Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

First-timer: Never too late

First-timer?

Think amateur: “one who ardently engages in something, for love.

Of course, it also means “skill set in progress.”

Do you remember Ted Mack’s mid-century “Amateur Hour?” If not, imagine “America’s Got Talent” meets “So You Think You Can Dance” — but in black and white, mono vs stereo, with minimal sets and lighting. Each hopeful celebrant steps up, giving their all despite first-timer heebie-jeebies. Jim-jams. Screaming meemies.

Love the lingo, if not the sensation. But public emergence? Me? Not so much. As you may have read in my last post, God seems to be coaxing me out of my cave. In the process, I get to practice learning to laugh at, about, and with myself. Sometimes, almost beside myself.

So maybe we should switch out “emergence” for effervescence. After all, we’re to rejoice in the Lord our God in everything we put our hand to (Deut. 12:18b).

In that spirit, I’m sharing the link to my first podcast — on camera: an interview with Riley Bounds, calm, genial, thoughtful editor of Solum.

The interview during which I discover . . .

a new soapbox sturdy enough, perhaps, to support the weight of a growing passion,

and

how to look 30 years younger for 38 minutes and 53 seconds (thank you, Zoom!).

The same interview after which I learn . . .

how vain I still am,

and

why a person must laugh over accidentally channeling a slo-mo, dashboard bobblehead (we all have a visual go-to-focus, while thinking: mine’s upward and to the left; what’s yours?).

I also learned when to exchange chairs minutes before going live (never!): your carefully rehearsed eye contact skews and you will earnestly address everyone’s hairline.

BUT: if you wonder how “I Love You, Lord” rolled into this world, then crossed and re-crossed it, multiple times, over 48 years,

or why every creature in my latest book speaks, including the house,

or c’mon, why poetry? . . .

. . . this one’s for you.

“It’s out there,” a beloved father figure once explained to me, “as long as there are electrons.”

First-timer, amateur effort notwithstanding.

Friends, much as I hope to stir your heart and meet your gaze . . . your hairline may tingle, ever so slightly.

Click here to listen only.

Friends, if you’re stepping up to, or into, something uncomfortable, how might I pray for you?

P.S. In the high-tech swirl of “algae-rithms,” a click or comment makes a difference, even if you only have time to watch part of the podcast. Fellow writers, my favorite moment? It’s Riley’s: time stamp 38:13.

Photo by Marcela Rogante on Unsplash

Author photo by Dean Davis Photography

Chrysalis

by Laurie Klein 38 Chiming In

Chrysalis

Every so often God lovingly summons me to spin myself a figurative chrysalis, a timeout from the rhythms of normal life.

“In soul-making we can’t bypass the cocoon,” author Sue Monk Kidd says. “There’s always the husk of waiting somewhere in the corner.”

In other words, we’re invited to both embrace and endure a season of claustrophobic dark where transformation occurs — sometimes atom by atom.

To weather being set apart “involves weaving an environment of prayer,” Kidd adds. “It’s not about talking and doing and thinking. It’s about postures of the Spirit . . . turning oneself upside down so that everything is emptied out and God can flow in.”

Some will equate this process with conversion. Others believe it’s a recurring experience meant to enhance a new stage of faith, not a onetime event.

Me? I’m a serial cocoon-ist.

Regardless of where you land, here are a few secrets I find heartening.

For instance, the physical anchoring point of the butterfly pupa to the twig is a tiny, built-in hook. It’s called the “cremaster.” The creature relies on this attachment to survive the cold as well as the winter winds.

I’m thinking spiritual velcro.

CHRYSALIS PRAYER . . . IS WAITING PRAYER — aka dis-assemble-ment. Nobody’s favorite.

But how awesome that grace, at every turn, meets our expectant, if feeble, vigilance. And how sobering that this same grace may reduce us to goo.

God reconfigures us while we wait . . . in the dark . . . often clueless.

Waiting prayer is a thorny yet sacred wonder: wrenching as that ambush of tears we can’t explain; alarming as finding ourselves in fetal position; raw as our candid “Who cares? I’m outta here.”

THESE, TOO, ARE PRAYERS.

Still, don’t we fear that those we love may turn away, dismayed by how changed we are?

“Where there’s no risk, there’s no becoming. And where there’s no becoming, there’s no real life.
So we give people time, accept their resistance by listening to their fears, speak honestly of our path, and go on quietly finding our new wingspan.” —Sue Monk Kidd

Saying Yes multiple times to a life newly curtailed? This is courage, resolutely embodied.

I’m thinking of Jesus . . .

“Afterward, taking his body, Joseph and Nicodemus wrapped it in strips of linen, then laid him in the garden tomb.

Sounds cocoon-ish to me.

“The third day, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene saw that the stone had been removed.”

At the right time the cremaster, or seal, gives way to resurrection energy.

“Who is it you are looking for?” Jesus asks Mary. For she does not recognize him. Resurrection is transformation.

“I have seen the Lord!” Mary tells the others.

Our Savior — “for the joy set before him” — embraced separation, transformation, and emergence. Now, he intercedes for us.

ARE WE BORN TO SOAR?

In Hope for the Flowers, by Tricia Paulus, a caterpillar tells its curious pal, “I’m making a cocoon. It looks like I’m hiding, I know, but a cocoon is no escape. It’s an in-between house where the change takes place . . . the becoming . . . takes time.”

But did you know some caterpillars resist the chrysalis? Preferring larval life, they suspend their development, cling to what is known and familiar. Scientists call this the “diapause.”

Sometimes I resist the urgent press of life within: I shrink back from the call. Distract or numb myself. Justify my inaction.

My friend Pamela suggests it helps to view dread as a unit of neutral energy. Which I can aim. Hopefully, toward growth.

“Every time we face the light, the shadows fall behind us,” Kidd says.

Separation.
Transformation.
Emergence.

“Behold,” God says, “I make all things new” (Rev. 21:5).

Friends, which stage are you in, or perhaps nearing, at present?

You might also enjoy Butterflies Worth Befriending, from the archives

Chrysalis: Photo by Ikhsan Fauzi on Unsplash

Butterfly on orange flower: Photo by Yuichi Kageyama on Unsplash

Sometimes We Need to Dwell on the Ledge

by Laurie Klein 10 Chiming In

Dwell . . . on the LEDGE? That can’t be right.

I want off!

Worry has me on robo-call.

It knows my address.

What am I dwelling on? Upcoming (and unnerving) opportunities to present my book, House of 49 Doors: Entries in a Life. How do I “rest in the Lord” while also braving the little dog-and-pony show (read, generating publicity), which authors must face?

The learning curve feels like Everest! There’s a lot one can DO to promote a new title.

And I have questions: First, there’s this:

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord” (Col. 3:23) …

BUT ALSO, THIS …

“God said, ‘This is the resting place, let the weary rest’ [as in, simply be] …
BUT they would not listen.
So then, the word of the LORD to them will become: ‘Do and do and do, here a little, there a little . . . ’” (Is. 28:12, 13).

Even more alarming, Isaiah’s warning continues, declaring those who refuse to rest will be “broken, ensnared, and captured by enemies.”

Do. Be. Two verbs. A dynamic duo. Like Martha and Mary of old, we alternate between them.

For me, lurching between these differing energies rekindles that foot-buzz friction point while engaging the clutch during driver’s ed.

What’s a person to do?

Homonyms to the rescue!

Did you know “dew” is also a verb? Fleeting, organic, refreshing — natural condensation (morning and evening) bejewels, or “dews,” everything in its path. Magnifying what’s real. Reflecting the light.

Sometimes, we need to dwell on the ledge. For a while. Next time I rev up to DO something, I’m going to picture tranquil, shimmering dew.

Meanwhile, I came up with this — D.W.E.L.L. — (acrostic self-talk) — to help me rest in God’s presence. With each slow inhale and exhale I silently hold in mind the following word(s) or syllable(s). Then I repeat, as needed.

Dwell on the Ledge:

Deep … breath / Deeper … still

Wait … now / Re- … fill

Em … brace / each ex- … hale

Let … go / Let … God lead

Love … is all!

Friends, what eases YOU on (or off ) the ledge?

Thank you for your prayers and thank you to those who ordered a book. Should you feel in-Kleined, a (sentence-or-two) reader review on Amazon would be of great help in getting word out about the book.

May I read you some of it? . . . See opportunities below:

Boot on ledge: Photo by Arūnas Naujokas on Unsplash

Confetti: erik-brolin-sp7ir7Xrs9U-unsplash

Klein photo: leaf with dew

Suspended

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

We think we know rain . . .

But listen! What is that?
Icy hammers striking a steel roof?
A sideways, rattlepane squall?

Rain pelts forest, suddenly backlit as if by flood lights. April’s quicksilver theater beckons. How swiftly the downpour escalates, sluicing through tangled birch and fir—a sky-funneled deluge within a shaft of light so charged, so electrifying, I can’t look away.

Twigs festooned with bearded lichens tremble, weighted with liquid gems: winking sapphire, emerald, fuchsia. Gold. Branches upholstered in moss seep. So many big bright tears.

And still the celestial light dazzles, half-blinding, and the heart lifts, awash, as if somehow suspended outside time and yet . . .
purely here . . .
even as sun-warmed water across our planet keeps rising as mist, falling as sleet, crystallizing as snowdrift. Pond ice. Permafrost.

Think of it! Every trace of water—primal and present since the beginning—lingers on: from the face of the deep to the rivers of Eden, from the tears of Christ to these glints of glory.

Transcendence. Is this what I long for?

A shiver runs down my spine. I feel weightless, suspended. Nudged toward change. Or an insight. Something hovers, something divine, surpassing life’s normal limitations. I am here, trying to take it all in. No need to earn this fleeting gift, no pressure to prove myself, no price to be paid. I needn’t be one iota wiser or kinder, less guilty or more organized. I am enough as is, enveloped for now in rain-lit grace.

Later perhaps, I’ll retain an impression, an after-image. An internalized sweep of reverence to be relived.

Any moment it might swim up
into my consciousness,
leave me buoyed afresh with marvel . . .

How do we recognize a transcendent moment . . . and our place within it?

Suspended raindrop: Photo by Ed Leszczynskl on Unsplash
Grass: Photo by Thomas Couillard on Unsplash

Did you know it’s National Poetry Month? Heartfelt thanks to all who ordered House of 49 Doors: Entries in a Life. If you need a gift for a poetry lover, the 40% off discount is still available here. Coupon code: DOORS.

House of 49 Doors: Entries in a Life

by Laurie Klein 31 Chiming In

House of 49 Doors is here!

Thank you, friends, for your prayers!

As with any vast project finally completed despite the odds, a recap might hearten us all amid our current — and coming — ventures.

January 2016:

Note to self: Another book? Never. Dodge — no, shun . . .

that ego trap
that marathon of minutiae
that +10 score on the poet pain scale

July 2022:

The email pings: an editor I admire.

“Dear Laurie:
I would be pleased to review another manuscript.”

Oh dear. No matter our field of endeavor, whenever we risk nurturing a new “brainchild,” insecurities clamor. Who am I to try? Or, Too little, too late. Too old. Too costly. (Read, Get out while you can.)

“Send it on when you’re ready.”

Did I have a book’s-worth of poems in me? Not likely. I felt steamrolled by politics, aging, loved ones in crisis, shocking weather, the state of my floors . . .

I missed the good ole days.

Hang on . . . I could resurrect the quasi-magical house of my childhood. The one with the turquoise door. Coax out my kid-self.

Would she talk on the page?

July 2022 – January 2024:

She did. As if awaiting my summons.

I named her Kid Larkin.

Eldergirl, sixty years her senior, replied. At times, the two voices entwined, mutually probing memory’s alchemy.

If poetry seems alarming, be not dismayed. House of 49 Doors unfolds like a story. Or a memoir. (If it didn’t sound so daft, I’d call it a novel-ish poemoir.)

A lot of words did NOT make the cut. The ones that did bear witness to wonder . . . threaded within and around a trauma I’d hoped to never relive.

Which sounds grim. Revived delights abound. The house speaks, with a shapely, three-story voice. The backyard muskrat expounds on family life. A menacing garfish models self-esteem. Even a maligned vesper bat chimes in via echolocation.

Turns out they all knew things I needed to read . . . so I could heal.

Most of the poems locate themselves on the premises or in beloved rooms. Hence, my title:

My intrepid sister located the circa-1950s photo of our house, taken by our long-ago neighbor, Lester Smith. She also double-checked the door count with me. (Try this with a sibling! Decant the memories . . .) Enhanced by masterful artist, Shannon Carter, the cover beautifully captures the enigma of shadows and shelter.

To revisit three years in that wondrous house made me willing to look when Kid Larkin insisted on excavating a family secret: the story of my childhood hero, beloved Uncle Dunkel, an army vet whose inborn joie d’vivre valiantly resisted his post-war death wish . . .

Until it didn’t.

And I was told too much, then told to keep it secret.

Sixty years later, Eldergirl finally let herself feel emotions long-denied. Such are the cathartic gifts of time, distance, grace. Art.

Is this part of putting one’s house in order?

Friends, I have glimpsed God’s interventions as never before.

“New every morning,” Dreamer recently quipped, quoting Lamentations.

In my head, though, I heard Kid Larkin: Shazam! YOU are new every morning.

You. Me. Each of us an ever-glowing, work-in-promise.

Paul’s verb choice in Ephesians 5:18b can be translated, “Be ye, being filled with the Spirit.”

So how about Be ye, being . . . made new?

Amid devastation there moves an unforeseen grace: the Great Mystery at work — even among the skeletons in our closets.

Is there a “next endeavor” we’re resisting?

Dare we take on a project too big for us?

Years ago, Oliver Wendell Holmes warned, “Many people die with their music still in them.”

Some will do best within a controlled sphere: perhaps in the wings, at work, or privately, in transit, or at home. Some will go public. It’s costly to translate part of oneself into a separate entity, then send it forth. We face evaluation by strangers. No matter the venue, the creator’s heart . . . still breakable. The proffered work . . . un-take-back-able.

Risky.

BUT it’s (still) a new year. You are newly new.

Friends, how will you put your house in order?

February 28, 2024:

House of 49 Doors published Leap Day Eve. Which seems fitting.

It still makes me grin. And cry. It helped me heal. It might help others. That’s why I mention it. Should you wish to explore it further, there’s currently a 40% discount available only from my publisher. Here’s the link. Click BUY, Select your country, Click add coupon,” type in DOORS. https://wipfandstock.com/9798385208067/house-of-49-doors/

And here’s the link on Amazon.

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