delight Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Act IV

Why is it that once we dare hope we’ve embodied the role of a lifetime . . . the scenery shifts?

Those once-trusty props? Whisked away during intermission. Our favorite costumes, removed; our former entrance lines, cut.

Even the set changes. For the story-in-progress at our place, think healing as boot camp.

Perhaps I’ve been auditioning all along for my current role—daily domestic triage—despite no discernible training, no talent for research, no medical skills.

You might be nodding in empathy, your life, or that of a loved one, re-cast in an unscripted Act IV.

It’s all-out improv.

Feeling alone onstage, you suspect the Director is occupied elsewhere. Singled out by the spotlight’s glare, you are exposed, reduced to mumbled ad-libbing.

Drop the curtain, somebody! Douse the lights!

If I ask you to complete this line, what would you add? “Lord, why can’t I . . .”

I am increasingly aware I can serve my loved one, try to salve all the sorrows. But God alone saves.

According to Paul, the Great Physician counts this work in us a pleasure.

Meanwhile, sidelined in the wings awaiting my next cue, I wonder . . . amid the pressure, can I dare enjoy small delights—without guilt?

Imagine this: a walk-on cameo role, perhaps in a garden at twilight. Nothing to memorize, no need to perform.

Ahhh. Moonrise. A few early stars. Hear that occasional drowsy cheep as birds settle into stillness? The splash of a fountain. Breathe in, absorb the tapestried atmosphere: perhaps threads of reverence surface, while running unseen (beneath a network of small knots), measured, orderly strands hold it all together. Not a sampler, but a story. Not a stage, but a sanctuary: the very air seemingly woven with prayers uttered, over time, layered here and there with a trill of merriment . . .

“Beauty tells us that we were created for joy and summoned to healing,” author Sarah Clarkson writes.

She urges us to embrace how healing it can be to savor the small and hidden—a surprising medicine amid brokenness.

“The way I tend and cultivate [small] things,” she adds, “which belong intimately to me in my ordinary sphere—home, body, friend, child, spouse, garden, table . . .” not only matters but becomes “more potent than we often imagine.”

Friends, no matter what role
you might be currently learning
or leaving,
Dreamer and I wish you
peace in the midst of longing,
abounding grace to lean into it, waiting,
and aerobic faith
for the leaping . . .

Father of Lights, may we
wake to your presence,
watch for your gifts,
wait on your grace,
walk in your ways.

Friends, in what ways are you praying for your own unexpected Act IV? Or, that of another?

“Let the loveliness of the Lord, our God, rest on us.” —Psalm 90: The Message

Unfinished tapestry photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

Hands cupping spotlight Photo by max im on Unsplash

Last-minute Beans, Lasting Truth

by Laurie Klein 6 Chiming In

Yesterday’s Beans

Beans headlined my last-minute grocery list.

Elbows flared, an older man blocked my way. His stance was wide, his reach, long. He radiated ownership, as if these were his beans, and he examined each one, stem to tail.

I needed two handfuls, pronto.

Ragged shorts, crumpled canvas hat, one tube sock at half-mast—he didn’t look like a chef. Those focused hands might have belonged to an eccentric composer seeking the lost chord: the epitome of crunch, sweetness, savor. Shine.

I headed for Dairy, impatient yet curious. Was Mr. Persnickety entertaining a V.I.P.? Perhaps he was painting a still life, in oils, and he needed fresh props.

When I circled back, The Green Bean Guy was gone. [Read more…]

With or Without a Net

by Laurie Klein 8 Chiming In

Is today a good time for a walk where you live? If not, how about taking a virtual walk with me?

Wild, sometimes, the memories that surface.
You step out the door
and before you know it . . .

you’re a hatless kid again, let loose in the meadow, stalking ladybugs, moths and monarchs. In spongy-new tennies, you inch past milkweeds and burdock, dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace.

If you relished this mid-century childhood freedom like I did, half the fun was being outside on your own, green grapes in a pocket, traveling with or without a net for butterflies (made with a coat hanger and cheesecloth). Remember? Let’s go!

Exploring. Staring at clouds.
Sitting on our haunches to flip over a bug with a stick.
Whistling on grass blades, inhaling May.

Walking without a net today, I take these pictures along the path and wonder (maybe you do, too):

Why do I always prefer a safety net?

I don’t like living without a net to catch me. Before I can plumb this fear, I see the wild shooting stars: tall and delicate with wind tunnel petals. Their centers are dark, beaky snouts.

Their name alone reminds me to watch for surprises.

“If you search for the little bursts of surprise in your life,” writes Margaret Moore, “you create an entire mind-set change—exactly what the adventurer needs.”*

I’m not very adventurous. But I’d like to be.

Streamline this soul today
like a badminton birdie,
ready to rise . . .

“Finding novel sensations in the everyday hits a mental reset button,” says Todd Kashdan, PhD.**

And you—what of your rushed
and useful life? Imagine setting it all down—
papers, plans, appointments, everything—
leaving only a note: “gone
to the fields to be lovely. Be back
when I’m through with blooming.”

—Lynn Ungar, “Camas Lilies”

This is my year to delight more in life—without a net of some kind to reassure me I’ll be okay. Sometimes I question my motives. I take heart from the following quote:

“An adventurous person will always have moments of feeling like a fraud—it’s a sign that you’re creating new roles for yourself, that you’re evolving. It means you’re doing great, passionate work (Kashdan).”

Grass widow and the wheel done rolling — Wild Larkspur

So today, if we feel more like a wheel done rolling . . .

Larkspur, you remind us to keep seeking
the company of those who are still blooming,
as if knowing some days we feel
irrelevant, relegated to rust.

Or is it field art?

TAKING IT FURTHER:

Amble somewhere this week. Make this outing non-aerobic. Non-wired. A slow roam without a net, soul mesh open to receive surprise. What along the speaks to you? How might this change the way you live?

*Margaret Moore, MacLean/Harvard Institute of Coaching, as quoted in O, June 2010, p. 141.
**Todd Kashdan, PhD, author of Curious?
“Camas Lilies,” Lynn Ungar, Bread and Other Miracles