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.

July 4th

The morning was so quiet. This always happens on holidays. It feels like at least half the neighbourhood empties out. Since we have no family nearby and very little faraway, this day is always very quiet for my husband , son and I. In the past, we attended my neighbour Shelia's BBQ.
she and her husband did for all the neighbours in our street. Shelia and I met at church 21 years ago, and she and her family moved away in 2013. Our other neighbours who are our friends usually have their own family over. We have a few more friends, and as our children are becoming adults we seem to see less of these friends too, on this holiday. It seems like a political holiday, as soon as you think outside of your own little circle. There is no denying that this big country is full of contradictions. It seems it is easy these days to criticize the US, but considering how large this country is and the large numbers of different cultures all trying to get along and make sense of things, we also should remember how young this country is. It occurred to me that in spite of its youth, the US has some very old wounds already, not the least of which is what President Obama referred to so poignantly as "our original sin ", when referring to slavery in the aftermath of the horrific shootings in Charleston and the recoil of the debate on the Conderate flag. I think this country can figure out its problems, but it will take time and wisdom, and youth is not known to appreciate the first or have any interest in the second. And as in any times of contention, ill intentioned political opportunists will try to take the ball and run with it. I hope that does not happen, or if it does, that it will be very temporary. I was thinking of some of my foreign born friends, who like me have made this country their new home. Like me, several of them come from complicated families and have struggled with overcoming some very stressful personal circumstances. Perhaps that is why I find myself more tolerant of the constant bickering this country seems obsessed with politically these days. I am hoping that phase will pass, and this country will find a way to make peace with itself for the benefit of all of its citizens, like myself. I remember how proud the 4th of July would make me when I first became a citizen in 1994, as I would watch the beautiful fireworks in Seattle with my American husband and our young son.
I have to admit that pride today is tinged with melancholy, wondering where the future will lead this country and what legacy it will leave our son who just graduated from college in June. I hope the confidence this country inspired so far, will not fade over time with doubt and scepticism, with bad politics and narrow minded decisions that surrender to selfish motives and dubious explanations.
It is hot and quiet outside. I look forward to cooler weather. The heat is a bit oppressive. Not unlike the weather politically in this country, my country, right now. Political seasons come and go. Let's hope the next one will bring the kind of weather that will give us renewed growth and hope all around.