Immersions Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Have I Failed You?

by Laurie Klein 30 Chiming In

Elegant or squat,
satiny, spongy,
slim or speckled,
the overnight toadstools
shoulder through sodden grass.

Beneath thick skirts
undersides flaunt
pale, multi-pleated,
rice-paper gills.

Trouble is, fungi spread like a devilish rash.

Or a rumor.

Or bad news.

Some have erupted—
their fleshy umbrellas
upended, once-plucky
stems torn and exposed.

And my first reaction?

Poison! So says the girl who grew up on Grimm. These toadstools feel personal. Symbolic. Weirdly prolific.

Born of darkness and damp and demise,
they haunt the shadows
along my path
in the way sorrows emerge, one
after another.

Friends, this has been a sad time.

I wonder: Are people you cherish—as well as strangers the media makes you care about—also braving unthinkable woe? Has hope failed them?

There’s much to grieve.

For one: I failed to meet you here, in October. I sorely regret breaking my monthly commitment to you (and myself). My desire is to encourage readers who feel weary. Beleaguered. Jaded and flayed.

That’s why I started this blog, nearly five years ago.

Truth is, I’ve been too sad to write. Guilt, of course, adds its own poison.

This is where
we get the verb mushroom,
we, who cannot number our worries,
rabid as spores, housed in our heads,
we, who launch prayers, seeding the heavens
beyond what the air can hold.

And then, while walking in the city, I chance upon this—although my camera fails to capture the fierce, almost magical shine. One wet leaf glints at my feet, beaded all over with the tiniest convex mirrors. The longer I look, the more this leaf seems to offer a portrait. The image suggests my soul, holding in all that is uncried.

The names on my prayer list seem as numerous, and tremulous, as November’s tears gracing this fallen leaf.

In her new book my dear friend Gena Bradford writes: “I have learned to ask the Lord about my fear that He [won’t] meet the needs of others . . .

“[and the nagging fear that] I might disappoint someone . . .”

She speaks for me.

“Lord,” she asks, “have I failed You?”

And God answers, “The only way you can fail Me is by not letting Me love you.”

Friends, I wish to encourage you. And myself. For now, Romans 8:1 reminds me there is “no condemnation in Christ Jesus.”

Bradford suggests a radical strategy: What if we fast from condemning ourselves?

I mean to try.

Perhaps, it always begins here:
in a season of falling
apples, and burgeoning
fears that resemble
creeping rot, we behold . . .

. . . all the little mercies, silently shining along our way.

I wonder: what’s mushrooming around you? What mercies have you noticed?

Is there something you need to fast from?

Click here to access Gena Bradford’s new book: I Can’t Rest Now, Lord! I’m Responsible: 30 Days from Burnout to the Heart of God, by Gena Bradford

You might also like this post from my archive: Kyrie Eleison: Seeking Mercy

Constancy: The Tale of a Trail

by Laurie Klein 24 Chiming In

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

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

Leaven, Longing, and the Infinitesimal

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

Leaven — even packaged, it’s alive.

(Just dormant, at present.)

Like most of us, yeast needs

a little warmth
some food
and room to grow

Because I’m using dry yeast, I “proof it”:

Sprinkle yeast over lukewarm water
Stir in sugar

Dance for 10 minutes

While set aside, the leaven starts “budding.” Who else in early March wouldn’t welcome a small domestic sign of Spring— aside from the annual cleaning list?

Yeast cells are bona fide (“in good faith”) fungi, one of earth’s oldest microorganisms.

I’m feeling somewhat aged, myself, by virulent infection. I long to see something rise.

And today, it does.

I make a well in the dry ingredients, pour in the bubbling foam.

Unanswered health questions clamor. I knead them right into the dough.

Why this, why now?
How much longer?
When will you answer, God?

Audible

We smell leaven, see its effect, savor its taste and texture. While my dough rises, I research yeast.

In 2001, nanotechnology leader Jim Gimzewski wondered if live yeast cells might pulsate, producing detectable sound.

Using an atomic force microscope, he and assistant Andrew Pelling measured vibrations at roughly 1,000 times per second. They fixed the microscope’s delicate probe in place like a record needle, resting atop the cell’s membrane.

When they amplified the sound, ethereal notes (C-sharp to D above middle C) filled the laboratory.

Journalists have compared the subcellular tones of yeast to the eerie whistling of whales.

How like the Creator to hardwire music into eccentric locations.

In my kitchen, I lean over the bread bowl, lower my ear, hold my breath …

Today, tomorrow, and yesterday

Because yeast cells with genetic mutations make slightly different sounds, researchers hope doctors might one day be able to eavesdrop on our cells, perhaps heading off disease before symptoms arise.

Thank you, Jim Gimzewski and Andrew Pelling. Years from now, someone battling the superbug, C. diff, as I am, might experience swift intervention.

The idea raises my spirits. So does that warm, yeasty smell in my kitchen.

Thank you, ancient Egypt,
for your unearthed
blueprints of bakeries—
4,000 years old—your hearty
loaves, shaped like birds
and fish of the Nile.

Thank you, Master Leeuwenhoek,
first man to view yeast
under a DIY microscope,
and Louis Pasteur, for explaining
how yeast works, and
dear Fleischmann’s®, supplying
our great-grandparents with leaven,
and decades of recipes, passed down.

Such a simple, sensory way to join hundreds of thousands who’ve waited, and prayed, and baked, and waited some more, for hope’s leaven to work.

And thank you, “O Thou who, in the fullness of time, didst raise up our Lord …”*

“… we rise up and stand firm …”

until, at last, we too are golden.

Blessed. Broken. Passed around.

Health Update: I’m on a new 3-week round of medication. I see an Infectious Diseases specialist in one month. Thank you for your ongoing concern and prayers! By next post, I hope to report the long siege is over!

You might also like Longing: What it Wants, Where it Points

*A Diary of Private Prayer, John Baillie

Loaf photo, Monica Grabkowska on Unsplash

Fleischmann’s® Yeast website (includes recipes)

In the Dark: 1 Old Bird Learns a Few New Licks

by Laurie Klein 44 Chiming In

No one would choose this.

Enforced seclusion
for the past month (with recurring
C. Diff, a vile intestinal bug)
resembles—viewed hopefully—
a dubious Gift: unwanted,
yet potent as incubation.

And not only pathogenically.

C. Diff is highly contagious. For now, I can’t leave home.

Like embryonic birds trapped inside eggs 24-7, I face confinement.

Waiting in the dark for something to change, the psyche squirms. And, like those chicks, slowly, surely, the soul stretches. And develops.

Emotionally and spiritually, some days there’s not a heck-of-a-lot of light.

How cautiously, then—choice-by-choice—the soul met by grace befriends isolation. Limitation. The ambient darkness.

Good thing I’m not alone.

A process built right into creation

In a landmark 2016 study, ecologists in Australia staked out the nests of superb fairywrens and red-backed fairywrens. Concerned about their predation rates, researchers concealed a microphone beneath each nest. They hoped to record 24-7 avian alarm calls, warning each other of predators.

Later, they replayed the recordings. Parents engaged in lively duets called to their eggs.

And the nestlings, unhatched, called back—from inside their shells!

Learning to sing in the dark

Almost a century before the Australian study, Oswald Chambers wrote about songbirds being taught, over time, to sing in the dark.

Are you in the dark just now in your circumstances, Chambers asked, or in your life with God?

[W]e are put into the shadow of God’s hand, he adds, until we learn to hear Him.

Chops, Riffs & Licks

Songbirds, like humans (and bats), learn to make sounds by imitation. Further Aussie recordings replay fairywren hatchlings mimicking the song of their father.

Tirelessly, the father repeats his signature song. He drills his chicks on introductory notes—even slows them down.

He spaces out phrases, clarifies syllables. Mastery requires a lifetime of practice.

For everything, there is a season: a time to listen. A time to sing.

What time is it in your life?

As for me. I’m learning a lot. I’m calling my voluntary seclusion Laurie’s Backward Sabbatical. I read, work puzzles, color, and enjoy books-on-tape. I’m perfecting Klein’s Killer chicken broth.

I spend more time than usual in silence, listening for God. Sometimes improvised songs arise (It’s been years since this happened!).

Currently on a two-month tapering regimen of a Big Bucks Medication, I am (mostly) grateful for this cloistered season, and completely thankful for your prayers.

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE: Learn to Sing out on a Limb

Learn more here. And here.

Many thanks to Susan Cowger for pointing me toward Oswald Chambers’ thoughts.