Immersions Archives - Page 25 of 32

Words in Edgewise, Growing “Edge Wise”

Edgewise to the massive cliffs on either side of our RV, we nose through a misty canyon in Colorado.

Along the rim of a rocky cutaway, one valiant tree sports May’s latest green. Beyond its small canopy, ghostly aspen trunks mount the next slope: limbless, charred. Their music, silenced.

Fire once ravaged parts of this canyon. You could draw a v-shaped line where the flames stopped.

“Edge areas” between differing habitats are ecologically distinct. In the foreground above, lichens inch across stone. Sparse vegetation seeks footholds, hunkers edgewise between rocks.

In the ruined woods beyond, ground covers will vary now, as will returning wildlife.

The division appears stark, even hostile. Yet a strange serenity rules here, amidst devastation. There’s something compelling at play in this scene.

I’ve been dividing my evenings between several books, pulling out words and ideas from each and letting them converse in my head.

One book currently captivating me is God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us, by L. L. Barkat. She describes it as “a 12-week course in discovery and playing towards God.”

For someone who often overworks, the idea of playing towards God feels irresistible.

The right book in a ripe time offers gifts, unparalleled.

Published in 2010, this one reached me belatedly, and it’s searching and sifting my soul with each chapter I read.

An Edgewise Commitment

Barkat made an odd commitment after reading a book she found pivotal: Radical Simplicity, by Jim Merkel.

With her senses and soul open wide, for one year she spent time in her small backyard every day—no matter the weather—“to find some contentment and beauty” (p.5.).

Some days (and nights) she slotted in backyard dates edgewise: Fifteen minutes in falling snow or rain was all the time she could spare.

Just as the photo above suggests a heart-shaped area of destruction wedged between soaring walls of grandeur, so God in the Yard is gently ushering me between grief and recovery.

Pages nearly vibrate with unexpected observations. Paradoxes invite further exploration. Soul Questions are interspersed with scenes from the author’s life and readings. She invites the reader to fill in the blanks. For example:

When I was a child, I lived______________
Today I live________________________
If I could, I would return to_____________

My answers describe edges in my life: geographically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Yes, I long for earlier terrain (and people) no longer available
And yes, acceptance grows slowly at deeper levels
There are also actions I can take

Wisdom expands as I learn to honor new ways to thrive.

And you? (This is a question Barkat asks, again and again.)

Do you perceive a distinct edge for yourself? What change might you need to accept (or reject)? What one action can you take (or stop taking) to move you toward discovery and thriving?

God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us, L. L. Barkat, T.S. Poetry Press, 2010.

Note: “Words in Edgewise” is a title borrowed from a marvelous show created and directed by my mentor, Pat Stien.

Taking Turns, Taking It Slow

by Laurie Klein 22 Chiming In

Hairpin turns funnel our 30-foot RV downward today, through Idaho’s wild canyons.

Yours truly is not driving.

I am 93% Bilbo Baggins, a homebody who loves peace, quiet. Warm food.

Bilbo had to dig deep when the great Gandalf appeared and set him on a quest. But the little hobbit discovered derring-do within—latent “Took” qualities from his mother’s side of the family gene pool.

We’ve been traveling for ten days. Taking turns with the driving? Well, hoping to channel my inner Took, a week ago I “took” the wheel. Did I mention we’re also towing a station wagon?

I rollercoasted us up and down and around, again, and again, taking turns, taking it slow. To give Bill a break.

Longest. Hour. Ever.

And then the weather changed . . .

Today, from the passenger seat, my senses plunge into spring scenery.

Moraines left behind by ancient glaciers look wetly vibrant. Balsam Root Daisies carpet slopes, glowing patches of gray and chartreuse amid deeper greens.

Camera braced on a raised knee, I shoot through the open window. Colors abound!

I can almost hear Julie Andrews as Maria von Trapp (who definitely claimed her Took side) singing “The hills are alive with the sound of music.”

What inspired those lyrics? Perhaps, the canyons of Idaho.

Or Isaiah 55:12 (NIV):

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

What an ear-tingling promise for people who failed, so spectacularly often, to listen to God. People who clung to their comforts, idols and appetites.

Which sounds like me.

I wonder what today’s scenery might be broadcasting . . .

Married to a roamer, I get to regularly unearth my latent Tookishness. Took and Baggins, taking turns inside me. Is one better?

This world needs those who stir things up.

It also needs those who stir the soup,
and those who keep candles burning on window sills.

What will you stir up today? What’s stirring in you?

Own a Better View

by Laurie Klein 16 Chiming In

Beyond the bay window, night wanes.

God, behind the scenes, is producing this unused, never-before-seen, free-for-the-living day:

“Light, on your mark . . . good, very good . . . fade in sky and fields.”

(And to the mist) “Ready? Get rolling!”

own the new view — Mt. Spokane, pre-sunrise

For the first time in 25 years I clearly see Mt. Spokane from my place at our table. It rises, cool and distant, the stone-washed blue of rain over a lake.

Recently felled trees exposed this view, a vista I want to claim. Can a human own a view?

With the silent hoist of invisible pulleys, up comes the sun. I stroll up the driveway and witness washes of color altering landscape. I pass the fallen bodies of giants.

The news

Our trees are dying. In a word: beetles.

We sought advice from experts. Here’s who weighed in.

Spokane County Extension fire inspector
District 4 Fire Department
Department of National Resources
Thinning contractors

Restoring our woods will cost an arm and a leg—actually, unnumbered limbs. Trunks, too. Many exceed the jaws of the chipper, and debris must be burned ASAP, or trucked away, to avoid worse infestation. Survivors need to be thinned and lopped of dead growth, 12′ from the ground.

Trunk girths indicate no one has tended these woods. Nor have we. We’ve loved them but left them wild. Until now.

But the hours. The expense. The labor. It’s overwhelming.

And yet

I see the mountain. See it from the place I study and pray. Modest in size, it’s still a mountain.

My view through the gap left behind by death makes me think of Good Friday. And visions. Kernels of wheat. Who but God would conceive such a process—downfall and disease ushering in unforeseen beauty. Surprise.

Yes, we are facing loss. And cost. And something more.

Have you read this famous haiku by Mizuta Masahide?

Since my house burned down
I now own a better view
of the rising moon

Looking back, looking ahead

We moved here after re-affirming our marriage vows. Things had been crashing down around us and friends sensed our need, prayed us through the pain. We know about doing hard things.

Now it’s time again to “own a better view.” At least, metaphorically. Ancient Israel lost her great forests to marauding enemies. Yet scripture also describes the trees rejoicing.

We will care for our little forest. We’ll watch for each view that opens up, even as trees go down.

Some scientists now believe bark beetles can hear the sound of imploding tissue in drought-stressed trees. Native people have likely always known this, as evidenced by this quote from a Pueblo Indian elder.

The beetles come when the trees begin to cry.

Who, or what, in your life cries out for tending? Is there a new way to view this?

Mizuta Masahide (水田正秀, 1657–1723) was a Japanese poet and samurai. —Wikipedia

Keys to Reading a Poem

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

How to begin

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
—e.e. cummings

April is National Poetry Month, also known as NaPoMo.

I am startled to realize God is still working today through a poem I wrote long before I suspected its deeper message for me. (Yes, it’s a poem from my new book, Where the Sky Opens.)

Poetry is layered. Sometimes hard to fathom. I want to show you a few ways to enter a poem.

Will you give me the chance? Promise me you’ll read to the end!

Are you nodding?

Okay, here’s a little secret. Look for the conflict.

[Read more…]

All Hail, All the Time

by Laurie Klein 6 Chiming In

Hail, hail, everywhere . . .

Long beams of Easter light from the west brushed across our icy yard, as if with a magic wand.

I was setting the table for our daughter’s birthday party. Mid-cutlery, thunder rolled, making me glance up. Ice pelted the roof, yet the sun blazed.

Pure glint dosey-do-ed with gravity
as compacted snow
pummeled our cars, the deck, and lawn.

Who could ignore this dangerous, glittering, magical racket?

Hurrying outside, camera in hand, I wanted to capture the fleeting, crystallized scene:

trees lit with daylight constellations . . .

shrubs decked in white sapphires . . .

a sequinned gown for the limpid air.

Hail hits hard, like bad news

It can hammer a heart, gouge inner peace. Along comes a death, or dire diagnosis. A career setback. A family feud or a friend’s downward spiral.

Amid too many grim tidings lately I call to mind God’s storehouses of snow, mentioned in Job,

the plague of hail in ancient Egypt,

those predicted hailstones in Revelation. In each case, God’s mastery over weather is on display, though I struggle to feel positive about the human price paid.

What am I missing here?

Hail, tell us your secrets

Though perilous, hail showers are also spellbinding, glorious, a glistening force that transfigures landscapes. And, perhaps, lives. It’s working on mine today . . .

Hail, noun: precipitation in the form of small balls or lumps usually consisting of concentric layers of clear ice and compact snow.

Hail, verb (archaic): used to express acclaim. “Hail favored one! Hail Caesar! Hail, King of the Jews! Hail, Mary! Hail to the Chief!”

Hale, homonym, adjective: to be free from defect, disease, or infirmity : sound; also: retaining exceptional health and vigor (Merriam-Webster).

Hail, teach us your ways

Lord knows, I need instruction. Feeling neither vigorous nor exultant at the moment, I’m writing this post having woken up crying, twice, during the night. Having teared up again, several times today.

Am I depressed? Maybe. Too early to tell. I gaze at this photo of the weathered chair beneath our crab apple tree, festooned with icy finery. Marvel lightens my sorrow—a few degrees.

No matter how I feel, the God of fire and hail offers respites along the way. A pause. A dose of wonder despite my inability to catalogue or corral my emotions.

Soon now, I will venture outside with my camera and hunt more evidence of God’s shining presence within all that remains unsolved in my soul. My pleas for the healing of loved ones. The final home-going of family. The recent relational storm that laid bare my need for forgiveness.

Fire, and hail; snow, and vapors; stormy wind fulfilling his word. – Psalm 148:8

I am counting on this: that everything eventually fits into God’s larger story, even volatile weather of the heart. Be it exultant or quiet acclamation, this I aspire to—no matter the weather, or season, event, or prognosis. The news. My mood. Or even our nation’s final candidates.

Grace comes. The light changes. Blues, you lose this round.

It’s neither hail nor storm… It’s just a stir that precedes the settlement of your destiny. Believe that you will not remain on the ground. Wake up and try again! ―Israelmore Ayivor, Dream Big: See Your Bigger Picture!