Beautiful Creatures

When I woke this morning, I sat on the edge of the bed and watched snow falling again out the sliding glass door. It felt especially unwanted after a lovely 53 degree day yesterday. I actually waved it away as I crawled out of bed and passed the window, thinking, “April 4 Tundra Land, we’re getting jipped on Spring. Someone’s happy about this right?”

Turning on my computer, I joined the Lotuses in the Mud Recovery Family morning mindfulness group. I lined up the bells for meditation and prepared to lead as we entered into our April theme, “Humor as a Practice Partner.” The meditation was on getting in touch with a “Light Heart.” Our checkin was a smattering of ups, downs and all arounds until we got to a chat prompt—what are the characteristics of a light heart? The entries were smile provoking:

silliness, a sense of the absurd, seeing the bigger picture, urge to dance!…and sing, unafraid, confident, grounded, in the now, “Baby mind” — I think about the giggles of an infant that isn’t speaking yet, relief and ease, appreciation and beauty, freshness, alive/aware of the unexpected, riding on the back of a horse with the wind flying through your hair 

We came back to our breathing, the foundation of our practice of mindfulness and in a matter of minutes the characteristics of a light heart were materializing in our own bodies and minds. I gazed out the window above my computer and experienced the snow propelled upward in playful, circular patterns. It was beautiful. The regulation of the body through a few in breaths and out breathes had opened and clarified my mind, my perspective had entirely shifted. A lullaby with no where to go, gently tumbled out. Closing the meditation with a poem by Hafiz, I could feel the calm center we had all arrived at:

There is a beautiful creature
Living in a hole you have dug. 

So at night

I set fruit and grains

And little pots of milk

Besides your soft earthen mounds,

And I often sing.

But still, my dear,

You do not come out.

I have fallen in love with Someone

Who hides inside you.

We should talk about this problem--

Otherwise,

I will never leave you alone.” 

― Hafiz, I Heard God Laughing: Poems of Hope and Joy

Do you know how loved you are? And how absolutely expertly our living, breathing bodies can lift us up and out of the holes we manage to dig and fall into? Come join us on Thursdays at 7:45a Pacific if you need reminded: 

Zoom Meeting ID: 988 3428 9711
Passcode: LTMC

Cup the Light

Two weeks ago, I drove down into the Sacramento Valley to take a break from our March Winter Tahoe Blast. Grateful feet touched the earth rather than 4 feet of snow crust as I  jogged on a green-space trail, and then, I saw this...

So bright and open these sweet California poppies, they took my breath away, literally. I stopped like a deer in headlights and thought, "They're cupping the light!" I was enraptured! An older couple on the other side of the street, peered at me kind of curiously and smiled when I waved. Living in the tundra lands, life can be so monochrome this time of year, the bright orange hillside just about knocked me flat. 

I like this weird winter phenomenon because it keeps me from taking beauty for granted. It's a visceral experience driving a mere hour away and witnessing the land come alive with vibrancy, bird song, organic smells, bugs and crawling things in the 20 degree warmer atmosphere.  

So I rolled in the grass a bit, took pictures of the light catchers, got back up and went on my merry way. My first thought was, "Well, at least if California is supposedly going to hell in a handbasket our state flower is cool and will hopefully continue to thrive and flourish!" Then my second thought was, I know people who cup the light like that, people who are bright rays of sunshine that flood a person's monochrome day. One of them I call "Puppy," (you know who you are), and another is a 76 years old with congestive heart failure, who has no reason to cup the light, and yet she does, and in her words, "...still clicks along."  

I love this metaphor of cupping the light. Where have you seen such phenomena expressed? Do you feel light...right now, opening inside? Do you have the good fortune of knowing one or two light catchers in your life? If you do, please send them this post. Please tell them you love, appreciate and notice their beauty. We are cups of light, waving on the green rolling hillside, holding it until someone who needs it walks by. Here you go, take a sip, and then another....   

By the Way ~ It's Spring!

We Interrupt This Sorrow
©March 18, 2024, Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com

Sun rises, in an open, cloudless sky,
a day before Spring.
Earth applauds, seemingly more alive this morning.
I pause work, step onto the front deck,
while holding a handful of last year’s dried garden flowers,
an offering to the warm sun I will soon be feeling
as it moves to peek over the mountains.
I wait, somewhat impatiently, in the chilly 28 degrees,
noticing as I do, the receding edge of the snowbank,
a shoreline of bright green and furry mosses,
growing in the direction of True North.
Warmth penetrates my body….

Words bubble up, some might call them prayers, or gratitudes.
After each one, a crumbling of flowers is offered.
When I run dry, I go back inside,
and Bene the cat, jumps down from his perch by the fire,
stretches languidly, stacking every small, fine vertebra neatly into place,
and smiles as he saunters towards me.

My husband, a buddha in my life, made a simple observation yesterday
and it has stayed with me ever since,
like a sun, rising.
We were discussing the opioid crisis,
statistics very real to me in my work,
family life and service to my community.
We were discussing the devotion of someone to the cause,
that they were in the thick of it.
Buddha spoke, “and opioids have sadly claimed one more life.”

He ignited a burning question, it has not let up, even as I write this poem for reprieve—
how can I keep my heart open, receptive, moving in the direction of positivity and beauty
with so much loss: 112,000 lives in 2023, and all the loved ones in the fall out?
How can I prevent the claiming of another life, my own and people who care?

The answer? Here it comes…
just like that slow, cresting sun, 
over snow-covered mountains:
Pause, pause, pause again, and after that, keep pausing.
Poems, prayers, exercise, gardening, meditation….
Each pause holds a dedication, just like the green growing things,
the promise deep within DNA—
to express the beauty of life, the balance
and always keep moving True North.
True North?
A treasured and beautiful life
in the thick of it.   

Thank you, life-giving sun, the ebb, and flow,
Thank you branches of trees, waving a bouncy snap
as they unfurl, sun-soaked and freed from snowbanks.
New and precious life all along the edge of Winter,
remembering Spring, pushing up and out…
Thank you.

Bearing Witness

I'm sitting by the fire with Bene the Cat, soaking up the warmth of our collective, purring bodies and reading poetry (Mary Oliver). Contemplative poetry has always been a tremendous source of inspiration to me, and I made a connection as to why. 

A few hours ago, I attended a training, diving into the 3 tenets of the Zen Peacekeepers Order: 

~ Not knowing

~ Bearing Witness

~ Loving Action

Bearing Witness is being purely present to an experience without judgment, with no attempts to fix, shorten or lengthen the experience, but to fully engage, as open-hearted as possible. Bearing Witness to life as it unfolds seems exactly what a good poem/poet achieves. Mary Oliver was known to just head out into the woods each day with her journal and write about what she witnessed. Here's the poem I just finished: 

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings —
five feet apart — and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of snow —

and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,

not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow —
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

Raw, condensed, and so very watchful, a full witnessing of the owl, and then, the turning inward, the contemplation, becoming one with this expression of life (and death)--Bearing Witness. 

I can't imagine the owl was an uplifting sight, and yet, it filled her with awe-inspiring wonder, and she reported faithfully without any interference. Bless the poets in our midst--those who practice Bearing Witness: to the owl, to Israel and Gaza, to the baby taking her first steps, to the lengthening light of Springtime. May we practice allowing life to unfold freely, greeting what arises with respect, dignity, openness and wonderment.  

 

Tea with Willie Takahashi

Dear Ones, every precious once in a while, you meet a bright light that warms you with the gratitude of their life, the ups and downs, all conditions for thanksgiving. Such a friend passed with prayers of gratitude on his lips and those of his family. His lesson for me came on the second sunset, after he had passed. I share it here as a dedication to recognize the blessings of my life this week in all my writing shares, starting here….

Tea Ceremony with Willie Takahashi

©2024 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com

 

“What is the sweetness you can add to your life so it is not so bitter?”

Green Matcha tea astringency, 

Greets my tongue,

Warming the core of my body, 

As I kneel on a buckwheat cushion

In streams of late afternoon sun.

 

Touch of maple syrup, added on a whim,

Is awash,
Palatable sweetness,

A living question, 
Swallowed down the dark tunnel of my body.

I bow, 
Add to my tears: 
Warm sunshine,
Clouds, tinged gray,
Slowly moving, 
A soft and gentle Pureland
In a windless sky.

Springtime rests on mountain’s horizon, 
Cupping sun’s setting rays.

 

“What is the sweetness you can add to your life so it is not so bitter?”

Dear Friend, Willie, is the question yours?

Are you here, continuing to stir our hearts,

Boundless in shape and form?

 

Five o’clock chime of the Mahogany clock, 

sings back a familiar, melodious tune. 

The question, so tenderly rests here…

Like Green Matcha Tea, with a touch of maple syrup,

Shared ceremoniously between you and me.  

Your Other Lives

In my journey of letting go of the many things I can't control, and fully appreciating the things I can, a poem arose. I'm grateful for the people in my life who allow me to practice my North Star ~ Compassion as the #1 condition, before being right, proving something or any other reasons my ego contrives.... 

Your Other Lives
©February 3, 2024 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com

Irish Poet and philosopher, John O’Donohue,
asked a lilting question—
In the major crossroads of life,
you make pivotal decisions,
that send you in a completely different direction—
What happens to your other lives?
What happens to the ones who continue onward,
not turning at the crossroads?

My other life called last night,
I understood only about half of what he said,
compromised in a myriad of ways.
He longs to travel, but has not yet physically voyaged 
beyond where we were born and raised,
and so, because he, too, feels our connection,
he asks about my recent trip to Hawaii.
We talk of the ocean, shades of every imaginable blue,
crash of giant waves, reverberating in the gut.
His listening pause is companionable, knowing, spacious and true.
We speak of a Sea Turtle, rising above the coral floor
and staring with huge black eyes, into mine.
“Hmmm,” he says dreamily, “that’s awe-some.”

Even now, that ancient one wedges herself among the reef and rests
while liquid waves of poetry roll by....

When conversation flows to slurring mush,
I wrestle with expectation,
I want to ask about the recent battery of tests,
analyzing his beautiful brain.
I feel an almost unbearable desire to see the unseeable,
to know what is happening inside our cellular body.
I wish to penetrate beyond phone waves,
beyond instinct
to understand what is happening.
Then, Dear Second-Body,
I have a moment of lucidity:
all of this expectation,
competes with just loving you,
just loving us.
You are my life,
and, I am yours.

Riding the waves
as roads intersect:
addiction, recovery,
healthy, unhealthy,
clarity, unclarity,
I walk the only road I care to walk ~
that of love.

The Teacher’s Continuation

While visiting the land of Aloha, I wrote a poem to Dear Thich Nhat Hanh, who is one of my teacher’s, and now a spiritual ancestor. It’s been 2 years since his passing, January 21 in the USA and January 22 in Vietnam, his country of origin. 

The Teacher’s Continuation

January 21, 2024
©2024 Karla Johnston InnerConstellation.com

 

Hawaii, wake up: 
moisture-sky, rain droplets and rooster calls. 
Good morning, Dear Thay,*

Two years since your passing.
Beloved teacher, I bow to you.
Feeling the quality of my teacher’s breathing

In…and out…as driving to the temple, I park,

grateful for the auspicious timing of the visit. 

 

Kwan Yin statue ~ golden, monstrous, garish.

Bows, incense offerings, 
bows, fake money aflame for prosperity, 
bows, an old mangy Tom Cat batting around his empty dish,

not too hungry for affection, we greet, rub, bump.

I walk next door to Foster Botanical Gardens,
to a Bodhi tree, a descendant of the tree of enlightenment.

A gifted branch, planted by Mary Foster. 
Its green heart-shaped leaves quiver and shine.
I bow my head to my ancestors, to the care and tending of Mary Foster, 
to the tall, sprawling green-armed bodhisattva, entirely alive. 

Self-tour of ancient trees, numbers 1-21.
Number 18 remains allusive, 
even after persistent returning again and again to the map.
Undiscovered, Doum Palm, an early relative that produced fruit found in King Tut’s tomb, 
a prized specimen, largest in the U.S.

I sit beneath the Bodhi Tree, 
breathing-in enlightenment…
breathing-out, poetry. 

Then, I pack it up, and walk back to the temple, to a still-hungry cat,
who is now mewing his unhappiness. 
I sit beside him, offer my condolences, 
consider if he would share the banana I have in my backpack. 
A temple tender opens the door next to us
and we produce the most sorrowful expressions we can muster. 

She smiles and comes back with a bag of Meow Mix.  

All of us are entirely dependent on a multitude of kindnesses: 
a Bodhi tree, an ancient Egyptian fruit, 
the hands that feed us, our dear teachers,

If we think that’s the only magic, 

the point is missed. 

 

I offer a single stick of incense, watch the cat hum happily,
drop a donation in the jar,

walk to my friend’s borrowed car and start the engine.

Every single thing encountered, is sacred—

a vehicle, an inspiration, a holy persistence,

and we are their continuation.  
 

*Thay – Vietnamese for ‘teacher,’ in this instance Thich Nhat Hanh