Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Constancy: The Tale of a Trail

Constancy

I want . . . something I can turn to,
regardless of what I do,
regardless of who I become,
Something that will just be there,
always, like tomorrow’s sky.*

Dressed for a jog, I take my usual route. Care to join me?

My trail sinks a fraction lower each year. Call it a packed-earth anthem to rambling. Unwinding. Sometimes I sing.

I love these rolling wild acres beyond our back door. I’ve traversed them in sundry footwear and weather, accompanied by Uncle Tanner, our yellow Labrador. Oh, come with us . . .

. . . This is the jarring, knee-shocker downhill stretch: momentum’s kick-start.

Uncle Tanner will charge the pond, spring-fed and fringed with cattails. Whoosh! Canadian Geese panic, their long bodies airborne. Sunning turtles resembling overturned clogs plop into the pond.

Listen. The water talks to itself as it surges, then cascades, through a buried exit pipe.

Piney woods beckon, crisscrossed by owls and deer, the shadowed expanse sporadically sunlit.

Then, at last, we’re out in the open. Beneath cinematic skies, two tire tracks carve through acres of meadow.

It’s like four small worlds. They surprise and enliven me—even when my feet hurt. Over time, coupled with gratitude, their familiarity breeds . . . contentment.

I’ve traversed this trail for 28 years. I know exactly where the temperature reliably alters a few degrees. I recognize seasonal blooms, each rotation of insects, the arresting ways that light oils the hinges, morning and evening, of every day.

But nothing compares with the big-muscle, thumping-heart rhythm of moving through each distinct space with a dog. I cherish his cheerful constancy. We absorb birdsong and the reedy shrill of crickets. We take in the clean, resinous air.

Today, I aim to jog the entire heavenly loop.

Until I don’t.

Not far from my back door, bluish-green seedlings clog my path and its margins—hundreds of them. An arboreal rash of feathery green.

These baby pine trees are the plucky offspring of bug-riddled trees we felled, two years ago. Now, I must stem the invasion. They are part threat, pure nuisance, yet vital—because, well, they’re trees!—thus integral to the sense of sanctuary.

But this is renewal with a vengeance. Left alone, they’ll take over, obliterate the path, my hard-won path.

So I stop. Then stoop. You have to tease their skinny taproots, long as a forearm, from parched soil. That’s it, an even, seamlessly smooth, slow-motion pull. Too much angle and the tiny green crown snaps off in your palm. Too much tug and the last gasp of root hunkers underground, plotting resurrection.

I also pull knapweed, thistles, wormwood, vetch.

One’s adversaries deserve to be named. Known.

So I am an oft-interrupted jogger. An adamant seedling assassin.

Occasionally I question time spent on weeds and dirt. The relentless, dogged, losing battle.

Yet here is my sacred trail: and here, my gentle loping-toward-God pace—with strategic pauses—all of it so conducive to listening prayer.

There is an art to constancy,
a sinewy ache,
alongside
Olympian rigor.

Constancy in life’s details ripples outward, inward. In times of turmoil, it grounds us.

Cultivating the habit of constancy spills over, nourishing friendships, marriage, and more. I find myself more apt to take a stroll with Dreamer . . . rather than take another mindless scroll through the latest real estate listings.

I’m more prone to savor face-to-face conversations with friends rather than loiter, overlong, on Facebook.

Constancy slows me down.

I make time for two outings per day. Trail time seems to be Uncle Tanner’s constant hope. Fourteen now, he needs less speed, fewer miles, more treats. Who knows how much longer he’ll pad along at my side?

Constancy carves a path through all manner of wilderness.

Tell me more about constancy . . . What have you noticed?

Opening quote by Kazuo Ishiguro, When We Were Orphans
From the Archives, earlier tales of The Trail: Own a Better View
Space: Creativity’s New Frontier

Going Deeper: And Everything Eddying into Light

by Laurie Klein 36 Chiming In

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame acres of light.

The walls showcase B&W close-ups of architectural details: poems in stone. The photographer with the impeccable eye will also perform my root canal.

Scared and fretful yesterday, I memorized part of an old prayer. It’s still with me now, as I leaf through a glossy magazine, where posh Londoners show off their new home. One bathroom features a pschedelic paisley-on-steroids toilet. As you’ll know from previous posts, I’m acutely attuned to plumbing. I show Dreamer, then the receptionist, and we all laugh.

I turn the page. “Oh look. They also installed a personal pole dance room.”

More laughter.

Comic relief helps. A friend died under general anesthesia, a freak allergic reaction. I try to imagine her larking about heaven.

When the Anesthetist arrives, he’s witty, direct, and unhurried. A man I can trust. I tell him about my friend.

“I’ll watch over you,” he says.

Down comes the mask:

claustrophobia
soupy air
aroma of magic markers

“Hold my hand,” he says. “Squeeze as hard as you want.”

I summon the prayer, but it fragments: From this little room and this short hour . . .

“You’re doing great, Laurie.”

. . . I can lift up my mind beyond all time and space . . .

“You haven’t squeezed once.”

. . . unto Thee, the uncreated One . . .

“Just float.”

The mind shrugs. A bodily sigh. All is serene, surreal. Hypnotic. I’m a kite, riding a chemical thermal.

. . . until the light of Thy countenance illumines all my life.

Beneath the crown and dentin my diseased molar holds four canals, each one different. For over two hours Dr. T. wields drill and file. He rasps and reshapes, routing out wider routes, clear to the roots.

Then the bleaching. The final sealing. Like every painstaking work of God: artful, thorough, radically cleansing.

Another severe mercy.

I awake in a different room, brimming with light, still feeling held; tooth saved, the deep work done.

From this little room
and this short hour
I can lift up my mind
beyond all time and space
to Thee, the uncreated One,
until the light of Thy countenance
illumines all my life.

—John Baillie

Tell me your favorite thought or prayer for difficult times.

Photo by Daniel Frank on Unsplash

Coming out of the Rain . . . Ready or Not

by Laurie Klein 20 Chiming In

The phone jangles us awake. Wrenched from the warm crease of sleep, Dreamer and I wedge our feet into shoes. The painters we hired want to pressure-wash both our decks — our charming but overly-furnished decks — this morning. Five days ahead of schedule. And they’re already en route.

We scramble around the smaller deck like Keystone Kops in rumpled pajamas. Rain pelts everything. Lawn chairs, lanterns, bee traps, plants — we jettison décor as fast as we can.

Why would anyone pressure-wash decks in the rain?

The arriving crew frowns over our second deck, half-smothered in vegetation. Like the carnivorous vine in Little Shop of Horrors, my “Feed-me-Seymour” Virginia Creeper must go.

They rev their machine. I rip branches from railings. Dreamer hacks stems thick as thumbs.

Drizzle, of course, morphs to downpour. Did I mention I’m wearing white pajamas?

*****

Here I am days later, winding myself up again trying to get the story down. It’s exhilarating to write, having survived months of illness, brain fog, daily rice, bananas, and gallons of broth. It’s nerve-wracking, too.

What if my writing chops slid down the drain with, ahem, everything else?

Nervous hunger erupts. I pace. Edit. Tear into a bag of chips. Oh, the salty zing of vinegar, the glorious crunch, the greasy addicting coconut oil . . .

I eat all the chips.

What happened to my oh-so-serene resolve to avoid binges fueled by insecurity? I planned to take recovery slowly. Simply. Beatifically.

I stash the empty package beneath discarded carrot peels. So much for my strict recovery diet. Willpower proves flimsy as paper, and I wince at my inward crumple of shame.

*****

Meanwhile, back on the deck: Where’s the machete when you need it? We de-jungle railings, toss the slash to the ground. Our growing heap of greenery feels like an accusation.

I’m entangled in more than deck cleanup.

I want a do-over.

The crew unplugs their equipment. They coil their hoses, then drive away.

We gaze at the decks. Pressure-washing scours away every peeling fold of paint; it also exposes small stubborn islands of rot. Beneath the sheen of rain, the old wood gleams. Patient sunlight presses through layer after layer of parting clouds . . .

What have you crumpled and stashed beneath the carrot peels?

“I want to unfold. I don’t want
to stay folded anywhere, because
where I am folded, there I am a lie.”

—Rilke

Photo by Sandeep Swarnkar on Unsplash

Change: Brought to You Today by the Letter “R”

by Laurie Klein 50 Chiming In

Two vases, cast off
by their owners,
stand side by side
in my greenhouse window.

My Jack Sprat-and-wife of the pottery world.

Both came from yard sales, several years apart, and I enjoy them every day. But this morning … I see them a-fresh.

Last year, you could say my life resembled the tall vase: shapely and capacious, with an easy, upward outlook. Familiar, much-loved dimensions.

Then I got scary sick.

Talk about crushing. It was like being squashed into the squat, bulbous vase: squeezed, compressed, diminished. My personal soundtrack underwent change, too, from carefree humming to yelps, groans, the occasional whimper.

In the words of Jeremiah the prophet, I was being emptied from vessel to vessel.

Without my permission.

“The people of Moab,” Jeremiah said, “are like wine left to settle; they have never been emptied from one jar to another.”

Dregs are so repulsive.

And no one wants to be forced into shape-shifting change. So we pray, rebel, scout silver linings. We whine, rage, then pray some more.

Panicky at being out of control, we pursue compulsions. (Why yes, I did solve 31 jigsaw puzzles and 413 crosswords.)

Sometimes we make lists: Things I Can Still Do.

We binge. Then pay. Grieve. Pray harder.

And all the while, friends—like you!—keep showing up. You pray, send cards, emails, puzzles, and gifts. You prepare healing foods and assist with errands.

The goodness of God shown through loving, practical grace has kept me hopeful, tensile. Malleable.

Little by little, I’ve found peace in the awkward new shape of my days.

“Through love all pain will turn to medicine” (Rumi).

Friends, after five long months my new favorite word begins with the letter “R.” I am officially in Remission. End. Of. Siege. No more Abominable Abdominal C. diff!

Now begins the slow, stretching efforts of trial-and-error diet, to heal the interior damage.

Perhaps I need a third vase.

Have you been disrupted, too? Emptied from vessel to vessel?

I would love to pray for you.

You might also like Kissing — Actual, Metaphorical — Changes All

Thank you to Cris DiNoto for Railroad Crossing photo (on Unsplash)

Please Pass the Salt

by Laurie Klein 25 Chiming In

Today I drink bone broth straight
from the white mug
a friend gave me, years ago,
inscribed with lyrics, in red:
“I Love You, Lord” . . .
(and I lift my mug).

No kidding. Someone made a mug of my song.

Is it soup yet?

Four months of daily chicken soup translates to gallons. I’m a leaky vessel, swamped in broth. Still sick.

And still curious. How can I make this taste better?

Varying fresh herbs and aromatic veges subtly alters the taste. Chicken and rice enrich nutrition and texture. Peas add a jolt of green.

But it’s salt—cheap, elemental salt—that unlocks all the hidden flavors.

My mother once read me a tale built around an insecure father’s question, and his youngest daughter’s unforgettable answer.

“How much do you love me?” he asked.

“As meat loves salt, ” she replied.

Years passed before he finally understood what she meant.

Even longer ago, Jesus told his followers, “You are the salt of the earth.”

In a long season short on answers I understand this as never before. Salt offers a foretaste of heaven.

Salt mingles. It balances unwanted sweetness; it also suppresses bitterness. Too much kills.

The right amount evokes nuance and satisfaction.

Blah, bland, blashly

For 60-some years I’ve disliked broth. Too boring. In a word, blashly.

Go back 200 years and you’ll find blashly describes overcooked veges and thin soup.

However.

Sometimes what heals us … at first, repels us

“If you arrive at a place in life that is miserable,” Anne Lamott writes,
“it will change, and something else about it will also be true.”

Who knew a mess of used bones
plus the right herbs and aromatics
would (eventually)
generate healthy craving?

Refilling my mug, I give thanks for curiosity—seemingly hard-wired into our psyches.

And there’s this: Salt plus sound displays singular, hidden magic.

Curious?

Click here to watch this brief video: Using a tone generator, the experimenter shakes table salt over a vibrating metal plate. As the pitch rises, the salt granules form new, increasingly complex patterns, for each tone, a different design.

Here’s to the hidden dance of salt.

You only get one life.

Please. Be the salt.

Photo: Dan Michael Sinadjan on Unsplash

Cymatics Demo

Read “As Meat Loves Salt” (also known as Cap O’ Rushes)

More about the marvels of salt, by Margaret Feinberg

Stitches, by Anne Lamott

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