Laurie Klein, Scribe

immerse in God, emerge refreshed

Statio: Any Given Moment

by 13 Chiming In

Statio: Latin, noun . . .

Wait, let me begin again, in English. And let’s take the scenic route.

Take that mystery B&B bedding—last week, on our anniversary. No, it wasn’t flannel or linen. Ditto T-shirty jersey. Not to mention slide-right-off-the-side satin.

I’d never felt anything like it: sleek, lightweight warmth, yet cool to the touch, deliciously crisp. An all-over caress.

statio

Sometimes what passes through our fingertips or settles over our skin affects more than the body.

In our times of industrial looms, stories like these offer a fresh twist on “material witness.”

Might there be a spiritual parallel to modern factory thread counts?  

The number of threads per square inch indicates quality. Fibers closely woven in a “criss-cross, over-under pattern” known as “percale” create breathable lightness, surprisingly durable. Like the sheets at the B&B.

Like the qualities of a yielded life.

Which brings us to statio, an ancient monastic practice still lovingly observed today. Imagine a small devotional segue between activities: “the time between times,” as Sister Joan Chittister, O.S.B., says. “If I am present to a child before I dress her, then the dressing becomes an act of creation. If I am present to my spouse in the living room, then marriage becomes an act of divine communion. If I am present to the flower before I cut it, then life becomes precious.”

Statio prayer is a mesh we weave: invisible, real, often wordless.

Any given moment will do—time offered to God even as we receive it from God. 

How? Well, pause invites repose. Eyes closed, I focus on deepening breath (rather than headlong thoughts). Then . . .
Criss-cross, over and under . . .

  • I might add an audible sigh of surrender; receive an intake of grace
  • Or I physicalize yielding: cross hands over heart, then extend top hand, palm down, cradle it with bottom hand, palm up
  • A whisper works, too: “Here am I, great I AM.”

Disrupting momentum’s urgency, we can practice reset between one task and the next. The more often we pause, the closer our “threads of connection” align. We live more consciously.

Clearing the mind, even briefly, calms the soul, clothes us in peace.

Half a century ago, I wove Dreamer’s wedding shirt: cotton warp, twisted linen and silk strands, with raw wool feathered into select rows, as accents. Distinctive texture. Terrible snags! Fragile silk went full bedhead: knots, static, split ends—triggering my temper—stupid snarl! I wanted to hack everything off the loom.

Forget blessing my beloved.

Likewise, when a physical fever afflicts us, we fling off the sheets. Then, chilled, we scramble back into them knowing they’ll hold us; rewarm us; an all-over caress.

Can statio happen here, in the hard places—in that fractional moment before our next action? Perhaps it’s as basic as gratefulness we can do something, anything . . . or not . . . at peace either way.

Is this how we “criss-cross, over and under, percale” a day? What stops us from realigning with God’s presence before reaching outward?

Lord, you inhabit every fractional space,
the time between times,
betwixt words,
amid each inhale and exhale,
one foot’s lift and the other’s step . . .

Friends, will you join me? We could start small: a statio prayer before we rise, as we dress, after making the bed.

How else might you proceed . . . now, as the season turns?

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“Listen to the tale the threads of your life have woven.” —Sarah Ban Breathnach

For more ideas on statio prayer, click here.

You might also enjoy this, from the archives.

Chittister, Joan. 1990. Wisdom Distilled from the Daily: Living the Rule of St. Benedict Today. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 176-178.

Photo by Alif Caesar Rizqi Pratama on Unsplash

 

 

Which Way

by 22 Chiming In

Which Way?

Picture a big hollow stump, underwater: flat rim, heart rotted out. Two barefoot girls can straddle the edge, toes curled. They must steady each other when fish eggs slime the surface, catch hold of each other when waves wash in.

Using the stump as a platform, my childhood friend and I invented a game: “Spur-of-the-Moments.”

  1. Hold your breath
  2. Submerge, jackknifing knees
  3. Rocket skyward, striking multiple poses (points for the zaniest)
  4. Ta-da! Splashdown

Failure to stick the landing meant flailing through milfoil, and muck, snootfuls of billowing silt, moments of sputtering.

Twisting, mid-leap, sometimes I lost my bearings. Which way was home?

Jump cut to current politics: nationwide waves of dismay, hope, anger, dread, triumph, loss. An old tongue twister comes to mind: A skunk sat on a stump. The skunk thunk the stump stunk; but the stump thunk the skunk stunk.

Which way is up?

My pastor reminds me, “What God builds will last.”

Despite urgency, transitory players, perceived obstacles. Despite hollow declarations and erosive backchat. Threats and reprisals. Fluid truth.

Generous God, give me the long view.

For me, yearning for what’s eternal means trust plus action:

eschew fear,
enact contagious kindness,
emulate bold hope.

In other words, align with the life and teachings of Christ, whose earthly days among friends and foes alike both inspire and challenge me. Sometimes hourly.

The old stump game was wildly impulsive: hasty, unthinking, rash. Also . . . fun. Somewhere between my best impulse and worst reactions there must be a potent, if precarious, balance point. A shot at delight. Freedom from feeling grieved, angry, jaded. Daily diminished by worry.

Perhaps a prayer for graced spontaneity?

Dear Maker and Lover of Trees, grow my integrity—minus distortion and irony. Grant me taproot faith when the figurative waters around me deepen and roil. 

Here’s how The Message voices the Savior’s concern for us:

“Are you tired? Worn out? . . .
Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it.
“Learn the unforced rhythms of grace” (Matt. 11:28-29).

Harder times ahead seem inevitable. How I appreciate upbeat friends like you! Your comments and presence buoy my spirits—no matter what fellow voters decide or who wins public office.

Sediment happens. Amid the campaign muckraking, let’s point each other toward calm waters. No need to be sucked under. Let’s seek wisdom. Love well. Then, take the next leap.

“And let us consider how we may spur one another on
toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together,
as some are in the habit of doing,
but encouraging one another—and all the more
as you see the Day approaching” (Hebrews 10:24-25 NIV).

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Amid candidates out stumping and hair-trigger tensions smoldering, which way is home? What helps you, en route, to sustain balance?

You might also enjoy:

Upbeat People, Unsung Transitions

Regarding Spin

Which way now?

Underwater: Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

Chipmunk in hollow stump: Photo by Leila Boujnane on Unsplash

Chrysalis

by 38 Chiming In

Chrysalis

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.”

rebel caterpillar

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?

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You might also enjoy Butterflies Worth Befriending, from the archives

Chrysalis: Photo by Ikhsan Fauzi on Unsplash

Butterfly on orange out of the chrysalisflower: Photo by Yuichi Kageyama on Unsplash

Chrysalis wisdom

Sometimes We Need to Dwell on the Ledge

by 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!

Rainlight

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.

Dew beads on fallen leaf on my path

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:

Dwell on the ledge ... make it a party!

Boot on ledge: Photo by Arūnas Naujokas on Unsplash

Confetti: erik-brolin-sp7ir7Xrs9U-unsplash

Klein photo: leaf with dew

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Suspended

by 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 . . .

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

Rainlight

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.