Malala ~ She Who Hears the Cries of the World

In the Zen tradition there's a figure called Avalokiteshvara, described as the embodiment of compassion. This being is known by other names: Kwan Yin, Mother Mary, and is said to transcend the idea of gender, race or creed. A translations of her name is, "she who hears the cries of the world." One beloved image is her sitting in water/moon pose ~  a very relaxed posture with one foot pulled up comfortably, yet ready to propel her upward for action, and the other touching the earth, grounded in solidity. The first time I heard Malala Yousafzai speak, the image on the right ~ water/moon was what I envisioned. 

Malala was 14 years old at the time of her unfortunate introduction to the world, having been shot by the Taliban in Pakistan for going to school. The world seemed to wake up overnight as we watched her struggle for life. Malala was highlighted in my Freedom Series tab in the first blog post in 2012 commending her amazing spirit: "There is this quality in me--I'm ready in all situations." 

Since then, brave and fearless Malala Yousafzai has stepped out of her relaxed childhood identity with both feet touching the earth, responding to the cries of the world, specifically to the voices of women and girls in the Middle East. 

She reported a few weeks ago, "On August 9 in Boston, I woke up at 5:00 am to go to the hospital for my latest (6th) surgery and saw the news that the Taliban had taken Kunduz, the first major city to fall in Afghanistan," she writes. "Over the next few days, with ice packs and a bandage wrapped around my head, I watched as province after province fell to men with guns, loaded with bullets like the one that shot me."

In my first blog post, Malala spoke of a quality that is ready in any circumstance. What is this quality? It is a heart of great compassion. For many years, I've studied the quality of compassion and never has it been needed like right now. All around is epic suffering: pandemic, record drug overdoses, suicides, forest fires raging 15 miles away as I type this. What is this quality that is ready? A compassionate heart turned towards suffering, meeting it head on, rather than turning away. 

A heart of great compassion resides in those who hold a posture of open-hearted awareness, refusing to be hardened--knowing that to turn towards our pain is the most direct path to freedom and liberation. It does not work, obviously, to anesthetize, isolate, and separate.

Malala's response to what she sees going on around her, grows my own capacity to respond, "Nine years later, I am still recovering from just one bullet. The people of Afghanistan have taken millions of bullets over the last four decades," Yousafzai writes. "My heart breaks for those whose names we will forget or never even know, whose cries for help will go unanswered."

Malala, you enter the stream of spiritual and blood ancestors who embrace this walk of deep listening and responding with a heart of compassion. I am renaming you, "She Who Hears The Cries Of The World." 

Will we wake up alongside you? Will we allow our hearts to soften, open, grow and be moved? 

Artist: Seol Min, Korean nun

 

When Sunflowers Refuse to Open

When Sunflowers refuse to open, you know something is askew. For those of us living in Northern California (Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Colorado...), this summer has been particularly challenging as fires erupt in the four directions. Nature has a way of speaking wisdom, and on this particularly day, it came in the form of Sunflowers. As friends text pictures of dark, foreboding skies from yet another fire 19 miles away, I decided instead, to write a poem. Please enjoy...and...as of today (four days later), skies have cleared and it was the first blue sky we had in weeks ~ the sunflowers began to open....Ahhhh, impermanence!

When Sunflowers Refuse to Open

August 15, 2021

©2021 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com

 

Dixie and Tamarack Fires, 

still burning 

and the newest, just yesterday, Caldor.

Days pass in wane-attempt of salmon sun—

unfamiliar neon ball, sometimes seen, sometimes unseen,

impossible for sunflowers to find, track and follow,

buds stay closed, in stunted, suspended states,

waiting….

 

Impossible to find, track and follow,

I, too, curl-in with barely my bright parts out,

turn from faraway sun, 

stay indoors as advised,

squint through smoke

and failing light.

 

Yet, everyday, at least once, 

I leave the closed up house,

visit the garden,

refill bird feeder,

refresh shallow pond.

 

Smokey in-breaths, smokey out-breaths, 

ash falls like snow  

as I water sunflowers, and,

insights come—

every material thing is replaceable.

But what of safety? Clean water? Fresh air? 
Healthy body and stable mind? 

We’ve got to change how we’re doing things.

Heart opens as I contemplate, how?

 

In mind’s eye, another flower appears—Fireweed— 
It pops up like a prophet: tall, slender, bright fuchsia.

It lives in colonies, is hardy and thrives in areas of burn.
“I wish it were called Fire-blossom,” says a dear friend,

“We mistakenly call the elegant weeds.”  

 

Internal Fire-blossom, show us the way.

How you have learned to survive, 

so beautifully.