Laurie Klein, Author at Laurie Klein, Scribe

Taking Turns, Taking It Slow

Hairpin turns funnel our 30-foot RV downward today, through Idaho’s wild canyons.

Yours truly is not driving.

I am 93% Bilbo Baggins, a homebody who loves peace, quiet. Warm food.

Bilbo had to dig deep when the great Gandalf appeared and set him on a quest. But the little hobbit discovered derring-do within—latent “Took” qualities from his mother’s side of the family gene pool.

We’ve been traveling for ten days. Taking turns with the driving? Well, hoping to channel my inner Took, a week ago I “took” the wheel. Did I mention we’re also towing a station wagon?

I rollercoasted us up and down and around, again, and again, taking turns, taking it slow. To give Bill a break.

Longest. Hour. Ever.

And then the weather changed . . .

Today, from the passenger seat, my senses plunge into spring scenery.

Moraines left behind by ancient glaciers look wetly vibrant. Balsam Root Daisies carpet slopes, glowing patches of gray and chartreuse amid deeper greens.

Camera braced on a raised knee, I shoot through the open window. Colors abound!

I can almost hear Julie Andrews as Maria von Trapp (who definitely claimed her Took side) singing “The hills are alive with the sound of music.”

What inspired those lyrics? Perhaps, the canyons of Idaho.

Or Isaiah 55:12 (NIV):

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

What an ear-tingling promise for people who failed, so spectacularly often, to listen to God. People who clung to their comforts, idols and appetites.

Which sounds like me.

I wonder what today’s scenery might be broadcasting . . .

Married to a roamer, I get to regularly unearth my latent Tookishness. Took and Baggins, taking turns inside me. Is one better?

This world needs those who stir things up.

It also needs those who stir the soup,
and those who keep candles burning on window sills.

What will you stir up today? What’s stirring in you?

With or Without a Net

by Laurie Klein 8 Chiming In

Is today a good time for a walk where you live? If not, how about taking a virtual walk with me?

Wild, sometimes, the memories that surface.
You step out the door
and before you know it . . .

you’re a hatless kid again, let loose in the meadow, stalking ladybugs, moths and monarchs. In spongy-new tennies, you inch past milkweeds and burdock, dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace.

If you relished this mid-century childhood freedom like I did, half the fun was being outside on your own, green grapes in a pocket, traveling with or without a net for butterflies (made with a coat hanger and cheesecloth). Remember? Let’s go!

Exploring. Staring at clouds.
Sitting on our haunches to flip over a bug with a stick.
Whistling on grass blades, inhaling May.

Walking without a net today, I take these pictures along the path and wonder (maybe you do, too):

Why do I always prefer a safety net?

I don’t like living without a net to catch me. Before I can plumb this fear, I see the wild shooting stars: tall and delicate with wind tunnel petals. Their centers are dark, beaky snouts.

Their name alone reminds me to watch for surprises.

“If you search for the little bursts of surprise in your life,” writes Margaret Moore, “you create an entire mind-set change—exactly what the adventurer needs.”*

I’m not very adventurous. But I’d like to be.

Streamline this soul today
like a badminton birdie,
ready to rise . . .

“Finding novel sensations in the everyday hits a mental reset button,” says Todd Kashdan, PhD.**

And you—what of your rushed
and useful life? Imagine setting it all down—
papers, plans, appointments, everything—
leaving only a note: “gone
to the fields to be lovely. Be back
when I’m through with blooming.”

—Lynn Ungar, “Camas Lilies”

This is my year to delight more in life—without a net of some kind to reassure me I’ll be okay. Sometimes I question my motives. I take heart from the following quote:

“An adventurous person will always have moments of feeling like a fraud—it’s a sign that you’re creating new roles for yourself, that you’re evolving. It means you’re doing great, passionate work (Kashdan).”

Grass widow and the wheel done rolling — Wild Larkspur

So today, if we feel more like a wheel done rolling . . .

Larkspur, you remind us to keep seeking
the company of those who are still blooming,
as if knowing some days we feel
irrelevant, relegated to rust.

Or is it field art?

TAKING IT FURTHER:

Amble somewhere this week. Make this outing non-aerobic. Non-wired. A slow roam without a net, soul mesh open to receive surprise. What along the speaks to you? How might this change the way you live?

*Margaret Moore, MacLean/Harvard Institute of Coaching, as quoted in O, June 2010, p. 141.
**Todd Kashdan, PhD, author of Curious?
“Camas Lilies,” Lynn Ungar, Bread and Other Miracles

Own a Better View

by Laurie Klein 16 Chiming In

Beyond the bay window, night wanes.

God, behind the scenes, is producing this unused, never-before-seen, free-for-the-living day:

“Light, on your mark . . . good, very good . . . fade in sky and fields.”

(And to the mist) “Ready? Get rolling!”

own the new view — Mt. Spokane, pre-sunrise

For the first time in 25 years I clearly see Mt. Spokane from my place at our table. It rises, cool and distant, the stone-washed blue of rain over a lake.

Recently felled trees exposed this view, a vista I want to claim. Can a human own a view?

With the silent hoist of invisible pulleys, up comes the sun. I stroll up the driveway and witness washes of color altering landscape. I pass the fallen bodies of giants.

The news

Our trees are dying. In a word: beetles.

We sought advice from experts. Here’s who weighed in.

Spokane County Extension fire inspector
District 4 Fire Department
Department of National Resources
Thinning contractors

Restoring our woods will cost an arm and a leg—actually, unnumbered limbs. Trunks, too. Many exceed the jaws of the chipper, and debris must be burned ASAP, or trucked away, to avoid worse infestation. Survivors need to be thinned and lopped of dead growth, 12′ from the ground.

Trunk girths indicate no one has tended these woods. Nor have we. We’ve loved them but left them wild. Until now.

But the hours. The expense. The labor. It’s overwhelming.

And yet

I see the mountain. See it from the place I study and pray. Modest in size, it’s still a mountain.

My view through the gap left behind by death makes me think of Good Friday. And visions. Kernels of wheat. Who but God would conceive such a process—downfall and disease ushering in unforeseen beauty. Surprise.

Yes, we are facing loss. And cost. And something more.

Have you read this famous haiku by Mizuta Masahide?

Since my house burned down
I now own a better view
of the rising moon

Looking back, looking ahead

We moved here after re-affirming our marriage vows. Things had been crashing down around us and friends sensed our need, prayed us through the pain. We know about doing hard things.

Now it’s time again to “own a better view.” At least, metaphorically. Ancient Israel lost her great forests to marauding enemies. Yet scripture also describes the trees rejoicing.

We will care for our little forest. We’ll watch for each view that opens up, even as trees go down.

Some scientists now believe bark beetles can hear the sound of imploding tissue in drought-stressed trees. Native people have likely always known this, as evidenced by this quote from a Pueblo Indian elder.

The beetles come when the trees begin to cry.

Who, or what, in your life cries out for tending? Is there a new way to view this?

Mizuta Masahide (水田正秀, 1657–1723) was a Japanese poet and samurai. —Wikipedia

Keys to Reading a Poem

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

How to begin

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
—e.e. cummings

April is National Poetry Month, also known as NaPoMo.

I am startled to realize God is still working today through a poem I wrote long before I suspected its deeper message for me. (Yes, it’s a poem from my new book, Where the Sky Opens.)

Poetry is layered. Sometimes hard to fathom. I want to show you a few ways to enter a poem.

Will you give me the chance? Promise me you’ll read to the end!

Are you nodding?

Okay, here’s a little secret. Look for the conflict.

[Read more…]

All Hail, All the Time

by Laurie Klein 6 Chiming In

Hail, hail, everywhere . . .

Long beams of Easter light from the west brushed across our icy yard, as if with a magic wand.

I was setting the table for our daughter’s birthday party. Mid-cutlery, thunder rolled, making me glance up. Ice pelted the roof, yet the sun blazed.

Pure glint dosey-do-ed with gravity
as compacted snow
pummeled our cars, the deck, and lawn.

Who could ignore this dangerous, glittering, magical racket?

Hurrying outside, camera in hand, I wanted to capture the fleeting, crystallized scene:

trees lit with daylight constellations . . .

shrubs decked in white sapphires . . .

a sequinned gown for the limpid air.

Hail hits hard, like bad news

It can hammer a heart, gouge inner peace. Along comes a death, or dire diagnosis. A career setback. A family feud or a friend’s downward spiral.

Amid too many grim tidings lately I call to mind God’s storehouses of snow, mentioned in Job,

the plague of hail in ancient Egypt,

those predicted hailstones in Revelation. In each case, God’s mastery over weather is on display, though I struggle to feel positive about the human price paid.

What am I missing here?

Hail, tell us your secrets

Though perilous, hail showers are also spellbinding, glorious, a glistening force that transfigures landscapes. And, perhaps, lives. It’s working on mine today . . .

Hail, noun: precipitation in the form of small balls or lumps usually consisting of concentric layers of clear ice and compact snow.

Hail, verb (archaic): used to express acclaim. “Hail favored one! Hail Caesar! Hail, King of the Jews! Hail, Mary! Hail to the Chief!”

Hale, homonym, adjective: to be free from defect, disease, or infirmity : sound; also: retaining exceptional health and vigor (Merriam-Webster).

Hail, teach us your ways

Lord knows, I need instruction. Feeling neither vigorous nor exultant at the moment, I’m writing this post having woken up crying, twice, during the night. Having teared up again, several times today.

Am I depressed? Maybe. Too early to tell. I gaze at this photo of the weathered chair beneath our crab apple tree, festooned with icy finery. Marvel lightens my sorrow—a few degrees.

No matter how I feel, the God of fire and hail offers respites along the way. A pause. A dose of wonder despite my inability to catalogue or corral my emotions.

Soon now, I will venture outside with my camera and hunt more evidence of God’s shining presence within all that remains unsolved in my soul. My pleas for the healing of loved ones. The final home-going of family. The recent relational storm that laid bare my need for forgiveness.

Fire, and hail; snow, and vapors; stormy wind fulfilling his word. – Psalm 148:8

I am counting on this: that everything eventually fits into God’s larger story, even volatile weather of the heart. Be it exultant or quiet acclamation, this I aspire to—no matter the weather, or season, event, or prognosis. The news. My mood. Or even our nation’s final candidates.

Grace comes. The light changes. Blues, you lose this round.

It’s neither hail nor storm… It’s just a stir that precedes the settlement of your destiny. Believe that you will not remain on the ground. Wake up and try again! ―Israelmore Ayivor, Dream Big: See Your Bigger Picture!