Love and the Stork’s Apprentice

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

Some stories are so tender, they’re meant for only a few eyes. This story reveals hard things, and hopes long-guarded. I’ve covered the heroes so you can see their goodness, but they won’t feel the world’s glare in their faces. I trust you to do the same.

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Can a young, single, entrepreneurial girl be almost full-term—and not know it?

Let’s call her Larkin: Girl-on-the-move, literally and figuratively, traveling across country with a new boyfriend. Unexplained pain prompts their detour to our city’s Emergency Room. [Read more…]

Kissing — Actual, Metaphorical — Changes All

by Laurie Klein 17 Chiming In

Kissing: Can it reboot the soul?

Think of things that disappear . . .

writes poet Naomi Shibab Nye

Things evanescent as infancy, childhood, youth,

a glass of wine,

a kiss.

Think of beings, or moments, that blend in so well we seldom notice them.

You might miss a person, or a pet, whose company you’ve cherished. Perhaps they’re gone now, or changed in some essential way.

You might miss what once defined normal days. Time and circumstance have dumped your files, deleted your template. (Feels that way at our place.)

Biologically alive, like the Greek word, Bios, we’re living, breathing, functioning, coping. Even laughing.

But fully alive?

Fleeting recognition

Centuries ago, William Blake, another poet wrote:

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise

What is “kissing the joy as it flies” if not delighting in the mundane?

“‘Delight‘ is a word that might scare people,” a friend of mine once wrote. “If I heard it in a disengaged conversation in a crowded room, it would probably snap my head around.”

After reading my last post, he (gently) re-sent me his essay. (A friend notices when we lose touch with “kissing the joy as it flies.”)

My friend spoke about “the person who has made a conscious decision to not only find more joy in her own life, but to make her zest available to others, while not jamming it down their throats.”

Recognition flared in me, charged as air after a lightning strike. Point (gratefully) taken.

Puckered up

Into our humdrum, getting-it-done, daily mindsets a small recognition arrives, freighted with meaning. We feel lucky, even rich, having brushed up against Beauty.

Pause, exhale, savor each tiny, once-in-a-blue-moon event.

Zoe, the Greeks call this: vital, abundant, eternal aliveness.

(Poet Nye again:)

Think of what you love best,
what brings tears into your eyes.

Something that said adios to you
before you knew what it meant
or how long it was for.

Last weekend a soap bubble at our grandson’s birthday party kissed my imagination awake: another invitation to Zoe.

. . . Lessons following lessons,
like silence following sound.*

More kissing

The kissing theme re-appeared when I recently read a poem for Seattle NPR: “Maple Grove” describes a kiss (Read, or listen, here, or below.) A year ago, the poem languished in my Compost File. Time plus distance revealed the gap; then, something to fill it.

Poet Nye seconds this observation:

“I have always loved the gaps, the spaces between things, as much as the things. I love staring, pondering, mulling, puttering. I love the times when someone or something is late—there’s that rich possibility of noticing more, in the meantime . . .

“Poetry calls us to pause. There is so much we overlook, while the abundance around us continues to shimmer, on its own.”

Absorb today’s abundance, I tell myself—before it disappears.

What joy is flying past you this week? Might it want to grow into something more?

*”Adios,” by Naomi Shibab Nye

“Eternity,” by William Blake

“Maple Grove,” by Laurie Klein

Stalled, Halfway Down, or Do I Mean Up?

by Laurie Klein 33 Chiming In

Stalled, half-spent, a balloon bouquet rustles, snagged in our pine tree.

“Party!” it must have recently signaled from somebody’s mailbox. Before it was stranded.

I recognize that wilted, half-mast look. I’m my husband’s caregiver, post-surgery—wishing I could muster something so buoyant as we navigate recovery’s prickly demands.

I didn’t expect to deflate so soon.

[Read more…]

Threshold Times—Yours, Mine—Crossing Safely

by Laurie Klein 24 Chiming In

A threshold awaits.

Once Dreamer’s quintuple bypass surgery is scheduled, we spend an anxious week teetering on this sobering, irreversible borderline.

“Open heart surgery,” a former O.R. nurse tells us, “is a death experience.”

To mend his heart, they will stop his heart.

I’m facing my biggest fear: losing my husband of almost 44 years. A line we never imagined has been drawn. Will we cross over safely?

“We dodder through our days as if they [are] our surest belongings,” John O’Donohue writes. “No day belongs to us. Each day is a gift.”

“A threshold,” O’Donohue continues, “is not an accidental line. It is an intense frontier . . . a dividing line between the past and the future.”

Crossing over, you’re changed.

As in: braving that new job. Surviving a church split. A move. Failure of projects, or friendships. Unwanted divorce.

Some thresholds are forced upon us. Some, we seek. Always, we choose.

I recently gave Dreamer this card, designed by Adrienne Hedger.

A threshold can be exciting, a gateway to a new destination. You lay plans, gather maps, pack yourself snacks.

A threshold can feel like a threat. Something must die, or be left behind.

“Courage and trust” help us cross over the “. . . shoreline of an unknown realm,” O’Donohue says.

To which I would add, the earnest prayers of others—like yourselves—which, pre-surgery, have helped us sleep at night, and reel in our dread, by day.

A threshold also acts as an invitation. A glimpse of fresh terrain: physical, emotional, intellectual, or spiritual.

As I write this, memory dredges up a watery scene from my youth:

“Your lake’s kinda small,” the popular, blue-eyed blond said.

Dismay rounded my pre-teen shoulders. I’d been hoping she’d stay the night.

My dad looked up from steering our boat. “Have you heard of shoreline stretcher?” he asked.

“Um . . . no-o-o-o,” she said. “How does it work?”

She had peaked his Gullibility Meter. Tongue-in-cheek, Dad described a coarse powder that homeowners sprinkled along the shore, at dusk.

“Wow! Can we take another boat ride tomorrow, Mr. B?”

Thus the Cool Girl decided to sleep over.

Next morning we went wading.

Not only was she a good sport about Dad’s practical joke, she became my good friend. A small threshold was crossed together, eased by laughter.

Now, post-surgery, our daily landscape looks different. There is pain. The walker. The siege of fatigue.

There’s also laughter. (see “Check Out Day”Caring Bridge.)

Having crossed our threshold safely, now as never before we know life is a gift. We are changed. Our shores have been stretched.

We want to live these days consciously, attuned to O’Donohue’s “undertow of possibility, always at work.”

Did I mention Dreamer is already planning our next trip?

“A life that continues to remain on the safe side of its own habits and repetitions, that never engages with the risk of its own possibility, remains an unlived life” (O’Donohue).

Are you facing a sea change? Friends, wherever you stand, however you proceed, may you cross over safely.

As for us, your ongoing prayers and presence, cards and donated meals, continue to guard, heal, and nourish our spirits. Providential. And practical.

Like a helmet. And a tiny shopping cart.

What threshold is presenting itself to you, or someone you love?

Waiting Grace, Hearts on Ice

by Laurie Klein 50 Chiming In

Spokane glitters, a city between storms. A City on Ice — as I am, waiting alone for the nurse’s update. Just down the hall, contrast dye seeps through my husband’s veins.

Shrugging off layers — jacket, scarf, vest — I pace; then feeling chilled, curl into the molded plastic chair, knees up, hugging myself.

Shrugging and hugging.

I’m trying, dying to sense God’s enveloping presence.

But waiting is hard

Ancient Celts created “encircling prayers” known as loricas (lo – RYE’ – kahs). They engraved them on Irish shields and breastplates before soldiers went into battle.

Considering Dreamer’s angiogram-in-progress, I wish I’d taken my Sharpie to his chest, made my wishes permanently known.

Christ be with me, Christ within me . . . This 8th-century lorica is attributed to St. Patrick. A sinking feeling within suggests that today I don’t quite believe it.

Only twenty minutes have passed. Nearly 44 years ago—roughly 26,426,400 minutes—Dreamer and I exchanged rings, two restless, love-struck idealists.

Dear God, let there be more years ahead.

Don’t we all wish this for those we love? Have we ever tallied the minutes of grace that have shielded and guided us?

Christ behind us, Christ before us . . . Changing the pronoun from “me” to “us” helps. A little. But returning jitters propel me upright. We wait — as well as walk — by faith, not by feelings, I tell myself. And we are never abandoned, no matter what.

Christ beside us, Christ to win us,
Christ to comfort and restore us.

I picture the ancient words pulsing within and around me, encompassing Dreamer, the nurses and cardiologist.

Christ beneath us, Christ above us . . .

Outside, light transforms high-rise windows to mirrors. Sunshine’s been scarce. Oh, for the snug comfort of my mother’s embrace.

“Coffee?” the kindly prep nurse asks. “How about toast?”

I smile, shake my head, as if stillness might somehow appease Fate. Unlucky genes. Lifestyle choices.

Christ in quiet . . .

Silence cushions me the way a box lined in red-purple velvet cradles a ring. I feel held.

There’s a knock at the door; test results in hand, Dr. P. enters.

“He’s resting now, slowly coming around. I didn’t do any stents today.”

I start to rise, the grin shooting up from my insoles, through my chest. Even the roots of my hair feel springy.

“Unfortunately,” he adds gently (Christ in danger . . .), “stents won’t help your husband. He has multiple blockages.”

Somehow, I keep breathing. Someone, somewhere, must be praying, lifting us before God even as I sink back into the cold, hard chair. Christ in hearts of all that love us . . .

Dreamer needs five (5!) bypasses.

Questions crowd my mind, my throat.

Dr. P. is calm, kindly, waiting for me to find my words. “He’s healthy otherwise, and still young,” the doctor concludes. “He’ll come through fine.”

Christ in voice of friend and stranger.

I wrote this post a few days ago. Today, having met the surgeon, we’re still on ice, waiting now for open-heart surgery: February 28th, 7:15 a.m.

And we’re shrugging off fear whenever we can, hugging each other often.

Friends, we’re all facing battles within ourselves, or on behalf of those we love. Could we pray Saint Patrick’s Breastplate lorica together, right now, in solidarity? I’ve paired the words with simple hand movements. Click the link below and let’s lift our prayers together . . .

https://youtu.be/ZvCNHhquxBc

“The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.” Zephaniah 3:17

Oh, and about Dreamer? I’ll keep you “posted.”

Follow our journey here:

Site Link: www.caringbridge.org/visit/openheart2
Site Name: openheart2