that we get annoyed and let everything stick to us, and drag us down. I often think of that when I wash my hands, how water cleanses, and lets go, not sticking to us. There is such freedom to realize this, to choose not to let things and people's attitudes towards us stick to us and drag us down. I had never thought of it in these concrete terms, of being this ball of energy that can either choose to let everything upset us and weigh us down , or we can let it all go, and remain free and light , no matter who tries to stick their stuff to our being. Ego of course is a big stumbling block in this process I find time and time again. That is a tough one to negotiate, because you want respect, but to know where to draw the line can be a battle between acceptance and surrender. Not always an easy conclusion. It is of course sad that humans often put competitiveness above kindness, above compassion and community. I suppose it will always be difficult to have a tough skin, and move on and refuse to be an absorbent sponge that gets stepped on and squeezed out, discouraged by people who should know better than hurt a fellow human on this journey of life. The memory of the video game made me smile, and its sticking point seemed very well made for my frame of mind today. A sense of humour helps in many instances, and to be able to smile, without too much resentment, at getting discouraged or hurt by others' insensitivities or downright cruelties, is definitely useful and therapeutic. If sadness hurts, laughter can heal. Not laughter at ourselves or others, but a good laugh at the often incomprehensible conundrum that is life as we know it, in all its unstoppable motions and expressions. When we laugh, maybe that is what happens, the sadness or hurts that was sticking to us, just rolls right off, and the sticking point loses its grip, and leaves us relieved, refreshed. Our ball can roll again, without bumps or hiccups, nice and smooth, just like the ball in Katamari Damacy when it first starts out. As the game moves on, and more stuff gets stuck to the ball, it gets bigger and bigger to a ridiculously cumbersome degree, just like the hurts we let stick to us, as we move through life, until it gets so heavy that we can hardly move, so to speak. To let go of all that baggage feels so good. We should shake our being clear of all the stuff it picks up on a regular basis. It would create more space between us, cause less friction and confusion. So, a lower sticking point, unlike in the case of glue, is a very good thing when it comes to people. Stick that note on your mirror from here on out.