Intermission

The light sparkles rainbows off the light framed chime,
dancing its geometric twirl in the rain fractured afternoon sun.

White confetti cherry blossom petals scatter like tiny paper birds
across the mossy grass, toys in the wind's large, playful grasp.

A faint melancholy plays on my breath, a fluted tune from my life's fleeting song.
I see around me the stage that is set out, well known and comfortable most days.
But a shadow lingers from time to time, shyly hiding behind the curtains at intermission time.

It is a quiet time, with murmurs in hesitant pauses, that taunt and tease,
awakening a sorrow deeply buried, of things lost long ago, in a far away land,
across an ocean, in a place that was my home.

A wound with blood that never dries, I stand alone at intermissions such as these,
on quiet days with no updated script, no sympathy form the audience's empty chairs.

I stand still, waiting for the feeling to pass, to let go of this numbing doubt as to why
the stage runs empty some days, hypnotizes my resilient heart and soul with its ghostly
sneers and howls, go ahead, try, try, there you go, good show, good show.

Then like a spell dismissed at a wizard's capricious whim, the wound's old sting subsides.
I push the curtains aside, and face the thin, distracted crowd, as I say once more well rehearsed lines.

Intermission time has passed once more, the chime's light, sweet song brings a faint smile
as I walk across the stage where birds wait respectfully for my cue, alongside bees and willing flowers.

The ocean in my backyard, I am home, a stranger only in name, when the happy days
make me forget the script quietly tucked into the seam of my slumbering hesitations and fears.


Trudi Ralston.
April 30th, 2017.

Giants Among Us

After weeks of unrelenting rain and unseasonably cold weather in our area, my son and our dog and I went for a nice, luxuriously relaxed sunny walk early last week. It was intoxicating to enjoy deep breaths of clean, fresh air and feel a soft breeze tickle my face, and tease my hair. We talked amiably about all sorts of things from music trends to politics, to our appreciation of the beautiful blue sky above and the abundance of fresh tender green all around we saw in the grass, bushes and trees. There were the bright splashes of tulips, cherry blossoms, water lilies, the occasional welcome buzz of a bee, the delighted songs of spring time birds. I looked up at some of the quite tall trees in the streets of our neighbourhood, and I pointed out to my son that all these trees look so much taller, because we have lived here now for 28 years. I suddenly had a thought, that struck me as both odd and enchanting as to its zany implications. What, I told my son, what if we grow taller each year , like these trees right here? The idea of giants among the human race is an ancient one, but what if we were capable, truly capable of getting taller each year? I know, the implications are absurd. Would our house have to be made of out of some science fiction stretch material that would grow taller and wider as we did, and our cars, and tools and furniture, and clothes... you see, the idea gets wild very quickly! The thing that fascinated me about the concept was the hope that maybe the extra height would make us kinder, more compassionate, more appreciative of the world around us, the possibilities, the challenges, the marvel and variety in nature, culture, circumstances. Maybe if we could see more of the world with each passing year , we would get closer to solving some of its unrelenting problems, like hunger , poverty, violence both personal and political, pollution, greed and corruption. We could actually see up close the horrors of a famine, or drought , or civil war, and say, we have to do something, and reach out faster and more efficiently, because the distances to cover would be so much smaller and easier to overcome as our bodies would grow each time. It is a fairy tale idea, to be sure, but as this world's problems become more overwhelming and large, the idea of us as benevolent giants being able to respond faster and more efficiently has appeal. Our worst faults are often the result of poor vision, inability to see the large picture, the true impact, the true suffering, up close and personal. If it only took us a couple of hours to walk to another continent or country, and our large bodies would be able to carry large amounts of relief supplies with great ease, long drawn out wars and conflicts might be resolved very quickly. As technology allows us to communicate instantly across the globe, to send pictures, both delightful and heartbreaking, it is frustrating to see how the factor of physical distance and time can drag things out to torturous pace, allowing the quagmire of corrupt politics and sheepish diplomacy to perpetuate human tragedies of loss, misery and death, with the dozens of wars everywhere strewn across the planet. We could bring relief quickly, of water, food, medicine, temporary shelter, transportation, communication, protection from further harm and violence. Looking up at the fifty feet tall trees around me, I thought how nice it would be to have their perspective, from on high. Maybe that is one of the many reasons people like to go to the top of a mountain. It changes your perspective. Things look smaller, less overwhelming, more purposeful. I could not help but imagine how giant eyes , arms, hands, legs, hearts and minds might move so much more quickly to resolve what so often overwhelms humanity. My son and our dog and I continued our walk. I felt both small and reassured by the tall, silent trees around us. What if ? The outlandish idea of being as tall as they were put a smile on my face. Perhaps nothing would be solved, as Alice in Wonderland and Gulliver both learned on their imaginary still so mesmerizing travels. Perhaps everything would. Maybe on some distant planet, the beings there already have the answer, as I imagine them watching us with their huge knowing hearts and eyes, wondering will these tiny humans ever figure out how to have peace and prosperity for everyone in their maddeningly off kilter world?  

The Dressing Room

Humility is a great quality. Well, if you ever need to be reminded of that, make sure you are at least fifty something, then go shopping for some clothes after winter, just as your mind is full of bright colours and your expanded form full of springtime fever. I did that today. The fashion gurus this spring and summer seem apparently intent on bringing back the dubious styles of the mid seventies. I can only imagine what that could possibly mean. I guess we will be making macrame hanging baskets next. Hopefully it will not also include being out in the streets protesting another dead end hypocritical war like Vietnam. Anyway, there I was, brightly flower patterned blouses in hand, on my way to the dressing room, cringing at some of the more nauseating colours and styles I came across on my way to the forever formidable inescapable truth those quiet private spaces with locking doors convey. There is the initial moment of bliss that comes with anticipating the trying on of something new. Held up to my clothed self, the prospect seemed hopeful. The undressing is always the moment of unwanted truth, and the sheepish feeling it comes with even if you are in that dreaded moment by yourself, because it invariably feels like some sadistic warden is watching you, laughing cruelly as the mirror reveals the reality of the event. Okay, well, that stupid blouse is obviously not appreciating my unique body. Geese, doesn't anyone know how to make decent clothes anymore? I remember wearing something like this in high school, it looked good then. What is the problem here, people? Look at that charming face, anything would look good with that. Look at that smile, damn, you still got it. Now why the hell does this not fit? The stupid light in here, and that mirror! What is it with these dressing room mirrors? Do they purposely go out of their way to make people's new clothes look this unflattering? My mirror at home, now that mirror has class. Everything looks good on me there. God, so what do I do? Take this home, I bet these blouses will look super cute with those pants I got earlier. They sure don't look any good here. I bet it is because I am hungry, yes, that's it , this whole hunger thing has me look at this outfit all wrong. Then you go and ask your husband and he is trying to be as nice as possible, saying things like a different colour would bring out your eyes more. Of course! That's it! Why did I not think of this? So, I actually go and get the blouse in a green colour. The thing is, dressing rooms look the same our whole lives long. They are the forbidden space we dare to go in, from the first bra we try on, to the dress we buy for our fiftieth birthday, and it is a scary place scary all the visits in between. That is because our bodies are not frozen in style and time, like the dressing rooms. They change. And it is the damnest thing, we get older, and our bodies right alongside with us. Over the years I have come to terms with that, I think it was actually when I turned fifty. I looked at my naked shape in all its vulnerability in that cold, neutral space with that heartless, judge of the strange, unfriendly large mirrors all around me of  the department dressing room that day, and I saw someone who had been through some stuff and who was proud, and strong, who had taken some blows but came out wiser, kinder, and who was still imperfectly attractive. So I looked back at that woman I saw in that unforgiving mirror, and I decided at that moment that I would forgive my imperfect, lived in body, because it was a reflection of the story of my lived in heart and soul. That allowed me to look at what I saw with both humour and tolerance, with appreciation and pride. This was me, all of me and , apparently, from some angles, more of me. I smiled at my reflection in that mirror then, and I smiled at it today. Life marks us. It marks our bodies as it marks our souls. I saw a woman both vulnerable and tough, both humble and proud. I saw power in my eyes, determination in my stance, I saw someone whose body revealed the challenge of having your identity and integrity mocked and questioned. I saw courage in my broad hips and strong legs, warmth, tolerance and heart in my ample bosom. I saw youth still in my smile and in my curly long blond hair. I saw the story of me, and the  naked imperfections were just part of what made me "me ". I tried on a few more blouses, until I found the ones that matched that pride and determination, and I walked out of there aware I was just one of the billions of people on this amazing planet who was and had been doing their very best under at differing intervals, trying and unflattering circumstances. I walked away at peace with the imperfect body that held the imperfect me, in all its glorious, heartbreaking, infuriating, tender, inspiring, annoying and lovable curves and charms.

Echo On The Wind

The chimes in my backyard sing noisily, clanking silver in the pale morninglight.
Spring is late, as a cold wind blows on the trembling flowers below.
Winter is hanging on, as the sun tries to push one season ahead, worry on her brow.

The rain brings me back inside, leaving its wet touch on my eyes and hands.
Like the buzzing of insects gone mad, the news of the world's anguish grows,
as apparently the memory of the last global horror has faded incomprehensibly.

There is an echo on the wind, one that does not return the song my chimes are singing,
but one that has the darkness of drums of war and despair.
I hear the laughter of the small children down the street, sweet crystal on the hope I pray will prevail.

Where do we go from here, the chimes want to know,  "why would we care?" the dark drums growl.
There is an echo on the wind, its breath is icy cold, soldiers like spectres walk the dark clouds above, zombies from the past rising to the sinister call.

There is an ill echo on the wind, and it is spreading its disease
with no remedy for anyone but the mighty and the tall, who will watch the world burn
as they shake their arrogant heads at the vulnerable and the small.

There is an echo on the wind, there is no translation for its insane moan.
Time is going into a slowmotion spin, before its roar and madness fast forwards us into the bleakest of nights with only the memory of the wind before its bottomless fall.



Trudi Ralston.
April 12th, 2017.
" War is the ultimate madness. " Leonardo da Vinci. ( 1452 - 1519 )

Where ?

Oh, where do you keep coming from,
and what are you running from.
as you once more come calling to the land of my nighttime dreams?

You have lived in the spirit world for some time now,
but here you were pacing restlessly, asking me to talk to you,
asking me to meet you somehow.

You haven't changed in all those forty plus years,
your eyes still full of honey clear light, your hair still black and bright,
and your scent still carries the roar of the ocean at night.

So, where you do keep coming from, what are you running from,
and what is making you so anxious now ?
I was barely no longer a child, but I loved you so, could not get through to you,
so why do you bring me flowers now, sweet pansies, purple and yellow,
tied with a pretty bow?

I cannot believe it now, that you are here still somehow,
that you want to be near right now, that you think of me now,
so far, far away of where I have been, so far away of where you are walking now.

So, where, where do you keep coming from, what are you running from,
as I can see you miss the child in me that looked at you so adoringly,
that hurt for you, and longed for you, barely old enough to blush at your coy smiles and bright mind.

I cannot believe it now, that you are still here somehow,
that I can hear your tenor voice calling me, that I can feel your hands touching mine,
that you are still wearing that red sweater and that blue jacket after all this time.

I went and smelled the rainsoaked pansies in yellow and purple in my backyard just now,
as the morning light chases away your presence and your song.
And where does time spent with you go, will you keep coming now?

Where, where do you keep coming from, what are we running from?
I know where time goes now, it gathers like dewdrops deep in the forest of our heart.
So that is where you should keep running to, and once in a while, I'll be waiting there for you.


Trudi Ralston.
April 8th, 2017. 

The Walk

When you are walking in the dark, it is best to take small steps.
You cannot see beyond the sound of your beating breath,
that wonders if you will make it to the hour of light.

When you decide to go walking in the dark, listen carefully
to what the shadows tell you, and pray the stars are bright and near,
and that the wolves are fast asleep.

Dans le noir, toutes possibilites sont ouvertes, puisqu'on ne sait point
si la route est honnete ou si les compagnes sont sincers.
Et c'est cette incertitude qui donne l'aventure, mais ou sont
caches les vipers et leurs poisons?

Dans les tenebres, memes les intentions sont invisibles,
et les monstres sourient, bien deguises et bien caches.
Et qui etiez -vous dans cette nuit inconnue?



When you are walking in the dark, watch your back,
for bravery is not a trait of the sinister of mind. 
Sit still and wait for the sunrise, keeping close and tight
the sword that carries the fearless and their scars to keep free their strong, proud heart.



Trudi Ralston.
April 7th, 2017.

Standing Still On a Spinning Wheel

The sky feels soft like warm blue powder brushed gently on my face.
Quiet piercing my soul like small needles cottonball clouds,
I sit and spin with the earth and the sun by my side.

Time sits on the steps next to me, a jar full of sweet honey and dreams.
The birds above musicnotes in a bright, clear symphony
white and bright above and under my silent feet.

Standing still on a spinning wheel, yesterday, today and tomorrow
clear glazes on life's golden rays that are a part of me,
unsigned, unknown, yet near and dear to my beating heart.

All of us standing still on a spinning wheel, 
wondering where the journey will take us, as we step while we can
all around all over this big green shiny valley looking for the way home.



Trudi Ralston.
April 6th, 2017. 

Blemishes

My husband and I are in the process of repainting and rewallpapering our 33 year old house. It is exciting to give our home a facelift, to brighten the faded and tired looking paint in the rooms. On our way into town, to get more paint in a variety of bright colours, we laughed at some of the quirks of our old Buick cars. One is 20 years old, the one we were driving, and the only way to roll down the windows is to shift the car into park, also, the heater switch is stuck, so it is not a good car to drive in summer, and it has a funky musty odour since a water leak was fixed on the floor of the backseats. Other than that, a dynamite engine in a bright red coloured car with an intact body. Michael laughed out loud with me, and he observed how old things have a charm because of their quirks. It means they have a story to tell, that they have been around for a while. He added, " kind of like people when they get older. The blemishes on them too, tell a story. " I liked the way he thought of it, and it made my irritation at the red car's quirks less sharp. I thought how our culture now idolizes physical perfection, physical youth. Certainly not moral perfection from what I can observe. The idea of attributing dignity and purpose to blemishes as we age, has a wisdom and kindness to it that is tinged with nostalgia and old fashioned qualities like tolerance, acceptance, and the realization that life is temporary, no matter how many facelifts a person gets. Renovating our home feels good, I especially am happy about replacing our old walnut kitchen cabinets that were put in in 1984, and getting instead cedar cabinets and a granite countertop to replace the old bright blue vinyl one. Updating is fun, there is no denying that, but it is also good to be tolerant of old things and the service they have provided for so long before we discard them. Perhaps that is why second hand stores and vintage stores stay popular. There is a certain amount of charm to things that have stood the test of time, even if that means they are old and as a result a bit dented, dusty and faded. Just like the rest of us. And just like the old stuff at the local vintage shops, all we need more often than not, is some polish and fresh colour, and the best shade that comes in is kindness and love. That is why I always donate my old stuff, whether it is household items, or clothes. I always wash my old stuff before I donate it, and fold it neatly and bag it and label it. It was useful to me, and in good condition, clean and ready to use, it can mean something to someone else who might have need of it. Blemishes have a story to tell, in us, and in our stuff. Treat both of them kindly, with a warm and big heart. They will treat you kindly in return, with lessons in generosity and humility. It is the nature of life on this planet that things get older, and fade with time. To accept that sets the heart and soul free. So be gentle with yourself as you get older, be gentle with your partners in life , in family, and be gentle with the stuff you let go of, both physically and emotionally. It will brighten the light in your eyes.