Laurie Klein, Author at Laurie Klein, Scribe

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!

Settler or Pioneer: Finding Your Role

by Laurie Klein 4 Chiming In

Heart pounding, fingers crossed, some years ago I auditioned for the musical, “Quilters.” That evening my serial nightmares began:

In the wings, I awaited my cue for a play I had never read
Once onstage, I couldn’t speak
At curtain call, I took a grand bow . . . in my underwear

Do dreams like these ever reduce you to wee-hour, brain-jellied panic?

Hi friends, I was recently invited to write a guest post for the lovely website, Ishshah’s Story.

To continue reading the tale, which includes my Eastertide kidney stone debacle, please click here.

If you want to leave a comment, you can do so at either site.

Exposure: Risk and Gift

by Laurie Klein 8 Chiming In

Exposure—now there’s a threatening word. Are you up for an armchair adventure?

Let’s play “Exposure: Risk and Gift,” a creativity game I dreamed up, well, just because.

Exposure: Risk beginning, step 1

Using paper (or your device), write I’m afraid 25 times down the left-hand margin
Finish each phrase with whatever comes to mind, without lifting pen from paper (or fingers from keys)
Circle any “I’m afraid” statements that alarmed or surprised or annoyed you

Exposure: Risk writing, step 2

If you read my recent post on the Camperdown Elm, here is the same tree, seen later in the day and from another angle. Trick-or-treat, anyone?

Camperdown Elm with vintage home — Camperdown Elm at Dusk, Poulsbo, WA

Using one of the statements you circled, write a letter, or a list, a poem, or a song, or even a partial scene using one of these phrases below (or one of your own) as a kickstart:

They planted me deep, downhill from the Ferris place, never suspecting . . .
Sleepwalking inside somebody’s nightmare . . .
I never meant to . . .

Or you could write from the viewpoint of someone discovering the cure for Dutch Elm Disease . . .

Play with possibilities, no matter how crazy, and see what happens. Sometimes free writing unearths an emotion that’s “under the radar,” eating at your inner peace.

Exposure: Offer a gift, step 3

The Camperdown Elm in November dusk (first two photos) looks pretty creepy.

The Camperdown Elm below was taken in April, in afternoon light.

Camperdown Elm at Filoli Garden, Woodside, California

Margaret Atwood once said: So much depends on the light, and the way you squint.

Now take what you’ve risked writing so far and “gift it” with one or two of the following:

A favorite time of day, or weather
A new character
A quote or proverb you love

Follow wherever the words want to take you. Stop when you feel done.

Read back what you’ve written. Has the overall mood and/or meaning changed?

Have your thoughts about the underlying fear you identified changed?

Exposure: Optional

Consider emailing me what you created. I’d love to read it!

Was this experiment interesting or enlightening?

Would you enjoy a similar creative prompt from time time?

p.s. To see a stunning full view of the Filoli Camperdown Elm tree in bloom as well as the fabulous winged seedpods in close-up, click here. (scroll to image #5)

Reflections

by Laurie Klein 15 Chiming In

Just this, for Holy Week . . .

Yes

I am going to start living
larger, looser—
stripped down
to my sapling self, leaning toward
that leafless tree Messiah loved
enough to die on.

Maybe its boughs sheltered him once,
from pelting rain,
spread shade like a cloak,
dropped one late fig, surprising his palm—
one small story uniting and
easing them both
at the end, on that hill like a skull.

My brow touches the earth.
Moved by hosannas, echoing
still, deep inside stones,
I rise. Then the tight turn,
lifting fingers, limbs,
my bird-soft hair—
all the thorns, delicately removed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

. . . be like the tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.

—Jeremiah 17:8

“Yes,” from Where the Sky Opens, by Laurie Klein