Small Wonders Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Hai*Pho — No, it’s not a new entree . . .

What on earth is Hai*pho? A fleeting, luminescent marriage: poem and image. Pho-to + Hai-ku.

“So much depends on the light, and the way you squint.” (Margaret Atwood’s astute observation.)

Welcome, friends, to my growing, mid-pandemic gallery. Here’s my first arranged engagement.

MARCH

Snowstorm on the way.
Hope takes a morning ramble
among buttercups.

Matchmaking with lens and keyboard prompts my imagination during our current lockdown. It propels me outside, clad in battery-heated sweatshirt (thank you, Dreamer!) and polka-dot mud boots.

And one blustery day . . . snow boots.

FIRST ROBIN

Cheerio, chirr-up . . .
Icy lacework of twigs and snow—
how the world rallies.

During these surreal times, it’s stimulating to focus on the diminutive Japanese art form. Haiku is nature-based, 3-lines, 17-syllables, arranged thus: 5, then 7, then 5.

It’s terse. Evanescent. Hopefully, memory inducing. And thought provoking.

LIKE US

A pond, locked in ice,
dreams of open water. Oh,
how we need the sun!

Hai*pho aims to grasp the come-hither hem of beauty and truth. Mercurial moods and possible meanings simmer beneath everyday surfaces that surround us.

Break the word down and voila! — a cultural marriage. Hai is Japanese, for “hello” and “yes.” Pho is Vietnamese for “soup.”

Hello . . . soup. O YES!

The pond shot above does have a soupy look. Perhaps hai*pho IS an entree. A little something to nourish hope . . .

EQUINOX

He summons the night
to dance with the dawn: shadows
elbowing sunlight.

How merciful that our hopes and prayers for healing across the wide world coincide with the equinox, emblematic of balance, and Spring, and Lent . . . everything quietly pointing toward Easter.

NEST EGGS

Shells. The fearful crack.
The soft, extended wing. Then . . .
beaks. Songs. All-new songs!

What creative endeavors are keeping you lively during the pandemic? I hope you’ll share in the comments. Who knows what you might spark in the mind and life of another?

“I will show them my wonders.”

—Micah 7:15

Going Deeper: And Everything Eddying into Light

by Laurie Klein 36 Chiming In

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame acres of light.

The walls showcase B&W close-ups of architectural details: poems in stone. The photographer with the impeccable eye will also perform my root canal.

Scared and fretful yesterday, I memorized part of an old prayer. It’s still with me now, as I leaf through a glossy magazine, where posh Londoners show off their new home. One bathroom features a pschedelic paisley-on-steroids toilet. As you’ll know from previous posts, I’m acutely attuned to plumbing. I show Dreamer, then the receptionist, and we all laugh.

I turn the page. “Oh look. They also installed a personal pole dance room.”

More laughter.

Comic relief helps. A friend died under general anesthesia, a freak allergic reaction. I try to imagine her larking about heaven.

When the Anesthetist arrives, he’s witty, direct, and unhurried. A man I can trust. I tell him about my friend.

“I’ll watch over you,” he says.

Down comes the mask:

claustrophobia
soupy air
aroma of magic markers

“Hold my hand,” he says. “Squeeze as hard as you want.”

I summon the prayer, but it fragments: From this little room and this short hour . . .

“You’re doing great, Laurie.”

. . . I can lift up my mind beyond all time and space . . .

“You haven’t squeezed once.”

. . . unto Thee, the uncreated One . . .

“Just float.”

The mind shrugs. A bodily sigh. All is serene, surreal. Hypnotic. I’m a kite, riding a chemical thermal.

. . . until the light of Thy countenance illumines all my life.

Beneath the crown and dentin my diseased molar holds four canals, each one different. For over two hours Dr. T. wields drill and file. He rasps and reshapes, routing out wider routes, clear to the roots.

Then the bleaching. The final sealing. Like every painstaking work of God: artful, thorough, radically cleansing.

Another severe mercy.

I awake in a different room, brimming with light, still feeling held; tooth saved, the deep work done.

From this little room
and this short hour
I can lift up my mind
beyond all time and space
to Thee, the uncreated One,
until the light of Thy countenance
illumines all my life.

—John Baillie

Tell me your favorite thought or prayer for difficult times.

Photo by Daniel Frank on Unsplash

Change: Brought to You Today by the Letter “R”

by Laurie Klein 50 Chiming In

Two vases, cast off
by their owners,
stand side by side
in my greenhouse window.

My Jack Sprat-and-wife of the pottery world.

Both came from yard sales, several years apart, and I enjoy them every day. But this morning … I see them a-fresh.

Last year, you could say my life resembled the tall vase: shapely and capacious, with an easy, upward outlook. Familiar, much-loved dimensions.

Then I got scary sick.

Talk about crushing. It was like being squashed into the squat, bulbous vase: squeezed, compressed, diminished. My personal soundtrack underwent change, too, from carefree humming to yelps, groans, the occasional whimper.

In the words of Jeremiah the prophet, I was being emptied from vessel to vessel.

Without my permission.

“The people of Moab,” Jeremiah said, “are like wine left to settle; they have never been emptied from one jar to another.”

Dregs are so repulsive.

And no one wants to be forced into shape-shifting change. So we pray, rebel, scout silver linings. We whine, rage, then pray some more.

Panicky at being out of control, we pursue compulsions. (Why yes, I did solve 31 jigsaw puzzles and 413 crosswords.)

Sometimes we make lists: Things I Can Still Do.

We binge. Then pay. Grieve. Pray harder.

And all the while, friends—like you!—keep showing up. You pray, send cards, emails, puzzles, and gifts. You prepare healing foods and assist with errands.

The goodness of God shown through loving, practical grace has kept me hopeful, tensile. Malleable.

Little by little, I’ve found peace in the awkward new shape of my days.

“Through love all pain will turn to medicine” (Rumi).

Friends, after five long months my new favorite word begins with the letter “R.” I am officially in Remission. End. Of. Siege. No more Abominable Abdominal C. diff!

Now begins the slow, stretching efforts of trial-and-error diet, to heal the interior damage.

Perhaps I need a third vase.

Have you been disrupted, too? Emptied from vessel to vessel?

I would love to pray for you.

You might also like Kissing — Actual, Metaphorical — Changes All

Thank you to Cris DiNoto for Railroad Crossing photo (on Unsplash)

Please Pass the Salt

by Laurie Klein 25 Chiming In

Today I drink bone broth straight
from the white mug
a friend gave me, years ago,
inscribed with lyrics, in red:
“I Love You, Lord” . . .
(and I lift my mug).

No kidding. Someone made a mug of my song.

Is it soup yet?

Four months of daily chicken soup translates to gallons. I’m a leaky vessel, swamped in broth. Still sick.

And still curious. How can I make this taste better?

Varying fresh herbs and aromatic veges subtly alters the taste. Chicken and rice enrich nutrition and texture. Peas add a jolt of green.

But it’s salt—cheap, elemental salt—that unlocks all the hidden flavors.

My mother once read me a tale built around an insecure father’s question, and his youngest daughter’s unforgettable answer.

“How much do you love me?” he asked.

“As meat loves salt, ” she replied.

Years passed before he finally understood what she meant.

Even longer ago, Jesus told his followers, “You are the salt of the earth.”

In a long season short on answers I understand this as never before. Salt offers a foretaste of heaven.

Salt mingles. It balances unwanted sweetness; it also suppresses bitterness. Too much kills.

The right amount evokes nuance and satisfaction.

Blah, bland, blashly

For 60-some years I’ve disliked broth. Too boring. In a word, blashly.

Go back 200 years and you’ll find blashly describes overcooked veges and thin soup.

However.

Sometimes what heals us … at first, repels us

“If you arrive at a place in life that is miserable,” Anne Lamott writes,
“it will change, and something else about it will also be true.”

Who knew a mess of used bones
plus the right herbs and aromatics
would (eventually)
generate healthy craving?

Refilling my mug, I give thanks for curiosity—seemingly hard-wired into our psyches.

And there’s this: Salt plus sound displays singular, hidden magic.

Curious?

Click here to watch this brief video: Using a tone generator, the experimenter shakes table salt over a vibrating metal plate. As the pitch rises, the salt granules form new, increasingly complex patterns, for each tone, a different design.

Here’s to the hidden dance of salt.

You only get one life.

Please. Be the salt.

Photo: Dan Michael Sinadjan on Unsplash

Cymatics Demo

Read “As Meat Loves Salt” (also known as Cap O’ Rushes)

More about the marvels of salt, by Margaret Feinberg

Stitches, by Anne Lamott

You might also like “Learn to Sing out on a Limb”

Reset: Notes from a Backward Sabbatical

by Laurie Klein 50 Chiming In

Reset: A fresh start. A return to zero.

We humans reset our clocks & lottery jackpots,
bowling pins & broken bones,
odometers, iPhones & circuit breakers,
alarms, passwords & user names,
devices & diamonds & letterpress type.

I’ve been sick for 100 days. I am undergoing a reset. Disease has streamlined my life. Food, elimination, exercise, rest—I feel pared down to the basics. Vulnerable as a newborn.

Painfully aware of Self.

Self-interest
Self-pity
Self-deception

To name a few.

God seems to be tinkering with my innermost clockwork.

A God who is beyond great, must, by definition, work in ways that are beyond our understanding.

So says Ann Voskamp.

I believe I’ll recover—perhaps with a new normal. But for now grace meets me, again and again, despite my ailing body’s fussy demands and dismal, unending commentary. Grace inches open a door.

Like the evening I’m ladling out soup. Yet another bowl of bone broth. And the phone rings. My friend Robert must rush his wife to E.R. It’s 3:00 a.m. in England and all their friends are asleep. Will I pray?

Love and compassion ignite. Purpose courses through me. I’m needed—by someone a continent away. God moves in their lives and in mine as well. Hope shimmers, a devotional reset.

O I could tell you so many 100-day stories!

Instead, fresh off the altar, here’s a new song, fitting for resurrection week. My gifted friend Bryan Bogue composed the music, and I wrote the lyrics.

NO MORE SORROW

Another night is gone, and nothing like the dawn seems to be breaking.
You lie in bed and pray, just aching for that final day of waking
light years from here, beyond all fear.
Faith used to be so clear; now it’s elusive as a cure.
Nothing feels sure.

When clouds look like a bruise, and early morning news inflames your spirit,
the steep and winding Way feels more remote each day, and still you choose it.
Bodies grow frail, and memories fail.
Passions wax cold and stale. Ready your mind, your soul, your core.
Here’s what’s in store . . .

No more sorrow. No If onlys. Lonely nights will cease.
No more weeping. Grieving wanes as pain gives way to peace.

The world looks on and jeers, the fleeting gift of years can be deceiving.
Our pipe dreams run aground and don’t always rebound. We stop believing.
Vanities pall, as empires sprawl,
prey on the weak and small.
Call to mind promises foretold. Rise and take hold . . .

No more sorrow. No If onlys. Lonely nights will cease.
No more weeping. Grieving wanes as pain gives way to peace.

No more sorrow. No tomorrow cancels grace today.
God will stroke each lifted face and wipe each tear away.

No more sorrow, Solace calls. Lift your face as mercy falls . . .

Clockworks photo: Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash
Watch reset photo: Luke Chesser on Unsplash
Song credits: Bryan Bogue (keyboard, composer/arranger/conductor), Scotty Ingersoll (lead vocal), Gage Homburg (back-up vocals), Ted Swenson (bass), Tana Bachman-Bland (violin, viola), Cheryl Carney (cello), and Keith Thomas (oboe)