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Wing and a Prayer

by Laurie Klein 20 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.

In the dark, waiting

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.

wing and a prayer

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.

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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

Robin, Larry Manne

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: altar, lectio tierra, nest, robin, wing May 10, 2022

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.

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Friends, what would you ask Mary M?

espalier

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

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: care and consent, espalier, fig, flourish, fruit, pruning, sapling, stretching April 11, 2022

Lilt: Stepping Gently toward Easter via Lent

by Laurie Klein 24 Chiming In

Lilt: Stepping Gently toward Easter via Lent

“Lilt” in Lent? Well yes, the word’s synonyms suggest faith on the upswing: spirited, buoyant, springy.

How on earth can I consider those words next to these concerns from the friend of my friend? She’s scared sleepless over her cousins in Ukraine, young mothers whose husbands must enlist. Do they need money? How can she send it? How will grandparents and nieces and nephews safely escape with banks closed, airports occupied, gas stations emptied?

How can I allow weightiness once again to enlarge my heart, carve room for deepening mercy? Those wiser than I claim prayers of lament will, in time, bring transfiguration: glint by glimmer, a luminous trail, the sparks flying upward.

But what in heaven’s name can “lilt” mean in relation to war? I am fed, sheltered, privileged. I am safe. For now.

When the heart is wracked, how do we navigate dissonance?

Faith, we know, watches for holy rescues. Keeps vigils. Fasts and prays. Celebrates God’s provisions, seen and unseen.

This Lent especially calls me to lament and repentance. Can this also invite me toward heart-lightening remembrance?

Here’s what I say to my soul:

  • Spend time on those knees—in between time spent listening, at His.
  • Offer up small surrenders in sober reverence and quiet joy.
  • Engage more deeply with the reality of the Passion so as to embody compassion.
  • Grab the children and tell them the truest stories—that we are made for God. That we are called toward binding up wounds as well as abounding in grace. Help them understand this:

Dear Lent, you are ashes and daffodils,
fasting and feasting,
foot washing and footloose, resurrection-bound praise cutting a rug.

Here is my Lenten List (I hope you’ll add to it):

  1. Write yourself a note. Tuck it inside your fridge, silverware drawer, medicine cabinet—wherever you’ll come upon it: Hello there, you agent of whimsy. What will you and Perfect Love do next?
  1. Peel a tangerine. Pray over a different country as you savor each segment. Lick your fingers to say Amen.
  1. Talk things over with a local bird, or use this captivating video close-up of a mourning dove: And may the dove who descended upon Christ at the Jordan alight near you and those you love today.
  1. Make a lap. Now remember the lap of someone who held you. Let your Bible fall open, right there on your knees. Read out a fitting word, phrase, or verse(s) in blessing. Then improvise, perhaps sensing you and your someone welcomed anew into God’s embrace.
  1. Do you collect quotes? If not, you could start here: “During the night everything has been remade for you. Merely to breathe is a happy adventure.” —J. B. Priestly, Delight
  1. When rampant darkness between people overwhelms you, browse Photo Ark Wonders, by the “Modern-day Noah,” Joel Sartore, for National Geographic.

I consider “lilt” a relative term. This morning I hobbled around waving a long scarf over my head, like one of those small but undaunted gymnasts armed with banners. In Christ, my soul is a secret Olympian.

Bet yours is too.

What would you add to the list?

P.S. Invite scent to trigger memory. Before making your bed, mist your pillowcase with a scent you enjoy (or tuck a dryer sheet inside it). Anticipate Spirit-led time travel when you tuck yourself in tonight. Then again, the fact of shelter, the bed, and a warm room is already grace, and more than enough.

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You might also enjoy Kyrie Eleison: Seeking Mercy

Lilt is a song, a movement, a stance of the spirit
Mourning Dove

Mourning Dove Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: dissonance, grace, Lent, Lenten List, Lilt, war, weightiness February 28, 2022

OY Days

by Laurie Klein 38 Chiming In

Oy, not again! After submitting to x-rays a week ago, I hobbled homeward armed with instructions. No broken bones, but for two weeks, amid my escalating stress levels and widening fissures of all kinds worldwide, I have to . . . Totally. Baby. My. Dumb. Foot.

Turns out the great, grey seize of arthritis (think Attila the Hun, on an inside job) chose me for a rampage. Look out, small yet ingenious bones, formerly broken. Meds and rubs, heat and ice, elevation and rest, day after day — Oy, I miss running. And snowshoeing. And walking.

How to reshape a sidelined life? Begin with laughter. (Note leftover “Joy” candle from Christmas.)

Oy . . . There is still light

Oy is a long-used Jewish word for “woe,” also meaning exasperation or regret, warning, annoyance, pain or dismay. “Oy, my feet are killing me.”

According to Google, “OY,” used as an abbreviation, can signify Oh Yeah or Only Yours. Even Listen Up.

So I do. As of today, I’ve been laid up for a week. Today my recovery coincides with an ancient celebration known as Candlemas. During this annual ritual, people bless candles to be used over the coming year. The custom dates back to AD 496, and the prayers still spoken over wax and wick are lovingly offered by many, including Anglican, Catholic, and Orthodox believers.

Goodness, why not consecrate one’s tools? I pray over my hands and keyboard whenever I write. And a candle usually flickers beside me, on the desk: a quiet way to honor the Light of the World among us.

Hope impels the match — a simple spark, struck against the gloom.

Thankfully, since I’m extra grumpy, a small prayer has evolved. It launches and rounds off an Oy Day. I say it, mentally, when lighting a three-wick candle (Would you believe it, $3.33 at Walmart?). But it works equally well for the lone votive. Or no candle at all.

Paced for the cadence of a relaxed breath, pray the first half of each line on the inhale; the second half on the exhale. I call it my Trinity-Wick prayer, and I watch for what kindles within me afterward. Try it with me . . .

(inhale) Holy God: (exhale) commune with me
Perfect Love: suffuse me
Light of the World: illumine me

(extinguish match to the following words)

Three-in-One . . . I, in Thee
Here am I, use me

“The very act of lighting the candle is prayer,” writes David Steindl-Rast. “I enter into it as one enters a room.”

Fired afresh by an inner expectancy, my foot duly propped on a pillow, frayed nerves settle. The mind clears. The stress within calms.

Despite being laid up, I experience the pleasure of going somewhere by holding still.

What helps when you feel sidelined?

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Read more about Candlemas here:

“Vey,” a word later added to the Jewish expression, is oy’s Aramaic equivalent. Today, they’re often used together.

 

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: breath prayer, candlemass, consecrate, expectancy, Oy, trinity-wick prayer, woe February 2, 2022

Belated Epiphany

by Laurie Klein 43 Chiming In

Belated Epiphany . . .

Belated because, so often, words only come when they’re ready. Or is it when we’re ready?

Belated Visitor

Shadowing the Magi

Tingling, needy, marked
by the long quest—the divining,
then hope, my superstitions
giving way yet again
before anxious relief—this is how
I enter. Taking a knee,

it seems you scarcely breathe.
Does each intake feel
like your first? Maybe
we both look struck, luminous
as the baby’s skin,
starlight still pulsing there. Hush,

friend, the holy has come
so gently we dare approach.

*

Dear ones, I hope your days are unfolding gently.

Each January I seek a word or phrase expansive enough to guide me throughout the year. Then I line up my lettering pens, print out my theme. Mirror, journal, dashboard, fridge; a pocket, a purse—I spread my reminders around.

But last year, nothing. Several months passed. When would the words come?

Although belated, I chose a single letter, instead. There’s a story, of course: “Alphabet of Presence.” (I hope you’ll read it here: Abbey of the Arts.)

So, amid last year’s viral mayhem, cutthroat opinions, and global grief, I became a disciple of “B.”

B is for Belated

Oh, I hope you’ll try it! Once you settle on a letter, you’ll find invitational words pop up everywhere: media, billboards, conversations. Surprise livens the day. Sometimes, it’s downright heady, like sipping chilled champagne, little stars among your teeth, on your tongue, all down your throat.

A word is a launch pad. Are you game? For starters, borrow a few of mine that start with “B.”

Watch the classic movie, “Babette’s Feast” (free here).

Listen to “Be Thou My Vision,” sung by Audrey Assad, or Selah, respectively,
here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Optrm7lF16s
and here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKByTfiHOFE

Bestow a kindness. This passage has inspired many a prayer, email, and letter:
“The Spirit of the sovereign Lord is on me, because he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted … to comfort all who mourn … to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes” (Isaiah 61:1-3).

Create a collage. Repurpose images beginning with your letter of choice, using old photos, magazines, junk mail.

Compose lyrics for a tune you love. I piggybacked mine on “Morning Has Broken”:

Beauty before me, Beauty behind me,
bridging our spirits, bountiful Lord;
Brimming within me, moving beside me,
timelessly guide me, forevermore.

Practice breath prayers. Are you grieving? This one helps me:
(on the inhale) Alone, yes, (exhale) but never abandoned.

Ponder questions like these:

What blessed me today?
Who blindsided me?
Where am I broken?
What might yet be born, and what must I bury?

Whether my idea was belated or perfectly timed, I found choosing a letter provided spontaneous, small epiphanies throughout a long, difficult year. And whenever I get bored, there are 25 more.

But . . . I’ve yet to exhaust the beauties of “B.”

There is always a journey. Sometimes, a cave. Often, a star.

*

In closing, here’s what I hope I’d have said, had I joined the Magi that day:

Take my coat, little one,
you’re shivering. How new,

this now we share, the first
of many yet to be known—by you,

by me—slowly, slowly going
home, by a different way.

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Friends, if you choose a letter, I’d love to hear about your experience.

And please, if you’d enjoy more posts similar to this one (ideas, resources, links), let me know . . .

Explore “Alphabet of Presence” here: Abbey of the Arts

You might also enjoy Epiphany and the Epic Icicle

Lastly, welcome, new subscribers! I’m so glad you’re here.
And thank you to all who’ve journeyed with me for so many years.

Magi Photo by Michael Payne on Unsplash

Apologies for the incorrect citation of scripture, and thank you, Lynn, for alerting me!
Collage and “B” photo, by yours truly :>)

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: Alphabet of Presence, Belated Epiphany, journey, Magi, star January 7, 2022

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  • Lilt: Stepping Gently toward Easter via Lent
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