Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Rainbow Bridge, from Shelf Life, 4th Edition

Imagine the mutt-iest Mutt, black and white, seemingly yards of flapping tail and tongue. Erratic markings. Clattery nails. Milk teeth like tack strips for carpet.

That was Spooky, my first puppy.

Meanwhile, my dog-doting father told me a story wherein a villainous tomcat blinded his first puppy. Little sponge that I was, my heart absorbed his fear and lifelong bias.

Three decades later, my eldest daughter was offered a cat.

Now what!?

Interrogate yourself, then discard false assumptions? Shelve your father’s old, embittered story?

Say, Yes?

The things you do for love . . .

. . . go unnoticed as, all too soon, your daughter prefers The Cat for entertainment. Comfort. Heart-to-heart talks.

I longed for the role of comforter and confidante. I wanted to be her good time, all the time.

How does one coax gratitude to emerge—albeit one furry inch at a time?

“Laurie, sit.” (Watch, and enjoy her joy.)

“Laurie, stay.” (This too is a form of power: love overruling the need to be needed, a command I’ve had to learn, over and over.)

Yesterday, my daughter texted me. She’d found a vet who, despite social distancing mandates, would allow her to hold Ellie, cherished feline companion for 14 years, as they eased her into the final sleep.

It’s a holy thing to witness a pet lover’s last full measure of devotion. How I longed to be at my daughter’s side. But that honor rightly passed to a dear friend, the one her children have nicknamed Seashell.

“I’ll watch the kids,” I texted back.

At the clinic, I entered her car armed with books and treats. “Aanie,” my grandson gravely said, “Ellie’s crossing the Rainbow Bridge.”

I did not yet know the famous anonymous words written for grieving pet owners. I thought fast.

“Which color will her paw touch first?”

“Red.”

“And then?”

“Orange. Blue. Purple!”

And there would be clouds where she could play. And take a nap. His mama had told him a story worth holding onto, so different from the one my father had told me. And isn’t this the way bias is overcome, one story, one action, at a time?

Yesterday God showed me, yet again, that sometimes stepping to one side so another can grow and thrive in their own way is vital.

And my daughter showed her child Goodbye is sad, but it can still be beautiful.

We treasure our children. Our pets. “Stay!” our hearts cry.

All too soon, we must relearn “Sit.” And we do, quietly, with our memories. Our sorrow. Acceptance. Eventual gratitude.

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. . . . There are meadows and hills . . . plenty of food, water and sunshine . . . [A]nimals who have been ill or hurt . . . are made whole and strong again . . . happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly, he darts away from the group, flying over the green grass . . . faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you . . . finally meet . . . happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together . . .

—Anonymous

Who might come bounding toward you on that rainbow bridge?

LUCKY: Shelf Life, 3rd Edition

by Laurie Klein 25 Chiming In

In this month of cancelled Proms,
the memory of mine, over
half a century ago, brims
within me—mingled emotions
still attached. I remember

my mother, at the black altar
of her sewing machine,
the painstaking arc of her spine,
face bowed over nimble hands
in a circle of light.

A sleeveless drift of floral voile
in citrus colors skimmed
the dress of our dreams—
with a matching stole: “One must,”
Mom insisted, “always be warm.”

Enter the orchid, be-ribboned
perfection, in a windowed box.
“Oh! Lucky, lucky you,”
she cried. “I’ve never had one.”

She looked so wistful.

Guilt churned. Then . . .
adolescent annoyance, alongside
the message: I was adored.
By a boy. Extravagantly.

I felt so confused.

The corsage waited, inside our fridge,
all day, until my date arrived, then
again, for days afterward: waxy, exotic,
transforming our Maytag into a garden.

Shelf life at its most literal.

Back then I knew nothing of a woman’s bone-deep loneliness. Or betrayal. What it’s like, being left for another.

But kids know when something’s amiss. And even self-absorbed teens occasionally splurge on someone else.

That year on Mother’s Day, from the top shelf of our turquoise fridge, a windowed box enclosing an orchid met Mom’s blue gaze.

She kept it for days.

Today, I see the connection, one I’ve long been living—yet missing. For years now, I’ve stashed little bouquets in the fridge, top right shelf. Each time I open the door . . . blossoms! I never remember they’re there.

Gratitude rises to the Creator, then adoration.

I feel wooed.

My mother never remarried. Never dated, as far as we know. She died, during a bygone May.

I wish I could send her orchids this Sunday. I’d say, “Oh, lucky you! Stay warm, Mama. Know you’re forever adored.”

What memorable corsage or bouquet—given or received—maintains a shelf life in your memory?

Perhaps even the smallest acts of love are fractionally akin, in a nano way, to Eternal Largesse.

Let’s romance ourselves and each other. A May bouquet might nudge us to pray for mothers worldwide amid the pandemic. And teens missing Prom this year.

Whether grocery shopping in person or online, add a few hardy carnations, mums, or alstromeria. Refrigerated, they last for weeks. Be inventive, choosing a vase. Or gather dandelions, clover, or wild violets from your lawn or neighborhood tree border. Maybe send up a prayer, each time you see them.

For more about my amazing mom: Homesick? 3 Timely Ways to Experience Healing Restoration

Orange orchids, black background: Photo by John Wiesenfeld on Unsplash
Wild tree orchid & Fridge shot: L. K.

Shelf Life: Second Edition

by Laurie Klein 20 Chiming In

Mid-1300s: Stone walls
confine her. No power,
no plumbing. No hearth.

An anchoress, by choice,
she is bricked in
for life—gruel, heels of bread,
perhaps an apple, daily
passed over the sill.
Waste, handed out.

Door-less, she understands
fear. Isolation and boredom,
restless yearning.
Famine. And persecution.
The Black Plague.

People line up
at her window, seeking
counsel. Mercy.
Her quiet listening heart.

She will become the world’s most famous anchoress—a woman voluntarily locked up to devote her life to prayer for others.

Julian of Norwich, they call her, noted for penning words that comfort me today:

“All shall be well,
and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Julian: Medieval poster child for well-being.

The first woman to write a book in English, she titled it Revelations of the Divine Love. Seven-hundred-some years ago.

Talk about shelf life!

T.S. Eliot quoted her, in The Four Quartets. As have numerous others. To this day, her book ranks with the great spiritual classics.

How might a woman sealed in a stone cell help us today as we shelter in place?

Begin with her body prayer, comprised of four simple (yet pivotal) movements:
Await . . .
Allow . . .
Accept . . .
Attend . . .

Friends, Julian’s body prayer bookends my days in isolation. Sometimes I use it mid-day, as a calming reset between chores. It helps me lean back in my spirit, breathe slowly, inhabit deepening peace.

I could riff on the four words beginning with “A,” but I trust their shelf life. I believe they’ll speak to you if you need them—in their own way, their own time.

I hope you’ll consider adopting, or adapting, Julian’s prayer. You can watch it here.

What simple thought or activity helps you in surreal times?

Read about a 21st century anchoress here.

Photo of hands: Milada Vigerova for Unsplash

Inset of anchoress: A bishop blessing an anchoress, from MS 079: Pontifical, held at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge (c.1400–10)

Shelf Life: First Edition

by Laurie Klein 20 Chiming In

I am 10 years old. Floor to ceiling, three walls of open windows beckon me. The sun room seems to pulse, summer breezes stirring up dust motes suspended in sunlight.

Angled toward the small lake beyond, the yearning silence of one grand piano.

No one notices me inch away as the realtor ushers my family upstairs, their voices receding.

I close the wall of French doors behind me. I’ve never seen glazed terracotta floor tiles. I slip off my Keds.

For now, I own this echoing chamber.

I ease the bench away from the keyboard. Sink onto the padded surface. Fold back the long, hinged lid: 88 keys. Ivory. Ebony. A playground in B&W.

One stocking foot stretches toward the sustain pedal.

Breath: held. Released.

No “Chopsticks” for me today, no percussive “Night and Day”—this moment calls for arpeggios, and because I didn’t ask anyone’s permission, pianissimo . . .

What half-way musical kid wouldn’t imagine the sold-out concert hall? And who on a summer’s day could lift hand over hand across ivories in brimming light and resist exerting a faster, firmer, more confident touch?

Notes blend like the half-furled petals of color on a pinwheel, spinning the spectrum into ethereal white. Joy effervesces. Time melts . . .

They come to find me, of course. Scolding a little.

***

To this day, I can summon the timeless shimmer of those moments alone at the keys.

If author Frederick Buechner is correct, eternity is neither endless time nor the opposite of time as we experience it. Like that spinning pinwheel that reduces colors to essential white, eternity is the essence of time.

Beyond fathoming. Ever available.

I seldom welcome the extended shelf life of memory when wrenching episodes resurface. They do, however, usually offer an invitation toward further healing.

It’s those replayed moments my soul glimpses God’s abiding presence that rejuvenate and nourish me. The opened door, the readied larder of the soul.

***

In these days of restricted access to people and places, is there a scene from your earlier life—perhaps still throbbing with magic and possibility—that might freshly nurture or inspire you? Perhaps it will awaken a shelved dream you might now have the time to explore.

Your high school aha at the microscope
That winning Little League swing for the fences
A thorny equation, solved
You, reassembling your dad’s radio—no leftover parts
Mixing drops from all your mother’s perfumes for that unforgettable gift on Mother’s Day

I hope you’ll consider inviting me in . . .

***

“God, as Isaiah says (57:15), ‘inhabiteth eternity,’ but stands with one foot in time. The part of time where he stands most particularly is Christ, and thus in Christ we catch a glimpse of what eternity is all about, what God is all about, and what we ourselves are all about too.” —Buechner, Wishful Thinking

Photos: Ebuen Clemente Jr on Unsplash and Clark Young on Unsplash.

You might also enjoy Appointment with Delight (click here)

Hai*Pho — No, it’s not a new entree . . .

by Laurie Klein 24 Chiming In

What on earth is Hai*pho? A fleeting, luminescent marriage: poem and image. Pho-to + Hai-ku.

“So much depends on the light, and the way you squint.” (Margaret Atwood’s astute observation.)

Welcome, friends, to my growing, mid-pandemic gallery. Here’s my first arranged engagement.

MARCH

Snowstorm on the way.
Hope takes a morning ramble
among buttercups.

Matchmaking with lens and keyboard prompts my imagination during our current lockdown. It propels me outside, clad in battery-heated sweatshirt (thank you, Dreamer!) and polka-dot mud boots.

And one blustery day . . . snow boots.

FIRST ROBIN

Cheerio, chirr-up . . .
Icy lacework of twigs and snow—
how the world rallies.

During these surreal times, it’s stimulating to focus on the diminutive Japanese art form. Haiku is nature-based, 3-lines, 17-syllables, arranged thus: 5, then 7, then 5.

It’s terse. Evanescent. Hopefully, memory inducing. And thought provoking.

LIKE US

A pond, locked in ice,
dreams of open water. Oh,
how we need the sun!

Hai*pho aims to grasp the come-hither hem of beauty and truth. Mercurial moods and possible meanings simmer beneath everyday surfaces that surround us.

Break the word down and voila! — a cultural marriage. Hai is Japanese, for “hello” and “yes.” Pho is Vietnamese for “soup.”

Hello . . . soup. O YES!

The pond shot above does have a soupy look. Perhaps hai*pho IS an entree. A little something to nourish hope . . .

EQUINOX

He summons the night
to dance with the dawn: shadows
elbowing sunlight.

How merciful that our hopes and prayers for healing across the wide world coincide with the equinox, emblematic of balance, and Spring, and Lent . . . everything quietly pointing toward Easter.

NEST EGGS

Shells. The fearful crack.
The soft, extended wing. Then . . .
beaks. Songs. All-new songs!

What creative endeavors are keeping you lively during the pandemic? I hope you’ll share in the comments. Who knows what you might spark in the mind and life of another?

“I will show them my wonders.”

—Micah 7:15