Laurie Klein, Scribe

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Felicity, Schmogg & Roofless Minds

by Laurie Klein 22 Chiming In

Felicity: lately, it’s mostly a memory. For the eighth day running . . . I can’t run. Endorphin-deprived, this grounded-for-now body feels loggy. Wistful. S-l-a-c-k.

A run leavens my day; it boosts the spirits as well as the heart rate.

However, we in the West are beset by hazardous air quality due to wildfires. Step outside and nose-wrinkling, eye-blinking, mood-sinking schmogg assaults the senses. Headache ensues.

Housebound, a wonder junkie may forgo her knack for awe, even overlook nature’s wordless felicity.

And while I’m deeply grateful for the roof overhead and walls that keep bad air out, how does one batten down for safety . . . yet keep the soul propped open, the mind and spirit ajar?

These days, seems most everything—most everywhere—is being turned upside down.

Remember the old Sunday School fingerplay?

Here is the church;
here is the steeple;
open the doors to see all the people.

Motion-wise, unlatching thumbs and spreading the hands inverts the building: interlaced “roof fingers” and palms become floor—complete with life line.

Ergo: one steeple-free, miniature open-air temple.

Ancient Greeks designed temples with an uncovered space that housed an image of deity. This required a new adjective: Hypaethral (hī-ˈpē-thrəl: quasi-rhymes with “Hi C thrill,” for all you dear sopranos, reading this post).

Hypo-, means “under or beneath,” and aithēr, “air or heaven.”

So, fellow homebodies under heaven, with our blessedly non-leaking roofs clamped overhead, how do we as living temples—each of us quietly housing the image of God—proceed?

As the runner’s sole hitting pavement depends on friction, so we embrace the chafe of severe mercy. Hard grace. The whole of this whacked-out world is still a house for us all. A house for God. A roofless marvel of intricate connectivity. Delight, blessedness, eloquence, bliss—felicity still abounds.

Perhaps roofless is a state of mind . . .

Amid wildfires and COVID-19, riots and politics, global suffering and local schmogg, it’s still occurring out there, beyond the glass . . . PRAISE, I mean . . .

As Frederick Buechner says:

“The way Psalm 148 describes it, praising God … is about as measured as a volcanic eruption. … The whole of creation is in on the act—the sun and moon, the sea, fire and snow, Holstein cows and white-throated sparrows, old men in walkers and children who still haven’t taken their first step.

“Their praise is not chiefly a matter of saying anything, because most of creation doesn’t deal in words. Instead, the snow whirls, the fire roars, the Holstein bellows, the old man watches the moon rise.

“Their praise is not something that at their most complimentary they say, but something that at their truest they are.

“Watch how the trees exult when the wind is in them. … Learn how to say ‘Hallelujah’ from the ones who say it right.”

Day or night, barefoot or shod, kneeling or running, may we do no less.

Felicity of an open-air temple

What is the gift being offered us now?

Tell me, what metaphorical footwear might you lace on, in preparation?

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P.S. If you enjoyed my earlier post on racial reconciliation (found here), here’s an excellent book currently furthering my education. White Awake: An Honest Look at What It Means to Be White, by Daniel Hill.

Daytime low-angle tree shot by Veronica Gomez Ibarra, on Unsplash; Nighttime low-angle tree shot by Dave Hoefler, on Unsplash

 

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: felicity, grace, hypaethral, praise, running, temple September 19, 2020

All Hail, All the Time

by Laurie Klein 6 Chiming In

Hail, hail, everywhere . . .

Long beams of Easter light from the west brushed across our icy yard, as if with a magic wand.

Hail, on EasterI was setting the table for our daughter’s birthday party. Mid-cutlery, thunder rolled, making me glance up. Ice pelted the roof, yet the sun blazed.

Pure glint dosey-do-ed with gravity
as compacted snow
pummeled our cars, the deck, and lawn.Hail on deck

Who could ignore this dangerous, glittering, magical racket?

Hurrying outside, camera in hand, I wanted to capture the fleeting, crystallized scene:Hail seen through birch boughs

trees lit with daylight constellations . . .

shrubs decked in white sapphires . . .

a sequinned gown for the limpid air.

Hail clings to birch twigs

Hail hits hard, like bad news

It can hammer a heart, gouge inner peace. Along comes a death, or dire diagnosis. A career setback. A family feud or a friend’s downward spiral.

Amid too many grim tidings lately I call to mind God’s storehouses of snow, mentioned in Job,

the plague of hail in ancient Egypt,

those predicted hailstones in Revelation. In each case, God’s mastery over weather is on display, though I struggle to feel positive about the human price paid.

What am I missing here?

Hail, tell us your secrets

Though perilous, hail showers are also spellbinding, glorious, a glistening force that transfigures landscapes. And, perhaps, lives. It’s working on mine today . . .

Hail, noun: precipitation in the form of small balls or lumps usually consisting of concentric layers of clear ice and compact snow.

Hail, verb (archaic): used to express acclaim. “Hail favored one! Hail Caesar! Hail, King of the Jews! Hail, Mary! Hail to the Chief!”

Hale, homonym, adjective: to be free from defect, disease, or infirmity : sound; also: retaining exceptional health and vigor (Merriam-Webster).

Hail storm and blue chairHail, teach us your ways

Lord knows, I need instruction. Feeling neither vigorous nor exultant at the moment, I’m writing this post having woken up crying, twice, during the night. Having teared up again, several times today.

Am I depressed? Maybe. Too early to tell. I gaze at this photo of the weathered chair beneath our crab apple tree, festooned with icy finery. Marvel lightens my sorrow—a few degrees.

No matter how I feel, the God of fire and hail offers respites along the way. A pause. A dose of wonder despite my inability to catalogue or corral my emotions.

Soon now, I will venture outside with my camera and hunt more evidence of God’s shining presence within all that remains unsolved in my soul. My pleas for the healing of loved ones. The final home-going of family. The recent relational storm that laid bare my need for forgiveness.

Fire, and hail; snow, and vapors; stormy wind fulfilling his word. – Psalm 148:8

I am counting on this: that everything eventually fits into God’s larger story, even volatile weather of the heart. Be it exultant or quiet acclamation, this I aspire to—no matter the weather, or season, event, or prognosis. The news. My mood. Or even our nation’s final candidates.

Grace comes. The light changes. Blues, you lose this round.

It’s neither hail nor storm… It’s just a stir that precedes the settlement of your destiny. Believe that you will not remain on the ground. Wake up and try again! ―Israelmore Ayivor, Dream Big: See Your Bigger Picture!

Laurie Klein, Scribe

Filed Under: Immersions Tagged With: hail, praise, respite, storm, weather of the heart, wonder April 12, 2016

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Where the Sky Opens, a Partial Cosmography

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