CAUGHT IN THE CROSSHAIRS

When Bill, fresh out of college, accepts the assignment to yrubBury, he views the daily coded messages as a matter of corporate espionage and competitive edge. Heck, he’s ever so green and naive. What else is a generalist supposed to do in an age of specialists?

The assignment’s an education in itself, a revelation of global tensions and intrigue – and, to his surprise, he’s caught in the crosshairs.

Here he thought he was sidetracked to the boondocks. Instead, it’s ground zero.

Enter Big Inca, from the south.

Inca 1

~*~

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PREPARING A SHROUD

As I said at the time …

Paradoxically, to meditate on death and dying is to consider life itself in its manifold opportunities. The blessings of teachers and mentors, guides and ancestors, family and friends all spring forth.

~*~

WAY BACK

six blue ridges:
five valleys in between

a procession of black carriages
to white tombstones
in a coal-dust haze

scarlet, purple, and gold
fade into rusty wheat and gray

wind in birches:
water falling on rock

Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson
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Poetry
Poetry

PARA MIS AMIGOS

Whatever my reasons for enrolling in Spanish to fulfill my foreign language requirement in high school – rather than, say, Latin, French, or German, the other options – I have only the vaguest notion today, but I did have a fabulous teacher my first year. Profesora Hughes was animated, strict, immersion-oriented – and we quickly achieved a level of proficiency, even playfulness. Unfortunately, my second-year teacher only muddied the waters instead without advancing my skills. So when it came to college, I shifted to French, which had the effect of mixing both tongues in my mind.

Well, the French did give me a clearer sense of the workings of English, which I see as a Germanic language overlaid with French. Forget those who argue for the Latin influence.

For the past quarter-century, though, Quakers in New England have had a relationship with Cuba Yearly Meeting of Friends, and that’s included annual visitors to our Meetings. Finding myself at the mercy of interpreters – when we could find them – has been mildly embarrassing. Once I spent two hours driving one Cuban between connections in New Hampshire and Boston, and our attempts at communicating were a revelation. That is, largely non-verbal communication.

This past summer’s visitors somehow tipped the balance for me. Maybe the fact that Odalys, Candido, and Melissa came to Dover, stayed at our neighbors’, even went to a contradance (“baile folklorico,” rather than “social” dance), made the exchange more personal, even before they became next-suite residents the following week in Vermont, meaning we were always bumping into each other on the campus where our sessions were taking place. The possibility that one of them, staying in the States for a year of schooling, might be our guest over Christmas break gave me the impetus to brush up on that Spanish. I even still had my second-year high school textbook to fall back on.

Now for the update. I quickly discovered my skills were much, much lower than anticipated. Vocabulary, conjugation, irregular verbs, tenses – the whole shebang. Working from the book was going to be a struggle.

From family and friends came the advice to look online for free courses, a suggestion I viewed with suspicion. Still, I decided to take a look, enrolled in DuoLingo, and found I tested out of … nothing. That is, my Spanish was essentially nada. OK, it was time to get serious.

Four months later, after a half-hour or so each day but Sunday, let me say I’m an enthusiastic supporter. I’m impressed with DuoLingo’s system of teaching in a way that saves some of the more technical aspects for later. Much of its early vocabulary, in fact, was never part of my high school learning but would be much more useful in real life. Emparedado, or sandwich, for example. And I’m feeling some of the youthful joy of discovery I felt back with Profesora Hughes. I certainly didn’t expect that!

I do get dinged, though, when I type “elle” instead of “ella” or something similar in my responses. Still gotta watch out for that French, along with those crazy accent marks that rarely make sense to me.

Further down the pike, I’m thinking of a round of Greek. Hey, you wouldn’t believe the language options. And it’s all free.

IS THERE A REAL CONSERVATIVE IN THE HOUSE?

When I first started working at what was widely labeled an archconservative newspaper, a reality hit me: I was the most conservative person in the newsroom. Not in what’s considered political conservatism today, but as someone who values and preserves a stream of the Old Ways. For me that’s meant radical Christianity of a Quaker-Mennonite-Dunker vein and practice, frugality and simplicity, acting respectfully and with manners, upholding honesty and learning, an appreciation of high culture, a distrust of the military-industrial-financial complex, a preference for small-is-beautiful economics, environmental and ecological sustainability …

So what do we call those who have purloined the conservative label, at least since the days of Barry Goldwater? The gas-guzzling, loud-mouthed and obnoxious know-nothings? The ones, especially, who act and sound like anarchists or Huns?

RUNNING IN A NAME

How can you not appreciate the way the word flows on the teeth and tongue and along the lips?

Given its name, Oyster River, in the Lenape tongue for the profusion at its mouth in Chesapeake Bay, the word ripples and sings.

Upstream, where I lived, a different name would have been fitting but, I’ll presume, no more beautiful.

Susquehanna 1~*~

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AIRY FOOTSTEPS

What catechist insists
they’re ivory flights
in snowy clouds? Angels exist
in every rainbow color, including scarlet
footsteps on silver ladders
where charity runs in both directions.

Scarlet, as well, fills the Seventh Day
and Seventh Year, when you take rest.
Scarlet, as the sunset or sunrise
or the blood of the lamb. For that matter,

faith demands more than walking on water.

For starters, try treading on air
with or without the ladder.

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Copyright 2015