Laurie Klein, Scribe

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Lure

by Laurie Klein 16 Chiming In

Same path, same camera pausing again, this time to capture a curled leaf, each serration salted with rime.

lure of a leaf

Nearing the pond, I listen for ducks.

But my viewfinder zooms in on mats of algae, flash-frozen. Glazed and rumpled, here is weather’s awkward marriage of wind and degree.

Friends, I love this trail
meandering through
our neighbor’s woods, where,
with their permission,
I gratefully roam.

Only a week ago,
I traversed it on snow shoes—
which is why today,
after the thaw, I falter.

A rusty, misshapen bicycle someone recently abandoned rivets my gaze.

Whose is it?

kid lure

Beyond, I see the old metal gate—jackknifed open—first time in 29 years.

Then . . . something blue: a child’s scooter, flung down in the grass.

And the ramshackle shed, ever-padlocked, now gapes.

I snap photos. Inch past the scooter. Two rooms with a plywood partition beckon.

In the first room, wheel spokes,
clogged with pine needles—another bike
hunkering amid castoffs: a cracked
Kool-Aid pitcher with its retro grin,
jumble of crockery, blackened tools.

It smells like rust and silt and disappointment.

Can you hear the sinister soundtrack? “Turn back, now!”

A campy movie comes to mind: “I saw something nasty in the woodshed.”

Stifling a shiver, I ease
into the second room.
From ten penny nails,
four human-sized
sacks of black netting sag.
Glint of an eyeball.
A crooked neck.

My breath stutters.
A gulp. A step backward.
A shake of the head, to clear it.

And then, that pesky resolve to know.

I edge forward, peering through gloom.

Duck decoys. Four bags full. Cork versions meant to lure real ducks into settling on the neighbor’s pond.

I too feel lured in. Fooled, and foolish. Relief is a long exhale, a shaky laugh.

O, the lure of the unexplained. Eavesdropping on a forgotten life. Lurking enigmas. Secrets.

We tread the familiar, by rote, sometimes for decades. And one day somebody wrenches open a gate. Someone leaves behind woebegone relics, evidence of a story.

Similarly, there are locked rooms in my heart, littered with ghosts. Misleading notions. I harbor substitute emotions disguising something I don’t want to face.

I am sharply aware, in this moment, of simmering jealousy within, masquerading as applause for a colleague’s recent success. I’ve stuffed it away, feathered my envy with feigned goodwill. This is how I lure myself into believing I’ve mastered festering disappointment.

The Old Testament prophet Hosea heard God say, “I will now allure her. I will lead her into the desert. There I will speak tenderly to her.”

And isn’t this a kindness, after all, being led forward? Braving the musty, looking within, naming what’s still lurking inside the sack?

I head home: same path, same camera, no longer quite the same me.

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Tell us, how do you interpret Hosea’s enigmatic words?

You might also enjoy: Constancy: The Tale of a Trail

Woodshed quote from Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons.

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: decoy, disappointment, lure, path November 5, 2020

Dream House, Take 2

by Laurie Klein 48 Chiming In

Dream House.

Chef heaven. Double ovens, gas range, gorgeous granite countertop—I picture myself ladling out gourmet soup. And if I drop a bowl? No problem. Cork flooring cushions all.

The place is perfect. One-level living, spacious rooms, views of naturalized parkland—we LOVE it! Seizing Dreamer’s hand, I pray aloud, “If this is our house, Lord, hold it for us.”

Next morning, while signing our bid I recognize the owners’ names. Long ago we attended church together.

God must want this for us.

All night I alternate between “Don’t count your chickens” and mentally furnishing every last room.

Come morning, we send the owners a winsome personal letter and our bid—15 K over list price.

God loves us, so things will go well. Right?

Turns out other bids have preceded ours. All day we hope our old friends will choose us.

Nope.

Therapy Option #1: Write

(To the tune of “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow”)

The Real Estate Song, or Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go

     with apologies to Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn

Oh, the bidding wars sure are frightful,
And the dream house so delightful.
Our offer turned out too low . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.

Well, the market is really hoppin’,
And it shows no signs of stoppin’.
I wish we had lots more dough . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.

It’s no wonder I sit here cryin’
As our hopes are slowly dying,
But today’s nearly through and so . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.

Meanwhile, back at the rancher

I pray.
And pace.
Grieve.
And growl.

Mostly growl.

Therapy Option #2: Bake

Anger spits and sizzles in me like a downed power line. I was so sure the house was meant to be ours. I imagined Dreamer’s faith being renewed in the process of buying the dream house.

Heat works its way up my throat. A hard lump. I swallow it down.

In my one-butt kitchen with its erupting linoleum and elderly laminate counters, I mix cookie dough. Granite and cork are overrated. So are kitchen fans. Around me the air congeals, laden with sugar and fat. I breathe it in. Maybe it will sweeten my thoughts.

Nope.

I slip cookies onto the rack to cool. This, I can control. Unlike crushing dismay.

I am breaking my heart over a house, looking behind me with longing. Like Lot’s wife.

Tears come, briny and fast.

As do reminders of mercy.

No brimstone. No judgment.

Relief, finally, is remembering God is good. And always, always worthy of trust.

Then believing it. Slow work, sometimes.

My knee goes down, my gaze lifts.

I have a goofy song.
Fresh cookies.
And Time.

I eat 6 cookies, still warm and gooey, taste the sweetness, a promise of things to come …

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UPDATE: Friends, thank you for your prayers! Parkinson’s has been ruled out. Dreamer recently underwent a brain MRI and will have an EMG on Dec. 21. He’ll consult with an M.D. specialist sometime in the New Year. Both our daughters are also experiencing acute physical challenges, including surgery in December. I’m learning a lot about grace.

We’re dialing back the moving process, for now.

Catch up on our story here.

Photo by Jamie Strett for Unsplash.

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: anger, cookies, disappointment, dream house, let it go, Time November 20, 2018

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Hi, I’m Laurie.

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Where the Sky Opens, a Partial Cosmography

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