La Peau a L'envers

Les temperatures a zero, le plafond sur le nez
je me trouve muette, coincee comme une araignee chassee.

La peau a l'envers, les gouts trop sales et amers d'un jour
sans couleur ou lumiere,je dors debout troublee de ton ombre pressee.

Inside out, outside in,
tapping my feet in the cold winter air.

Yes, sure, alright, you said you'd be there.
I am here,walking in the bright blue sun.

Les temperatures a zero, le plafond sur le nez
je me trouve ouverte, souriante comme une enfant aimee.

Inside out, outside in.
la peau a l'envers
le manteau favori pour mon hiver.

Trudi Ralston.
December 3rd, 2013.
This is a poem about patterns, that help us hang on to
our sanity in times of loss and confusion. Patterns only known
and visible to us, like unseen, but nevertheless very much there, inner wall
wiring. 

Il y a des choses

Il y a des choses. Il ya des choses qu'on ne dit pas. There are things. There are things you don't talk about. Idir, the talented Algerian Kabyle poet and singer knows this. He showed courage when he included " Lettre ouverte a ma fille", among his songs, a song where he speaks freely about his love for his daughter and his reservations about her happiness within her cultural context. The emotion and sincerity in the song are very touching. I thought about Idir's song this morning and it triggered a realization that looked at the letter he wrote for his daughter from my own reality. My husband and I have been married now for 27 years, and in spite of certain and persistent challenges in our relationship there is a lot of love and tenderness. Having grown up on opposite sides of the globe , in very different circumstances, we met, and fell in love. We have a 21 year old son, a cozy home, and a long history of taking in unwanted and neglected dogs and cats. We are very different people. I am very gregarious, restless, spiritual and passionate. My husband is very quiet, analytical, practical and stoic. Our interests do not coincide, our temperaments are very different, and yet there is a strong bond between us that is here to stay. There are times when it is tempting to be critical, and I wish it was simpler and easier to communicate and work things out. But there is so much goodwill and effort on both our sides, that in the end any stress just melts under the desire to overcome and find a healthy compromise, and those illusory wishes evaporate. I have found that there are many times when silence in the name of kindness and respect can be as effective as an abundance of words and justifications. Il ya des choses. There are things. There are things better left unsaid, untouched. I find that true in many concerns, from the mundane to the very personal and intimate. Anatomy has its place, and as the word's Greek meaning infers, the ana and tomy, the taking apart, is something to be handled very gingerly in marriage. The thing about anatomy is that it tends to be permanent, and that it is done on corpses, that is people who are no more. Marriage anatomy is done, so to speak, on live people, on our life partners, that somehow we hope to understand and love better when we take them apart emotionally and psychologically, thinking no permanent damage will be done. Nothing could be more incorrect and foolish to assume. Idir belongs to a culture that has been around for a very long time, and in spite of some misgivings about how that culture now affects his daughter as she is on the threshold of adulthood, he honours his culture and its wisdom. IL ya des choses qu'on ne dit pas. There are things we do not say. There is a good measure of wisdom in that. That does not mean of course that I oppose healthy discourse, no intelligent man or woman should, but the taking apart down to the sinew of the people who share our space and life is in the end very unproductive and unkind. Like some flowers thrive in full sun and light, and others thrive in part shade and indirect light, so there are issues in each relationship that do much better in part shade, while others enjoy full light and it is love and devotion that teaches us the difference over time. It brings Jean Stapleton to mind and her brilliant portrayal of the long suffering but wise and kind Edith Bunker, who in the end teaches her difficult husband more efficiently about true love than any bitter analysis or resentful retaliation could. That takes courage , humility, faith and enormous patience in the name of love. But love is the answer, it is just not the easiest or fastest one. I watched my husband sleep this morning, and it was touching to me to be reminded of how vulnerable humans look when asleep. This man has shared my life for the past 29 years, on good days and bad, and as many times as I may get frustrated with him, I am sure he has felt the same way. But he is still here, every day, and he is the only person who massages my feet when I feel stressed and tired. He is the only one who makes me waffles on the weekend, and goes to the doctor with me when I feel sick. He is the only one who brings me flowers just for the heck of it, and who buys me jewelry even when it is not my birthday. We are not a perfect couple, far from it, but there is a willingness there to keep trying to care about each other , to keep believing in each other and our life with our son as a small but very cohesive family here in the Pacific Northwest, far from my native Belgium and far enough from his native California. Il ya des choses, There are things. We both come from complicated and quite dysfunctional families, and there are days those skeletons threaten to spill out of the closets, but there too, I am learning that it is best most times, to pat the skeletons on the head, and shut the door. We each know the stories those skeletons have by heart, and it takes more heart to just let them go back to sleep. They are what they are. There are things better left unsaid, when all has been viewed and understood from all possible angles. Then let love do the rest, the kind of love that goes to work every day, on good days and bad, that remembers with a kind smile, that " chez nous, il ya des choses qu'on ne dit pas."

The Purple Petunias

The temperatures at night are getting pretty cold for our area of Washington State, hovering between 28  to 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Most of our flowers in the backyard have gone dormant, and some have died. There are about four petunia flowers who are still blooming,of a bright purple color. They stand straight and tall, proud and determined, surrounded by their faded, shriveled, dusty brown sisters that shared the kitchen and bedroom window boxes with them. I was moved to see the four purple flowers stretch their eager heads upwards to the blue sunny skies we have enjoyed the last week. They remind me of me, of my struggle to thrive, to not be overcome by past sorrows and struggles, to ignore the winter around me, so to speak, and just focus on the sun, the light, the hope. There is merit to stubbornness, to the determination to ignore the possible problems, and not letting them define you, to just forge on, and enjoy every bit of light and sun that comes your way, never mind that winter is just around the corner. The energy produced by optimism is intoxicating, and contagious, and often can turn the corner on storm clouds. I like the idea of being a purple petunia, of being someone who does not surrender easily or without a good fight. No one gets out of here alive, as we all are aware of, but how we exit, the style, the attitude, that is within our power. I am not a fan of winter, and its diminished light and warmth, but I realize that my disliking it is rather irrelevant. Winter is coming, so, might as well make the best of it. To me, winter is nature's reminder that death is real. Death too, is rather unavoidable, from all evidence, no matter how much our society likes to pretend we are all going to live forever, if we just keep coloring our hair and using that fancy night creme. But in my experience, having stood at the coffin of my youngest sister, who took her own life at 35, and having kissed her ice cold forehead, death is very real and the more acceptance for its reality, the more peace in our heart, the more determination to truly live. She was not afraid, she jumped in to the arms of death, eyes wide open. Some see suicide as an act of cowardice, but I see her death as an act of incredible fearlessness, the result of a deep desire to regain control over her tortured mind, to reclaim a sense of dignity as her bi-polar illness spiraled out of control, and she felt a prisoner in her own body. She hung herself, with a lasso, from the rafters in my parents' garage. She decided she would no longer evade the long winter that was coming for her, as her doctors increased her anti-psychotic medications, only worsening her despair. That is why I like my purple petunias out there, reaching up to the light, its warmth and color, while it is still there, even though they know it is just a matter of time before their purple petals turn sad and shy, and dusty grey, as winter rewards their defiance with its icy grip  and grim determination and turns my beautiful flowers into black, brittle regret. 

The Dam

Water is a force of nature, there is ample evidence of that. Both in benevolent grace and destructive rage. To see that power controlled, contained is never so impressive as in a visit to a huge dam, like the Grand Coulee Dam in Eastern Washington State. To stand  along side the edge and look down at this giant engineering feat makes one feel in awe of both nature and man's ingenuity. Looking at photographs taken of the dam from the air, is equally revealing as to the power water can manifest. I have a great liking for the Colombia River and to see its power harnessed by the Grand Coulee Dam is thrilling. At a height of 551 feet, the dam was opened in 1942, and its construction started in 1933. The dam and its spillways have a length of 5,223 feet, it is the largest electric power generating facility in the United States, and one of the largest concrete structures in the world, generating 21 billion KWh of electricity jn 2008. Extremely impressive. The dam's reservoir supplies water for the irrigation of 671,000 acres in the Columbia River Basin. All this marvel of engineering unfortunately has had a permanent negative impact on the lives of the Native American tribes of the area whose livelihood in fishing was devastated as the salmon and other native fish of the area were no longer able to go upstream to spawn. In one study the Army Corps of Engineers estimated the annual loss at over one million fish. So it seems controlling the force and power of water comes at a serious cost in natural wildlife and quality of life for an entire culture native to the region now controlled by the Grand Coulee Dam. To me, the whole set of real consequences of the construction of the dam brought to mind the impact of relationships on our lives, the type that curtail our natural talents and passions. It seems fitting that a basically paternalistic society would approve of projects such as the Grand Coulee Dam, trying to re-direct the fertility of the Columbia River and its seemingly endless supply of water, as one of the largest rivers in the world. Relationships of long duration, such as marriage can be wonderful, but can also strip someone of their identity and energy and natural talents and character over time, quite like a dam, controlling and deciding the flow of things, so to speak. It can take a long time to recover from that re-directing. To reverse the impact of a dam is quite a complicated challenge, and like a scar after a serious surgery tends to be permanent , so the impact of a dam tends to be irreversible. So, I guess we should consider our relationships carefully, because once we allow our souls to be harnessed, the reversal can be as destructive and scarring as the damming in the first place.  

Les Tigres

Les annees passent, avec ses nuits et jours
avec ses lumieres et ses ombres.

Dans la danse du temps et son orchestre
je te cherche dans les foules et les saisons.

Tu n'est nulle part, meme quand je pense
lui voila, ce n'est jamais toi.

Comme un tigre inquiet, un peu triste
dans sa solitude, mon desir de te retrouver
cherche le silence du cimetiere ou tu t'es cache.  

Tetue, blessee, je continue la chasse d'un passe manque. 

Tu etais le miroir de mon etre qui traverse seule
le desert brule ou vivait notre passion.

Comme des prisonniers dans la cave de Plato,
ni le tigre ou sa tigresse s'echaperont du bal masque du temps.

Trudi Ralston.
November 21st, 2013.
Certaines blessures ne se guerissent pas. Ni dans le passe, ni dans le present ou le futur. 

Saoi

Rainy season is definitely here. Everything around me seems washed in grey watercolors. Driving in this weather, when the rain is pleasantly light and steady, has its charms. It brings you to mind, how you would listen quietly and patiently to my concerns and inquiries on all sorts of matters. As I am driving now, it seems to have a calming influence on me to remember those times. It is interesting how memories that appear of minor importance at first impression, prove to be valuable and persistent. These particular memories translated, over time, into a gentle presence that smooths its fair number of ruffled feathers in all sorts of challenges. I smile at the thought. Friendship that survives the test of time and separation is a wonderful gift. That is how your presence feels, in spite of it being a non-physical presence. It feels real, relevant, soothing, like a favorite tune you can go back to in melancholy times. You had this big seventies American car, and riding in your car all those years ago, now adds an element of support to all those times I have been driving around in my car alone the last six years, driving back and forth to the high school the first four years, to bring my son home, and after that, to pick up my son and bring him home from the community college each noon for two years, before taking him to work, and then later returning once more to bring him home.Often, I would bring him home for lunch, if time allowed it, between classes and his job hours, and drive him to work after lunch, and then once more return to bring him home from work. It added up to more than two and a half hours each day, driving back and forth. Now that my son is a junior at ESC, I drive him still to the college, either for his classes there, or his job there at the computer lab. I have become fond of Idir's music and today I was listening to a very rhythmic song, called "Saoi", which has a very upbeat melody, with flutes and drums in it. I like it very much, and try to keep tune with the song as I hum along to its exotic beat. Solitude is an acquired taste and I have had a fair amount of time to practice its finer points. I just wanted you to know that you appear on more than one occasion to keep my memories company. It is nice to realize that some things never change, physical or otherwise, regardless of the passage of time.

To my friend, on the other side of the world, with a name as memorable as his character. To Driss O.

Almost Home

Some grey fall mornings are cozy in spite of themselves. The monochrome drenched air and cars and clouds, even people it seems, do not seem to bother me right now. The drive back from town where my son attends ESC is pleasant and even more so with the nuanced, gentle voice of Idir singing a soulful "Saoi", and in spite of being uncertain as to the meaning of the words of the song, I find myself humming along, trying to keep tune with the exotic Kabyle music that is so soothing to my immigrant heart. The car seems to be humming too, in harmony with my sentiments, and our faithful dog, Yara, is snoozing in the backseat. A warm sense of belonging seems to flow through me, and it is one of those wonderful moments where I feel I am almost home. You would think those moments come often after 37 years in the US, but that feeling is like a thin veneer on wood. It does not take much to provoke becoming unnerved or uncertain, or alienated. It is not like I have a clan that can help me soothe away those difficult, alienating moments, days, months, sometimes, years, or like I look like an immigrant from another culture. I blend right in, and that has its advantages, surely, but there are times I wish I looked foreign, even to my husband and son, so that it would be more obvious why I feel out of sorts or alignment some days. As it is , visibility is definitely not something I have to concern myself with, rather the opposite. But today, that thorn in my side seems irrelevant. I smile thinking back on the interesting dream I had last night, where I got a visit from a spiritual guide who turned out to be a terrific counselor and masseuse. He had a certain Don Juan stern quality to him, but he seemed lankier and younger than Don Juan, and his tolerance of my weariness on all sorts of matters had an unmistakably sensual quality and intrigue to it. It made for a deep, relaxed sleep I noticed when I woke this morning. The mind is very clever about getting the help it needs, given half a chance, is my experience. What a difference a day makes,right? I keep humming along with Idir's pleasantly sculptured and timbred voice, as the sun breaks hesitantly through the grey clouds and I wonder if I will see my guide in my dream tonight. What a pleasantly odd fellow, in his long brown hair ponytail, dark green shirt and quiet glasses, and what a pleasantly odd morning.