The Edge

The outside is full of lines, like a fold up paper box, one I am in and also am
standing outside of.
Like moving squiggles of a cartoon that define the horizon and its depth,
I watch the lines fold and unfold all around me, a dance both bright and dark.

Time wraps itself around shadows the lines amuse themselves with,
as I push the box as far as it will go, with a sound like hissing summer grass.
Where will the lines take me, how will I know if I will get there at all?

Some journeys we take all alone, no matter how many seem to tag along.
Once or twice I thought I saw the road uphill not too far from where the lines became a star,
but I think I was just dreaming, I should have by now have reached that point.

Inside the lines are softer and have warm colours to ease my mind.
Might as well relax, I am not getting out of here, without a cracked line
running alongside the cracks in my whistle and my song.



Trudi Ralston.
December 27th, 2017.

The Roar

There is a roar outside my window, one of ebb and tide,
though no ocean is near me, the rhythm and cadence cannot be denied.
Summer, winter, it surrounds me, whether it be day or night,
all I can do is absorb it and wonder at its stamina and might.

There was a time when outside my window, bird and frog song were
all my ears would be amused with, there was no roaring monster anywhere around.
Yet the roar is not unpleasant, like a hypnotic beat asking me to join.
The only problem is I am happy with my birds and my frogs.

There are times the roar does annoy me, as I question its demands,
would that times were less somber, I see the trees stoic silence
and the sky's hazy sighs, time is marching forward, but who is
its master giving the commands?

I listen to my flowers and to the grass beneath my feet,
I delight at silence's wonders and their key to my heart and its path.
There is a roar outside my window, one of ebb and tide,
though no ocean is near me, the rhythm and cadence cannot be denied.

Would the roar was a drumbeat, full of hope, passion and delight,
one that leads us through the forest to where beauty, kindness and clan
were given to prosperity for all, not just for a few with steel and teeth in their eyes.

There is a roar outside my window, one of ebb and tide,
and on certain days it sounds like music, leaving fresh salt for my thirsty mind.


Trudi Ralston.
for Nicholas.
December 21st, 2016. 

Sugar Plum Reverie

Soft snow on the ground, fluffy, bright to the eye's delight,
as night turns to day, and the snow's palette adds a touch of cheer
to the grey clouds above.

Christmas lights sparkle gold and clear, red candles fragrant with cinnamon
and pomegranate scent, stockings hung by a cozy fire, presents teasing underneath
the tree heavy with sparkling ornaments of all kind, dolphins, starfish, smiling snowmen.

Music gently wrapping itself around my heart, " I'll be home for Christmas, ...
if only in my dreams..." reaches my mood and I see you, so far away in the spirit world.
Are you okay, are you sad? I miss you still and wonder why you never let us know
the way you were pushed aside. Your silence haunts me.



I remember the sugar plum fairy's dance and song, sweet to my child's innocent view,
warm and safe we were always with you, and now my home here is warm and safe, too.
I know you are pleased with that, we just never knew the sugar had  salt mixed in with it,
as children we could not see the shadows cast around the sweetness of the treats.

You were given a raw deal, the queen of your heart made sure of that.
A king without a kingdom, betrayed and left, the stage set for your tragedy,
Lear a beautiful name for such sadness and lonely misery.


May your heart and soul find solace way up there where the stars shine beyond the sleeping trees.
I know your sorrow will always stay with me.
Merry Christmas, papa, you are welcome here.


Trudi Ralston.
December 19th, 2016.

Game Over

Nimble, smooth, soft, fast, keys on the digital highway across borders and time.
Hello, good- bye, be safe, take care, sleep well, talk to you soon, see you, for sure.
Pictures shared, jokes and laughs, it was almost like being there,
and almost like you meant you would be here since you talked about it for
the entirety of the years the digital piper played its tune.

I pushed back the shadows I hesitated to see, the questions that still bother me.
But the game was on, fast, light, slick, fun, hey, what could possibly go wrong
in this virtual make belief friendship of ours?
You did not notice I was tired of the game, tired of the empty illusion
that something real of a long ago past could be retrieved.

I was your emotional mannequin, that you could haul around your computer screen,
and you never saw it coming, how tired I was of the repetitive make belief.
You liked the fake more than the real, the two dimensional flat illusion more
appealing to you than the real three- D me in all its undeniable complexity.
Game over. Deleted. Nothing left but an empty space where you supposedly had been.

Relief is what I feel, not sadness like you might believe or dream; there is nothing left
but the vague memory of  a naive wish that you were more than you turned out to be.


Trudi Ralston.
December 7th, 2016.
... " And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love
but a net cast forth : and only the unprofitable is caught... " :
Kahlil Gibran,  " The Prophet "  ( 1923).


In memoriam," c. d. "

Innocence

The day's light softens into shades of blue shadows
that yawn shyly into the blanket that will become the dark of night.
My eyes pencil in the contours of fading trees and sky, as birds flee
towards the comfort of nest and warmth.

Words are hanging like insects caught in spider silk,
as I think of all the times silence was the only way
to cut through the threads of my concerns,
floating on the breeze of quiet, broken wing.

Here, now, within, without, with you near, with you far,
there are no answers to be found, only whispers to brush aside,
as night settles its velvet black around my heart and mind,
tired, relieved, sure footed on wet and heavy steps,
that go around and up, far beyond where I can see.

The roar inside me, all around me, as silence pats me on the shoulder
to go inside, to be where home is safe and bright, and dreams
let me slumber peacefully at last, a child safe from harm and past,
I hear the whispers sweet of innocence beside me, her song light and free.

No words are necessary, I see them float past me, sentinels past the dark waves,
as I stand resolutely on land, strong, proud, my shield and sword resting by my side. 


Trudi Ralston.
November 23rd, 2016.

Breakdown

My husband and I have been married for 30 years now. No small thing in an age where impatience and instant gratification of the ego are at an all time high. I have of course heard the saying that if you hang in there long enough, and have a basically decent relationship, that it gets better with time, that getting older together with someone you love and have lived with for a very long time can be very tender and very satisfying. Now that I have reached that respectable milestone in my own marriage, I have to agree. I feel like my husband and I have reached a plateau of peace and happiness together that is quite enchanting. Of course we have days we get annoyed with each other, you can get annoyed with anyone you live with over time, but there is a gratifying feeling of camaraderie , of understanding that is very pleasant. It made me wonder why it would be that such a feeling would only happen after having stuck through thick and thin for so many years. I have been thinking about this for over a year now, and it finally occurred to me : the breakdown of the ego. In the best case scenario, happiness in marriage comes with the breakdown of the ego over the course of the years together. To lose one's ego in the pursuit of family and relationship harmony and happiness is the result of the willingness to let the relationship and the family unity have precedence over personal pettiness and selfish objectives and objections. Marriage is the ultimate Buddhist training. Now this sounds far fetched, and perhaps terribly old fashioned, but I think that is beside the point all together. To learn to like someone you love, to overcome differences in temperament, energy, communication, libido, viewpoints politically and culturally and socially, is a long term process that requires enormous patience, persistence, humility and ultimately, a measure of compassion and wisdom. I did mean it when I said that the ability to breakdown the ego in marriage was the best case scenario. The worst case scenario in marriage is the breakdown of identity, which is the result of emotional and physical abuse, and which should end in divorce, because no one is worth losing your identity and dignity over, and in the worst of cases, your life.
I am talking about good marriages, where people try very hard to get along, to compromise reasonably, to be respectful, supportive and kind. Those marriages thrive because of the mutual willingness to break down the ego. It is an arduous process to be sure, but in the end , a very rewarding one. One of the key ingredients in the recipe for that gradual breakdown is a healthy sense of humour, towards oneself and towards one's partner. A second important ingredient is tolerance. Tolerance is not submissiveness. Tolerance and humility go hand in hand. To accept that your partner of so many years has opinions vastly different from your own, to accept they have at times vastly different tastes, dislikes, longings, passions. To learn from those differences, to celebrate them, is a learned skill, but one well worth the time and effort. Another element that is crucial in this breakdown of the ego is forgiveness. Holding grudges is very destructive to happiness in long term relationships. Honesty is also essential, no matter how distasteful or difficult it can be at times. Communication is always a challenge in any relationship, let alone a relationship that covers a life time. But be it as difficult as pulling teeth at times, trying to put your best foot forward in communicating issues great and small is ultimately very freeing and therapeutic. I know the notion of " ... and the two shall be as one... " when it comes to marriage is considered outrageously outdated. But over the years I have come to understand that this idea of two becoming one is a direct reference to the idea of the need to break down the ego in both partners in order to achieve the harmony that happiness requires of those who have the stomach to make the leap into the goal of maintaining a healthy long term relationship. The presence of children in that relationship only deepens the need for that breakdown of the ego. The willingness to lose oneself in the dedication to partner and children, while of course also staying true to the pursuit of one's own talents and dreams, is one of the most amazing personal journeys one can undertake. To be part of a team, with or without children, and to persist in that team successfully, fully, happily is very satisfying and creates a deep, profound peace deep in the heart and soul. True, there are times of frustration, exhaustion and doubt, but in the end, the view at the top of the mountain is well worth it. To be one as two has a bliss to it that reaches beyond problems, beyond fears, beyond setbacks, and in the end, beyond time itself.  

Past Forward Barry Ryan Style

One of my all time favorite songs has always been the 1966 song " Eloise " by Barry Ryan.
I first heard and saw it on our black and white television  in 1968. I was 11 and completely spellbound by the passion and energy of the song. It stuck to the bottom of my soul like super glue. It just stayed there, unmovable for all time. Every so often I listen to it, to kind of jump start my sense of still being young and relevant. Today I found a version Barry Ryan did in 2013. I hesitated for a moment. Did I want to see an older, middle aged Barry Ryan? Then I decided, sure, why not? If I can accept myself getting older, then why not accept a heartthrob got older, too?
I was pleasantly surprised.  Still dressed all in black, the singer's voice was undiminished, as was his energy and passion. He seemed completely comfortable with his short grey hair that with the passage of the years had replaced his lush, long black hair. But the face still looked  young, and he looked healthy and fit. He seemed happy with himself and where he was. It was very reassuring. He apparently had no interest in being anyone but himself. His voice intact, strong, powerful. It was past forward, Barry Ryan style, cool, slick, as fresh and cutting edge as ever. " Eloise " is such a unique song, in its depth of the emotions and the power of its passion. That he can still sing this song of  youthful passion with such conviction almost 50 years later is very encouraging. The heart and its dreams and longings have no age, no time limit. The song is amazing in that it describes both the depths and heights of passion all in one song with flawless transition and no self pity or hesitation. It is raw and tender all in one. One of the best love ballads ever, both rich in existential anguish and spiritual surrender and longing. In that sense it is art at its best. It is a true gem of both a unique time in musical revolution combined with the beauty of a song that will always  also be timeless, breaking both the barriers of its time and times to come. No wonder I wanted my name to be Eloise after I heard that song as a short haired shy eleven year old. Barry Ryan's " Eloise " will live and be loved forever. Who does not want that ? 

Seamless

How glorious the days of seamless skies within warm clouds and sun.
Sighs deep and warm, content and calm, under the clear dome of day, bright and blue.
Home with my husband and our son, intact, unthreatened, unbent, untouched by fear or harm.
My clan, my pride, my happiness, my hope, together, no rip or gap within, without.

How I treasure those glory days when all is well, as we are together, one blood, one name.
Time flows like water, warm, clear, abundant, free, underneath our firmament of crisp, white stars.
I hum, I sing, my voice one within the small world that is mine and yours and ours.
A circle smooth and strong, with no ridges, no repairs, no dullness or fractured edge.

How glorious the days of seamless skies within warm clouds and sun.
Would they were the only ones I need to know, today and all days to come.
Because I know all too well the days of broken seams and gaping sky,
with wounds to heart and soul ringing in my ears and mind,
and no reach long enough to close the opening above,
that stares down into my eyes, a ravenous wolf with nowhere else to go.

How glorious the days of seamless skies,
when I look up and feel only endless, timeless joy
as we are three, in our small, red, happy home. 


Trudi Ralston.
November 6th, 2016.
For Michael and for Nicholas.

Bright Star

Time is elusive in some ways, making us feel we can stay ahead of its dance
that pulls us along as the years go by, a fast train with no return track.
For nearly 25 years now you have been a bright and steady star
to all who experience your skill and warm, kind heart.

Absorbed by the constant demands of your surgeon talents,
you make sure all who cross your path feel loved and dignified
with their worries and concerns, time has not gotten the better of you
with its schedules and rules that can forget what matters most.

In your eyes I see more and more with each year that passes by
the wisdom of both joy and sorrow that mark their presence in your heart.
A poet once said that great souls have two hearts, one that beats and one that tolerates.
So is your heart to me, big and strong enough for two, so it can handle all it sees,
all it feels, all it keeps silent inside, for that is how love that overflows for all goes.

That is you to me, now, and how you will always stay, forever busy, forever kind,
with time for all, holding close all you learned, all you see, all you feel for those you heal,
 young and old, in that generous heart of yours that at times cannot bear the weight of life and death,
as you keep what spills over in your eyes, that are so deep, and know so much, and love and hurt with things they cannot tell.

Bright star, shine on, I sense you in the night sky and in my smile when ever I get to see you,
and wish with all my heart that you and I were sisters once upon a time.


Trudi Ralston.
For Dr. Laurie T. Sorenson.

Zomba Prison Project : I Am Alone.

This morning, looking for interesting albums in world music on Bandcamp, I came across two albums from Malawi, both under Zomba Prison Project, done in the maximum security prison there that is desperately overcrowded and in need of the most basic supplies, to raise money and awareness for the 2000 prisoners there, in a facility that was built to house 430 inmates. The songs, done by both prisoners and prison officers, are spellbinding in the warmth of the feelings and the depth of sadness they express. You do not need to speak Chichewa to appreciate the humanity the songs convey. The first of the two albums, " I Have No Everything Here", was nominated in the Best World Music Album for the 2016 Grammys and both albums were produced by Grammy winner and author Ian Brennan. The second album, " I Will Not Stop Singing" has a song titled " Everything Has An Owner " in which the singer and the melody reminded me of  the warmth and richness of Harry Belafonte's voice and songs. I was surprised at the power, hope, dignity and will the songs generated, and how the voices reverberated through my house and heart with resilient energy, giving testimony to the musicians' determination and humanity under what are undeniably horrible prison conditions that are apparently no stranger to absence of the most basic necessities for days at a time, like food. Go to Bandcamp and buy one or both albums. The money goes directly to Sister Anna who is in charge of providing assistance to the prisoners. One of the songs on the first album has a stunning song called  " I Am Alone " and is sung by a woman with a crystal clear voice that rings into your heart and mind across the distance of continents and oceans. You forget that the setting is a grim prison. Both the albums are amazing in the beauty of the heartfelt songs, the fierce dignity of the singers who seem undeterred by their circumstances, who seem to melt the prison walls with their courage to face unbroken the reality they are dealing with. The songs do not linger on bitterness, anger and loss, but on love for life. The songs also speak of love for family left behind, in melodies that are tender and heartbreaking, such as in the haunting song " Please Don't Kill My Child ", on the album " I Will Not Stop Singing ". Even without knowing the circumstances or understanding the language, the song is spellbinding in the most chilling way.  Instead of doubting life, the songs want to affirm it, inspiring the listener in an honest and humble but never shy or uncertain way. A beautiful project! I think I will not only purchase the two albums, but will also surprise gift them to a friend far away who will be delighted and intrigued. I know I am. The rain and grey clouds seemed to melt away as I was listening to the songs that also inspired a renewed sense of perspective and determination into my own challlenges.The best way to say thank you to the muscians is to let them know I heard their songs, their voices by supporting their cause across the miles shortening the distance from their hearts to mine.  

The Stellar Connection

It is intriguing to me how small, quiet moments can reveal important truths to our heart and soul.
My husband brought home a calendar filled with beautiful portraits of cats. We have had cats for 27 years now, and I am very fond of our feline companions, past and present. As I was admiring the insightful portrait photographs of the various cats, old, young, male, female, I was struck by how the photographers were able to reveal intimate aspects of each cat's personality and disposition. Some cats looked back at the camera with soulful eyes, others seemed amused, others yet curious, or shy, or proud. Each portrait apparently taken with great respect and patience, revealed a being that was intelligent and had a story to tell. Over the years I have spent a lot of time communicating with my feline friends, and body language through the eyes and sounds of varying timbre and intensity go a long way as to how our cat companions let us know their moods and needs. I touched the photographs tenderly, trying to get a sense of each cat. Looking at them brought back the cats we had lost over the years to old age, illness, a bad encounter with another cat. I saw hints of those cats we lost in the pictures of the calendar. It stirred old hurts and old loves. The calendar included the story of each cat, some happy, some sad, and the pictures revealed as much in their eyes.
I remembered the words of ancient wisdom " Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." And it hit me like a ton of bricks, that we are all connected, that there is no separation. When a pebble hits the water, its effect of ripples goes all the way as far as it can go, before coming back to the point where it started. So it is with all our connections, with all the people and animals we bring into our lives. We are all stardust that comes in different shapes, made from the same batch  of ingredients, way up there where the stars glitter. If we love one, we love all, and all the love eventually comes back to its beginning point. If we hate and hurt, all that hate and hurt will come back and destroy us in turn. It was so clear to me now. No new revelation I know, but it was new to me in that I knew in my bones that this was an undeniable universal truth, constantly being trampled and ignored, constantly being practised and revered. On the cross, as He was dying, Christ asked the God who sent him our way to forgive those who were tormenting and killing him, because "They do no know what they are doing." I understand now that this was true, and remains true. In a law that I know to be real now, whoever tortures and hurts, starves, imprisons, abuses, kills another, will eventually be faced with the same circumstances that caught up with them, whether in this life or a next one, as nature is keen on recycling and balance. Some call it karma, I think of it now as undeniable science, because you are me and I am you. Animals have taught me a lot over the years. A lot about love, patience, forgiveness, intelligence, understanding, time, hope, dignity. I have learned to listen to what they say beyond the limits of verbal communication, beyond the obvious, the familiar. My cat , and dog companions as well, are reminders that there is no such thing as no consequences, no such thing as no connection between all of us on this amazing planet we continue to ignore as it signs us desperately to listen, to open up our hearts and minds and listen. The stars we see in the others' eyes are reflections of the stars above and their laws. Your cat and dog know it, and now, I know it ,too. These laws are in place here, too. So be kind, be patient, be wise. There is no me and you. There is only love that is waiting for all of us to understand.

Incense at Dawn

With the night still black, the rain smells of incense and fallen leaves.
Singing like a waterfall hiding in dense woods, its wetness wraps around
dawn's struggling light, searching for colour among a sky heavy with fleeing stars.

Rain and its dancing drops fill my head with their silver song
as I let sleep take me back to where my dreams walk in the sun.

Music with warm flutes walks its melodies across the patio's willing stones
that welcome the rain's rhythms in shades of moss and mushrooms.

Welcome, autumn with your musty scents and black velvet nights,
as we warm our hearts and souls by hot fire and with hot drink and food,
knowing winter is still to come with its white ice and heavy snow,
before spring breaks the spell once more with bright flowers, and days and nights
filled with singing birds and happy frogs.



Trudi Ralston.
October 26th, 2016.

The Passage of Time

Over the weekend I got to see a friend from my undergraduate college days in Fort Worth, Texas. The last time I saw my Salvadorean friend was 32 years ago. As soon as I saw him, it felt as if time had both stood still and moved fast forward at warp speed. I had only seen a few vague recent pictures of him, but there was no mistaken my friend. A gentle, quiet person with a ready smile and warm, intelligent eyes, I was looking at the middle aged man my young college friend had become with the undeniable passage of time. When I was younger I was under the erroneous impression that older people understood better the mysteries of life with that passage of years and time. Being middle aged myself now, I realize that is just not so. The incoming grey hair and appearance of wrinkles only make it look like we know what the hell we are doing. Inside I feel still 27, and perhaps that is where the puzzlement comes. Our hearts do not age, neither does our love for our friends and family, yet when we look in the mirror certain days, it takes all our effort not to take it down or run the other way. To me, with each passing year , the mystery of life only seems to deepen. It is a journey with no maps and no clear ETA as far as our final destination, which is a land from which no one returns no matter the claims or imaginings to the contrary. Cemeteries remain utterly quiet to this day, as far as I know.
My friend and I and my husband had a very nice visit together. We spent hours just talking, sharing and it truly felt like time ceased to exist. It was a wonderful feeling. Perhaps those are the only chances we have at cheating time, by spending time with friends and loved ones,sharing common goals and dreams, thereby forgetting time and its constraints. Destiny is another strange bedfellow. Is there such a thing? Some people weave into the fabric of our lives like bright coloured stitching. I have a friend in France and another in Morocco I have not seen in a lifetime, yet they have remained in my heart and soul and are very much part of my will to thrive , to keep believing in life, in love, in friendship across time and continents. In that sense, the passage of time has not taken the upper hand. These friends are a part of me, of my heartbeat and hope, of lessons learned, of dreams longing to still be fulfilled, of dignity triumphing in the face of sorrow and loss. I have always enjoyed science - fiction, because it explores the possibilities of both technology in the future and man's adaptability and resourcefulness intellectually and emotionally, whether it is in the face of a dystopian future or the marvel of a hopeful, peaceful future. One of the constants in the challenges in these scenarios, is the manipulation of time. Instant teleportation from one planet to another, traveling at dizzying warpspeed, parallel universes, reversal of time are all enthusiastically explored, much to the viewer or reader's delight. Modern communication has done incredible things in shortening the distance between humans across our planet. Instant messaging and access to video communications across the globe allow people to stay in touch and maintain connections that otherwise would be challenged with the demands of both distance and its controlling cousin, time. With patience, respect and an open heart and mind, I have deepened  friendships with people that are far away geographically speaking, yet feel as close as were they living in my town. Perhaps there is an aspect of illusion there, because there is nothing better than being there in person, but, there is a certain poetic beauty in communicating with someone dear to you that you know is far away and that you have not seen in a long time, and that you may not see again still in perhaps more years and time to come. Perhaps it is the poet and writer in me, but instead of finding the distance daunting, I have learned to embrace it with passion and optimism. In this case, too, then passage of time is at a disadvantage, because it always loses when it comes up against people who care about each other. The past can be a beautiful bridge to the future, where the present is patient and tenacious, shortening the distance with each communication, until that distance becomes almost irrelevant. The passage of time then becomes a smiling accomplice in sabotaging its premise to keep us prisoners of its laws that want us to believe that all things pass. All things do pass, but the love we share becomes part of our spirits that leave our bones behind when time catches up with us to go meet our friends again beyond the brilliance of the silent stars.

Shadows and Rain

Silken soft the sun glides, rustling her quiet fingers through
the falling leaves in sparks of yellow, green and red.

Pushed aside by the heavy curtains of charcoal gray rain,
the sun takes her leave to try again another day.

Hard like a hammer and nails, the rain pounds the soft, wet grass,
scaring into the ground all creatures small and frail.

Shadows walking their steely boots crack across the land,
draining all colour and hope with their hard clenched hands.

"Violence masks itself through lies, and lies can only keep
their mask through violence", Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn knew this well.


Shadows and rain, standing shoulder to shoulder in menacing refrain,
the shepherds weary flee their flock, and in come the wolves, teeth bare and red.

All hail the dead, all scorn the free spirits who question the fists,
only those who know how to sing in silence and fly on invisible wings will stay free.

Shadows and rain, drowning out all colours that are not gray,
all voices that are not mute, all eyes that are not blind, all ears that are not deaf.

" Pourquoi cette pluie ?" asks the poet Idir in one of his soul piercing songs.
We should be careful that we, too, soon will not be asking why so much has gone wrong.

Bless the poets and the innocents, may they not be abandoned for their fire and their courage,
for it is they who will collect the ashes, hoping a phoenix takes mercy on the broken lives and broken dreams.



Trudi Ralston.
October 18th, 2016.

Second Layer

Caught between light and shadow, the fabric of our lives slips through
time's fingers, quietly, with soft shoed steps and cadences.
Its layers elusive to the naked eye, the fabric feels deceptively one and solid.
Not unlike our vision's eyes and dreams, it is only the traveler there who can see
the invisible once night flees before the call of dawn.


The stitches on the fabric's patterns a language all our own, with markings
that reveal only what we can tolerate to be seen , our naked souls shivering
bashfully without the warmth of blankets to cover our deepest fears and longings.
I could not bear for you to see me so revealed, so vulnerable and real,
as you too, pull tighter the clasp on your own crimson robe .

Second layer, deeply hidden within the smooth first layer of our heart and mind,
rarely revealed, rarely shared, will you ever notice it is there, in all its golden shimmer
and searing delight? Will time ever look the other way, as the fabric rustles past
the forest where everyone hides beneath the sturdy oak of oath and pride?

Passing over me like an eagle's shadow on a bright blue sky, I wonder if you too
look up into the wideness of the air, and catch a fleeting scent of my breath reaching
to touch yours in your own muted flight?


Trudi Ralston.
October 10th, 2016.

Standing Watch

A valley holds a lot of space, holds meadows and mountains, too.
It has a wisdom all its own, as it quietly moves through the seasons of time.
Standing at its edge seems to temper its magnitude and awe, that have seen
their weight in sky, gods and stars.

And so time passes its shadows across the clouds and lands,
witness to our passage through this measure of life that is briefly ours.
Standing watch at opposite sides of the globe, our steps echo only to silence's call.
The distance so wide, from your mountains to mine, from your voice to my dreams.

There was a time when the distance between our paths was measurable and held some spark
of both delight and learning, before distant shores called you home and I found a home of my own.
A bond of culture and history made us friends, with me eager to learn more.
The distance did not vanquish you from the visits you made to my imagination's dreams at night.

Standing watch still after all these years,with many a poem and story shared on its trail
between your shores and mine, a source of pride in a book of poems that now bears your name.
A valley holds a lot of space, holds meadows and mountains ,too.
It has a wisdom all its own, as it quietly moves through the seasons of time.

Times wears like dust off the desert's stones, and we do not notice it wears off us, too.
I hear you walk still and hear your voice in my dreams, where time can both stand still
and reverse its chime, while in the waking hours it is becoming clear to me,
time has, in the end, its way with us all. 


Trudi Ralston.
October 3rd, 2016.
For Driss Ouaouicha. 

Keepers of the Realm

It is a quiet place, where both light and shadow roam, in peaceful harmony.
Night follows day in obedient synchronisity, and birds delight in each dawn.
It is a place where home keeps a bright and warm fire, secure and safe.
A place that keeps a song in my heart and a purpose to my soul.

We are the keepers of the realm, the ones who made it to the other side,
away from the current of that treacherous river that could have taken us down.
Free, strong and our own clan, we stand together, far away from delusion and cowardice.
It is our quiet place to enjoy and share in modesty and dignity.

It is a quiet place, where a humming tune never is far, where grapes and strawberries
and Asian pears and blueberries grow, along side fragrant Sweet Peas and Moring Glory,
where squirrels take delight in rustling our hazelnut bushes, and Blue Jays take off with
the cherry's sweet fruit and fragrant juice of plums.

Keepers of the realm, so we are,the three of us, of our home at the edge of lake and forest,
where the Bald Eagle soars in glorious skies leaving its strident call as signature and name.
The tall trees guardians all around, at the campfires we enjoy under summer's stars,
and the swimmingpool's sweet cooling water a soothing drink to their thirsty roots.

It is a quiet place, where both light and shadow roam, in peaceful harmony.
Night follows day in obedient synchronisity, and birds delight in each dawn.
It is a place where I wear my solitude as a crown, hard earned and proudly shown,
it is where my name is new and feels now to be my very own.


Trudi Ralston.
October 3rd, 2016. 

The Garden Snail

Moving softly in gliding silent strides, a garden snail caught my eye.
I gently moved the private creature to a quiet spot away from the tools
my husband and son were using to repair some damaged patio tiles.

The snail's pretty brown shell sported leopard like stripes,
that seemed bold compared to its shiny grey spongy body.
I sensed its concern as to my intent as I placed it on some tasty bright green grass.

The sun hit the animal's small body, casting a  perfect shadow of its shape,
with the pointed antennae looking perfectly lined out in charcoal black ,
its shadow self a perfect twin to its earthly coloured shell and vulnerable mass.

As the snail moved in slow motion across the grass, I was struck how its shadow
kept perfect time with its master's pace, I delighted in the observation as would an awestruck child.
Here there was revealed more than what was supposed to meet the eye.

If only in this life we would find a balance between our shadow and our light,
letting neither one get ahead of itself, not the good , not the bad, as we leave
our trail and mark along the path that we glide along, feeling our way as best as we can.

So often it is tempting to let only our light come forth, and we deny the need of the shadow following behind. So often the light is denied to favour the power of the shadow, leading to great harm.
To allow both to live side by side, in humility and awareness that few are all light or all night.

The garden snail had moved out of my sight by the time my musings came to their conclusion,
but the humble, quiet creature lingered in my mind. It had taught me something important I thought.
To be gracious, to be kind, and never to lose sight that we are all struggling with both the shadow and the light that life's mystery gives us no choice but to master and understand. 


Trudi Ralston.
September 26th, 2016.

Breakfast Bliss

It was late Sunday morning and the sun was streaming its silk opaque light into the bedroom. I looked over to my husband who was softly snoring sunk deep in our blankets. I stretched luxuriously in the warmth of our big bed, and looked over the edge to see our dog curled up on her pillow bed hugging her favorite pink flamingo stuffed animal. I got up to check on our old kitty Tigger who had somehow pulled a muscle in his rear right leg, and was walking around stiffly like a little old man with a bad case of sciatica. My son's bedroom was quiet, he was also still sound asleep. I smiled. Everyone was home, that meant my husband would cook his big Sunday breakfast. The best part about his breakfasts was that he enjoyed making them as much as he enjoyed eating them, and we loved his enthusiasm. The kitchen would fill with smells of hot waffles and pancakes, of bacon cooking crisply, of eggs with grated cheese, of orange juice, honey, butter and plum jam, of coffee. I love the fact that my husband likes to cook, it makes for many a cozy meal and hour on the weekends, and it gives me a break from the meals I cook during the week and on also on weekend nights. After the leisurely relaxed late breakfast, my husband and son got busy repairing some of the thousand tiles on our patio that got loosened over the course of the 22 years ago when they were installed. My father and husband did the project together when our son was just two. Over the years , the cold and rain and heat had done damage and split about 70 of the tiles, and there were quite a few stretches of grout that needed to be redone as well, even where the tiles were intact. I busied myself with the dishes and the rest of the weekend laundry which always included the bedding and blankets and pillowcases of our dog and cat. Then I was able to get back to the tapestry of a young cat I was currently working on. That allowed me to hear and watch the guys busy on the tiles , as I use the kitchen table by the sliding glass door which leads to the patio and deck. It was such a simple weekend, with such simple pleasures, such simple tasks, but they filled my heart with a rush of bliss and warmth. I also felt a deep sense of gratitude and an understanding that having a family that lives in peace and safety and happiness is not something to be taken for granted. My husband and I both grew up dealing with parents stuck in dismally dysfunctional marriages fueled by the rage and misery of alcohol abuse and all its ugly minions. The world is today very tense, here and in Europe, the Middle East, parts of Africa and Asia. Hostility seems to be everywhere. There is a tendency to think in terms of us versus them, of turning the clock back to a time of intolerance and hatred towards those who are different from  us, both in our own country, and abroad. The most vulnerable pay the price, especially in the endless war in Syria, that to me raises the spectre of the atrocities during World War II when it comes to the brutality of the extremists towards their own people, and the indifference from some communities towards the suffering of the millions of refugees fleeing the barbarism of fanatics.
In contrast, the simple joy of a relaxed weekend breakfast and weekend project with my husband and son I know are treasured gifts. My mother was not very fond of my small and modest house, of our old cars, our simple lifestyle and unpretentious friends. But I think in hindsight she may have reconsidered her askew ambitions and relationships and how she favored them over her marriage and her children. Compared to some of the luxuries of having been raised the daughter of a successful CEO, my life is indeed very quiet and unassuming, but it is also happy and peaceful and real, and devoid of illusions and lies. My family is very small, since it consists of just my husband and son, but we have everything we need. We have a cozy home, plenty of clean water, and good food, we have warm, clean beds, safety, security, the love and devotion for each other, some loyal neighbours and friends, a supportive church. We live in a quiet street with good neighbours. We do not have to worry about bombs overhead, about destruction and fear around every corner, about fleeing our homeland with nothing but the clothes on our back, of seeing family and friends killed in the hatred and terror of a brutal civil war, of living without hope and a very elusive future. Perhaps if more of us appreciated what blessings we have, our hearts might be a little more giving, a lot more tolerant, and feel more love instead of fear when it comes to loving our neighbours in our own country and abroad who can only dream of experiencing a peaceful, bountiful breakfast on a sunny, peaceful morning in their cozy, safe,quiet home with all family members, children and adults, alive and well.
In that light, we should try very hard to keep war out of our hearts and minds, because that is where it starts, and before we know it we are part of the madness that thinks we should dislike or hate someone because they look and think differently.  The all wise Jedi master, Yoda, from the blockbuster success movie series, " Star Wars " cautions at one point that  " ... Fear creates anger, and anger hatred, and hatred creates suffering." This admonition seems to echo the Zeitgeist we are struggling with. Let us hope that in view of the horrific mistakes of the all too recent past of World War II that cost the lives of millions and millions of people, we can overcome that terrible blind fear and hatred that is born out of selfishness gone mad.   

The Encounter

The soft, sweet scent of one of the last Sweet Pea flowers in the backyard garden tickled my nose as I inhaled its perfume deeply. The sky above me stretched turquoise in  a tight, smooth canvas. I luxuriated in the caress of the sun's warmth relaxing my face. A few white clouds floated overhead, reminding me of misplaced cotton balls. The silence all around me bounced a familiar echo through the quiet house. I put the house keys down on the kitchen counter and they briefly sounded with the resonance of a chime. It was cool enough now to wear a light sweater on my daily walks with our dog, and the slight early evening chill felt comforting. Plenty of yellow, dry leaves were crunching under my feet as I crossed the lawn to refill the dog's water dish. The solitude I had initially been hesitant about, started to feel more like a chance to get to know a part of myself I had not been around, so to speak, since I was about 14. I think that was about the last time I felt truly comfortable spending time by myself, with myself. After that, the solitude turned into a melancholy loneliness being pretty miserable in a strict Catholic all girl high school. The challenges of being in college abroad as an intellectually well prepared but socially inexperienced and shy teenager only reinforced the sense of alienation and often intense loneliness. My last year in graduate school was very satisfying as I met several of the friends who would become important and remain in my life, some of them through intense correspondence. It was also the year I met my husband of now 30 years. It took me a very long time to find my identity in my marriage, to find my voice. I am so glad to be writing, to have a memoir out on Amazon and a book of poems written in French that are inspired by my friend Driss Ouaouicha, apart from also a publication of poems in English. I keep my blog I started 4 years ago current, and am working on a second publication of poems in French and English. Writing is a solitary occupation, and in my case it has allowed a journey of self discovery, of coming to terms with the past, the now and hope for the future. After going on seven years of confronting my trolls, I am beginning to feel more comfortable with myself, and I am no longer so reluctant to embrace my solitude. It feels in some ways like I am meeting myself for the first time, or at least reintroducing myself to me. And it feels both exciting and a bit unnerving. It feels I have a second chance at defining myself, something that was cut short because my adolescence was simply removed by a very strict father and a mother who was all too glad not to have to acknowledge that she had three daughters threatening to crowd her mirror and her narcissistic obsessions to be the prima ballerina at all times. Feeling comfortable with myself, how I dress, my makeup, my perfume, my choice of purse or shoes, jewelry, on a perhaps silly level, and my thoughts, my dreams and hopes, my will, my strength, are all feeling to be finally mine, not indoctrinated through either one of my parents, although I often remember the lessons of wisdom I learned from my father. To be free of my mother's ghost and negative influences is a great relief. It has been such a long journey back to myself. I may be 59, but I feel new and fresh the way I did when I was a young teenager. I feel a sense of identity and energy , of peace and hope all in one, it feels so good. The challenge of solitude due to all the family loss remains, but I feel confident I can work through it. I certainly no longer feel the need to walk away from it. The inheritance of solitude is a now a part of me.  It  has allowed me to undertake this journey of self discovery, of becoming friends with myself. A long overdue trek into uncharted territory.     

The Decision

Books are known for their capability to leave lasting impacts on our psyche, mind and soul.
And when they are done right,  well done movies do the same. They leave an indelible imprint on the viewer who feels changed by the experience. I am not sure why, but I had not seen the 2002 movie  by Roman Polanski, " The Pianist " until this weekend. The movie, based on the book by the pianist Wladsilav Szpilman, is sublime, in its cinematography, in the setting of the miserable conditions in the forced resettling of the Warsaw Jewish families in the walled in ghetto,
in the brilliant acting by Adrien Brody. The haunting depiction of Nazi inhumanity during the Holocaust is a subject that will forever remain raw and sickening in the history of human kind. It continues to stun me that the worst acts of genocide were perpetuated by inhabitants of the center of European civilization. I remember how in the aftermath of World War II my father struggled with the idea of establishing friendships with Germans necessitated by his business connections. My younger sisters both dated young German students while in college in the US, and I know how my parents both had a hard time accepting the possibility that heir daughters might marry these young men. When that did not happen, they were visibly relieved. The wounds the Nazi monster machine left in the people of Western Europe who were traumatized by the war are very slow to heal. One of my maternal grandmother's cousins perished in Buchenwald, and the stories of the horrors of the Nazi death camps were everywhere when I was growing up.
" The Pianist " is brilliant at showing very deeply and intimately the shattering effects of persecution and brutality the Polish Jews endured during the Nazi occupation of their homeland. Adrien Brody's portrayal of Wladyslav Szpilman pulls us into his mind, his heart and soul and we feel his suffering and losses to the bone. There is a surreal quality of both horror and beauty in the depiction of the devastation. The almost unbearable tension between human frailty and tenacity is done in apocalyptic magnitude. Before I watched the movie I was aware of its importance and quality, but not of the details of the story it portrayed. By the time the movie introduces Wladyslaw Szpilman to Wehrmacht officer Wilm Hosenfeld, played so soberly by Thomas Kretschmann, I was resigned to the idea that the pianist would be shot or arrested and taken to an extermination camp like the rest of his family. But the German officer is war weary and decides to help Szpilman. He regularly brings him food, and even gives him his heavy winter coat and thus helps him to live out the rest of the war. The movie does an exquisite job letting us know that Hosenfeld was tired of the atrocities committed by the Nazi empire. In a bizarre twist of fate, Hosenfeld perished in a Soviet concentration camp in 1952, on false accusations of spying, despite efforts by Szpilman to have the German officer released. Apparently, Hosenfeld learned the name of the pianist in the course of their last meeting, while the pianist did not learn of Hosenfeld's name until after he was taken as a prisoner of war by the Russians. It was a bitter end for a man who had tried his best to help as many Jewish people as he could. And it must have been heartbreaking for Wladyslaw Szpilman to have been unable to save the life of the man who saved his. It is an unnerving story of the enigma of destiny and redemption. It is an astonishing story that is haunting and spellbinding. The presence of Chopin's piano music becomes the voice of the mystery of the presence of evil in the presence of beauty and human dignity, warmth and love. Chopin's exquisite Ballade No.1 in G minor added a personal touch for me, because my maternal grandmother was fond of playing the Polish composer's music on her piano, and she had lost a close relative in a Nazi death camp. The beauty of Chopin's music is in agonizing contrast to the brutality that the movie gives witness to. The silence of  Wilm Hosenfeld who seems absorbed in a dream like state while listening to Szpilman play Chopin in the bombed out building where the emaciated  pianist took refuge is more powerful than any words the two could have exchanged. The silence seems an affirmation of the decision the Wehrmacht officer made a while back to stop participating in the genocide perpetuated by the emblems of the uniform he was wearing.
The decision to say no to endless brutality and fathomless inhumanity. The decision to stop the madness, at least for the people he could, while he could.
Adrien Brody is superb, considering he was only 29 at the time of the movie. I thought he was in his late thirties. I was interested to learn that the real Wilm Hosenfeld was posthumously recognized in Yad Vashem as one of the Righteous among the Nations. He died in a Soviet concentration camp on August 13 1952, from a rupture of the thoracic aorta, possibly sustained during torture. Szpilman lived and worked on as a successful pianist and composer in Warsaw until 2000, where he died at the age of 88 on July 6th. The movie is an affirmation that people can rise above the definitions they are told to uphold, even in the most brutal circumstances, and it does not get any more harrowingly brutal than the Holocaust.   

No Man's Land

When I was about ten, I read a Flemish translation of an 1878 French novel by Hector Malot. It tells the heartbreaking story of a child who loses his family and wanders around for years trying to figure out where they are and it left a lasting impact on me. The Flemish title to the original " Sans Famille " became " Alleen op de wereld ", literally meaning " Alone in the World ". The title in English became " No Man's Boy ". In the story that involves a lot of loneliness amidst the wandering and traveling, animals become important companions. I have since early adolescence had a real affection for animals, and since my husband and I got together 36 years ago, we have had 9 dogs and 4 cats, so far. I have enormous respect for the love and empathy animal companions are capable of. Each day I walk our current dog, a female Flemish Bouvier - Black Labrador we adopted from a local no kill shelter 4 years ago when she was 3. I walk her in the early evenings, as she is high strung and is easily upset by other dogs. So our walks together are very solitary as most people are busy eating dinner when I take her. I often think of the  " No Man's Boy " story. Even as a child I had to deal with solitude. I was a serious child who liked to read from an early age on, and reading was a way to escape the solitude from two parents who had very busy social lives, and younger siblings who were not interested in my serious nature. As a child I felt drawn to this serious story that seemed to speak of my own struggles, even into the future, when it came to hanging on to what would become a shattered family, that ultimately would be nothing but a dusty ruin. Today again, the book that hypnotized me as a child came back to mind, as I walked down a very quiet street where the only companions for my dog and I were the houses and the trees. Destiny is a strange thing, if it is at all. But I cannot shake the feeling that some patterns in our lives seem already outlined, if not concretely, then in our subconscious intuitions and inclinations. Like a tune we hear once when we are very young and that we can hear at different times in our life's journey and that leads us like a siren to the path that we cannot seem to avoid. A song that is both unnerving and reassuring in a nauseous sort of way. As I am walking my dog each day, it is intriguing to me that the image of the young boy in " No Man's Boy " walking alone with his dogs and his monkey would remind me of me walking alone in a land that in many ways is not mine, looking for the ghosts of my family lost in the journey of this big, vast land. Just like the young boy Remi was looking for his family, like a character in a novel, I keep looking for the family I lost. I imagine I will take a walk and see my father coming towards me, or my youngest sister. I know this will not happen, but the identification with Remi as a person gives me the emotional sensation that I could reverse time and find my family to be still alive. On the days I walk our dog alone it is a very strong feeling, and it is so strange to me that the story of the wandering boy that so impacted me as a child would now be a script that I carry not only in my memory but in my walking steps and that I feel beat in my heart and breath. Remi 's story had a good ending, he ultimately is reunited with his family. My story has a good ending too, in that I found a good husband and have a very kind son. So the days I get to go walking with them, the ghosts are still there, but they are friendly. Yet on the days I get to walk our dog by myself, I look forward to the ache of hope that this could have been the day I find my family again.    

First Generation

As goofy as the last dream might seem on first appearance, the dream I had the night before that was very realistic and serious. In the dream, my husband , son and I were living in a future community that concerned itself with healing the earth and its food sources. We were growing crops for the purpose of extracting the toxins out of the soil, harvest and burn those crops and then grow fresh crops that were toxin free. We were working hard, non- stop, with very positive results. I remember it was very hot and dry in the dream, there was a lot of dust. We had access to a good, plenty full well, and we were working on a rice field. I remember the sensation of planting the rice seedlings in the cool water. The sound of it was very pleasing and encouraging.
When I woke, I told my husband about the dream, and he told me that the technique I envisioned in the dream was an actual technique used. That made me feel proud. Not bad for a dreamy eyed writer and poet, considering my husband was the experienced gardner, not me.
Later that day, my mind kept going back to the dream. Somehow the content and aspirations of the dream made me think of being a first generation immigrant. How hard it has been to hang on to my identity, especially in view of the traumatic loss of my family that immigrated with me. I had read somewhere that the first generation is always the one that sacrifices itself for the betterment of the next generation. I am very devoted to my husband and son, and it is true that I make a conscious and well measured effort to put them first, always. Perhaps outdated as an idea, but in my case it has encouraged me to confront my trolls head on, as one Texas artist friend noted, and as a result start writing, both prose and poetry, and start my metallic threads tapestries and my photography of flowers. A solitary journey to be sure and perhaps that is why I kept going back to the dream where my husband, son and I were healing the soil, to make it better for the next harvests. Perhaps the dream was as much an allegory of my own journey, and the journey of my husband and son, as it was an intuitive way to deal with a concern for the pollution of the earth's food supply. As a first generation immigrant with no original family left, feeling invisible is a daily reality, one I have come to terms with and understand well. I get immeasurable strength from my black Baptist church and its wise bishop. Courage under fire runs as thick as blood in the black American soul and experience. So I consider myself lucky to have had a neighbour 22 years ago who introduced me to the most fascinating spiritual journey of my life. Planting a crop of seeds just to see them grow and then having to eradicate them is unnerving for someone who views all life as sacred, but I understand the symbolism when it comes to my own life. I know a  lot of my 40 years here continues to be planting a crop that will need to be pulled up, cast aside and burnt, so that in time the crop that will be planted after it, will be fruitful and free of past toxins and limitations. When you pay attention to your dreams they can teach you a lot. But you can't be in a hurry. You have to be willing to plant the seeds of understanding one at a time, with care and respect for each one as you put it in the forgiving ground. And you have to pull the sacrificial crop with mercy and love, knowing it is willing to die so the next crop can thrive. Two ends with one middle, one no less important than the other in the process of healing and redemption. 

Candy Menagerie

My dreams continue to be a source of intrigue, delight and puzzlement. Last night confirmed that once more. Those who know me are aware of my love for animals, and my fierce desire to love and protect them. I also have a collection of stuffed animals, both for myself, and my cats and dogs over the course of now 31 years of taking in shelter animals. In the dream I was living in this spacious modern house, and apparently I had a room dedicated to just stuffed animals... the thought makes me both cringe and smile. I have always and continue to go through great lenghts to take good care of our animal friends and it is therefore a bit unnerving that in my dreams about them I often am dealing with anxiety because of noticing they are in need of more water and food. Now, this dream was doubly strange, because I had apparently forgotten to feed my stuffed animals... and apparently their diet was candy. The sticky, hard candy kind, that as a kid you were told is terrible for your teeth. And my stuffed animals loved that kind of candy. One blue stuffed little elephant jumped up in delight of anticipating lemon drops. I even remember the sound of squeeky delight he made... I had candy strewn all over the plush carpets, with stuffed animals laughing and munching loudly on their very dubious meals which I was putting out as fast as I could in small shiny metallic bowls. It all sounds like the dream would be uproariously, ridiculous fun. But there was an undercurrent of concern and dismay on my part at having forgotten to feed them. This from a person who gets up at the crack of dawn to cook fresh meat for our kitty Tigger, who had always had a very delicate digestive system and who is thriving now with a largely protein diet of lean meat, which he prefers hot. I know, but after losing him almost to a very bad cold a few winters back, seeing him now shine in a thick, furry healthy coat makes the effort  well worth it. So, you would think I would be allowed to relax with my animals when I dream about them. No such luck. Most of the time, the dreams with them are full of worry and concern and the perpetual struggle to make sure I feed and water them on time.I told my husband about the dream, and he thought it was very entertaining. That made me feel better. I thought of when I read Sigmund Freud's "The Interpretation of Dreams" a revolutionary work in psycho analysis. It was a revelation to me, and has guided me through more than one complex dream. But I do not think that the father of psycho analysis would have been very pleased to hear about my stuffed animals dream and their clamor for candy. It might have stretched his sophisticated sense of humour beyond tolerance. However, it might also have encouraged the master to scratch beyond the surface. The surface of the hard candy and the surface of the soft stuffed animals as well.  

Fade

Le gris de la pluie danse ses ombres autour des nuages dans mes yeux,
une musique de piano qui chante blanc et noir dans mes pas humides.
J'ai pense a toi, si loin, ne plus jeune comme moi aussi,
sur cette photo que j'ai trouve par hasard.
Ton sourire et la lumiere dans ton regard le meme de il y a 30 ans.

C'etait qu'une brise de mer passant, un moment d'avonture et chance
perdu maintenant dans le passage des annees et leur lignes strictes.
La couleur de la photo presque grise avec la poussiere des heures enfuies,
l'espoir que tu as donne persiste encore, une fleur tetue, seule et rouge, dans le jardin fade de mes illusions.
Le jour viendra quand ni toi ni moi n'existeront plus, et la photo se perdra, etrangere et inconnue.

Fade, une belle couleur pour un foulard doux et chaud.
Fade, notre amitie qu'un souvenir sous les etoiles indifferentes
au passage du temps, aux reves des hommes, petits et grands.
Toute ambition coulante vers le neant, ou je te chercherai encore
pour te raconter les reves de mes poemes qui t'attendront encore, les coeurs battants et chauds, en plein sommeil eternel.


Trudi ralston.
September 8th, 2016.
Pour Driss Ouaouicha.

The Reckoning

Summer seems to be ending as abruptly as it started, 3 weeks before the end of it, the same way it started 3 weeks before spring even was over when it blasted into June with a week of over 90 degrees Fahrenheit heat. The rain feels very welcome, very soothing, with the realization that we now no longer need to worry about the threat of forest fires on this side of the mountains in our state. I took our dog Yara for a balmy, humid walk in between rain showers. She stopped on a very quiet street to munch on the tips of the deeply green, wet grass. I stood waiting patiently for her to finish, listening to the crickets, and absorbing the utter silence all around me. She and I seemed to blend into the trees and grey sky around us. I felt a wave of acute awareness of my solitude in this big country roll over me. Other than my husband and my son, I have no family in this vastness of over 300 million people that is the US. Without them, I would be completely alone, other than a few faithful neighbours and friends. I do have some friends in Texas, in France, and some cousins and an aunt in Belgium, but that is far away. I thought of a Belgian born friend now a Canadian citizen in Toronto, and a friend from El Salvador who has lived for over 30 years in Texas. They are single, and both have very positive dispositions and energetic personalities. They too, had the courage to lose sight of the familiar shore of their land of birth, and the will to thrive in a country not originally theirs, not linguistically, not historically, not culturally. I enjoy their friendship, their optimism, it keeps my own will and determination going, too. It is some immigrants 'destiny to be surrounded by the people and family of their homeland, like my Vietnamese friend here in Olympia. Such was not mine, nor my friends in Texas or in Toronto. I no longer feel sad about it, I have come to peace with it, but that does not mean it does not hurt anymore. My husband of 30 years was born in this country, so was our son, so this is home to them to the marrow in their bones. To me, as a US citizen already 22 years, this is home to me too, but not the way it is to them. The marrow of my bones is Flemish, and loves to write poetry not just in English, but also in French. It longs for my native tongue I never get to speak or hear anymore, unless I call my aunt and my cousins in Belgium a couple of times a year. There are no Flemish parents, or siblings, or extended family here to have visit or go see. Gregarious and restless by nature, I am to be a lone wolf, poised, strong, stubborn, determined to keep my soul and heart intact and free of the fear that one day I may be all alone in this ocean of people. I have been aware of that possibility for some time, but over time, that realization can feel more sharp than it did when I was just a young college student enjoying the adventure of being in another country. On bad days, it feels like a reckoning over which I have no control and I do not understand. On good days, it feels like a profound and not unpleasant surrender, like walking into a thick foggy forest of which I can only see vague, strained outlines. But then, the most daring adventures in life are that way anyway. Being born lands us into the mystery of life, and we do not know where it will take us, and we have no clue as to our death, its circumstances or time. So, I was already born and am getting to the other side of that forest somehow, so,being an outsider these 40 years already in a foreign land, I am very used to that feeling of walking in a fog not really sure what it is truly all about. Dying should not be so scary then,when my time comes. I am already used to the unsettling feeling deep into the marrow of my heart and soul, of  having left the comfort of  the familiar behind to take a journey into the profoundly elusive of the unknown.   

Quiet Courage

One of my favorite times in our backyard during the summer is early in the morning. The air is sweet and still cool when the turquoise sky above already makes it clear it will be a very hot day. The birds still have the energy to chirp busily as I put out fresh water and breadcrumbs with seeds for them, our Morning Glory flowers show off their crisp, pretty princess- for a day- blooms. The solitude is healing in those moments. I was happily surprised one of these peaceful mornings to hear piano music coming from the house of our longtime next door neighbour, Mark W.  He and his family have been our neighbours since we moved to our house 27 years ago. His wife Karen lost a very brave battle with cancer last year, and I still feel very emotional about her being gone. She stayed positive and strong until the very end. When I would have the courage to go see her, I always was impressed by how dignified she was. I often felt it was she who cheered me up, rather than the other way around. She would show the latest pictures of her children and many grandchildren. For someone like me who lost all her immediate family, it instilled a deep awareness that family in life, a family that supports and loves you and treasures your well being, is everything. I told her that many times, careful to keep my emotions in check, as the hurt inside my heart is raw still when it comes to all the sadness I had to endure when it came to being an outcast from my own blood. I enjoyed sharing with her that I had been able to re-establish friendships with several cousins on my father's side of the family, and how good that felt. Then last October, Karen passed away. Her funeral was amazing, worthy of the strong, faithful woman she was. Now I hear her husband Mark play his beautiful piano tunes from my backyard and it fills my heart with hope and joy. I am sure there are moments and days even, when playing his music is hard, but Mark plays anyway. There is a strength and determination in the melodies and their energy that speaks true of his and Karen's legacy of strong family and strong faith. I let the rich notes of the piano music fill my solitude. And I thought of courage. Quiet courage, the kind that makes people in difficult circumstances put one foot in front of the other, often unnoticed, day after day. I need that courage on certain days, more often than I care to recount, and listening to the beautiful music makes me feel connected, makes me feel my courage, quiet as it is and unnoticed, counts too, just as Karen's courage did, just as Mark's courage does. And the courage of all the people around us who try their very hardest to make a difference, to their families, their friends and neighbours. The quiet courage to keep on keeping on, often unseen, unheard. That is why listening to my neighbour play the piano so eloquently has such an impact on me. For he is not concerned with anyone hearing him in those moments. He is concerned with playing, with the heart and soul lifting joy and hope beautiful music brings. Without knowing it, he was inspiring me, is inspiring me, adding a sense of purpose and hope to my own struggles. That kind of courage is truly beautiful, when you end up inspiring others without even realizing it. So, give, share, whatever you have. A smile, a talk, a moment, a picture, art, if you are an artist, and you will inspire others and in the process make sure your own soul and heart stay vibrant and alive.

Thawing in Black and White

A black and white photgraph showing myself and my two sisters and brother and all our cousins on my father's side finds me lingering on the emotions around coming to terms with the passage of time. In the picture I am 8, holding onto my sister Ludwina who was 3. It is clear she is trying to evade my grasp. My heart ached seeing us, and in the end I was unable to hold onto her as she committed suicide in Georgia just months shy of her 36th birthday, a victim of bi - polar depression. On the other side of the photograph is my brother, 7 at the time, 58 now. I last saw him at Ludwina's funeral in 1998. He no longer wants any contact. In the bottom right hand side of the black and white is my sister Goedele, looking inquisitive, with my cousin Marc's hand resting protectively on her shoulder. He is 11 in the picture. Goedele died of cancer at age 44, leaving behind an 8 year old daughter and a 6 year old son. The picture also shows, seated to the right of me in the front row, our cousin Mieke who died in a fatal car crash in her mid twenties. The picture beams with smiles the way only children can light up a camera shot. In the chaos of my parents' tumultuous marriage, we lost track of our cousins, and in the last few years I am so happy to enjoy getting to know several of them again. It is that joy that gives the picture, that moment in black and white, frozen in time, hope and dignity. It softens the sorrow of all the loss and makes me feel I can go home again because of my cousins Myriam N. and her sister Nele's warmth and acceptance. What is frozen in time, of loss and longing to reconnect is now thawing with a feeling of warmth and gratitude. I lost the chance to be friends with my father's sisters' children when growing up, and now I have the chance to get to know them as adults. It is a wonderful feeling. The past is gone and cannot be retrieved, but the present can heal past wounds and that is a generous gift, one that adds a touch of sweetness to the salty taste of my deeply hidden tears over the years. I look so much forward to the day I will see my cousins again, and smile with  them, and talk with them and hug them and laugh and cry and get to know their children and grandchildren,and have them get to know my husband and my son, and feel my heart set free, at last.  

Affliction

There is a 1997 movie with the rather subdued title of " Affliction" in which Nick Nolte gives a stunning performance as a man haunted by the abuses he suffered as a child at the hands of his abusive father. James Coburn is chilling as the alcoholic father who as an elderly man still emotionally terrorizes his two grown sons and their mother. The narrative is from the perspective of
the younger brother played very soberly but highly effectively, by Willem Dafoe.
In the story, Nick Nolte's character is a sheriff, Wade Whitehouse, who becomes entangled in a hunting accident and its fallout, and in the process starts blurring the facts with his never resolved trauma as a child brutalized by a perpetually drunk father. The screenplay by Paul Schrader is spellbinding, and is a tour de force adaptation from the novel by Russell Banks. The atmosphere the movie creates as Nick Nolte's character unravels is Shakespearean in scope as the tragic elements are all in place to lead to the destruction of both the father and the oldest son, Wade Whitehouse. James Coburn's character's capacity for boundless cruelty, both physically and emotionally is riveting. It is like watching a ship sink with all the survivors on board drowning,and not being able to look away.
The movie hit a deep and raw nerve in me, as an adult child of an alcoholic mother who left deep scars and profound misery on our family. My youngest sister committed suicide, my father lost all power in his marriage to our mother and died alone, stripped of his house and all his possessions. My other sister died young leaving two small children behind, my brother and I became permanently estranged. I married the oldest son of a man who was terrorized by his violent alcoholic father in turn, as was his younger brother while their mother encouraged the devastating behaviour.
If you are reading this and you are young enough to start a family, and you have a drinking problem, please get help. The destruction will not end with you. Even if you become sober, the scars will last in you and even with your best efforts will affect your children on an emotional level, as you will struggle with guilt, resentment, anger, detachment, depression's shadow, and isolation as you try to salvage the damage alcohol wreaks on the heart and soul. "Affliction " is a hard movie to watch if you have been exposed to an alcoholic parent, but I am glad I saw it. It reminds me that I need to stay vigilant as to my own healing but still very real emotional hurts, and to stay sensitive to the hurts my husband endured growing up. My husband and I are both lucky we had access to therapy, and that we did not turn into alcoholics ourselves. I do not drink at all, and my husband never has more than two drinks of any type of alcohol. The movie is unafraid to show the true darkness of addiction, how it is never a victimless crime. Everyone in the life of the alcoholic suffers damage, and the worst damage is always done to the spouse and the children. It is a heartbreaking story told with dignity and brutal honesty all in one. The actors are brilliant and will leave you haunted and forever aware of the ugly, violent nature of alcohol addiction and its legacy of human suffering and misery.

Summer's Delight

The turquoise air crisp and clear with each relaxed breath I take
the clouds above blinding white, I smell the ocean's precise salty scent.
Pelicans above me soar their boundless freedom on cool, swaying wings.

Summer's delight clings to my hair and eyes, the breeze setting ablaze
sunset's light, searing its fire into my smile and heart.

Ephemerous unlike the stars above, I sway on the beach's soothing sand.
I exhale and the present becomes past.

Summer's delight escapes my touch like a dove set free
in a circus trick, my sigh unable to hold  my delirious plight,
as time's clock sings its enchanted piano tune.

Soon I will need a sweater to ward off the autumn's chill
and the rustle of browned, dried leaves will hum beneath my walking feet,
and far away will be summer's memory and its honey taste
in my cup and in my dreams.


Trudi Ralston.
August 23rd, 2016.

Quel Courage Il Faut

Quel courage il faut pour construire une echelle
d'un coeur a un autre.

Quel courage il faut pour guerrir les blessures
qu'on recoit sur ce voyage ou ni les etoiles se risquent.

Quel courage il faut pour apprendre les mots et les silences
necessaires d'atteindre ce chateau ferme qu'est souvent
le coeur de la personne qu'on aime tant.

Quel courage, quel amour fou, il faut pour entendre
les chansons souvent muettes de l'autre coeur qu'on
veut tellement decouvrir et comprendre.

Quel courage il faut pour t'aimer, mon ange,
si grande et dangereuse est cette mer ou tu as construit
ton isle que j'essaye de connaitre, malgre les tempetes
et les chaleurs etouffantes.

Quel courage il te faut a ton tour, pour me trouver
dans cette eau immense ou mes poemes et mes reves
se perdent a chacque fois.

Quel courage, quel energie et desir infatigable il faut
pour survivre cette expedition une fois qu'on a perdu
l'horizon et ses sirenes seduisantes.

Quel courage il faut pour continuer a monter cette echelle
si capricieuse, quand on risque de tomber au neant,
le coeur brise, l'ame blessee, et le corps gene.


Trudi Ralston.
August 15th, 2016.
" Behold here is a paradox :
the deep and high are nearer to one another
than the mid- level to either."
Kahlil Gibran, "Sand and Foam" ( 1926). 

Sculpting Shadows

Sculpting shadows out of silk threads in my dreams,
I gather wet clay from the sky's clouds dripping 
their blue paints in heavy wishes and sighs. 

My breath a flute playing notes captured on the wind's games,
I call on birds to join the melody rehearsing in the sun
among the sunflowers whirring like belly dancers with tiny bells on their toes.

The clay figures emerging jump like eager gazelles up to the sparkling stars
as I stretch my wings and watch the shadows lining up their parade,
humming alongside my song with measured finesse.

Sculpting shadows out of silk threads in my dreams,
I gather wet clay from the clouds and the rippling rain
draping their blankets over a sleepy summer day.


Trudi Ralston.
August 8th, 2016.
" Dream until your dreams come true ":
Steven Tyler, 1973. 

Ripple Effect

Rivers have waters that can overcome you,
the wetness deceptive in its softness as it wears you down.
Your words ran me down like a wave coming out of nowhere,
leaving me shaken and cold, water pouring from the blue of your eyes
right into my unsuspecting soul.

Love's ripple effect without mercy pulling me under
no light or warmth to save my wound from bleeding now.
The scars searing in revulsion at the surprise of your contempt.
Love's ripple effect, so cruel when it has nothing left to tear apart,
but dignity and resolve. 

Prisoner with an open door, with a big sky above,
I let my anger pace with my humiliation, as you realize
just what you did, at least until the next time, so it goes.
Rivers have waters that can overcome you,
and so I shall overcome you, one river at a time.

Words, water, all washed away one more time under the bridge
where forgiveness meets courage, my naked soul shivering but proud,
I swim where you fear to wet your steps and reach for the shore ahead
as you slowly soften the sunset colours in your stoic gaze.


Trudi Ralston.
August 6th, 2016.
Amor omnia vincit.   

Le Petit Sac a Main

25 centimetres par 14 centimetres, tu es tout petit dans mes mains.
Ton cuir lis et brun a l'odeur de 45 ans passe dans l'oubli et la poussiere.
Je t'avais oublie, je ne savais meme pas que je t'avais garde dans une boite
au garage, emmene a travers un ocean vers ce pays grand comme un temoin muet.

Temoin muet du jour ou tu etais achete sans amour et sans joie,
simplement un petit cadeau vite fait par ma mere impatiente.
Je voulais tellement etre son amie et sa fille aimee, mais les amants
prenaient toujours son temps et sa gentilesse.

Je me rappelle son irritation quand on t'a achete en vitesse.
Cela me brisait le coeur, voyant ses sacs a main Dior qu'elle s'achetait tout le temps
en cuir tres cher, en croco ou serpent, ou avec la fourrure d'un tigre grand.
Ses yeux durs et meprisants, elle ne me regardait qu'avec arrogance.

J'avais 14 ans, toute timide et genee, et elle ne voulait pas de moi,
j'etais une distraction de ses souliers italiens et mantaux chers qu'elle se mettait
pour impressioner ses hommes, avec qui elle se moquait aussi de notre pere ingenu.
Elle etait la reine, cruelle dans ton insouciance quant a notre jeunesse et dignite, notre futur
comme filles et femmes fieres et sures de nous.

Et me voila avec ce petit sac a main, tout vieux et passe, seul dans sa boite
comme mon adolescence que tu as jette dans la poubelle pour le plaisir de tes amants.
La reine qui ne voulait pas des princesses dans son miroir pour troubler son importance
a tous ces hommes qui voulaient de tes folies de grandeur et de l'argent de papa.

Le petit sac a main, la cicatrice visible sur mon dressoir qui restera la maintenant,
orphelin sauve de sa solitude pour se retrouver dans la tendresse de mes espoirs
avec mes 59 ans toujours restee un peu innocente et perdue quant a mon coeur et ses voyages.
Comme moi, le petit sac a main a ses rides et ses imperfections avec le passage du temps.

Ce n'est pas si grave, tu seras encore aime, tu seras encore avec moi dans mes idees un peu fades
de jeunesse et bonheur qui se trainent souvent dans le pays de mes reves, mais aussi dans l'amour
de mon mari et mon fils qui comprennent pouquoi j'aime tellement tes imperfections.
La reine qui ne voulait pas de toi ni moi est bien morte depuis 8 ans, et ses yeux froids
ne nous feront plus de mal.

Trudi Ralston.
August 5th, 2016.

Which Way

By now, I am quite used to my outlandish dreams. They have been an integral part of me since I was a child. The last ten years have added a new scenario to the consistently complex scripts my night dreams treat me to. Last night was no exception. The scenario is one of bewilderment at not being able to go home  because I cannot find my way. Last night I was at an enormously huge amusement park somewhere in the US, it looked very much like Los Angeles. The amusement park had hundreds and hundreds of large reenactments of fairy tales, enhanced by slides, Ferris wheels, merry go rounds, trains, castles, villages, boat rides, roller coasters. The crowds were enormous. I remember looking out at them, and it looked like a huge colony of ants milling around madly. The roar was deafening and had an unease to it against the backdrop of a tangle of freeways in the hazy background. In the dream I was waiting for my brother, who was going to meet me at the entrance of a water slide with his son and daughter. My father was there at one point, but he vanished in the crowd and I was unable to find him again. I tried to call my husband but I could not put in a number that worked. My brother never showed up, and I was wandering around the mad fairgrounds by myself. I remember at first being intrigued by all the different displays. They were beautiful. The details were impressive, some artists had put a lot of thought in this mega play land. Then I got hungry, and could not find any money in my wallet. The heat was oppressive, and I was thirsty. I talked to a kind ride operator and she bought me a burger and a drink. She explained how to find the exit, but I became overwhelmed by the elaborate directions. A sense of panic set in. I looked around me and saw nothing but a screaming crowd that seemed to have lost its mind in a sugar and heat induced madness. I felt like I was trapped in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. As intriguing as the feeling was, the nauseating oppression of being lost with seemingly no way out quickly took over. I found some shade and ended up talking to a small group of circus artists, little people, who showed me respect and kindness. They reassured me that with enough time, I would find a way out. I realized that even if I did, I still needed to get home. They said I was welcome to stay with them, there was always room for one more lost soul. I woke up before knowing if I ever heard back from my husband, or if he ever found me or how I liked living at the traveling circus with my new found friends. The question " which way? "  became a spell in the dream that emotionally left me feeling shaken when I woke up. It sure was good to see my sleeping husband next to me, and to hear the quiet snoring of my son through this bedroom door as I walked around my cozy home with the snoozing cat outside in the morning sun and the chirping birds. I walked around the peaceful backyard with its hundreds of flowers, its pool and greenhouse. Our dog Yara walked happily beside me, barking at some passerby. I made it home, after all. I felt a great sense of relief, and of gratitude. The ghosts had not made it across the boundary between the dream world and the reality of day.   

Past Forward

Every couple of months, I call my aunt Lieve in Oostende. She is in her mid seventies, strong, independent, who as a single woman etched out a successful career in the social welfare system and helped hundreds of people. Incorruptible, hyper intelligent, possessing a warm heart and a razor sharp mind, I have looked up to her since I was a child. I treasure our phone calls, and even though we are on opposite sides of the planet when we talk, it feels like she is standing right next to me. She is a realist but with a tireless optimistic streak, and I have learned to chase away more than a number of grey clouds in my heart by recalling her wit and humour and resilient spirit. She is re- introducing me to my father's family, to his parents, his sisters, my cousins, and indirectly, to myself. Learning about her childhood, the challenges she faced growing up without a father who died when she was not even 5 years old, and the challenges and rewards of her career, her knowledge of politics and of history, are a never ending source of delight and learning in our phone conversations. Through her, I have also been fortunate to get to know my father's sisters children, my cousins. I missed out on getting to know my cousins on my father's side because my mother did not enjoy spending time with his family. It often made me sad as a child, and it felt always like a part of me was missing. Now I talked for the first time to a cousin I had not seen or talked to since I was 17. We talked for two hours. The distance across time and space melted away. She lives in one of my favorite seaside towns in Belgium, a place I have very fond memories of. I also talk once in a while to another cousin, a retired hairdresser, a sweet guy, who I also have not seen in more than 35 years. Over time, the short conversations with him that initially were awkward and only lasted about 15 or 20 minutes, now last about an hour. It makes my heart so glad. This morning the thought " Past Forward " came to mind. Instead of retrieving the past going backwards in time, I get to retrieve it going forward. By knowing about my aunt's and cousins' lives now, I get a piece of the puzzle that helps me understand who I am and why I am. Some personality traits overlap, of perseverance, of humour and resilience, of compassion and a thirst for understanding and learning. It is the best feeling in the world. One of my cousins wants to come visit with her daughter, and I am so excited, I feel like a child on Christmas Eve. I can never recover the time we lost as children, but I can enjoy the time still in front of me to love my aunt Lieve and my cousins, to get to know them finally, to understand, to embrace, to be grateful. I have lost more family than I care to think about most days, and some pessimists will insist I now can never go home again. But as long as I am breathing and above ground, and can move " Past Forward " freely now, I sure as hell am going to try my very hardest. The thought of meeting my aunt and cousins in person again after all these years, back in my country of birth, and hug them and talk to them face to face will be totally awesome and will complete the at times bewildering journey for me that is taking me from the past to the future to finally end up back to the present where I belong, free and at peace.   

Thank You

My husband and I have a two car garage that over the course of 30 years got filled up to the hilt with
old stuff, a lot of it discarded old furniture and electronics. They make the inside of the garage look like a forgotten oversized storage unit. I was so glad last weekend when my husband decided he finally felt ready to let go of its dusty treasures. He cleared a good twenty percent of it out, not a bad start, and put the furniture that was still in good condition out by the street curbside with a "Free" sign on them. The smaller stuff he took to a local charity. Pleased with his resolve, I felt relaxed when we took our dog for her daily walk later in the day. When we came back, two young women were loading the old recliner into the back of a big old truck. I smiled. That recliner held some memories, mostly of our son as a toddler playing with the electric seat that would push you up when you wanted to get out of it. The older of the two young women yelled out to us as she was getting ready to drive off with the recliner : " Thank you! My father is disabled and this will be nice for him, it will give him a break from his wheelchair ... Thank you so much !" I answered that I was glad the recliner would make a difference. As the truck left our street, I felt a surge of emotion, a warmth that was a mixture of sadness and amazement. Sadness thinking of the woman's father confined to a wheelchair, and amazement that our old forgotten recliner was something the woman was grateful for because we were giving it away.
Over the years that overstuffed, dusty garage has been a source of irritation to me, but I look at it in a different way now, since my husband agreed to start emptying it out, giving the contents away. Like a garage sale, but one where all the stuff is free. Our son decided he did not want anything that was in big bins, that held old toys and books, since he already made the decision what to keep each time he cleaned out and updated his room over the years. So the toys and books in the garage went to charity,
a whole carload of them, and we have easily another nine loads of stuff to go before that big garage will be completely empty and we can replace the carpet and fridge in it, and after 30 years the old garage will feel brand new. It will match my attitude. It is always a humbling experience to realize that old stuff that just sat around can bring hope to someone else. I grew up under privileged circumstances and living a much more modest lifestyle reminds me that things do not come easy, and that to be grateful is a big part of a kindness that is both savvy and wise. As we were walking back to the house and entered through the front door, our small home felt extra friendly and cozy. Before I saw the truck and the young women loading up our old recliner, I kept thinking about an article I read in the New York Times while at my hairdresser, about the fact that 30 million children are displaced worldwide due to wars. The article followed the lives of three of these children, one 12 year old Syrian girl living in a Lebanese refugee camp with her parents and siblings, one 9 year old boy who fled into a swamp after the militia came through his village in South Sudan, and who lost all his family, and one 11 year old boy who lived with his parents in his bombed out house in a village in war torn Ukraine. Reading their stories was numbing and heartbreaking. The worst thing these children lost was hope. Their childhoods were destroyed along with their homes, their families and along with them, their belief in a future. The sight of the truck and the family in it taking part of our old garage's contents made me visualize these children who had to leave everything behind, all their treasured things, but also their sense of security, belonging, safety, identity. It made me feel good to know the stuff we were giving away was giving someone some hope and dignity at a time when they
needed it. I looked around our cozy, busy house. It is 32 years old now and we have lived in it for 27 so far. Its rooms need new paint and in some cases new wall paper, the furniture is old and mismatched, the ceilings need a fresh coat of white paint, the kitchen cabinets are worn, and tired looking. But to a refugee who has lost everything, our cozy, well supplied home would feel like a slice of paradise. A big new fridge full of good food, warm, clean beds, a clean bathroom with hot water, soap and shampoo, and fresh, soft towels, peace, security, a great garden full of flowers and with a pool to cool you off on hot summer days, workable cars in the driveway, no bombs going off, no fear, no pain, or despair. Irritation at a dusty garage full of old stuff would be a laughable concern. I thought again of the words the young woman yelled out : " Thank you ! Thank you very much! " Gratitude. I think it is a virtue that needs constant polishing when you can say you live without fear and with a full stomach with your family coming home to you safely every night.  

What You See

What you see are smooth lines and well blended colours,
shapes well defined, with a clear, solid perspective
on a well designed piece of sturdy fabric.

You see what you take the time to see,
and I work so hard to make sure of that.
Reds and golds, silver and blue, sky at night,
bright, shiny stars all quiet and poised.

But what you do not see until you remove the frame
and turn the fabric around, are all the knots and tightly woven threads
that no one now could ever unravel or begin to find their end.
My struggles, my triumphs, my hopes and dreams, disguised
in twists and turns so dense, a forest all my own with no tour guide.

What you see is only half of me, and perhaps it is the reason
for my solitude, a clown dressed in a sparkling suit that covers
the most painful wounds and holes inside my heart and soul.

And so, perhaps what I see of you, the smooth lines and blended colours
of your eyes and smiles, your words and your silences,
they too, are only half of you, all you will let me see.

So around we go, two halves trying to be a whole,
like mimes on a stage too big, too small to grasp
all the gestures that say I too, am lost and have no answers for it all. 


Trudi Ralston.
July 19th, 2016.

Some Forms Of Hope

Emily Dickinson is quoted to have said : " The Things that that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead ." Emily Wu quotes these startling words at the start of the second part of her chilling memoir " Feather in the Storm ", about growing up in the harrowing chaos of China's Communist Revolution with the Great Leap Forward and its subsequent equally brutal Cultural Revolution together claiming the lives of over ten million people. The words rang in my mind like a gong that reverberates into a headache. Civil wars are always especially brutal, and Emily Wu's sensitively written account of her traumatic childhood rings true to that fact all too often illustrated in the story of human history. Families are torn apart, are destroyed, are pitted against each other. Heartbreaking and bringing to mind the eternally unanswerable enigma of evil and all its monstrous manifestations.
I remember my brother saying to me, when my parents' marriage and our relationship with our siblings were falling apart all at the same time :  " World War III has started." At the time, 15 years ago now, I thought he was being quite overdramatic. But the facts cannot be denied. Once the dust cleared of my parents' bitter end to their long marriage, there was nothing but rubble left. Both our sisters were dead, my brother and I became permanently estranged, my father perished alone in an Alzheimer center in Oostende, and my mother died of complications of liver and kidney cancer certainly related to her long time alcohol abuse. All that remained was a hole in my heart big enough to drive a truck through. There are no family reunions, no family anniversaries, weddings, baptisms, Christmas celebrations, bbq.s. There is no family left. Perhaps that is why the quote by Emily Dickinson was so jarring when I came across it. It hit a nerve that stays raw regardless of the passage of time. The words that hit me the strongest were " some forms of Hope ". There are still days when I have to struggle hard to overcome the pull against the loss of hope that started when my family destroyed itself. Emily Dickinson is right, there are things that never can come back. No matter how hard you try, no matter how hard you pray. What is lost stays lost when it comes to the loss of family. It leaves one alone. Not alone as with no one around. Alone as in uprooted like a tree, your soul always gasping for air, longing to have your drying, dying roots be planted again in the comfort and belonging of an earth family there for you. You see trees planted securely all around you, and your heart aches for the ones pulled up and struggling like you are yourself. It is an ache that never goes away. Like a volume switch, it will tone down its presence , but when you least expect it, it will pierce your heart again with deafening roar, as impredictable as a bomber flying overhead. It is not something I talk about out loud hardly ever to anyone, not even to my husband and son. It is hard enough to write about. Or even think about without the old trauma response of nausea coming back, because I just can't take it, my whole body recoils still at the unnatural act of being stripped of my roots, my family, my clan and the identity that once made me feel unique, worthwhile, proud.