Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Dear Ones, a Gift for You

Dear readers, for seven years you have greatly encouraged and inspired me — as well as one another. I want to thank you with a gift.

This past year God has gently redeemed my insomnia. Over time, a series of linked reveries emerged. My genius friend, Sally Mowbray, graphics designer extraordinaire, has beautifully formatted the words with vibrant images captured by Unsplash photographers.

My cherished Writer’s Group urged me to make a recording. To that end, Dreamer and I have worked separately as well as together in his studio, interspersing words with music, most of it composed by my beloved, aka Bill Klein, some of it arranged by our brilliant friend, Chris Lobdell.

Today, with great joy, we’re releasing “Reveries: Matins — a soundscape for respite.”

With three clicks you can download the text with visuals as well as listen to the narrated version with original music —either separately, or simultaneously. (If you choose to experience both at one time, you’ll notice the song “Calvary” replaces the “Trinity-wick Breath Prayer” in the audio version.)

An introductory letter (text version only) suggests several ways you might use the material, if so in-kleined (couldn’t resist).

To view and/or listen, please scroll to the menu bar above and click on “Reveries.” From there you can choose your experience via “Soundcloud” (red arrow) and “view text and photo here” (download PDF).

Dear ones, and you truly are, we hope you enjoy them!

I’m also grateful to have a new poem about insomnia and prayer appear today on a website created by my stellar editor, D. S. Martin. You can read it here.

Photo of gift in pink paper by Ekaterina Shevchenko on Unsplash

Gate photo, Laurie Klein (Filoli, Woodside, CA)

From the archives: You might also enjoy Soul Mimosa — Photos & Music or perhaps this post featuring haikus and photos, Hai*Pho — No, it’s not a new entree . . .

To Gather Paradise

by Laurie Klein 28 Chiming In

Paradise emerges around us in hints and glimpses.

For half my life,
with all my heart
and mind, I have cherished
being schooled, guided,
and loved, in return, by
an incomparable mentor.

In mid-March Associate Professor Emerita of Theatre, Pat Stien, and I celebrated St. Pat’s Day with buttery scones and Irish poems. In her ninth decade, her mastery as an oral interpreter of literature still shone.

A knock interrupted.

Two well-meaning young women, one dressed as a leprechaun, pushed through the door with a rolling cart bearing little sacks of candy. And . . . a very yellow, giant, inflatable, rubber duck.

Are you kidding? I wanted to shout. Do you have any idea who this is?

Pat, however, smiled. Listened carefully. No need to defend or assert her fine intelligence. No desire to establish her reputation or myriad credentials. She may have eyed The Duck but made no comment.

Mildly, she took the sweets they offered. “Thank you so much,” she said, with her trademark chuckle. “My favorites.”

The leprechaun and the keeper of the duck, noticeably calmed by Pat’s gratitude and luminous presence, left.

I remained. Gently instructed, yet again.

This week I read poems and scripture to Pat in Hospice House as she slept. I longed to connect one last time, to meet that clear gaze, to feel the answering squeeze of her narrow hand.

She slept on, peacefully, for which I give thanks. Sometimes we have to trust that the words we speak and the little songs we offer during a vigil register in our loved one’s spirit.

I’ve savored a long, vibrant relationship with Pat. But a role model’s influence on us may be fleeting in actual time — and inspiring, lifelong.

A mentor is a God-given largesse, often many-layered, always divinely timed. In my case, a second mother. Colleague. Friend. Director. Teacher. Sister in Christ.

“When the peaks of our sky come together
my house will have a roof.”

So wrote French poet, Paul Éluard, in Dignes de vivre (lit. “worthy of life”).

Am I a sheltering house of wisdom and encouragement for others? Are you, dear readers?

Pat Stien indelibly communicated God’s love. Every place and time we met, over almost four decades, brimmed with laughter, music, stories, prayers, and the communion of like-minded souls.

Here’s the last poem I read to her, one she loved, by Emily Dickinson. I hope it speaks to you as well.

“I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise – ”

Friends, have you flourished under the rich oversight of a teacher/mentor? The mention of their names and expertise in the comments below would allow us all to thank God with you for their influence in your life.

You might also enjoy my tribute to Pat’s husband, Howard Stien.

Photo by Suzanne Foust

“The Food of Love …”

by Laurie Klein 28 Chiming In

The food of love? Well, we are making cookies today . . .

My granddaughter perches on the kitchen stool, one loose-cannon leg kicking the rungs. She’s chatty, a tad restive. She waves the baby chick cookie cutter above her head. Then, surprisingly, she falls silent, pointing to the decal that spans the soffit. With a five-year-old’s zest she proclaims, “If music be the food of Love, pla-a-ay on.”

“Keira,” I marvel, “you’re reading!”

She grins briefly, then returns to cutting birdies from dough. Keira, aka Kiki, was once a hypersensitive infant we carried around on a pillow. She suffered acute sensory issues. Traumatized in utero by her birth mother’s drug habit, our little fledgling now reads Shakespeare.

Oh, the ageless effervescence of wonder — it tingles all over my body. I’m older than the average grandma, eager to savor each stage of growth while I still can.

As my friend Judi Carlson says, “What piece of our heart did God create to receive this kind of miracle? We adopt fragile children. And those children adopt us.”

Kiki, our impish dynamo, seldom sits long enough to hear a story through to the end. So when did the skill to read click? She’s a girl with places to go, faces to make, boundaries to test.

“All done,” she sings out. “Now what?”

I slide her tray of ginger-bird cutouts into the oven. “Eight minutes,” I say. “Want to see the baby robins?”

We tiptoe to my bedroom window to watch the ramshackle nest on our deck.

Three fledglings yeep and chirr, jostling each other. Then, like harrumphing uncles, they rotate positions.

She wants to know why they are fighting.

“They’re getting too big for the nest,” I say. “And maybe they’re itchy. Look, they’re taking beak-baths.”

[Click & watch] IMG_0548

Chirping, Mama Robin swoops to the lawn, nabs a worm, heads for the nest. She embodies music, the food of Love — countless times each day.

I’ve watched her spread wings and tail over the nest during two hailstorms, her quivering pinions jeweled with ice. She’s giving her young every chance in a world where statistics show only 25% survive their first year.

The oven timer goes off, and we head for the kitchen, Kiki bouncing ahead of me — and off a wall or two. The thought comes to me, she’ll be okay, despite her rough start in life and her madcap ways. The cherishing God who knows when a sparrow falls is with her, and will be, long after I’m gone.

Whoever wrote Psalm 91 knew a thing or two about love: “[God] will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection.” For now, I’m grateful the Deity shares part of that privilege with me.

Kiki and I frost the cookies and top them with sprinkles. Another gift. The robins, too, seem sent. Vulnerability dressed in feathers chooses my deck. My time. Me. From the nest’s inception to sky-blue eggs to scruffy hatchlings, I’ve eavesdropped on this family-in-progress day after day, for weeks. A living psalm.

Kiki takes bird cookies home to her mama. A few hours later I find the nest empty. Abandoned. I’m surprised by the ache in my chest. And how it spreads.

I would have loved to watch them fly.

Since then, I’ve used this breath prayer throughout the day, the one that’s been singing itself in my head lately, helping me let go.

(inhale) Lord of every     (exhale) quickening,
Watching over     egg and wing,
How you cherish     everything!
Taking flight     or nestling,
I live     to sing
All that you are,     my King.

What helps you release a cherished hope or a beloved being already in flux?

You might also enjoy this one about Kiki

And this one, if you missed it, about the nest

Wing and a Prayer

by Laurie Klein 24 Chiming In

My husband, Dreamer, sees her first:

Robin

Dear seamstress of April
stockinged in brown,
your bright apron a blur,
are you watching me
watching you?
How your beak darts
and weaves, hemming
the final layer of nest.

Lady Robin bustles about on the bench — four feet from our window. I pull up a chair. How might her story affect mine?

Sovereign Creator of Egg and Wing, attune my senses . . .

Still a rookie contemplative, I study her like a sacred text.

Like me, she briefly alights, only to flit. Seems we’re both distracted by hunger. (She eats roughly 14 feet of earthworms a day!)

When she’s inhabiting her grassy, mud-cup home, sometimes her tail nods like a feathered pendulum.

Loath to startle her, I emulate a statue.

Lord, teach me soulful elasticity.

During the second week, Lady Robin lays one egg per day, mid-morning. Three in all. Secret hemoglobin and bile brew that singular blue.

Perhaps her instinct’s drive resembles my need for a guiding word or phrase. I’ve slipped into lectio tierra, kissing cousin to lectio divina. Attending to an aspect of nature closely, I seek purpose and shape for my day, my actions, and outlook.

Psalm 84:3 comes to me: “Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at your altars, O LORD of hosts.”

Then, a prayer: Please, shelter the homeless. Comfort the besieged in Ukraine. Help my friend, recently widowed. Assist friends adjusting to new and smaller living spaces.

Does her patience flag? How gently she turns the eggs with her bill, ensuring her young will not stick to the shells.

The naked brood patch on her belly calibrates temperature. She alternately presses closer lest the eggs chill or lets them cool, briefly exposed. Ever watchful. Sharing her own heat.

Worry muscles in when the weather worsens. Again, she points the way.

Nightly frost? She hunkers down.
Sideways rain? Still undeterred.
Bucketing hail, the size of peas? She extends each wing, rim to rim, seals the nest with her own flesh.

Sovereign of the Skies, shield this faithful bird, this countryside altar jeweled with hailstones. You see us all, every creature.

Lady Robin shifts to face me. Pale feathered crescents outline her gaze. By now she recognizes me.

“If a robin’s near,” so the saying goes, “it’s a loved one watching over you.”

This May, it almost feels true. It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. Decades ago, she read me The Secret Garden, with its merry robin coaxing an awkward child toward the hidden key.

Sovereign of Egg and Wing, your grace is the key to everything.

In another week, the eggs will hatch. Lady Robin and her mate will deliver takeout . . . 100-150 times a day. Book-ending each day with their calls — first voice of the dawn chorus and one of the last songs heard at dusk — they will raise their family. And teach them to fly.

Got a bird story to share?

Fun Facts:

A robin can fly up to 35 mph

A group is known as a round of robins. Up to 200,000 robins sometimes roost together.

Because the English first tasted oranges in the 1300s, robins, often called redbreasts, were not described as “orange” until the 1500s when the word “orange” came into use.

More about lectio divina here

Photos of Robin in Tree and Robin on Statue taken by my great friend Larry Manne. Eggs and hail shot, yours truly

Dear Mary Magdalene

by Laurie Klein 23 Chiming In

Dear Mary Magdalene,

About that woeful, bone-lonesome dawn. The gaping tomb. I have questions . . .

Take the man you mistook for the gardener. Was Jesus wearing unfamiliar clothes — perhaps on loan from a kindly local, out watching the sun rise? The risen one minus His seamless robe might have looked visibly chilled.

Or did a vestige of hell’s filth linger beneath broken fingernails?

Was His face weathered by heartbreak?

Perhaps those dark eyes blazed bold with hope: a visionary gaze, consecrated to growth.

But no, you recognized God when He called your name. I’ve read the stories. I wish you could tell me more.

Freed from your hellish past, when did the flashbacks finally cease?

Did your thoughts break into blossom whenever He spoke? And when did your dear, new, sapling-self first begin to flourish?

Between the early and latter rains and seasons of drought, your prayers must have overflowed: sorrows and shocks and joy-sprung awe. Was it hard to embrace such rigorous training?

And did Jesus ever mention espaliered trees? Ancient Roman gardeners would curb a plant’s growth to maximize yield in a limited space. Picture a fig tree growing in one plane, like a hieroglyph on the wall of a tomb.

Mary dear, imagine the process . . .

First, choose a sunny spot, bounded by a trellis or wall. Plant your sapling beside it. Clip away suckers; they siphon strength from the roots. Snick.

Shear off any limbs thrusting themselves forward. Lop.

Gently now, lest a bough break, bind the remaining side growth to the lattice at the key cross points.

Does this sound familiar? The cutting back. The unrelieved stretching. The waiting, waiting, to bear fruit. Pears or citrus, perhaps. Or figs, first grown in Eden.

Mary, Mary, how did your garden grow? Inch by inch, I imagine, as natural tendencies conformed to the chosen framework. Espaliered trees, like disciples, abound via tender, vigilant patience. Care is paramount. Consent is all.

Dear Marry-the-moment Magdalene, first to herald the resurrection, you embraced the reshaping. Again, and again.

May I do no less. Alleluia, amen.

Friends, what would you ask Mary M?

To learn more about espalier (from 1400 BC tomb paintings to present-day practice) start here: https://hort.extension.wisc.edu/articles/espalier/

From the archives: Reflections

Photo of Figs by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

“S” espalier photo, yours truly

Thanks to Kate Bowler for her thoughts on the Easter gardener, in her new book, Good Enough

“When the peaks of our sky come together my house will have a roof.”

“When the peaks of our sky come together
my house will have a roof.”