Laurie Klein, Scribe

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Gaiety . . . to Go

by Laurie Klein 49 Chiming In

“Whoa, pull over!” I cry.

Phone in hand, I scramble past the curb. An entire front yard froths with blooms the size of faces — some of the stems six feet tall! — a sea of lavender, white, and magenta phlox, illumined by westerly light.

Dreamer follows me, and their lingering, sunset perfume envelops us, gauzy as spun sugar.

gaiety rules!

A door slams, and a slender gentleman exits the house.

“This is amazing,” I call. “May I take pictures?”

“Help yourself,” he says, with a grin. “Let me call the owner,” he adds. “She’ll want to meet you.”

A moment later a petite woman draped in bright colors joins us. She grins. Silvery strands thread her waist-long pony tail. “Perfect timing! I’m so glad you’re here!” she cries. “Walk through the arch and I’ll meet you out back.”

purple haze, the gaiety of grace

Curious, we turn. A flagstone path beckons. We check our watches.

We were en route to a surprise birthday party — a tad nervous, introverts that we are.

Now, it seems we are stepping right out of time . . . and into a corner of Eden. Birdsong ripples. Sculptural swans and angels peer out between fiery dahlias, towering canna lilies. Snowy datura foregrounds a fence.

A screen door bangs. “Here,” says our hostess. “Put these on. I’m going to take pictures, okay? LOTS of pictures. You’re going to love it! Pick a hat.”

Rakish Dreamer winks, tilting a brim.

“Wrap yourself in this,” she tells me, holding out a vintage sable stole. “And this!” She flourishes a black mid-century cocktail hat. It resembles an oversize mussel shell, pierced with a jaunty feather. “Use the garage door mirror,” she urges. “Get everything just right.”

Seems to me our blithe sprite of a guide, her gaiety both palpable and insistent, must be obeyed.

“Stand here, you two,” she directs. “Beside my sign.”

the madcap wonder and contagious gaiety of long-term love

And I, chronic dodger of cameras, mug for the lens. Picture sweeping gestures. Madcap poses. I inhabit the fur, that fetching hat.

What’s happening here?

Gaiety rises. We laugh amid multiple takes — one, a video, with me proclaiming our 50th anniversary this month.

A cause for gaiety, 50 years together

Feels like she’s waited — all her life — for us.

As if our arrival has always been her dearest wish.

We’ve not even exchanged names, yet we all exude contagious delight.

Will heaven be like this?

“I’m throwing a garden party,” she says. “Will you come? Say yes!”

Welcome to prevenient grace. Anticipating your hesitation as well as your secret longing, prevenient grace “goes before you to prepare a place for you.”*

So here’s to the Spirit, nudging its agents of whimsy, offsetting our post-pandemic habit of fearing others.
And here’s to the startling largesse of strangers.
Long live felicity! — each of us fractionally grasping the prodigal child’s wonder.

Belatedly, Dreamer and I recall the party we’re now running late for . . .

No. The party we’re now prepared for:

Two aging adults, at sunset,
beyond grateful to be together,
graced by backyard felicity,
eager to spread gaiety
to others who may have forgotten
what it’s like to be young at heart,
utterly welcomed. Wanted.

If you’ve been recently nudged toward joy, how is it changing you?

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Meanwhile, let’s watch for the pure in heart, who “may be as shopworn and clay-footed as [we are], but have somehow kept some inner freshness and innocence intact.” —Buechner, Whistling in the Dark

P.S. In the language of flowers, showstopper “phlox represents pure intentions and commitment to a relationship that outlives youthful infatuation.”

author in the garden

You might also enjoy this post on felicity, from the archives

*Praying the Hours, Suzanne Guthrie

Filed Under: Small Wonders Tagged With: 50th anniversary, bodacious botannicals, corner of Eden, felicity, phlox, prevenient grace, prodigal wonder, pure invitation August 15, 2023

Double-dog-dare-you

by Laurie Klein 16 Chiming In

Double-dog-dare-you . . .

Double-dog-dare-you

 

 

or What Rocked Me Most, on our getaway
at The River Cove B&B

Poised

This glassy cove
reflects a perilous
slab of rock, upended;
the yellow dog barks,
paces the rim,
pauses,
all crouch and hunker;
tail flag,
scrabble of paws . . .
Watch everything
swell, then distill
and gather—sinew,
breath, time: one
fizzing, defiant vault!

≈≈≈

Friends, I laughed out loud over that leap. Sheer canine ecstasy. The headlong ker-splash ricocheted between rocky shores, ripples fanning outward. Then inward.

Can I do that?

Next day: same river, black Lab, sodden tennis ball.

Check it out: Double-dog-dare-youIMG-9336

Seems I’ve lost touch with springs, hardwired into my limbs and spirit.

Teetering, on edge, I typically freeze. Or flail. Misgauging danger, I’m all toes, gripping the brink, and leaning, leaning back as fear overbalances flesh.

Hello, bum-plant.

Faltering in full view, confidence flat-lined, I scramble for footing, often forget to laugh.

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Friends, wherever you’re currently poised, what is the invitation today: caution, or risk? Either choice can be sacred; both take courage.

What helps you heed that whispered “Now” or “Wait”?

 

PS. My big project — mentioned in a recent post — seems to be underway. Thanks for your prayers! More about this in a future post . . .

Double-dog-dare-you video: Bill Klein

The River Cove Bed & Breakfast: “Sublime setting, sensational cuisine, superior service.” —yours truly, in their guestbook.

Small Dog, Big Attitude Photo by Mitchell Orr on Unsplash

Filed Under: Small Wonders Tagged With: caution or risk?, double-dog dare you, Labrador, leaning/leaning, misgauging danger, sacred invitation July 25, 2023

Weight and Wait: More than a Homonym

by Laurie Klein 19 Chiming In

 

It starts with a nudge.

A trusted friend, moved to pray for me, did so. A single word came into his mind. No explanation.

Wait or weight? he wondered.

Another listening pause. Both, he thought.

Soon afterward, his email lights up my inbox. I feel like a glass tube holding noble gas — stirred by a steady glow within and aware of humming, spiritual voltage: a prayer akin to neon.

I feel seen.

I’ve been awaiting someone’s decision. Unsure how to proceed, I’ve let the weight of not knowing siphon away my joy.

My friend pledges to “pray for the weight of glory to be revealed in and through [me].”

Times of waiting — so common in crises, relationships, and big projects—can short-circuit our outlook. Song, meditation, prayer, the Word — we flick our go-to switches yet often fail to discern what’s next.

An aspect of life as we’ve known it sputters and dims.

Perhaps God will generate something new?

You will have heard about the mythic firebird, the phoenix that rises from the ashes, soaring to new life.

Have you heard of “Phoenix regeneration”? It’s the final stage in a tree’s lifecycle.

A time to wait

According to arborist William Bryant Logan, when roots atrophy, water stutters through trunk and limbs. Eventually depleted, the tree surrenders its crown first. Ninety-some feet or more of a once-vibrant life topples.

But afterward . . . little images of itself may sprout from the lower trunk or even from the root flare, wherever a living connection between root and branch survives.

Does this rejuvenation suggest grace, incognito?

If new rootlets take hold, traces of the original tree will reemerge. You could almost call it immortal. Arborist Logan does, then goes on:

It is as though a person rested her arm on the dirt, spread out her palm, and two perfect new arms emerged from her lifeline, complete with all the muscles and tendons and circulation, the hands, palms, fingers, and fingernails.

O the Good Spirit loves an inside job.

Meanwhile, we really can shrug off the weight of having to perform. The gradual outworking of God’s holy perfection, already indwelling our souls, will reproduce traces of God’s nature in and through us.

In other words, be of good courage. No matter the present weight, wait. Providence will appear.

As if to underline the point: yesterday a sparrow careened into our window, then plummeted to our front step, seemingly dazed. Those bright eyes blinked, but the body, still standing, albeit hunched and ruffled, seemed paralyzed.

En route to church, we tiptoed past her, sharply recalling God’s eye rests with love on every creature. Surely she’d be gone by the time we returned, having regathered her strength.

Home we came. She’d moved several inches to the right, her downy head now leaning into a dead leaf. Would she keel over?

Dazed, and oh, the weight of waiting to fly

I brought birdseed and water, prayed she would rise. I wanted so badly to stroke her soft back, but caution checked my impulse.

Often it’s best to forgo interrupting what we don’t understand.

Maybe you or someone you love feels like that downed bird: stalled out, too shocked to regroup. May I pray?

Lord of All, restore and renew each person reading these words, wherever they feel depleted, uprooted, or fallen. Comfort them. Deepen their hope amidst the unknowns, even as you prepare their upward trajectory. Amen.

A tree. A bird. A God of Light who loves the living back into motion, by stages.

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How do you cope with the weight of waiting? I hope you’ll share with us . . .

With thanks to Maria Popova, of The Marginalian (formerly Brain Pickings)

Quotations taken from Old Growth — selected poems and essays from Orion Magazine, including pieces by Ursula K. Le Guin, Michael Pollan, and others.

Photo of clock between tree trunks by Yaniv Knobel on Unsplash

Photo of sparrow by yours truly

You might also enjoy this post from the archives: Waiting Grace, Hearts on Ice

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: grace incognito, phoenix regeneration, sparrow, Time, trees, wait, weight June 27, 2023

Whistle Pig

by Laurie Klein 28 Chiming In

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

Whistle Pig photo-op

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?

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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

 

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: bridge, expectations, gluttony, hope, marmot, undertaking, visitation, whistle pig May 22, 2023

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?

flourish, amaryllis bulb

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!

Flourish

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.

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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:

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: bloom, born or worn?, break open, breakdown, breakthrough, conform, fanfare, flourish, force, fortitude, increase/decrease, quicken April 17, 2023

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