Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Whistle Pig

May’s winding down. I’ve launched a passel of heart-wrung essays and poems into cyberspace and now await editors’ yeas or nays. Waiting. Waiting. Yes, I get twitchy.

“Good Spirit,” I prayed this morning, “have your way. And please, send a blog idea.”

A marmot arrived.

In our front yard.

Think upsized squirrel, with teeth that keep growing
Think savvy trickster with a droll silhouette
Intrepid tunneller / whistler / survivor of storms

Turns out these pudgier cousins to groundhogs and woodchucks arise, in May, from six months of hibernation. Seeking a mate.

Well, this one’s gonna be lonesome. After 32 years in our cedar house on the hill, this is our first visitation.

In nearby Spokane, there are colonies of them, downtown, near the river. Out here? Never.

The nickname whistle pig (for the distinctive warning call) feels undignified for an animal viewed as a wisdom keeper by some Native American tribes. Some Africans view them as agents of healing.

Christians feature them in their artwork and literature; they also malign them as symbols of gluttony.

(Gulp. While researching the critters, I binge-ate four lunch bag servings of Cheetos today.)

So. Perhaps, a heaven-sent warning?

BUT THIS . . . stopped me:

An encounter with a marmot can be read
as a sign of forthcoming assistance
in a big endeavor.

Fanciful? Perhaps. But I’m on the cusp of submitting a full-length manuscript of poems to a most excellent editor. Except . . . I’ve stalled out. Several hundred hours have gone into this project already over the past year. If the publisher accepts it, then there’s the expected undertaking of marketing and publicity—undertaking, as in engaging with certain death. I am abysmal at business.

Since the marmot feels “sent,” might this be a good-humored nudge to . . . finish up already, and hit “Send”?

“The Marmot is also a reminder that we should never give up on our dreams and goals,” writes Andy Willis, “no matter how difficult they may seem.”

Now that I can take on board. How about you? Can I join you in prayer for your current undertaking?

How do you cope with looming expectations when you feel inadequate for the task? I could really use help on this. And prayer!

P.S. Speaking of fanciful, here’s a poem I wrote several years ago, from a marmot’s point of view.

Whistle Pig Polka Beneath the Monroe Street Bridge

My fellow tunnel junkie, old twinkle-toes Hans,
warms up in our downtown digs. Too bad
Spokane’s first wooden bridge turned itself
into cinders, sifting across the gorge. These days
reinforced concrete, blithe as a skipped stone,
curves across the river like marmot ears. All-day
roar of the waves plus traffic—who hears the small
footfalls, dancing across our triple arch stage
long as 448 of us, laid out, snout to tail?

Ask any oompah-loving rodent playing the tuba,
or mini-concertina (wheezing beneath the cars
with Bohemian flair): hop-steps, close-steps,
claw-foot twirl—duple time fires the blood!
As to those chewed car wires, and the occasional
neighborhood landscape binge, Hans decrees
we all carb load. Half our lives are spent
dreaming up choreography during hibernation.
Some of us want to believe a bridge is forever.

Appeared in Spokane Writes, 2017

Whistle Pig on the Run — Dreamer’s Action Capture

Feature Photo by Eli Allan on Unsplash

Classic pose with log Photo by Miguel Teirlinck on Unsplash

“On the run,” courtesy of Dreamer, who first spotted our guest

Flourish!

by Laurie Klein 19 Chiming In

Flourish . . .

The amaryllis bulb was an Advent gift: scarlet lilies-in-waiting. Yet this one, the size of my fist, was dirt-less and nearly airless, sheathed in beige wax.

Would it grow?

Forced blooms perform out of season, indoors, often far from their natural habitat. Over the years, I’ve tended potted amaryllis. During months of overcast skies, they suggest Spring will again effervesce.

Within days, the first leaf knifed upward. A green bulge followed atop a stem that eventually separated into four elongated buds at right angles, each one shapely as a calligrapher’s flourish.

Red petals flared, a visual fanfare like living fireworks.

Then . . . a second stem, another quartet of six-pointed stars. It seemed a parable-in-progress: as in, we carry within what we need to blossom.

I lopped off wilt but left the waxy coating intact: one bulb, no water, nothing to feed on — save itself.

A few weeks later, six (6!) additional buds crowned stem number three. That’s rare!

Lately, my heroic bulb — now tamped into soil — is eking out rootlets, launching new leaves.

Sometimes we mortals seem to blossom overnight. We call this a breakthrough. An epiphany. A veil lifts, and fresh insight bowls us over, perhaps via glimpses of mercy, mirth, beauty, or truth. The revelation is quick.

We use the word “quickening” to describe that first stirring of the fetus curled in the womb. In a moment, life ignites. As with plants, so with people: verve generates roots and blooms.

But then come the gradual, wearing forces of heartbreak, soul erosion, physical breakdown. What then?

We may feel deprived, perhaps curtailed as my holiday bulb. Yet hope beckons. We learn new ways to weather impediments, outlast their strictures. A season of imposed limitations can also evoke unexpected creativity, break us open in glorious ways.

Will we also store up strength for the future?

My amaryllis bulb must endure being sidelined, for months, to flower again — some fortitude required.

Writer Mark Nepo says, “We are worn to who we are meant to be.”

Not born, but worn. Our personal growth curve benefits from subtractions as well as additions. The old equation holds: he must increase, but I must decrease. No fanfare. No fireworks. Thus, are we conformed to Christ.

This is one way we begin to behold — in ourselves, in our world, and in one another — what is tender and vibrant, if also fleeting.

Eternally drawn through seasons of rest and nourishing grace, we flourish anew.

Lord of Life, you never force us. Instead, you equip us, then coax us to show forth your colors. Remind us you’re still at work—even when nothing remotely green seems to be rising.

Friends, where are you in the cycle: Newly abloom? Temporarily shelved? Somewhere in between?
What is the invitation? Where are you feeling stifled? Is it time for a small fanfare?

Photo by Vincenzo Tabaglio on Unsplash

You might also enjoy this, from the archives:

A Respect for Emergence

by Laurie Klein 16 Chiming In

Of all the nerve. A moose plunged through our snowy wonderland.

The neighborhood Bullwinkle gouged the back forty trail. My trail. I have slogged a reliable floor on snow shoes by compressing numberless, nearly weightless flakes — bound together by weather and gumption.

Moose tracks boggle my sense of proportion. Those hoof prints could be family-size canned hams.

And those gouges compromise balance: a boot teeters, an ankle gives way. No wonder my usually mellow soul bristles.

Overnight, the gentle herbivore collapsed whole sections of trail I have carved and re-carved, daily, over four months. Through sleet and sunlight and once, near whiteout.

Come spring, I mean to jog again. A gear junkie would buy snow shoes designed for running. I’m too cheap. For now, dogged phlogg-ing fuels my training regimen:

pitch body forward
trust metal claws
let poles swing, plant, propel

Rhythm cuts the trail.

Most days something pent up inside hollers, Move it! Make your way through this booby-trapped world.

But what about the wilderness carried within? Some of us crave drama. Others dodge it. How to navigate those unexpected sinkholes that compromise footing?

Weight wise, a bull moose is the equivalent of a grand piano. In the midst of deep drifts, the toes splay — akin to snow shoes. Each hoof’s surface area increases, which minimizes how far those long legs can sink.

The hoof is a hardworking trinity. There are compacted shock absorbers. Two cloven toes function like our middle and ring finger. A dew claw becomes weight bearing and enhances agility, like our pointer and pinky.

Ingenious.

And . . . almost heart-shaped. A terrible magnificence has cratered my sacred aisle, through bowed-over knapweed, through powder and windswept ripples and hummocks of ice.

Caprice? Necessity? Irreversible ruin?

Poet Molly Peacock writes about sustaining “a respect for emergence.” Bound to be awkward. Guaranteed to counter preferred rhythms.

Ideally, perhaps we navigate the intrusive by remaining attentive. Patient.

What if we welcome unwanted traffic on our perceived turf? What if something gentle yet powerful we’ve yet to identify calls to us now, from below the surface?

Lord, be our balance, our surefooted joy.

Friends, what keeps you nimble in challenging times?

P.S. You might enjoy this poem I wrote (many thanks to publisher Katie Manning, Whale Road Review)

Tracks

1
Loneliness moves by stab
and creak over winter hills—

crossbite of straps,
cunning hoops with teeth. Like prayer,

snowshoes re-float the body,
distribute its burden.

Wood or aluminum,
baskets-and-poles —

be our wings. Our boats.
Surrogate bones.

2
Fences run with the hills.
Snow fleas pepper the snow

beneath spruce. Skitter of mice
in whiskery lines, strut

and splay of the wild turkey.
Beneath my flat blue shadow

and, deeper down, the memory
of bared soles, mingled

with fossils. Today:
practice not sinking.

*****

“. . . yet I will rejoice in the LORD . . . my strength . . . he enables me to tread on the heights” (Habakkuk 3:18, 19a, NIV).

From the archives, you might also enjoy: Lessons from a Moose

*Quote, Molly Peacock, A Friend Sails in on a Poem.

Photo by Ivars Krutainis on Unsplash

Alteration

by Laurie Klein 17 Chiming In

An alteration? Oh, what a pain. Somebody, spare me. Please.

Despite my chronic aversion to sewing, I offered to take in my grandson’s sweatpants, a Christmas gift from me. They gapped at the waist, and the store couldn’t reorder the correct size. Plus . . . he LOVED them.

He would try them on again; I’d mark the potential tucks.

However, three layers of thick fleece and wide elastic resisted my pins. How would I shove a needle through an inch of fabric? Personal punctures seemed inevitable. Actual pain.

While procrastinating for six weeks, I read there are nine types of fleece, and only one of them, merino wool fleece, involve sheep. For the eight other types, manufacturers meld polyester and recycled plastics with strategic air pockets, sometimes adding natural fibers like cotton or hemp. Voila! Wonder wear: heat-trapping, breathable, wind- and water-resistant, lightweight, long-lasting, affordable, and non-fraying.

There was a lot to read about, which conveniently suited my reluctance to get to work. Unexpected notes of birdsong embroidered the chill beyond my window.

I also read “The Latin root word for ‘rapture means stitch and sing.”*

That fired my imagination.

My mom, genius seamstress and shy soprano, used to say, “A song makes the jobs we don’t like go faster. And better.” She insisted we sing rounds during chores.

Jogged by memories, I carried the oversize sweatpants into my doctor’s waiting room. I still dreaded starting, and failing — possibly bleeding. But my winsome lad is a kid made for cozy. Would I covertly sing?

Well. Every chair was full. The people in them already looked pained.

A tune did not arise in my heart. Not even a hum. But I sensed a solidarity with my mom, and with people, worldwide, who mend and alter. A flush of warmth — beyond the plush fibers I held — pulsed through me, as if a hand of blessing had touched my shoulder in passing.

I threaded my needle and pierced the tripled layers with ease. Something peevish within me relaxed. I settled into the gladness of keeping my word. Being of service.

And the stitches held, like musical thirty-second notes carefully placed, adding up to something worth singing about: an alteration . . . in me.

Are you delaying a needed alteration? What kind of mindset might help you get started?

You might also enjoy: “Lucky: Shelf Life, Third Edition” (Mom sews my prom dress)

Or “Resilience” (the art of mending medieval parchment . . . and more)

Learn about fleece here

*Seven Thousand Ways to Listen, Mark Nepo

Photo by Lisa Woakes on Unsplash

Grit, Stardust, Healing Rigor

by Laurie Klein 23 Chiming In

Grit? Hardly. I awake, dismayed. Another day cranks into gear with exercises from my physical therapist, designed to get this body up and running. Dogged compliance? Vital. I agreed, months ago, to his regimen: healing rigor.

If I want to jog again — and I do — I gotta.

Today? Don’t wanna.

Last January a common runner’s injury waylaid me — a stress fracture, undiagnosed for three months, exacerbated by new bone spurs and acute arthritis.

“Don’t fall,” my doctor said, after reviewing my latest bone scan.

“Wear this boot,” the specialist said, after reviewing my MRI.

Oh, these bodies, part stardust, part grit, mostly water: vibrant one moment, frail the next.

Once the bone re-knit, I worked hard to regain strength, endurance, and range of motion.

Then . . . a sprain. More time out. More P.T.

As of now, my ongoing nemesis? The one-legged bridge:

Lie on back
Bend one knee
Raise body 15 times (twice daily)

Ooof. Floor joists creak beneath me, their weakening structure only perceived when called upon to bear weight. Kinda like me.

Resolutely, I muscle up — 1, 2, 3 — pant — 9, 10 — then muster that last vertical heave . . . 15!

Progress?

Zip. It doesn’t get easier. How can this be? I’ve been so faithful!

My favorite C. S. Lewis poem — with a bridge in it — comes to mind: “As the Ruin Falls.”

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek . . .

Oh yeah. This girl wants what she wants.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile . . .

I feel the nudge. Exiled from running late in life, this ole heart feels aerobic as well as emotional loss.

. . . And now the bridge is breaking.

Lewis is writing about his conversion. Human grit, intellect, and resolve proving insufficient, his broken heart gives way to God.

A secondary, physical application startles me as I consider Paul’s charge to believers: “Work out your salvation with fear and trembling.”

Work. Out.

God sure has a sense of humor.

The name Jehovah-Jireh, “The Lord will provide,” appears in my reading for the day. I picture a mighty hand upholding me — despite my dubious one-legged bridge . . .

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

Amen.

Friends, what helps you say yes to routine demands—those things you dodge despite know they’re good for you?

https://allpoetry.com/As-the-Ruin-Falls

Hear Phil Keaggy’s musical setting and performance of “As the Ruin Falls” here.

Photo by Aleksandr Barsukov on Unsplash