The Ties That Bind

The house felt so cozy and warm today, all the simple things of our house, from the frilly lace kitchen window curtains to the abundance of books and stuffed animals, the gentle country feel of our garden, the snoozing cat and dog. All the colors seemed brighter today, and I thought of our son and his words of insight and wisdom to my husband and I last night. I was trying to remember everything he said, as tears were streaming down his face. My son and I were in a three car collision two days ago. We hit a car that was trying to pass to the right of the car in front of him, a car that had come to a full stop to let two young pedestrians cross at the pedestrian walk. This made it look to us that traffic was moving,so we hit him. Everything went into slow motion and then seemed to speed up just at the last second before impact. We were all right, but as it turned out, my son hit his head going forward at impact and the seat belt bruised my chest internally enough to make my heart think it was having a heart attack. I did not realize any of this until the police were gone, the insurance agent called, witnesses gave their statement to the police and the tow truck towed away our badly damaged car. My son was so calm and focused at 22, so protective of me. He did most of the talking to the very patient and kind police officer and he made all the phone calls to the insurance agent, he talked to the tow truck driver. I called my good friend of 17 years, Brenda, and she came and took my son and I and our dog home.
As we were waiting for her, I noticed my son had a cut on his forehead, that my hands were shaking and that my chest was hurting. I got really nauseous, feeling like I would get sick, but I manged to suppress it. The next day, trying to relax I only started to feel more tense and suddenly my heart felt like it was being compressed to about an inch with intense pain and I got very nauseous this time. I finally convinced my husband to take me to the emergency room, as our doctor who we had seen earlier in the day felt we seemed to be OK up until that point had already left his office for the weekend. So my husband and I left the house super irritable and snappy with each other. As emergency rooms go, we left around 5 p.m. and were home at 11: 30, exhausted but relieved that the EKG and chest x -rays and blood work checking for enzyme counts all turned out normal. The doctor gave me a Cyclobenzaprine tablet for the muscle spasm around my heart, and a Lidocaine and Milk of Magnesia cocktail for the persistent nausea. We got home relieved ,but drained and somehow we picked up the  argument where we had left it before we went to the emergency room. My son suddenly had had enough. He started talking about how tired he was of us getting into dumb arguments that were circular and always seemed to draw him in, making him feel like he had to choose sides. He said it was selfish and unfair of us, and wanted from now on to be treated like an adult, thus with respect due an adult of the family. He reminded us we loved each other, made us hold hands and look at each other and tell each other we forgave each other the accusatory childish and repetitive arguments we used to deal with stress, asking not to be interrupted, as it was our turn to listen to him now. I was so proud of him, so impressed with his wise  words and keen psychological insights into the dysfunctional pattern we would fall into when trying to resolve differences. He stayed on course not pointing out what frustrated him about us individually, but as a couple, that would take to behave like our own parents' and their terrible marriages. He said we were better than that, that he did not want to be put in the middle of these pointless arguments that could be settled by talking to each other like adults. It was humbling to realize the young man in front of us was our son, and that he had at least  as good insights as we did, and he had the words to express them. I felt sad that we had let him down in this area, and I was encouraged at the same time, because I was listening to profound insights into my husband and my 29 year old marriage. I told him I thought he was right, and that I would try harder to communicate with my husband and my husband said he would, too. I  was so glad to see that brave side of my son articulated so well after the last two stressful days. Our son made us think of how we had to be careful no to repeat the mistakes our parents made, had to learn to communicate effectively and healthily, without resorting to manipulative tactics pulling him to one of us, pulling him in to making him feel he had  to choose a side. That is not fair he concluded. We quietly drank our tea and went to bed. The next day I woke to feel totally relaxed, content. We may come from dysfunctional families, but as our son pointed out, it was time to move forward and shake off the poison of our upbringing. He was so articulate, so precise. The warm feeling I had wrapped itself around me like a soft blanket, the feeling of gratitude, of belonging, of realizing the importance of counting our many blessings, of truly recognizing that what we had in each other as a family was a gift not to be taken lightly, a gift as our son pointed out so many people have to do without, or only get to experience in part or not at all, due to abuse, poverty, addiction, illness, war. My home with my son and husband never felt more precious than today, because our son had pointed out what really matters is to respect the love that holds us together, to respect the ties that bind, with courage, compassion and a kindness that does not allow itself to be seduced by pride and ego. We had been the irresponsible child, and our son had reminded us what being a true adult is all about. It was an impressive lesson, one he taught us with fierce yet kind determination. I feel it sticking to my heart like gorilla glue. From here on out the path goes forward, not sideways or backwards. My husband and I felt like two old fools, which we definitely were. I am hoping that we are now well on our way to be a pair of humble souls in training, heeding our son's wise scolding as a lucky break.                                                                                             

Gravity 's Cloak

I have a fondness for science - fiction and in that vein I was impressed by the movie "Interstellar". The 2014 movie by director Christopher Nolan deals with a crew of astronauts traveling through a wormhole to find a habitable planet for humanity since crop blight is making the survival of the planet no longer a possibility. The movie deals very successfully with the difficult concepts of gravity being able to manipulate time and being able to be used to communicate when one of the lead astronauts, played very convincingly by Matthew McConaughey, travels through a wormhole that allows him to communicate with his daughter in the past via the construct of a tesseract. The movie keeps your attention  through the elaborate story and the implementation of mind boggling quantum physics, and is both magical and completely compelling. I find the movie sticks with me like a very good and rich meal and I find myself wondering how amazing it would be if we were able and allowed to use this malleability in our own lives that gravity seems to be capable of, at least in theory. The idea that we could manipulate time is hypnotic, to say the least. Would it allow us to accept the past better, or understand it better, if through some rift we could briefly revisit it and have a better understanding of what happened there to us and the ones we love ? The idea of moving into the future seems acceptable as possible, but returning to the past seems a permanently unsolvable riddle. Perhaps the closest we could come to revisiting the past are parallel universes, where we could live out alternatives to our current existence. Maybe in that version of gravity manipulation, I would go pursue that dream of becoming an art teacher or world traveling journalist, and maybe I would grow up in a family with parents that loved each other. Maybe in that parallel universe my sisters would not die so young and my father would be strong enough to stand up to his spoiled, destructive wife and she would be a woman that was not out to destroy her family. But, maybe in another version of the possibilities of parallel universes, things would have turned out even more difficult and I would not have the love and warmth of my husband and son, and not have learned the lessons life brought me, and maybe I would not have found the peace and strength I have now, and the chance to heal through writing my poems and my experiences. Still, there are times when it feels like the possibilities of several parallel universes come at  me all at once, making things muddled and frustrating. But I am convinced now that no matter what the possibilities in the time that is real and concrete for this life, making the best of what is in front of me is definitely adventurous and challenging enough. Gravity may have its cloak, but I feel I still have a few tricks up my sleeve in this dimension.  

Spark

Brush strokes soft and free, full of light and colour
surround me, a happy figure on the canvas of this day,
I hum a cheery tune and breathe in the scented, powdery
air around my eyes and smile.

The cool, clear morning air sticks like honey to the sun,
 the blue expanse and clouds of white and grey,
like yarn are playfully tossed about by a teasing, giddy wind.

I wear you like honeysuckle perfume and sandalwood incense
as I delight at the spark your touch so far away brings to my soul,
as a new message lets me know digitally that you are still there.

I see the spark traverse the globe to land like a neon butterfly
in the backyard of my stories and poems tilled by your kind respect
as I carefully trim the path that some day might briefly carry your step.

The spark a tiny seed I already planted in my heart, surges through
the parts that need some extra warmth, reminding me of Aesop's words:
" No act of kindness, however small, is ever lost".

The quiet, heartfelt touch of your friendship, however far away,
leaving gentle prints alongside mine on this path I now get to pursue
of writing my stories and my poems, a dream held inside for so very long.


Trudi Ralston.
April 22nd, 2015.
Pour un ami, un frere, un guide et un ange guardien,
pour D.O. 

Je me sens mieux

Le matin es plein d'energie comme le feu dans mon ame.
J'ecoute de la musique de ta region du monde,
et tu parais pres de moi, un passager dans ma voiture.

Je me sens comme une enfant heureuse avec ta presence
c'est fou comme cela n'a pas d'importance que tu es si loin,
a l'autre bout du monde.

C'est peut-etre pour cette raison qu'etant enfant on peut
etre si content, vivant dans le monde de l'imagination,
peu cela me trouble que tu es mon ami imaginair.

Je me sens mieux quand tu es la,et qu'on se parle
meme si cela doit etre dans mes souvenirs d'il ya longtemps,
meme si tu ne sais pas repondre, puisque tu n'es pas la.

Je me sens mieux quand j'y pense, les matins tranquils
dans ma voiture, en chemin de la vie, ma vie qui cherche
toujours un autre voyage, un autre horizon.

Je te visite dans ma tete, et je souris a la folie
de te penser pres d'ici, ou pres de moi.
C'est sur que je me sens mieux quand je m'imagine
une visite charmante, entre tes voyages nombreuses,
de toi, ami du passe tetu et si lointain.


Trudi Ralston.
April 21st, 2015.
Pour D.O. 

The Orange

It had been such a beautiful weekend, with the sun and its delicious feeling light and warmth invigorating all my senses. My husband got busy in his greenhouse, and it is always my favorite time of early spring when all the seeds he plants there start sprouting into tiny sunflowers and squashes and Morning Glory and the fuchsia starts are taking off in the hanging baskets before they will be transferred outside under the eves of the house. The strawberries looked so fresh and pretty in their white flowers and bright green leaves, and there was a whole tray of brightly colored Gerbera daisies that seemed to want to jump into a sunny spot outside of the green house by the deck. The birds were singing outside the kitchen window on this cheerful  Monday morning, and the neighbours chickens were squawking with vigour in springtime euphoria. I was preparing my husband's and son's work and college lunches, peeling a particularly fragrant orange. The scent and feel of the bright orange fruit with its white inside peel made me think back of eating oranges as a child. The scent made me wish for the extensive family I grew up with, for the aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews. The sweet scent of the orange as I was peeling it into juicy, soft crescent shaped slices filled me with a gentle sorrow, a sorrow that felt like a quiet breeze, with a rhythmic sound that matched my breathing. I missed being part of an extensive, gregarious family,with the births, marriages, birthdays, anniversaries, funerals,all events my husband, son and I almost never attended, unless it was by rare invitation by a close neighbour or friend. But I was acutely aware of how grateful I was for my husband and son. They made this house a warm and cozy home. I went back to peeling the orange and put it in a small Tupperware with my son's lunch. The simple gesture brought me out of the brief reverie and nostalgia and I knew that from here on out the scent of oranges would bring my son and husband to mind and this quiet, peaceful morning in our quiet, peaceful, home. It is just like our pastor once said, " You may not have everything you want, but most assuredly you have more than you need". I was looking forward to my quiet lunch on the deck, eating my sandwich and orange with the bright blue sky above me, listening for the high pitched sound of Bald Eagles overhead above the tall trees, alternating with the piercing metallic whir of hummingbirds coming to our feeders as the cat purred nearby in the sun and the dog snoozed nearby in the cooling shade. 

The Beauty of Broken

We have a garage full of discarded things, that some day will make their way into a garage sale so the story goes from what I have heard from my husband. I commend him for being very creative and hands on at trying to fix things and make and build things himself from shelving, to our deck and greenhouse. I was thinking the other day of how discarded things over time take on a meaning and poetry of themselves. Sort of like some of the people we discard or that discard us, leaving us and them broken in some way, hurt and apparently less appealing, at least for a while. I felt a sudden rush of empathy for our cluttered garage, that was so full of no longer used and functional items I teased my husband about alphabetizing the collection every time he asked me if I knew where a particular recently put in the garage item was. Broken chairs waiting to be mended, discarded, dusty books waiting to be recycled, old shoes that my husband insists will be perfect for working in the yard, old toys, half empty paint canisters, old suitcases that could possibly be patched up. As often as all that clutter annoys me, when I think of all the clutter we as humans carry around in our hearts and souls as so many items we plan to eventually restore and fix, I am discovering I am mellowing my point of view, because we are all " garages " full of unpleasant things along side the things about us that do work efficiently and effectively. I find there is beauty in broken, because it means we were trying hard, perhaps too hard and the strain proved too much. I think children understand this often better than adults. If they love a toy, it does not matter if Bunny is missing an eye or a tail, because they intuitively feel it is still Bunny. It is often the adult that feels compelled to fix the toy, often frustrating the child because Bunny now looks shifty eyed or psychotic as a result of our clumsy attempt to make things as they were. The whole thing is a metaphor for life. We will end up with scars, inside and out, and the worst ones are often hidden, inside of us, like the discarded things we keep away from sight in our garage or attic. But all those discarded items make us who we are, both literally and figuratively. The stuff in the garage is part of our story, part of the story of our children, our house, our yard. The broken stuff inside of us is part of our story as a person. The hurts, the scars, the ugly, the scared, the angry, they are part of what makes us who we are. They make us hopefully kinder, stronger, braver, wiser and as a result more beautiful. We are more beautiful because we are part broken. It brings to mind the practice in the Japanese art of Kintsugi or Kintsukuroi, where you fill the cracks in pottery  with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver or platinum, so the broken part may be viewed as enhancing the beauty of the pottery piece. Life will make a mess of things, I have a messy garage to prove it after 25 years in the same busy house. And I have the scars and broken part in my heart to go with them. The gold that holds those scars together are my love for life, my husband ,my son, my friends, my stories, tapestries and poems. They are the beauty in my broken.  

In the Company of Silence

The house was pleasantly cool, with the sunlight streaming in gently, keeping the surprise weekend warm weather and its almost summer heat outside. My son was at his college job, my husband on an errand for more potting soil, the cat was snoozing in his basket in the sun, and the dog kept me company relaxing on the cool tile of the kitchen floor as she shuns the heat in her black furry coat. I smiled. The aloneness felt healing, cozy like the touch of a soft sweater. The silence around me, in me, felt like company. The sensation was similar to soft strokes of a paint brush on a fresh, blank canvas, the possibilities open and intriguing. The colours all around me, the objects in our house all around me seemed to be asleep comfortably as well, alongside the dog. Everything seemed soft, like chalk powder of pastel hues. I felt at peace. The last ten years I have had many a chance at practising the art of solitude. Losing my family had dropped the bottom out of my world. Instead of fleeing the demons and the hurt, I tackled both head on, got into therapy and started to write. The writing part had been a life long dream, and on a day like today, with time coming to shore in waves of relaxed rhythms and sounds, all the aloneness, all the struggle to make sense of all the loss, were bearing fruit. My memoir "Lioness in exile" was now on Amazon.com under the category of cultural biographies and women's poetry. After 3 years of hard and steady work, that felt really good. Part two, "The Long Way Home" had already over 20 entries. I was finally doing what I had been dreaming of doing for 40 years. The best part is, now my son is writing, too. I thought how when you can accept the silence in your being, how fears of all kind lose their grip. Even though I have spent more time alone these last 10 years than I have in my entire life up until that point, I feel a strong sense of connectedness, of belonging on a very basic level. I find myself becoming more accepting of my limitations, my mistakes, and of the limitations of others, far and near. It is a very freeing feeling. I find myself face to face with myself, and I am pretty happy with who I see. In the company of silence I am finding a deeper connection to myself and my heart and soul, and I am finding it allows me to connect in a more genuine, deeper, kinder way to life and the people in that life with me. I have no illusion that I will continue to make mistakes, disappoint as I recently did, but I will continue to move forward and learn, in peace and acceptance, forgive myself and others, as I continue on this mysterious, amazing, infuriating, awesome journey called life.

The Hands

It is interesting the things we remember. I remember my mother being fond of telling me "You have your father's hands. Stocky, masculine. Your sister on the other hand, has the long slender hands of my mother, so elegant and feminine. " At the time, I was about 17, I thought, well, OK, then, I have my father's hands. He is intelligent, I can live with that. My father died in 2008, under tragic circumstances, and I find myself talking to him all the time. I drive a lot, taking my son back and forth to his college classes to save him time, and I often think of my father when he was driving. He always seemed absorbed in thought, and since I was told I had his hands, I often watched them. The way he held the steering wheel, the way he held them when he smoked, the way he covered his mouth when he sneezed or coughed. I have noticed that I hold the steering wheel the same way he did. Very relaxed,and far apart. I watched my hands and I was happy they were like his. Strong, compact, not feminine. A part of him was always with me, and that gives me hope and strength. My mother's hands were more feminine than mine, and always carefully manicured in a variety of nail colours. She forever despaired at my clumsy attempts she thought of trying my best to do my nails in a way that passed her inspection. No matter. I never think of her hands. But the insult she thought she was giving me is now a source of comfort, of pride. It is with my father's sturdy hands that I write, that I make my tapestries. He finally would be proud of me. Late in my college days he told me I would make a good journalist. In a way that is exactly what I am, writing about my 39 years now in the US, mixing in my stories with my poems. The legacy my father left me is with me every day, the strength I found inside I see in his sisters , in their daughters, and that strength has gotten me to turn many a dark corner. The legacy my mother left me was one of insecurity and self - doubt, anxiety and sadness at never feeling good enough to pass her supposed aristocratic standards for status, ambition and marriage. And of course, clothes, hair style and nails. I will take my father's strong hands any day. They are companions to mine, and suit me just fine. Genetics are a fascinating thing. My son has the big shoulders my brother has, and the height of both the men in my husband's family and in my mother's family. He has the curly hair of the people on my maternal grandmother's side, and the mannerisms of passionate expression of my father in law and one of my brother's in law. I cannot imagine telling him anything but how awesome I think this is. As far as his hands go, mine disappear in them, which is absolutely delightful. I have my father's hands. I think they are beautiful.

The Mask

Human relationships are complex and technology does not change that. Social media are wonderful tools to enhance the possibilities that relationships bring, but I recently learned that the openness of modern communication only brings to the foreground the intricate complexities of human nature and human interactions. I am an extrovert and I tried very hard to make a connection, a friendship with a person who on the outside was an extrovert but on the inside very much an introvert. Now, social media allow us to almost instantly have connections that involve conversations, dialogues, comments, opinions, concerns, passions, that can bring us closer but can also push us apart. I have come to understand after a friendship I tried to bring about to a thriving, blossoming experience that not all of us are comfortable without our masks. This particular friend was someone with experience in theater, someone who on the surface of things enjoyed the drama of human interaction, and I mistakenly thought he would also enjoy the openness on a personal level, something I enjoy very much. But my friend did not. For quite some time, a couple of years actually, I thought that my friend was just rude, or indifferent. I realized too late that he was a person who prefers to keep the mask on all the time, that was his comfort zone. I am very comfortable without my mask, but it definitely was a mistake to assume and expect he would remove his mask. Now that I realize this, I am trying to figure out how to communicate this late realization in a tactful manner. Of course, I was aware of the difference between people who are outwardly directed versus people who are shy and inwardly directed, even when seemingly outgoing or gregarious. I think the mistake I made was thinking that social media would somehow change that well known reality. It was wishful thinking, and it was short sighted and selfish. Because the technology is so willing, so on the cutting edge and so forward and outward looking, I assumed that people who communicate through it are outwardly motivated too. A lot of them are, as I find out, and this can build closer connections between people who care about each other as family, as friends, and who are kept apart physically through distance geographically or very busy lives. But I am learning that the proverbial tiger does not change his or her stripes. Friends who are quiet in person are likely to be cautious and quiet on line. Masks are intriguing, and have been around for thousands of years in all cultures. They are worn to mourn, to celebrate, to deceive, to honour, and I think in the European culture I grew up in, it was the ancient Greeks who made the mask acceptable as an extension of our identity, our persona, that is the projection we want people around us to see. It may not be who we are, but we all have the need to have a buffer around us, some more elaborate than others, but we all have some form of mask we wear either all the time, or some of the time. Some people have many traumatic experiences and the mask they project around their persona is very crucial in their ability to function. In one of the recent National Geographic magazines there was an article that dealt with very stunning photographs of traumatized war veterans who as part of an innovative therapy approach were encouraged to make masks for themselves showing how the injuries they suffered physically and especially mentally, made them feel. The masks were shocking, bold, raw, but they were amazingly effective in communicating how the person felt. Our masks are mostly invisible, but they are there. I know, because what I did to my friend that cost me his friendship was I tried to convince him to remove his mask. He was obviously not comfortable revealing his soul, and some people just never are. The masks we have are important, they make us feel safe. My friend was jovial enough on a superficial level, but became very uncomfortable when I was interested in learning what made him the intelligent, talented person he is. Technology makes us feel, obviously erroneously, that people too come in parts that we can take apart and put back together. But we are far more complicated than that, and my exuberant personality pushed past the comfort zone of my friend and he walked away, angrily, too. It did not matter that I thought he was being arrogant and self important on an issue I thought he should have been more sincere about. It mattered that I made him feel ill at ease and ultimately angry because I was expecting him to feel the same way about the problem as I did. I should have known better. My husband of 29 years is a confirmed introvert, and yes, it took us many, many years to find a comfort level with our disparate temperaments, but we did. Had I been a little less eager, a little more patient and accepting, I might not have lost a new found friend with whom I was just beginning to build a more solid connection carefully taking shape after almost 3 years. Instead, I let my hot head get the better of me, trying to convince a fellow human of the error of their ways. I was pulling at his mask, and he pulled back firmly tucking his mask in place. I can only hope that this humbling experience for him will be forgiven , and that this humbling experience for me will make me wiser and kinder in the future.

Double Bottom

I recently had a falling out with a friend I have known for close to two and a half years. Since communication between us did not come easily, I suppose misunderstanding was perhaps unavoidable. I tend to run hot, my friend was a stoic, and so it seems the attempt to come to an emotional temperature that was neither boiling nor freezing seemed a continuous challenge. So, things fell apart. The whole experience made me feel like my emotions were a double bottomed drawer and no one told me there was more than one level to deal with. Of course I should explain that this was a friend of a friend I met on- line. I know, it sounds ridiculous to even care, but I did. There was a certain intellectual intrigue and an artistic one, that somehow reminded me of the artistic and intellectual connections I was exposed to when growing up. I missed that, and this friend somehow made me think I could bridge the gap between the past and the future. But people are complicated, including myself it turns out, and it made what I thought would be a smooth and at times even exhilarating connection one that was often strained and confusing. The surprising thing is that I have a hard time with the emotional fall out, no matter how rational I try to summarize the experience. Why do I care? This is someone who knows and knew a number of people I knew in college, but someone I have never met in person, so good riddance, right? But that is not how it feels. I feel a genuine sense of loss, of sadness, of frustration. Perhaps that is an indication that we are mostly spiritual beings, and that the connections we make with people are ultimately a matter of both mind and heart. The whole thing feels science- fiction, like our bodies are just packages and what really matters and trips us up are not our bodies but all the inner trappings that package contains : our personality, our temperament, our genetics, our conditioning, our fears, our successes, our failures, our dreams and talents. I feel like I let my friend down, and like I let myself down because I could not figure out how to make this modern connection work smoothly. Perhaps the key is to stay detached, something I am not very good at. At any rate, I had the composure to admit my misgivings to my friend, and maybe his silence in return was all he could muster. I decided not to judge him on that, and just accept that human relationships are always difficult, virtual or not, and maybe the more virtual they are, the more frustrating, because you are never really sure where one level of the double layer in the experience ends and the other one starts.
It is like playing hide and go seek in the dark. You will inevitably bump into obstacles, whether you want to or not. There is no denying that I feel very conflicted about the almost comical hurt I feel about not having been able to make this relationship that was mostly fictional, evolve to a zone of camaraderie, common ground and growth. I notice as I am writing this, that some of the tension dissipates and I even find myself smile. Thank God I was never a mail order bride. I can barely figure out how to be a good mail order friend.

The Chance

The rain is coming down in a slow shower of rustling drops
that brings to mind a rainstick from a long time ago.
The house is warm, wrapping its comfort around my smile.

I think of how after all these many years, 40 years is quite a number,
talking with you feels natural and right. My cousin by blood, we were
children together not aware how far we would drift apart.

We never stood a chance, as circumstance would make sure
suspicion and estrangement would rule, not family or heart.
I moved a world away always wishing we could bridge the gap.

One by one my family fell away, in a current that could not be stopped
washing my dreams in the bitter waters of their rush.
The child I was forever lost, I walked away, fires all around my past.

Now your strong and open minded heart allows me a chance
to know you, to learn how for you life has unfolded
and I find the past melting its ice to give the now a start.

The woman I looked up to as a shy and unsure child
I discover as a friend willing to walk a while by my side
as finally we get to know each other and stitch new pattern with a common thread.

Laughter a new delight on the path along with the sharing of hopes
and regrets, there is now a space in me where you and I 
are a family that no longer wishes to dream and walk apart. 

Trudi Ralston.
April 7th, 2015.
for Myriam Nys.
Thank you, from my heart.