music Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Alteration

An alteration? Oh, what a pain. Somebody, spare me. Please.

Despite my chronic aversion to sewing, I offered to take in my grandson’s sweatpants, a Christmas gift from me. They gapped at the waist, and the store couldn’t reorder the correct size. Plus . . . he LOVED them.

He would try them on again; I’d mark the potential tucks.

However, three layers of thick fleece and wide elastic resisted my pins. How would I shove a needle through an inch of fabric? Personal punctures seemed inevitable. Actual pain.

While procrastinating for six weeks, I read there are nine types of fleece, and only one of them, merino wool fleece, involve sheep. For the eight other types, manufacturers meld polyester and recycled plastics with strategic air pockets, sometimes adding natural fibers like cotton or hemp. Voila! Wonder wear: heat-trapping, breathable, wind- and water-resistant, lightweight, long-lasting, affordable, and non-fraying.

There was a lot to read about, which conveniently suited my reluctance to get to work. Unexpected notes of birdsong embroidered the chill beyond my window.

I also read “The Latin root word for ‘rapture means stitch and sing.”*

That fired my imagination.

My mom, genius seamstress and shy soprano, used to say, “A song makes the jobs we don’t like go faster. And better.” She insisted we sing rounds during chores.

Jogged by memories, I carried the oversize sweatpants into my doctor’s waiting room. I still dreaded starting, and failing — possibly bleeding. But my winsome lad is a kid made for cozy. Would I covertly sing?

Well. Every chair was full. The people in them already looked pained.

A tune did not arise in my heart. Not even a hum. But I sensed a solidarity with my mom, and with people, worldwide, who mend and alter. A flush of warmth — beyond the plush fibers I held — pulsed through me, as if a hand of blessing had touched my shoulder in passing.

I threaded my needle and pierced the tripled layers with ease. Something peevish within me relaxed. I settled into the gladness of keeping my word. Being of service.

And the stitches held, like musical thirty-second notes carefully placed, adding up to something worth singing about: an alteration . . . in me.

Are you delaying a needed alteration? What kind of mindset might help you get started?

You might also enjoy: “Lucky: Shelf Life, Third Edition” (Mom sews my prom dress)

Or “Resilience” (the art of mending medieval parchment . . . and more)

Learn about fleece here

*Seven Thousand Ways to Listen, Mark Nepo

Photo by Lisa Woakes on Unsplash

Sustain

by Laurie Klein 27 Chiming In

Sustain

Beeline with me to the solarium: weathered brick, hardwood. An echo chamber.

One whole room for a lonesome grand piano.

And you.

(Not musical? Immaterial. Welcome to Daydream Central.)

The lid, when raised, tilts like a raven’s wing. Ivories glow. Go on, ease onto the bench. Limber your hands. Now . . .

Pick a note, any note. And depress the sustain—that rightmost pedal‚ outlined in gold.

Sustain captures the sound of each key we touch, moving the dampers away from the strings, letting them ring and ring until the final vibration recedes into silence. With each struck note all the strings sympathetically vibrate.

Sustain blends and extends sound (and time) beyond what fingers can humanly reach in a given moment.

And sustain responds to our singular touch.

George Bernard Shaw once said, “Most people go to their grave with their music inside them.”

BUT you—yes you—are already a psalm of water that shivers with light.

“Notes all, we ring, sustained, vibrating forever.
All of everything is a symphony,
and no created thing has ever heard the fullness of it.”*

Poet/theologian Paul J. Pastor wrote those words. Creating a litany of evidence in response seems fitting.

Maestro of All, I have heard You . . .

… in the riff of a robin, the bubbling anthems of quail

… in autumn wind, and the patter of leaves

… in the faithful hum as the furnace kicks on in the dark

… in the welcoming mirth of dogs

… in my granddaughter’s version of “God Bless America” . . . dad that I love; stand beside her, in a diaper . . .

… in my father’s “Well done”; my mother’s “You’re home!”; my quiet sibling’s “I forgive you”

… in the poems of Susan Cowger

… in that hollow, answering thump of a warm, yeasty loaf

… in the predawn gargle of roosters in rural Thailand

… in the holy hush of former East Germans, after sharing aloud in a group without fear of reprisal

Dear Maestro, we listen as numberless sounds blend, sustained by grace, underscoring our lives.

The litany never ends. How will you sustain it?

Friends, will you chime in with a new line?

You might also like this from the archives: Shelf Life: First Edition

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash

Photo by Ebuen Clemente Jr on Unsplash

*Paul J. Pastor’s book, The Face of the Deep, inspired this post. He enumerated places he has seen glimpses of God. What if we list inspiring instances of taste? Touch? Scent? Will you try your own litany?

“The Food of Love …”

by Laurie Klein 28 Chiming In

The food of love? Well, we are making cookies today . . .

My granddaughter perches on the kitchen stool, one loose-cannon leg kicking the rungs. She’s chatty, a tad restive. She waves the baby chick cookie cutter above her head. Then, surprisingly, she falls silent, pointing to the decal that spans the soffit. With a five-year-old’s zest she proclaims, “If music be the food of Love, pla-a-ay on.”

“Keira,” I marvel, “you’re reading!”

She grins briefly, then returns to cutting birdies from dough. Keira, aka Kiki, was once a hypersensitive infant we carried around on a pillow. She suffered acute sensory issues. Traumatized in utero by her birth mother’s drug habit, our little fledgling now reads Shakespeare.

Oh, the ageless effervescence of wonder — it tingles all over my body. I’m older than the average grandma, eager to savor each stage of growth while I still can.

As my friend Judi Carlson says, “What piece of our heart did God create to receive this kind of miracle? We adopt fragile children. And those children adopt us.”

Kiki, our impish dynamo, seldom sits long enough to hear a story through to the end. So when did the skill to read click? She’s a girl with places to go, faces to make, boundaries to test.

“All done,” she sings out. “Now what?”

I slide her tray of ginger-bird cutouts into the oven. “Eight minutes,” I say. “Want to see the baby robins?”

We tiptoe to my bedroom window to watch the ramshackle nest on our deck.

Three fledglings yeep and chirr, jostling each other. Then, like harrumphing uncles, they rotate positions.

She wants to know why they are fighting.

“They’re getting too big for the nest,” I say. “And maybe they’re itchy. Look, they’re taking beak-baths.”

[Click & watch] IMG_0548

Chirping, Mama Robin swoops to the lawn, nabs a worm, heads for the nest. She embodies music, the food of Love — countless times each day.

I’ve watched her spread wings and tail over the nest during two hailstorms, her quivering pinions jeweled with ice. She’s giving her young every chance in a world where statistics show only 25% survive their first year.

The oven timer goes off, and we head for the kitchen, Kiki bouncing ahead of me — and off a wall or two. The thought comes to me, she’ll be okay, despite her rough start in life and her madcap ways. The cherishing God who knows when a sparrow falls is with her, and will be, long after I’m gone.

Whoever wrote Psalm 91 knew a thing or two about love: “[God] will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection.” For now, I’m grateful the Deity shares part of that privilege with me.

Kiki and I frost the cookies and top them with sprinkles. Another gift. The robins, too, seem sent. Vulnerability dressed in feathers chooses my deck. My time. Me. From the nest’s inception to sky-blue eggs to scruffy hatchlings, I’ve eavesdropped on this family-in-progress day after day, for weeks. A living psalm.

Kiki takes bird cookies home to her mama. A few hours later I find the nest empty. Abandoned. I’m surprised by the ache in my chest. And how it spreads.

I would have loved to watch them fly.

Since then, I’ve used this breath prayer throughout the day, the one that’s been singing itself in my head lately, helping me let go.

(inhale) Lord of every     (exhale) quickening,
Watching over     egg and wing,
How you cherish     everything!
Taking flight     or nestling,
I live     to sing
All that you are,     my King.

What helps you release a cherished hope or a beloved being already in flux?

You might also enjoy this one about Kiki

And this one, if you missed it, about the nest

Kyrie Eleison: Seeking Mercy

by Laurie Klein 14 Chiming In

Kyrie eleison:

It may or may not have been the same year
Daddy survived electric shock therapy,
that year he lived in a quiet building by water
with scratchy linens and locked windows
and a special room where people did crafts,

the year I was 7 or 8 years old,
when I first spoke Greek.

It happened by way of a song. Old enough
to stand beside Mom in church,
entrusted with one side of the red hymnbook,
ancient words in a magical language
rose around us: Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison—

Lord, have mercy, Christ have mercy.

It’s all I can think of today.

I’ve turned off ongoing footage of catastrophe, heartbreak and accusations, nuclear stand-offs, and always, always, the endless spin.

Not that I want escape. Well, maybe, a little.

I need to re-position myself squarely, silently, in God’s presence.

Out of stillness comes a memory of classes taken.

For the student of Mime, the first key position is Neutral. Neither rigid, sloppy, nor static, it’s a posture of yielded, relaxed, absolute readiness. The whole being is poised. Alert. Balanced.

Neutral is the springboard for any initial gesture. A launch pad for the slightest expression. Action. Story.

I must keep returning to temporary neutral. I need a larger perspective, a longer view. A sense of how God wants me to respond as I go along. There’s a road that I am traveling.

You have one too.

As Mr. Mister famously sang, back in the ’80s: “Kyrie eleison on this road that I must travel.” (link below)

Not resignation, but rather, responsiveness.

Not apathy, but radical, trusting attention.

And then—shock therapy—as I’m writing this post my screen alerts me to a high school shooting today: 3 injured, one dead, the killer in custody. In a town of barely 500 people—not far from mine.

Lord, have mercy!

Words fail us. Fate laughs. Logic shrugs and turns its back.

In times like these, music can help us keep our hearts open, empathic. It helps us pray.

Below are my favorite Kyrie versions, in multiple genres, some with visuals. Please experience several (use the back arrow at the top of your screen to return to the post for more links).

And … can we start a Playlist? Leave a title and/or link in the comments below and tell us your go-to music when life falls apart. I’ll create a Playlist and post it.

Meanwhile, here’s a springboard prayer: