resilience Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Resilience?

Just before sunset, when
backlit trees beckon, Dreamer and I
amble down the hill. Thirty-four years
we have jogged, snow-shoed or skied
this sole-beaten path through the pines,
once a vast orchard—long gone
now, save for the random
orphan over a century old: gnarled,
unruly, runed with lichen
and raveled with living,
near-spent, as we are. But

what’s this, at our feet?

Limerick green, the size of a golf ball,
it gleams in the rough grass—
a fruit, fallen
from branches we’ve never seen bloom. How
can this be? Apples,
apples adorn every crooked limb!

***

“BEARING FRUIT in the twilight of life”: the phrase steals into my mind. Here is a displaced tree we gave up on, thriving with renewed energy and endurance. Despite encroaching woods. And weeds. Despite no pruning or fertilization. I squeeze Dreamer’s hand.

Metaphorically, this could be us . . .

Lately, we feel under siege. Dreamer’s braving cognitive impairment. I’ve been waylaid three weeks, first, by a wily kidney stone and multiple ER all-nighters, then diagnosed with Hydronephrosis. One ER doctor said, “It’s like passing a kidney stone. Every day. Without the stone.”

Also, our beloved home needs radical mold remediation. And then, restoration. We had to move out. Wildly conflicting data makes the way forward hard to discern.

Toss in a pet emergency, someone hacking our credit card, and Dreamer and I dumpstering 2/3 of our possessions because of possible contamination . . .

It’s a lot.

Back in January, reeling from Dreamer’s diagnosis, I sensed God preparing me for things to come by leveraging my love for fierce crossword puzzles.

“Take one square at a time. Fill in what you can. Work around the blanks. Answers will come.”

In other words, keep a quiet heart. Wait, with passionate patience. Trust. Practice ardent anticipation.

MEANWHILE, can we coax out resilience, surrender our assumptions about precious people and places and things that make us feel secure?

Sooner and sometimes, later, we recognize the voice of God-with-us, within us . . . spelling out the next step.

Imagine collective resilience, in prayer. We’ve all weathered a siege or two: escalating stress, relentless change, misfortune. Even now, you or someone you cherish may feel utterly beset.

May God’s love,
flawlessly faithful (and,
honestly, at times
enigmatic), direct our paths,
see us through the siege,
reveal glints of wonder
unfurling, like a seed, undercover.

“YOU HAVE TO STAND STILL so that the enchantment of the world can step out of its shyness,” author Sherry Ning writes. “Beauty is a momentary happening of a glint of truth surfacing in the material world . . . a moment of something divine making itself perceivable to human eyes.”

A gift. Without fanfare. Like one little apple bidding us, “Look up.”

Any tips on resilience you’re willing to share?

You might also enjoy this 2021 post: Resilience

Photo by Marina Grynykha on Unsplash

Resilience: After eating together, Dreamer and I update the blank book we use as a gratitude journal. As we verbalize and record the day’s visitations of grace, our threadbare souls experience modest repair.

We are coping with holes in our lives. Sometimes we feel worn as ancient parchment: our moods uneven, our hopes brittle and thoughts torn.

Back in medieval times, a parchment maker’s knife often slipped while smoothing animal hides for the written word, leaving behind small gouges and tears.

Frugal scribes threaded needles, then zigzagged back and forth, bridging the gap. They redeemed a deficiency with color and texture (see image here).

Raw edges were sometimes sutured, like a heart patient after a bypass.

A gash might be darned, like a sock. Or latticed with parchment strips.

Mid-page in a gospel or treatise, repairs might resemble a doily or dreamcatcher (see image).

Rather than discard the parchment or try to disguise the flaw, patient hands beautified the damage.

Defect as Art.

No matter how riven or riddled we feel, the Living Word keeps tossing us lifelines . . . for every gap, every absence, each gaping wound.

Sturdy, vivid, resilient — grace (and gratitude) mend us.

Let’s embrace each strand, no matter how small:
when we sleep, or kneel, when we mourn with a friend,
reset the mousetraps, scour the sinks,
mask up (or not), re-brush the dog,
make lists, make love, make sincere amends,
recycle, pay bills, exercise,
tithe, take the stairs, sanitize hands,
binge, commute, argue, pray,
zoom, google, sing in the shower,
cha-cha, chop onions, shop online,
change diapers, change lanes,
send faxes, do taxes . . .

Thank God, there’s always one more holy, holistic way to practice resilience.