The Thief

25/07/2017

thief

 

 

The Thief

Utter sadness envelops me.

Illness is stealing the life you imagined

in unimaginable ways.

Distance. Friendship. Days through weeks

dissipate with each memory carried.

Days to weeks. Memories.

All I can carry, now. And, heartache, for you,

my friend.


Written for a friend who has a special place in my heart where time & distance do not dare enter to lessen the many decades of shared friendship.

No escape

09/07/2017

“But there’s respect there, one for the other-always among enemies when they’re strong.  And these men with their businesses have enemies all over the place” (60).

I read for pleasure. I read to escape. The “Maisie Dobbs” series by Jacqueline Winspear, is one of my preferred mystery choices for a variety of reasons (I will spare you from my personal biases and prejudices, today, on this front anyway).

Also, I read out of order with series. I read what is readily available. This title was one – discounted at my local bookstore. Who could refuse?  Not I.  Imagine my surprise when I came across some of the dialogue and it sucked me right back into our 2017 politics, at home and globally? I will let you, dear reader, make comparisons, but to me they are obvious. I do not think the author intended this, as the title was put to press long before our presidential election and subsequent tumultuous events centering on hubris and dictators. Nevertheless, here it is. Was she prescient, this Ms. Winspear? Artists are often in tune with the unconscious of society or so it seems to me with my somewhat limited but intense direct experiences. I will brook no argument here; it is personal opinion.

journey-to-munich-225Escape did not come with this title. However, what did surface was this – a reminder that we, as animals, all have this: “…she felt the nape of her neck prickle, as if someone had run a feather across her skin” (7). This behavioral response comes with feeling a threat. The parallels are rooted in biology. The “noise” of tweets, newscasts, online forums cannot compete with the holistic mind/body response. I did not escape with this title.

“The man who was now chancellor took advantage of the situation, his rhetoric mirroring the temper of the times, reflecting the mood of the people and milking it for all it was worth…the crowd devoured every word, more inebriated with drink and hyperbole as the minutes passed…” (96).


Winpsear, Jacqueline. Journey To Munich. HarperCollinsPublishers, 2016. Print.

Hope & the husband

05/07/2017

The 4th of July. Every year my husband hangs our flag.  He never wavers with this appreciation of our democracy – despite all the years as an adult whether it was through the Vietnam era in our young adulthood with vociferous protests against the war and the immorality of Watergate, or the myriad slippery and evasive shenanigans during the Clinton era – he is an American. Does this mean he follows blindly? No. He is most certainly disputatious on every aspect of a political move by anyone. Facts. He is grounded in the facts. He is moral. He is fair. Oftimes, I wish he was THE president.

Mike2

I, who could turn tail and run with outstreached arms through the maple-lined avenues of Canada today, stand in awe of him. His steadfastness is my beacon. It gives me hope.

 

 

“The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties…”

 reflection

My inner Austen emerged today from its deeply buried cavern. One submerged by the rocks of diligence, lo! these twenty years past. Yet, I am already “off-topic.” All this to say, I took a walk. A walk alongside a somewhat meandering path. Near this very path, there is a black-top, a two-lane road, which parallels the woodland. It is here, with the windshield before my eyes, my view is often filtered. I am one step removed from the visceral experience nature offers generously.

Today was a different day. I accepted the gift of a walk.

ranculus

I set out doggedly, à pied, and with a broad swath of time before me. A visit to a friend where she is in the midst of joyfully creating her new life – a new one, at another end of the path. Along my way to her, this is what I found: sounds of birds – a flicker; a frog  croaking somewhere – unseen –  from a muddy pond;  creek water running over rocks furiously, and then, gently. This is what I viewed: a virescent canopy towering above me, its permutations burgeoning upward, the sun breaking through all this to illuminate ranunculus ficaria in all her abundant joy, and others with their dogs and those tails meteoric metronomes tracking only the sounds of their smells.

creek

This interlude, this remarkably simple choice gave me “the exquisite enjoyment of air.” Now, to re-read Miss Austen.

 

Dedicated the Friends of Sligo Creek, and of course, to my friend.


Austen, Jane. Sense and Sensibility. Project Gutenberg, 25 May 2008. Web. 4 June 2017. goo.gl/HrARBx.

Cleveland OH

01/04/2017

The thing about being a teacher-librarian is that your students are always in your thoughts. Regardless of where you are. Regardless of the calendar. Whether it reads “closed for Spring vacation” or not, there they are. Front and slightly off-center.

A brief drive to Cleveland and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to “get away” proves no exception to my pronouncement. At the sight of artists’ hastily scribbled lyrics, notes, and even report cards, the only two words that popped into my head – visually I will add – are “primary documents.” Of course, the next hyperlinking thought went directly to my students – those lovable Bulldogs at St. Albans SchoolN.Young2.primary.jpg in Washington, D.C.

This is for you, my Bulldogs, young and even younger! Rock on.

Quiet visits

25/03/2017

garage3Some visits are quiet ones. The day is routine. Walking in any weather. Walking along the streets of a small town or the wide alleyways behind historic homes where even the garage curtains speak of a gentility. Big plates of pasta balanced on the laps of the three sisters, sitting on chairs and sofas. We are tucked in snugly on this chilly night. Mystery hour. It is about relationships. It is a slow story. One that takes time and nuance. So too, with my sisters and me. It is about relationship. Slowly moving through decades, through years of upheaval and years of the steady, almost imperceptible changes in each of us. It is a quiet visit. It is a visit that is full.

I return home, here, with sunny skies and warm breezes. Shy windflowers at my garden gate wave their greetings, faces filled with light. I am filled with thoughts of family as my key unlocks all that is before me.windflowers3.jpg

Sharp intervals

17/03/2017

wire3

Sharp Intervals 

Assaulted by tone

The guise of caring Read the rest of this entry »

A Reminder

31/12/2016

onionA Reminder

The onion gives tears.
Crying for only the joy
you bring me each day.
While tartness of the cherries
seduces me as you smile.
Tina Hudak   ©2016

This is my attempt writing a Tanka poem which I dedicate to my students at St. Alban’s School in Washington, D.C. They inspire me. They are my onions and my cherries. I expect & hope for them to supass me in 2017. cherry

A blessed winter

21/12/2016

2017newyear

EVENSONG

Not in the gutteral fragments

of the broken words,

But in the singing of the birds,

in the whispering of the leaves

Where life speaks, and the

soul find rest.

Tina Hudak 1995©
Watercolor by Sam Graul 1996©

Fleas

05/11/2016

Moments when exhaustion meets human nature puts me back in touch with my animal nature. And so it begins. Each evening, after a ten-hour work day at school, I curl up on the sofa with cat in lap to groom him. Running my fingers through his fur, up and down his back, stopping to feel bumps on his head, I am a  ruthless mama searching for fleas to kill. This is a generous season for insects. Fall brings dry, hot weather when it should be damp and cool. Eggs hatch. Gnats fly. Fleas are carried in on the back of my wild feline.

Now, confined until the first freeze, we both have lost our ways. We strain against confinement, routine; we mourn the loss of the unexpected. There is no balance, for neither feels the joy of feral surge. We are tethered to room after room after room.

Damn this weather. Damn these fleas.  

cat

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