blessing Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Stepping out …

Quail: roughly the size of a man’s fist.
Sleeping, they splay;
roused, they leap into the air,
like popcorn kernels hitting hot oil.

The females lay eggs on the run. All of them poop on the run.

One breeder says every time she leaves, her quail cry. A sound somewhere between a mew and a moan.

That’s me lately, writhing with undiagnosed infection. I doze in weird positions, then leap up for, well, the facilities.

Grousing: a verb

Twice, in the ancient Hebrew wilderness, God lavished quail on the Israelites—despite their ingratitude. Tired of manna, they demanded meat. The Almighty practically flung quail into their faces.

There. See the BLESSING?

A sign

Today, quail huddle in gangs beneath our spreading juniper shrubs, before stepping out. They make a break for it, get out of Dodge. I want out too.

I spell mad: B.R.A.T.
Broth
Rice
Applesauce
Tea

For now, no tangerines, no Mae Ploy sauce, no Honey Dijon chips.

And no escape from the smallest room in the house. No stepping out. Because no one knows if my immune system is functioning.

What eccentric blessing is staring me down?

And then in the wee hours, words from Isaiah:

In all their distress, [God too] was distressed,
and the angel of his presence saved them.
In his love and mercy he … lifted them up
and carried them all the days of old.

Even here. Tonight. Alone, on cold linoleum.

I want to know how to see blessings …

Quail make me laugh.

They dither. Their topknots bobble. Their heads are like spastic question marks.

So I have questions too …

how to send roots down into hope until I feel the sap rise
how to turn enigmas into love: valentines, worthy of stamps
how 100 questions might whirl like lassos, aiming for heaven

I want to know gratitude’s face when it roams—homeless, in my neighborhood.

I want to know What you want to know …

Raining quail story here

Candlemas, light in my darkness

Dad was struck down by an aneurism 22 years ago. I was told by phone he keeled over in his kitchen, and I thought of my childhood hideout, a willow tree toppled by lightning.

Clinical depression felled me. During those dark days, I read about Candlemas, an ancient ceremony still celebrated by Anglican, Catholic, and Orthodox believers.

The idea of speaking a blessing over candles, then lighting them ceremonially to honor Jesus, light of the world, sparked something in my pervasive gloom. A flicker of interest.

Wicks and wax

Sandalwood candles especially stirred my dulled sensibilities. I arranged them on a round tray and lit them, one by one. I don’t remember what I said, probably something like Please bless these, whatever that means, and show me the way out of this darkness.

I did not process with them down an aisle or around the house. I just needed a visual that spoke of hope.

Lifted gently from an enameled box, wooden matches kindled the flames. A quirky cast iron snuffer extinguished them.

I even consecrated my tools for the task, pronounced a made-up blessing on fire and iron.

Somehow, these seemingly simple acts—igniting and snuffing—fired an inner expectancy. Soothed my frayed nerves.

To light a candle by myself is one of my favorite prayers, writes David Steindl-Rast.

I am not talking about reading prayers by candlelight.

The very act of lighting the candle is prayer.

There is the sound of striking the match

the whiff of smoke after blowing it out
the way the flame flares up and then sinks
until a drop of melted wax gives it strength
to grow to its proper size
and to steady itself

All this and the darkness beyond my small circle of light is prayer.

I enter into it as one enters a room.

Candlemas, today

Since AD 496, Candlemas, or Candelaria, has traditionally been celebrated February 2nd. Midway between Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox, blessing the candles occurs 40 days after Christmas. These blessed candles are then used in the 40-day cycle of Lent, leading up to Easter.

The ceremony derives from the gospel story of Simeon and Anna, both present when Mary and Joseph carried Jesus into the temple for the first time. Simeon’s ensuing prophecy declared Jesus “a light for revelation to the Gentiles.”

Got a match?

So here I go again, February 2nd. The groundhog looks for his shadow. People debate over more snow or imminent thaw. Others bless candles, light them in remembrance of those they love.

In remembrance of my dad, I light my all-day, fire-in-ice candle, given me by a lifelong friend. All day it will remind me of him as well as my heavenly Father.

What do you think about lighting a candle as prayer?

Will you light a remembrance candle for someone today?

A moving photographic sequence, narrated by David Steindl-Rice
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