Guard Duty

My husband and son and I have a long history of taking in shelter dogs. These animals, seven so far, become part of our hearts and souls. They are treated like full members of our family. Leaving them for extended periods of time, or putting them in a kennel when we go out of town, or farming them out, is not an option. Since I am home most, I am the primary connection to these animal companions, although my husband and son share equally in the walking and grooming of the animals. In the past we have had to deal with a couple of neighbours who treated their dogs with wanton cruelty, and so we got the local Humane Society and even the Sheriff's Department involved in one particularly traumatic case that took over 3 years to document and have justice prevail for the abused and suffering dog next door. The suffering the animals endured right in our street, right across from our own fence, the loneliness and pain, left a deep impact on my heart. I fought like a lioness for the haphazard creatures. Nothing infuriates me more than suffering caused innocent creatures at the hands of cruel, heartless men and women. We include our dogs and cat Tigger in all aspects of our lives and the bond and love with these animals over the years is priceless and often very moving. Loneliness is one of the worst sufferings heartless humans inflict on their dogs that are supposed to be their companions that deserve respect, proper shelter, food, clean water, exercise and love. I have seen dogs in our own street deprived of all those basics. When my parents moved to Arizona in the early 1990's, one of my younger sisters got a job in Georgia, so did her husband. My youngest sister was living with my parents off and on, as she was already battling bi- polar depression. Somehow, my mother and sister in Georgia thought it would be a good idea if my parents and youngest sister moved to Georgia as well. That proved a big mistake, it did only further my sister's manic depression once she was in Georgia, as she ended up taking her own life within 3 years of having moved there. But in the time before moving to Georgia, my mother spent a lot of time there visiting my other sister and her husband. My father was left behind, for weeks at a time, at the house in Arizona, which was very beautiful, but isolated, leaving my father very much alone. At the time, it felt wrong to me, and knowing what I know now about her motifs and contempt for her marriage, it only seems more despicable. I often think, you would not treat a dog the way she treated my father. He just put up with it, paid all the expenses, he was good enough for my mother for that. It seems monstrous to think how all those months she left him alone were only a prelude to how she would ultimately kick him out after 45 years of marriage and leave him to struggle with the tragedy of Alzheimer's on his own, while she kept the house, his money and belongings. He never said one bad word about her, and kept believing until his dying day, 7 years later in Oostende, Belgium, that she would take him back. She poisoned our hearts for him with superbly crafty emotional manipulation, something that left me nauseous and traumatized for many years. She hated him, told us so, and it was her deepest ambition to convince her children they should despise their father equally. I am not sure what made me think of my father, just sitting in that nice house in Arizona, while my mother was in Georgia. It was so easy to dupe him. She had made that into an art, and the same way she convinced my father he should move to Arizona for her, she convinced him to move to Georgia, with tragic results for him and my youngest sister. While my father was living with her in Arizona, it was like my mother had my father on guard duty. She would take off for Georgia and leave him alone, in case my youngest sister would need help. Those were lonely times for him. He was not invited to come along, because my mother was all too glad to get away from him any chance she had. She was all too glad too, to share her delight at being away from him with her children, which I always thought  was in bad taste. Meanwhile, our father sat alone, waiting, like a fool. Michael and I were on a very tight budget with a toddler son, all the way in Washington State, my brother was all the way in Texas with his wife and two small children, and my youngest sister was battling manic depression. It was a messed up and frustrating situation. It makes me sad to realize now, all those years later, how our mother manipulated him ,and her children, shamelessly. She caused him so much loneliness the last 18 years of his life. By the time I realized what she was doing, it was too late to let him know I finally understood, as he was already deep in the clutches of dementia and no longer remembered who I was. I think of him alone in Arizona, alone in Georgia after she kicked him into a cheap apartment, alone at two different retirement communities in Belgium, where he would die in the second one, an Alzheimer center in Oostende. His three sisters in Belgium are the women who gave him dignity in all the anguish he endured the last 7 years he lived there. It was like he was a soldier sent out to be on guard duty on a lonely outpost by the whim of his commander, my mother. Only he was never allowed to go on break, he was never released from his lonely post. Very much like the lonely dogs I fought so hard for.  They at least got a reprieve. My father was not so lucky. 

The Upgrade

Dreams tend to run in patterns. My dreams are no exception. I have dreams that are just sheer fun, often involving exotic adventures, that can take place in the distant past or distant future. Those dreams are exhilarating and make me wake up energized and intrigued, hoping for a sequel. Other dreams are not so pleasant  and always involve trying to get in touch with my family, and failing. The only one I successfully connect with in those family dreams is my father, who always plays a protective role. He passed away in February of 2008, and in the dreams he appears as a kind spirit, trying desperately to help me make contact with my brother, sisters and mother. Last night, I had a dream I was traveling in Canada, trying again to make contact with my family. Now, in the past, I was always trying to call my family, by payphone, and I never had the change needed to make the call, and when I did, I could not find a payphone anywhere, and when I could, I was unable to get through. For years the pattern was the same. No one wanted to help me, and I would wander around looking for a kind stranger to help me make the call. What I realized this morning when I woke up, was that in the last year or so, in my dreams dealing with reconnecting to my family, I now carry a cellphone. So, my brain has made the adjustment to the updated technology. I initially thought that switch would enable me to make contact with my family easily in those troubled dreams. But that is not what is happening. The upgrade technologically did not change the dreams, I still cannot get through. I am in an area with no cellphone reception, or the battery is low, I cannot find the charger in my purse anywhere, cannot find anywhere to charge it. When the cellphone does work, I get no answer. The realization of this made me really excited. The new technology is obviously a renewed attempt to facilitate outreach and the ultimate goal of connecting, but the outcome of the dreams does not change. I have no idea of knowing if it ever will. But the phenomenon is fascinating to me. There is a bittersweet message there, that there is definitely hope in new technology, but it does not change the basic existential conundrum of the human condition. I personally enjoy the new technology very much. I love being able to e- mail messages to my friends in far away places, to be able to communicate with cousins in Belgium I have not seen over 30 years, to get to know my nieces in Belgium and Texas, one of whom I have never met, to share my stories world wide, to daily send messages to my son and husband, to share pictures, ideas. It is wonderful. I obviously long for that closure with a troubled family history, but the resistance and failure of the new technology to succeed in my dreams about my family is very telling. Some wounds of the soul and heart cannot be fixed like a car engine. In my dreams about the distant future, flying cars and magnetically guided trains are very capable of getting me to my exciting destinations, but these are just fun adventures. In the family dreams the technology is now updated in a very clever shift of my brain, but the trauma has not changed, so until it does, the technology in the dreams cannot oblige. Very sobering, and very intriguing. But I am sure as stubborn as I am, that I will keep trying. That does not make me sad. It makes me actually quite hopeful.

The Colour of Nag Champa

For as long as my husband and I have been together, the incense Nag Champa has been his favorite.
It has a strong woodsy scent, and also smells soft and powdery; over time I have come to associate its fragrance with relaxation and a sense of peace and well being. This morning was no exception. My son had the day off, and I lit some of the incense before breakfast, lounging in my pajamas, happy to have a day without schedule or demands. As the incense's smoke curled up luxuriously in its burner, and its pleasant smell wafted through the house, it felt like it had a colour that gently dusted our home , a soft lavender that made me smile. It is always interesting when our senses mix metaphors and this sensation of the incense painting the emotional well being of our home a pleasing lavender certainly got my attention. Lavender is one of my favorite soft colours and the incense playing this pleasing twist with my senses this morning was intriguing. Of course, this trick was completely voluntary, I realized, and it was fun to think so. It was me experiencing a very personal scent to me in a very personal way. Over the years, the Nag Champa incense had become associated with pleasing experiences, so adding some colour to it seemed very appropriate. The thought made me anticipate what colour the incense might take the next pleasant morning comes along. Having an artistic sense of humour was proving to be a nice detour, one I hope to continue experiencing. Just another way that proves to me, one more time, that alert and sober is not the boring way to go when your senses are awake. The morning turned into a warm, sunny day, the mystery of its fog blending into bright light, and the smell of the incense too, faded to blend into my clothes and hair. As the afternoon, too faded, so did the sun, and bright white clouds sped across the turquoise sky. I imagined the clouds smelling like fresh thickly whipped cream, and the azure sky tasting of mint. Any young child would be delighted at my musings. I am hoping some adults will be as well.The musings brought back a favorite memory of a Kindergarten art project I remember doing as a child in the small parochial school in Beveren, Belgium. It was to be a cloudy sky, and for the clouds we got to glue cotton balls on a blue sheet of paper. It was such sticky fun. The birds in the sky were little pieces of black string made to look like the birds were flying way up in the sky. Real clouds are not made of cotton balls, and birds flying way up in the sky are not made of pieces of black string, but the possibility of the whole thing was fascinating as a 5 year old  as I painstakingly tried to get the glue to stick to the cotton balls and the string and not my small fingers. And maybe, just maybe, that is why adults get bored with what they think reality is all about. They look at clouds and no longer see cotton balls, they rarely see anything at all. Better to smell incense and see the colour lavender is my conclusion.

Geraardsbergen

Geraardsbergen is a picturesque small town in East Flanders in what are called the Flemish Ardennes of my country of birth, Belgium. It was almost eery looking up pictures of the town on Google, the place looks beautiful. To me, however, the memory of Geraardsbergen evokes an unsettling emotional response. I was there only once, when I was 20, the summer before I started college at TCU in Fort Worth, Texas. My mother had a friend of her mother who lived in Geraardsbergen, a woman named Laura, for whom my mother got her middle name. By the time my father and mother and my siblings and I visited Laura's large brownstone on a shaded broad lane on the outskirts of town, she was already in her seventies. Laura and her husband Leon were financially very comfortable and had no children. Their house was very quiet, the kind of house where it feels no one ever comes over anymore. The only excitement for us was their barky Pekingese dog that never seemed to leave Laura's side. They had a large pool that at the time of our visit was still empty, but in the process of slowly being filled up, as Leon was an avid swimmer. Their yard also had a large walnut tree, and I remember my brother, sisters and I passing the boringly long visit by checking out the dusty shed by the tree and eating walnuts that had fallen to the ground. At the time, I was puzzled as to the reason for our visit. It was quite a drive from our house in Roeselare, to Geraardsbergen, just for a cup of tea and some cookies. But as I found out a couple of months later, apparently Laura and her husband were willing to help pay my expensive tuition for my college in Texas. There certainly was no lack of anxiety around the visit and the weeks after it. Apparently Laura's frugal husband had decided the whole idea was bogus and I never knew how things turned out, but I apparently almost missed my start at TCU that fall. It has remained a bizarre episode in my destiny, one of which I will never know but bits and pieces. The oppressive visit left an imprint on my memory and mind, a sort of ill defined nausea, at realizing how flimsy my future had been at that time. In the years following my family's implosion between 2000 and 2008, I have had ample taste of solitude and at times oppressive isolation. It seems odd, but it is certainly accurate, that the feeling of unsettling discomfort and disconnection on that hot afternoon of the visit to Geraardsbergen, is identical to the at times screaming silence I have had to battle and overcome trying to put the pieces of my heart and soul back together after the trauma of all my family tragedy and drama. It seems the sense of nausea that at times still overwhelms me is very much the sense of disquiet I experienced at Laura and Leon's ample villa all those years ago. A sense of foreboding mixed in with anxiety and excitement, being in that stiflingly quiet house and hearing conversations between my parents and their slightly uncomfortable hosts, that seemed artificially congenial and relaxed. What is really strange to me 38 years later, is that the experience of driving to Geraardsbergen and the formal, mysterious visit has stayed with me like the memory of an unsettling dream. Today the weather here is very much the way it was that afternoon, humid, warm, cloudy. And I am right back there, in the cool, high ceilinged nicely furnished house, with the large living room and its large bay window, overlooking a wide lane lined with oak trees. I am right there again in a place that seemed frozen in time, and that made an afternoon feel like an eternity to my 20 year old mind. My parents never clarified how things were evidently resolved, and the incident was never mentioned again. The experience is stored in the box with vague and ill defined memories, and will always continue to feel like looking intently at a painting that time has forever faded to familiar yet unsettling shadows.

Shalimar and the Postman

It was the day before my birthday, my un- birthday, as Winnie the Pooh would say. It was just another Thursday, quiet, warm. I was finishing lunch when the doorbell rang, startling our sleeping dog Yara, and she started barking loudly. I opened the door to a person I did not recognize and failed to see the post office truck parked across the street. The driver was not wearing a post office uniform shirt, so I thought he was a sales person, as he was holding a form and package. I told him I was not interested in buying anything. The look on the young man's face was utter dismay, as he manged to politely say " I am the postman!" I felt so embarrassed, and apologized. I should have told him the non- uniform shirt had me confused. Here I was a member of a black Baptist church since 1994, only to offend my new postman who I probably did not recognize from our church, I felt awful. I apologized again for my mistake and our barking dog, and signed for the package, that came from my French friend Catherine, who was one of my room mates in Austin, Texas, where we met in graduate school. The rectangular package looked intriguing. I started to unravel its many cautiously wrapped layers, to uncover a gorgeous package of perfume, "Shalimar", by Jacques Guerlain, their new version by Thierry Wasser, called "Souffle de Parfum". Wow, was all I kept saying out loud, tickled with the beautiful, elegant and thoughtful gift, as Catherine knows I love French perfume. Suddenly, my ordinary day had a touch of exotic glamour brought from across an ocean and a continent. It made me smile with gratitude and  pride. She is always such a thoughtful friend, having brought me so many moments of joy and dignity over the course of the last 31 years since we first met. Books, music, jewelry, perfume, scarves, blouses, adding a touch of elegance and exotic flair to my socially solitary existence so far away from my culture, language and birth country identity, making me feel a part of her generous, sensitive soul. With some special friends, it does not seem to matter how far they are away physically, or how long it has been since we last saw them, they are never far from our minds. Catherine is such a friend. She has always had this way of making me feel like I matter, and there is so much respect in her friendship. We met the semester before she graduated with a master's degree in business, and returned to France, where she got a job in Paris, but it was enough time for her to leave a lasting imprint on my heart and mind, in style, attitude, poise, dignity. Some friends you do not miss because they are a part of you. It is actually a wonderful feeling. I looked again at the beautifully packaged bottle of perfume, and decided to wait to open it until tomorrow, my actual birthday. I would wear the perfume for my birthday dinner with my husband and son and I knew it would make me feel as exotic and beautiful as the legendary princess Mumtah Mahal after whom Jacques Guerlain named his famous perfume "Shalimar" that I now get to wear and enjoy, sent to me from a world away for my 58th birthday by a most kind friend.     

The Graduation Picture.

 
It is a quiet Sunday afternoon, cloudy, warm, very pleasant really for a mid May Sunday afternoon.
Michael is outside transferring the young sunflower plants from our green house into the soil off to the deck. He came up with the idea last summer, and decided to repeat it, as it is really fun to have the tall sunflowers right off the deck where we eat so much on summer nights. Nicholas is working on an essay for his creative writing class, and as my feet are tired from working all  day cleaning house until midnight yesterday, I am writing after our big Sunday brunch. I keep thinking of the emotional surprise I got when I saw a picture on Facebook of my 57 year old brother Bart in graduation gowns at SMU on Saturday, apparently getting a second master's degree in anthropology. I only saw it because his 23 year old daughter, Grace, whom I have never met but am friends with on Facebook, posted several pictures she took of her Dad. It was so strange to see a close shot of his face after not having seen him in person in 17 years. He was not quite 40 the last time I saw him at Ludwina's funeral in Georgia in April of 1998. The picture I was looking at now showed him thin, with a slight smile that spoke more of sadness than the joy one would associate with such an impressive graduation. It brought to mind my father's face the last 10 years of his life, a face that smiled readily, but always with hesitation, burdened by a heavy financial responsibility and a bitter marriage, and the worry about Ludwina's bi - polar illness. It was really like looking into the face of a stranger, and feeling an unsettling familiarity as I recognized the features and the shadow and presence of my father. I sent a friend request to Bart last year, which he ignored. I sent a congratulatory comment to the picture my niece so proudly was displaying of her father, which made her happy. It remains odd to have only one sibling left in this huge country and not to have any contact with him, by his choice. Perhaps when I meet his daughter finally when I go back to Texas ,and see his son who is now 28 and whom I last saw when he was 11, and meet his ex - wife again, whom I last saw at Goedele's wedding in 1990, Bart will finally agree to meet perhaps for the last time in this earthly realm. It's lead heavy stuff I prefer not to think of on most days. The humming birds by the window where I write keep whirring by, mini super jets of bright colours. It is so peaceful here. Our dog Yara is snoring at my feet, just waiting for us to take a break and take her for a walk. Next Friday is my 58th Birthday. How did that happen? We will go to Red Lobster for dinner, and the next day my friend Brenda will take me out to lunch. It is my biggest hope that if Nicholas marries in the future, he marries into a gregarious, boisterous clan. Families can be a pain in the rear, I know, but to live without a larger clan is something you never really get used to. There are no weddings, baptisms, anniversaries, funerals to go to, because you have no relatives, or maybe you do, but they no longer care for you, or live on the other side of the planet. It is an odd sensation, like a missing limb, you know it is there, but you can no longer see or touch it. Michael is a loner, very independent socially, and that helps in many ways, because it shows me the advantage of being self reliant in all matters. Shouldered by his independent spirit, I have become very strong and have gained a lot of insight into the mechanics of inner freedom. It has sharpened my resolve and determination. There is an edge to the spirit in this country that is hard boiled that I continue to find difficult to deal with. There is also a kindness that can be found if you dig deep enough, and my tenacity has dug deep and hard enough to find it, in myself, in my husband, in my friends here and in Texas. A kindness that comes from the need for self reliance in a country that shows little mercy for vulnerability and sentiment. I have seen that kindness in Michael, in Diane, in Brenda, all fiercely independent people who know the price of that independence if you push it too far. My own relentless determination to belong sometimes softens the hard edge of their instinct to survive, to move on, one foot in front of the other, no matter the cost to the heart and soul. It is that hardness that can leave me nauseous, or angry, or very much alone. It is also the crucible that made me determined to create my tapestries on my own, to write and publish a 300 page memoir at 57 and to accept myself with all the flaws and broken parts, focusing on what strengths and talents I possess. Michael is listening to Linda Ronstadt, one of my sister Goedele's favorite singers. So odd to hear the singer and realize Goedele has been dead now already 10 years. Life is a complete mystery, as far as I can tell. Some live to be a hundred, some die young like she did at 44, or Ludwina who was 35. I guess the idea is to live life, and not try too much to control the future, it often turns out differently anyway. I was impressed by an interview with B.B. King, the king of the blues, who died this week in Las Vegas at age 89. He was good at playing and singing the blues, and he did it with all his heart, all over the world, well into his eighties. I think if you find something you enjoy and find you are good at it, do it with all your heart for as long as you can. I am finding that out a little late in life, but grateful that I am given that chance. I am happy when I work on my tapestries, and when I write, and I enjoy sharing both, which is an added bonus, especially when it turns out other people enjoy it too. I am finding that it is giving me great inner peace, and that is certainly a gift to my heart and soul at this junction of this journey called life. 


 

The Line

No one around me sees it.
I cannot touch it, and my dreams erase it.
Quiet,soft and straight, it divides us.


Can you see me, I wonder as I pray at night?
Do you think of me, like I think of you?

The line is there, I see it all the time.
I take great care not to step across,
when I do at night while I sleep
the nausea quickly pulls me back
by the morning's warming light.

Do you have to take care too,
not to step across, does it leave you
sorrowful and dazed?
I hear you leave, fading shapes, brittle on the breeze.

The line dividing us into two worlds,
the realm of breath, and the realm of sky
the heartbeat of time keeping us apart.

No one around me knows about the line.
Its chalk outline never fades in the rain or heat,
as I hear the four of you stepping softly to its edge.

Father, mother, sister, sister
holding hands in dance of mime,
words no longer voiced, you step without shadows
as I watch and remember your place erased in space and time.

A music box with a rusted spring, the memory of you
reaches me through strained eyes,
a tune no one hears but me, as I dance by the line
that keeps us strangers who once were strong and one. 

Trudi Ralston.
May 15th, 2015.