Love is a Root

Love is a root that digs deep into the fertile earth that is our heart.
It yearns to find a hold, and burrows its hunger and thirst pushing aside any resistance around.

Love is a root that is the anchor to its flower above.
Its humble courage is to stay underground while the flower enjoys the sun's warmth.

Time wilts the flower as is well known, but the root will survive fall and winter's darkness and cold.
Spring and summer return, bringing another flower in fresh green dress and delicate petals and crown.

So it is that love persists if it is real, digging deep its root to see the rhythm of sun and stars.
That is why true love is blind to the harshness time brings to flower and leaf, and sees with blind eyes
the beauty within, the warmth and fire that reaches beyond what is hidden from sight.

Love is a root, and it is well it is so, those who cut the flower and discard its earthen soul,
will never know the rich, sweet flavour its truth so generously holds.

I consider myself wealthy beyond measure, my love, for you have shown me both the pleasure
of the flower above, and the treasure of the root that lives silently, strong and secure below.


Trudi Ralston.
May 30th, 2017.
For Michael.

Douceur de Silence

Il y a une douceur de silence qu'il faut du temps pour comprendre.
Elle est differente du silence qui se promene parmi les arbres de printemps et le lever du soleil,
et qui touche les fleurs et la rosee a l'aube.

Il y a une douceur de silence qui existe dans le coeur,
et il faut beaucoup de patience pour la connaitre,
parceque elle ne se montrera pas si tu n'as pas de tendresse et courage.

Cette douceur elle chante son silence pas pour le corps mais pour l'ame,
elle sait tes souffrances et tes victoires, elle est l'ombre et la lumiere
de ton yoyage dans cette vie complexe et inexplicable.

Comme une caresse apres des larmes cachees, cette douceur te gardera
toute discrete pendant les tempetes et les fetes, les nuits sombres et les jours joyeux.
Il faut simplement ecouter tout tranquil les notes de sa chanson gentille: belles, claires,
n'importe les detours et les saisons.



Trudi Ralston.
May 16th, 2017.
" Silence is the highest revelation."  Lao - Tsu. 

Lord Baldwin's Ballads of Love : " For Her "

Anyone familiar with the range Chester Baldwin showcases in his music knows this is a musician of many talents, who is able to do all the varied instrumentation and harmonies and do all the writing in his many musical  albums. Over the years I have come to grow fond of the bard's warmth and sincerity, of both his passion and tender side, his sense of justice and also his sense of humour and capacity for compassion.  He has a unique heart and soul, and a deep knowledge of folk music in the best traditions of the great masters, like Dylan, Guthrie and Young.
This particular album is dedicated to his wife of over forty years, Diane. His love and devotion for her sparkles like quiet, bright stars in all his albums alongside his themes of concern for humanity's destiny and current bend, his love for the plight of the common man, his love of family and his knowledge and insight into the American psyche in these trying times. In " For Her ", Chester Baldwin keeps the instrumentation to a minimum, to make sure the lyrics and their meaning stay unwaveringly in the foreground, making sure his voice alone expresses all the love he feels for Diane. There are 22 songs on this album, and all the songs are deeply personal and moving. I have a few favorites by now, like " To Be Somebody With You ", "The angel By My Side ", "She Loves Me Anyway", " On A Slow Burn ", " When You Touch My Heart ". There are also songs that reveal a lighter side , tinged with a dash of tender humour, like " A Mind Of Her Own", and " Ain't We A Pair". This album is a testimony to his steadfast, strong, kind wife. Anyone who is lucky enough, like myself, to know Diane, can truly appreciate this album, because we have all benefited from her patience, compassion, and love at one time or another. She is one of those rare people who leave us wanting to be better than we are, and who sees the best in everyone even if we are not deserving.
This album is stunningly beautiful, because it touches on the wonder of having stuck with the same partner through the ups and downs of life. There is a tender reward in growing older with a life partner, to be allowed to reap the harvest of the hard work of making a relationship thrive and last through many years, many challenges, heartbreaks, and joys. Chester has this ability to express these most personal and deep emotions in very sincere, clear lyrics, and in a musical language that matches the feelings. It is a wonderful album. It is both very concrete and very spiritual, a rare feat. The instrumentation underscores flawlessly the emotions of the lyrics, and also shows one more time Chester's talents with the piano, harmonica, guitar, sensitively blended like spices and herbs in a rich meal. His voice is very rich in this album, open, real, sharing all the nuances of his love for his wife. It is a treat, truly, and if you have been married for a long time, like me, thirty years now and counting, it will make you appreciative and it will make you want to try even harder to be the best possible mate and partner you can be. Don't miss this album. The best bard in Olympia struck gold on this one, and you will too.

Robotique

La pluie danse sa chanson metallique,
pareille a des cuillers avec des petites pattes
marchants en grande vitesse leurs gouttes d'eau trempees.

Je siffle une melodie synchronique avec la pluie,
et la machine a laver me joint, ainsi que le ventilateur,
et la machine a cafe, la radio, et le telephone avec sa voix 
staccato et ennuyee.

Qui suis je, peut-etre rien qu'une autre machine en mode automatique?
Moi aussi j'ai une date d'expiration,
meme si je n'ai pas le corps fait de compartements de metal.


Ma danse pareille en ritme et melodie,
peut-etre moi aussi je suis une robot,
qui ne sait ou comprend rien des mains et du depot
d'ou je viens, et du jour ou la poupee mechanique que je suis
s'arretera de fonctionner et ma voix et sa chanson tomberont
dans le silence eternel des machines mis au rebut. 


Trudi Ralston.
May 10th, 2017.
" A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things
in nature are dark, except where exposed by the light."  Leonardo da Vinci.

As Night Falls

I was born to be strong, born to be unwaveringly, simply strong.

It was not to be clever, not to be noticed, not to turn heads,
not to sing or dance, to march or accuse.

I was born to be strong.
Dragging my swampy roots through the rains and the storms,
beating down the winds that howl and blind my tired eyes,
roaring like a lion, alone on that deserted plain,
there is no doubt, there is no other way,
than I was born, yes, I was born, to be strong.

I was not born to be unique, to be noticed in any way,
no, I was born to be strong, to try to break free,
not to give up, as those chains weigh me down,
I was born, I know I was born to be strong.
Invisible, struggling for a voice, screaming into the deafening silence,
I walk, walk, pulling my feet out of the tangles all around me.

I was born to be strong, it is so clear to me with each passing day,
that nothing else comes even close, that I will not break that frozen sky above.
I was born, not to be set free, I was born to howl in solitude.

I was born, oh yes, I was born, to be, to be, to be strong.
Not to cry, not to mourn, not to fear, or run.
I am here, a rock in a swirling stream,
standing still, as the waters run free around my stiffled soul.

It is what I was born to be.
Strong. The only dignity that was left to me.
So I scream and no one hears, but the ocean's heart pounding its timeless mercy for me.


Trudi Ralston.
May 2nd, 2017.
To be sung in the slow cadence of an old blues song.

A Knock at The Door

Paul McCartney and Wings did a song in 1976 called " Let 'Em in ". It is a catchy tune, that on this rainy morning came waltzing into my mind. I have noticed that on solitary moments an anxiety can creep in, a sort of unnerving, repressed concern that maybe someone will show up at the door, knocking and I will both want to answer and not answer. I think it comes on days I am alone and am torn between enjoying the solitude and wanting company, not being sure which would please me more. But the ambivalent feeling about this causes a certain monologue in my head, that goes over everything in the house, making an inventory to make sure the house is presentable, just in case a friend or neighbour would show up anyway. That rarely, if ever happens these days. Being a writer is a solitary occupation and I think people just assume I don't want to be bothered. This preoccupation of course goes much deeper than a superficial concern with a friendly visit. It goes back to all the family loss and the isolation that inescapably came with it, the thunder with the lightening. It was like a door closing with double locks and then you realize too late someone also took the keys. I am just not sure who took them. It is an unsettling feeling, one that I have not been able to shake completely. Now that I have accepted this little ghostly appearance on quiet days, I can smile about it when I feel centered and relaxed. I understand it is a longing to be connected, to be part of a community, a clan, like I used to be, it seems a lifetime ago. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me, that make me feel I imagined my life before I lost my family, perhaps I just made all that stuff up about having grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, sisters, and a brother. Maybe all that never was as real as this anxious feeling that the doorbell will ring and someone will say, "Hey, I was just in the area, how are you? "  There is a kind of rejection at the idea that someone might actually show up, because it would imply that the trauma of the loss of family would have to be dealt with time and again, like a wound you don't  tear the bandage off, and that way stays raw much too long. By imagining someone at the door on those uncertain hours, it is a way I think the mind pretends to deal with the uncomfortable feeling of alienation, that I think this brings about. A knock at the door, of mostly people that live too far away, have passed away, or have no idea who I really am. So the idea of a knock at the door, is full of both potential joy, annoyance, and concern. I am glad this uneasy, anxious feeling only comes to me a couple of times a year now, less and less, to my relief. I look forward to the day I realize that someone is knocking at the door, and my heart does not skip a beat. I just open the door, without thinking about what it means emotionally. It could happen. Wounds heal, like time. So I have been told.