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.