The Waiting Room

Just the other day I found myself in the waiting room of our doctor's office. A routine checkup, so nothing that provoked anxiety. As many a waiting room, the place is drab, neutral. It is a curious place to be, a waiting room, in this hectic world. It is a place where you have no choice but to slow down, relax if you can so convince yourself, and idle the time away, a sin it seems. The way people busy themselves reading articles they are not interested in, in magazines they would never subscribe to. Of course, now we have cell phones to make sure we make the best of every idle minute in those waiting rooms. And of course, there is an unwritten rule it seems, that you will not engage in conversation with any one else in the waiting room. No conversating, just waiting. I often break that taboo, much to the chagrin of my husband or whoever else may have the fortune to be there with me. The silence in a waiting room is like no other, punctuated with the obligatory rhythm of coughs, chuckles, whispers and yawns. The waiting room to me is a rather mundane but persistent reminder that a lot of life is waiting, it is just that we do not like to think about that, and maybe the reason we do not particularly like waiting rooms is because we have to do so much waiting as our lives unfold. We wait to be born, we wait to walk, to talk, to go to school, to grow up, to fall in love, to study, to work, to marry, or divorce, to get well, to travel, to publish, to eat, to laugh, to cry, ... the list is endless. In the daily rhythm of life, the waiting gets blended in with the rest of life, but step into a waiting room, and the jig is up. There you are, just plain waiting. The chairs in the room tell you to sit down, and well, wait. Time is weird, too, in a waiting room. It goes into suspended animation mode. You never really know how long you are going to be there. Fifteen minutes, or maybe two hours. You have no control. It is a total existential joke, and a bad one at that. Just look around you. Everyone has a sour puss expression. The only people that have fun at waiting rooms are children, even though it is made very clear to them they should just get bored to tears, which they often do, like the rest of us. Children will climb on the chairs, run around in circles, laugh, cry, argue, explore, and are a wonderful reminder that life should be about more than sterile waiting rooms. Children actually have encouraged some kind doctors and dentists to put toys in place for the children subjected to their waiting rooms.They should do the same for the adults. Install a slide for grown ups, maybe a place for tag or hopscotch, anything to get the stale air and stagnation out of these places. There are waiting rooms everywhere, it seems. Airports, train stations, bus depots, subways. We should make them more fun, and some places do just that. Because the way things still mostly are in waiting rooms, it puts into question the whole mystery of modern human existence and its tragic inability to make sense of it.

Entr ' Acte

J'ai l'impression d' exister dans le silence.
Le silence des souffles des autres, proches et loin.

J'entends mon ombre se promener toute douce,
toute tense, evitant le peur que mes passions evoquent.

Ton silence, si delicat, si fier, m'approche
comme un Lancelot son dragon.

Tu ne me connais pas, c'est un choix,
c'est plus facile comme ca.

Mon coeur sauvage t'effraye
et tu cours plus vite a chacque instant.

Et tout ce qui me reste est d'exister
dans le silence de tes bras.

Et de cacher les larmes et les blessures
et crier ma solitude brilliante avec le soleil
le jour et les etoiles la nuit.

J'existe dans la couleur de tes yeux
et quand tu dors, je m'echappe.

Et je vole libre comme un oiseau
dans le monde immense de mes reves.

Trudi Ralston.
January 9th, 2014.
 No one ever said relationships were easy. And if love is
the answer, it is also the price. 

Abyss

The Holidays are bittersweet for me, a mixture of excitement at the celebrations and a hollow ache at all the loss of family. It intensifies the occurrence of nausea, one of the few stubbornly persistent left over symptoms of the trauma of the losses. I recently renewed a friendship with a fellow graduate student from my years at UT in Austin, Texas, an engineering student from Panama. He has a brother, two sisters, and they all have families nearby,and both his parents are still alive. This kind of happiness triggered a sensation I had been trying to pull together into a visual image. What eventually came to mind was the view of me sitting on the floor of a room, and being pushed into a corner, and when I finally was able to get up, and tried to get across the room, so I could leave, the floor is gone, and all that is left is an abyss, bottomless, and so definite, that even now as I write about it, I have to fight nausea. It is a feeling of paralysis like in a bad dream,a nightmare like paralysis struggling with every inch of will to not panic, and instead find a way to build a bridge across the abyss, a bridge made of the invisible threads of fierce determination to defy any and all laws of gravity that obviously no longer exist in that room. Acceptance is a big part of healing emotional wounds, but it sure helps to know that the laws that were in existence before your world fell apart, still exist. I am not so sure about that. I do not know what the answer to this dilemma is. It is hard to even put the feeling into words, it is like trying to speak, thinking words will come out, because they always did before, and realizing now the words are there, but no sound is connected to them, and when you try to use sign language, people look at you like you are insane, and ask you to just speak up already. I have always been fond of surrealism but there are days now that my life feels like a walk in a Dali painting. Rather than me looking at a surrealist painting, it feels like I am part of the painting, and I cannot get out of the frame, no matter how I try. It is not something you want to think about much, let alone try to explain to anyone, if you can avoid it. Six more weeks, and it will be March again, time to go outside, clean up the backyard, and start planting flowers, feeling the first hints of a spring sun , of renewal through nature. That always calms my spirit, and soothes the goblins trying to scare my sanity, my resolve not to let the abyss and its invisible monsters keep me in that desperate corner. Six weeks and counting. 

Le Compromis

Ma vie est ici, c'est ce qu'on me dit
depuis presque 40 ans.

Dix ans au Texas et 26 ans a Washington.
Mon fils qui aura 22 ans, et un mari que je connais depuis 1984.

Tout cela m'est bien agreable
aussi longtemps que je ne pense pas
le fait que la derniere fois de visiter
mon pays de naissance etait en 1987.

Ma vie est ici, c'est ce qu'on me dit
depuis presque 40 ans.

La plupart de mes amis vivent dans leur pays de naissance,
que ce soit les Etats Unis, El Salvador, Le Maroc ou Panama.

Et je m'imagine une famille en Belgique qui m'espere et
qui m'aime, et qui je visite.
Et je m'imagine une famille ici aux Etats Unis pour mon fils
et mon mari et moi, qui nous aiment et nous visitent.

Ma vie est ici, c'est ce qu'on me dit
depuis presque 40 ans.

J'ai quitte mon pays de naissance a l'age de 19 ans
enfant naive, suivant un reve que je ne comprenais guere.
Dansant dans la pluie et le soleil, cherchant toujours
le ciel et le soleil bleus malgre les larmes et les blessures.

Et je m'imagine que ma vie est ici,
et je m'imagine qu'il n'y a rien a oublier
rien a pardonner.


Trudi Ralston.
December 18th, 2013.
The Holidays are always a challenge emotionally, bringing in some bittersweet with the sweet. 

3:10 to Yuma

I recently started a new small tapestry project of exotic butterflies. As I was finishing the outline of the flowers and butterflies, I decided to take a break and revisit a movie I had not seen since its release in 2007, a remake of a 1957 movie by the same title, " 3:10 to Yuma". The 2007 version stars Russell Crowe and Christian Bale in the lead roles. Russell Crowe as Ben Wade, the leader of an outlaw gang, and Christian Bale as Dan Evans, an impoverished Civil War veteran turned rancher. What is remarkable about this gritty western is the effect the two men have on each other, and the subtlety in the characterization of the connection that eventually develops between them, ultimately leading to an unexpected apotheosis. It is a moving and very convincing story of how the definition of good and evil comes with a lot of shades of grey when honesty is allowed. Usually, a western is a perfect set-up for a kick-ass story of good and evil with very clear and visible defining lines between these two poles, making  it easy for the audience to cheer for the good guy and delight at the demise of the bad guy. This movie gets very close to it two lead actors, and allows us to build empathy for the hunted outlaw as much as for the injured war veteran, and that does not change when it turns out that Dan Evans is the one who agrees to take in Ben Wade for 200 dollars, so he can pay off his debts and regain his honour with his wife and two young sons. As callous as Ben Wade is as a gang leader, we learn he has some principles, and in the end when he realizes how much this reward money means to Dan Evans, he agrees to allow himself to be taken into custody for prison transport. He knows he has escaped the prison in question twice already, and it would be easy to do again on the train ride there,and it would fulfill the contract for Dan Evans to deliver the outlaw to the train by 3:10.It all seems to work out fine for both men, until Ben Wade's right hand man, Charlie Prince, played flawlessly by Ben Foster, shoots Dan Evans in the back right at the moment Ben Wade boards the train. In a passionate turn of heart, Ben Wade shoots and kills Charlie and the rest of his gang. Dan Evans' teenage son, who helped his father and the outlaw make it to the train, sees how honorably and bravely his father dies and understands that Ben Wade did his part to help his father fulfill his contract. James Mangold as the director and Cathy Konrad as the producer did a great job with the story as did the actors. The chemistry between Russell Crowe and Christian Bale is so well crafted, so believable, so honest. It is also very moving as this is not a story about friendship, but about two men realizing something very profound, namely that decency should transcend ego and conviction and that sacrifice can be understood by saint and villain alike. It is one of the best westerns I have ever experienced. Because this is not a western you watch, it is one you experience, deep in your own psyche, heart and soul. Both Russell Crowe and Christian Bale are outstanding in this deeply American portrayal of frontier morality and conflict. 

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."