Laurie Klein, Scribe

immerse in God, emerge refreshed

Words in Edgewise, Growing “Edge Wise”

by 15 Chiming In

Edgewise to the massive cliffs on either side of our RV, we nose through a misty canyon in Colorado.

Along the rim of a rocky cutaway, one valiant tree sports May’s latest green. Beyond its small canopy, ghostly aspen trunks mount the next slope: limbless, charred. Their music, silenced.

edgewise view of canyon

Fire once ravaged parts of this canyon. You could draw a v-shaped line where the flames stopped.

“Edge areas” between differing habitats are ecologically distinct. In the foreground above, lichens inch across stone. Sparse vegetation seeks footholds, hunkers edgewise between rocks.

In the ruined woods beyond, ground covers will vary now, as will returning wildlife.

The division appears stark, even hostile. Yet a strange serenity rules here, amidst devastation. There’s something compelling at play in this scene.

I’ve been dividing my evenings between several books, pulling out words and ideas from each and letting them converse in my head.

One book currently captivating me is God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us, by L. L. Barkat. She describes it as “a 12-week course in discovery and playing towards God.”

For someone who often overworks, the idea of playing towards God feels irresistible.

The right book in a ripe time offers gifts, unparalleled.

Published in 2010, this one reached me belatedly, and it’s searching and sifting my soul with each chapter I read.

An Edgewise Commitment

Barkat made an odd commitment after reading a book she found pivotal: Radical Simplicity, by Jim Merkel.

With her senses and soul open wide, for one year she spent time in her small backyard every day—no matter the weather—“to find some contentment and beauty” (p.5.).

Some days (and nights) she slotted in backyard dates edgewise: Fifteen minutes in falling snow or rain was all the time she could spare.

Just as the photo above suggests a heart-shaped area of destruction wedged between soaring walls of grandeur, so God in the Yard is gently ushering me between grief and recovery.

Pages nearly vibrate with unexpected observations. Paradoxes invite further exploration. Soul Questions are interspersed with scenes from the author’s life and readings. She invites the reader to fill in the blanks. For example:

When I was a child, I lived______________
Today I live________________________
If I could, I would return to_____________

My answers describe edges in my life: geographically, emotionally, and spiritually.

  • Yes, I long for earlier terrain (and people) no longer available
  • And yes, acceptance grows slowly at deeper levels
  • There are also actions I can take

Wisdom expands as I learn to honor new ways to thrive.

And you? (This is a question Barkat asks, again and again.)

Do you perceive a distinct edge for yourself? What change might you need to accept (or reject)? What one action can you take (or stop taking) to move you toward discovery and thriving?

 

fabulous tree bark

Laurie Klein, Scribe

God in the Yard: Spiritual Practice for the Rest of Us, L. L. Barkat, T.S. Poetry Press, 2010.

Note: “Words in Edgewise” is a title borrowed from a marvelous show created and directed by my mentor, Pat Stien.

Own a Better View

by 16 Chiming In

Beyond the bay window, night wanes.

the new view, pre-dawn

God, behind the scenes, is producing this unused, never-before-seen, free-for-the-living day:

“Light, on your mark . . . good, very good . . . fade in sky and fields.”

(And to the mist) “Ready? Get rolling!”

own the new view
Mt. Spokane, pre-sunrise

For the first time in 25 years I clearly see Mt. Spokane from my place at our table. It rises, cool and distant, the stone-washed blue of rain over a lake.

Recently felled trees exposed this view, a vista I want to claim. Can a human own a view?

With the silent hoist of invisible pulleys, up comes the sun. I stroll up the driveway and witness washes of color altering landscape. I pass the fallen bodies of giants.

Mt. Spokane, the new view

The news

Our trees are dying. In a word: beetles.

We sought advice from experts. Here’s who weighed in.

  • Spokane County Extension fire inspector
  • District 4 Fire Department
  • Department of National Resources
  • Thinning contractors

Restoring our woods will cost an arm and a leg—actually, unnumbered limbs. Trunks, too. Many exceed the jaws of the chipper, and debris must be burned ASAP, or trucked away, to avoid worse infestation. Survivors need to be thinned and lopped of dead growth, 12′ from the ground.

Trunk girths indicate no one has tended these woods. Nor have we. We’ve loved them but left them wild. Until now.

But the hours. The expense. The labor. It’s overwhelming.

And yet

I see the mountain. See it from the place I study and pray. Modest in size, it’s still a mountain.

My view through the gap left behind by death makes me think of Good Friday. And visions. Kernels of wheat. Who but God would conceive such a process—downfall and disease ushering in unforeseen beauty. Surprise.

Yes, we are facing loss. And cost. And something more.

Have you read this famous haiku by Mizuta Masahide?

Since my house burned down
I now own a better view
of the rising moon

Looking back, looking ahead

We moved here after re-affirming our marriage vows. Things had been crashing down around us and friends sensed our need, prayed us through the pain. We know about doing hard things.

Now it’s time again to “own a better view.” At least, metaphorically. Ancient Israel lost her great forests to marauding enemies. Yet scripture also describes the trees rejoicing.

We will care for our little forest. We’ll watch for each view that opens up, even as trees go down.

Some scientists now believe bark beetles can hear the sound of imploding tissue in drought-stressed trees. Native people have likely always known this, as evidenced by this quote from a Pueblo Indian elder.

The beetles come when the trees begin to cry.

Laurie Klein, Scribe

Who, or what, in your life cries out for tending? Is there a new way to view this?

 

Mizuta Masahide (水田 正秀, 1657–1723) was a Japanese poet and samurai. —Wikipedia