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.   

The Rescued Bird

I am not sure if I ever would have thought of her again. I am not sure what brought her to the fore of my mind once more. But thinking about the old kindly nun that left an impression on me one day in Kindergarten certainly explained something important to me. When I was growing up in Beveren, in the West Flemish part of Belgium, I attended their small parochial school until 4th grade. The vast majority of the teachers were nuns, all dressed in the traditional Catholic black and white long gowns, complete with the full head dress. It was an imposing uniform, that really did make them look like very tall penguins. One nun in particular, in the second grade, was very intimidating and had a way of slapping her students across the face if they did something she did not approve of. At the time, in a small Flemish village in the early 1960's, that was considered acceptable and no parents complained or even objected. This particular nun smacked me because I was writing with my left hand, considered the hand of the devil. Her big hand burned its big slap on my red cheek and in my memory. Fortunately, she was an exception. The nun I want to talk about was a tiny, kindly woman who tended the kitchen  that was attached to the small school. One day I was not feeling well and I was sent to the kitchen to relax for a while. I got to sit down on a chair and watch the kindly nun make bread. The kitchen had a large window that was left open to let in fresh air as it was summer and very warm. A small bird flew in the window and then sat rather wobbily on the windowsill, looking dazed and exhausted. The nun gently scooped up the small bird, and held it in her hands and quietly talked to it. The bird was shivering, so she held it close to the warm oven for a few minutes. The bird relaxed, and after it seemed recovered, the nun carefully put it back on the windowsill. It sat there for a few minutes, chirped what seemed a " thank you ", and flew off. The nun had this kind smile, and after she gave me a small cookie and a small glass of milk, she walked me back to my Kindergarten room. I have thought of her off and on, over the many years, never for very long, just a glimpse of the past, a moment in childhood. But I started thinking of her again when I bought a new small birdbath for our backyard. I have loved feeding our backyard birds for nearly 30 years now, and I always make sure they have access to fresh, clean water on hot summerdays, on a small table in the shade of the orchard under the tall cherry tree. It had never really ocurred to me that perhaps the kindness of an old, sweet kitchen nun when I was in Kindergarten instilled in me a kindness and respect for birds. Perhaps we all are capable of such moments and habits of kindness that leave an impression and in turn inspire someone to take the time to be kind as well. Kindness is the highest wisdom. Socrates thought so. It seems still very relevant today, perhaps especially today, in a world that is threatening to tear itself apart because it has gotten bored with kindness. 

Angry Angle

I see what is happening, I see it so clearly.
You are trying to take my voice, as were it a scarf I was wearing around my neck.
But I put it there. You cannot take it from me.
It keeps my soul and its dignity in place.

I see what you are doing, and it makes me very mad.
The voice you are trying to take from me is mine, and mine alone.
You cannot have it , not now, not ever, not even when I am no more.
I do not care if you do not like its tone or colour, no, I do not.

My voice is mine, it is not yours, not even for a damn minute.
The scream I contain is within my voice, you do not want to hear it,
of that you can be sure.
So, clear the space around my voice, my song, my breath,
for you are trespassing, my foe, my friend.

Do not distort this picture that is me, do not tear its corners
because it is where I reside, and the voice you hear is clear
and strong and true.
It is telling you, this voice is mine, you shall not have it.
Its music, its whispers, its laughter and its roar are mine
to share, to show, free, proud, it is my own.


Trudi Ralston.
July 17th, 2016.  

Morning Prayer

The summer air above me thin and warm,
I tiptoe around the silent morning,
a monk in a light blue nightgown that must be
too short to be considered meditation attire.

The squirrels rustle the hazelnut trees in crunchy staccato
as I try to make it to the blueberry bushes and not disturb their Sunday feast.
The quiet so thick, it feels I carry it around with me like an oversized blanket
that gets hung up on tree branches and sticky spiderwebs.

The silence expands like air in an inflating balloon,
bumping its way across thorny roses and spiny blackberry vines.
My fingers ligthly inky and red with the taste of earth and blood on my tongue,
I hum a tune I remember from my childhood cathechism days.


Trudi Ralston.
July 17th, 2016.

The Quiet Days

The rain sings down the green trees and leaves
dripping fresh scent to the thirsty ground.
The sky above muffles its light to a muted grey
intensifying bird songs to sharply fluted notes.

I breathe, relaxed, the perfumed air
my eyes puddles reflecting space and time.
Slowly I move, wrapped in the days' warm wet tale
raindrops shining beads on the flowers of my windowsills.

The quiet days lifting slowly their sleepy heads
hypnotized by the absence of shadows and their stars.
They conjure dreams like glitter, without paper or glue
and run on empty tiles, silent like wise 
ghosts and giddy butterflies.

 Trudi Ralston.
July 7th, 2016.
Thank God for quiet, rainy summer days.
They are the seeds of stubborn dreams.