The World Weaves

 The World Weaves
©1/09/2026 Karla Johnston

I drive down Tahoe mountains,
into the valley of Nevada,
fully aware that with each mile, my heart closes.
His last offense was sexual assault.
My instinct is high alert.  

Security checkpoints completed,
His mother and I walk down an outside corridor
lined with snow-capped mountains
and blue sky against rolling barbed wire.

A Deaf man is with his lawyer, waiting.
When I appear, there are no formalities,
his hands cut right to the chase,
as I voice—his desperate request—
to remain in custody.

“It’s the meth. I don’t know what happens.
When I get out I can hold it together for about a week
and then, it consumes me!”

Dark eyes fill, and he swipes away tears between sentences,
eventually placing both palms entirely over his eyes
to stop the flow.
I experience communication cut-off,
how hard it is to stay,
a yearning for freedom
beyond prison walls.

Lawyer is wide-eyed and looks at me.
My eyes are locked on his client’s hands, waiting…

 “So, I have to be here. I asked to be here.”
My voice cracks with emotion.
 
A plan is discussed: to request treatment in his native language—
American Sign Language—at a rehab in Southern Nevada.
We’re hoping the State will pay.

I’m escorted to one side of a large hall to sit with his mother,
he sits at the far side and begins signing to her.
I speak his words into the mother’s ear
while looking over at the guard,
who smiles at me,
so I continue.

The doors to my heart open, open, open.
One hour with him and his mother is all it takes.
She is the living Rock of Gibraltar,
“God as your fortress,” type pep talk.
The woman is serious, with a voice like honey.
His eyes finally stop flowing.  

Eventually, man’s name is called.
The three of us get up,
converge at the meeting room door.
We enter and sit before the Board of Parole.
They express perplexity at his request
to be placed in custody.

They ask what he wants.
Again, the desperate plea.
Perhaps it’s the mother’s wringing hands,
sniffling  sounds from the Board,
or lack of dry eye in the place—
after a recess to compose ourselves,
a detained extension is granted.
Precious time to get into the Southern Nevada facility.

When I get out to my car, I’m exhausted,
What about the victim? I think.
Did we abandon her?

Before turning the key in the engine,
I sit for a moment,
and look at the mountains,
find the half-moon, low in the sky.
I realize I ran the gamut of emotions:
guarding my heart,  
then, jumping both feet in,
before coming to stabilize.
And, over the next few days,
I ran the gamut again.

Well over half of all people in custody
meet the criteria for substance abuse.
Where has society gone wrong?  

Victims’ burdens,
States’ burdens,
families’ burdens,
prisoners’ burdens,
my burden,
now—your burden.

The world weaves these sorrows
through you and me.
If we really look, if we really see—
what do we extend?
Hardness of heart,
Over-riding fear,  
Wise compassion,
Stability?

Behold

Sometimes after meditation, especially when I sit down to prepare for offerings in incarcerated and recovery spaces, a line will come and a feeling of ancient excavating, from my past as a child and from a time way, way before. If I pick up the line, take the time, and write--out will pop a tiny poem, lickity split. Here is today's:

Behold
©2026 Karla Johnston

I make all things new.
All—every single one.

Write this down,
for these words
are trustworthy
and true.

So, too, do I say,
and you say,
each time—

Behold,
I make all things new.
All things,
All things,
New.
True
restoration.

No scourging,
No blotting out,
No elimination.

New:
care over cure,
love, open-hearted affection,
dedication and hope,
to this path.

Insertion of new into a life,
changes everything.
New action IS the path of meaning.
Behold! I make all things new.
All includes you, too.

Restore:
no denying,
no covering over,
no turning away.
Behold.

The Seed

 The Seed
©November 13, 2025 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com

Entering the labyrinth,
one prayer—her name.

Rain, sun, fierce wind, receive us.
Gentlest of steps, as we walk this stormy ground.

Leaves race across spiral path, singing high-pitched notes,
light and rustling.

Then, I see it,
almost missed,
had senses not been wide open—
Maple seed, twirling,
round and round
in chaos.
Tiny one,
hugs a crack between two paving stones:
a pause,
a rest.

Little seed on a journey
Where will she come to land?
Stony ground? Fertile soil. 

No matter from where she descended,
rain, sun, fierce wind,
will carry her,
towards her growth.

 

Moon Wisdom Evening Before Halloween

October Moon 

©October 30, 2025 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com

Evening before Halloween, 
I prepare a ½ Chai Tea ½ Cocoa brew,
reminded of my sweet mamas—
the ones who raised me the second half of my life,
and the many conversations and prayers over warm drinks. 

I dial up the FaceTime and ask, 
“Did you take a look at that moon tonight?!” 
The biggest smile I’ve seen in weeks pours across her face,
suffuses her crippled body, 
as the other mama drops head to the side,
resting on her beloved’s crown.
Mutual smiles, mutual appreciation.

I know why I almost didn’t call—
it’s hard to be separated
in this waning time. 
I want to hang up and drive the 3 hour round trip.
After all…did you see the moon tonight?

Moon gets it—the beauty of connection 
across all space, all time.
“Look up,” she coaxes. Just look up. Be present 
to the constant: waxing, waning, dark. 

Connection is everything.
Instead, I play Pickleball, on a perfect Fall day,
no wind, all sun,
disregarded by a partner 
who doesn’t tolerate
any form of loss. 

Sometimes distance is good, 
like stepping onto a different court, 
and embracing the freedom
of letting go of unfulfilled expectations. 
 
And sometimes distance is not good,
like from mamas 
who look up, 
are present and glowing: 
waxing, waning, dark. 

Life is precious—I don’t want to live a distraction.

Directly out the window, 
Moon hangs overhead, 
shining as I write.
In such an Illumined One,
there is no distance, no separation:
half-moon, 
partial light
and growing.   

 

Before I Loved People

In my mid twenties, when all my friends were having babies, I volunteered at a Wildlife Center, caring for animals on a weekly basis. During five summers, I lived on the premises in exchange for room and board. It was a time in my life when I was fulfilled beyond anything I had imagined, and the reason was— I put my love of Lake Tahoe, the land and its beautiful creatures into concrete action. I went into raptor pens to capture and hood birds for flight exercises, picked up injured beavers so large they barely fit in my trunk, cuddled with bobcat kittens, got vomited on by vultures mistaking me for prey, installed downed trees in baby bear pens while they curiously looked on, performed surgeries (who’s going to sue you?) and much more. I did all of this for love of them. It was heart pumping, all-consuming work, and I loved it.

One evening, years later, I was driving as a passenger down the main road in my mountain town. It was near nightfall as a mama duck and her goslings decided to cross the busy road, heading for Lake Tahoe. Cars in both directions, unable to see the ducks, ran them over. Ducks bounced here and there right in front of us. I remember yelling to the driver (my eventual husband), “STOP!!!!” which he promptly did. Without thinking, I got out of the car and ran into the pileup, gathering the baby ducks into my arms. I then got back in the car and yelled, “DRIVE!!!!” And drive we did, straight to the Wild Life Center. 

Afterwards, he gently prompted that I could have been hurt, maimed, or killed. It’s not wise to just jump out of a car and run into the road. It also wasn’t wise for him to come to a dead stop. Thank goodness we weren’t rear ended. We just didn’t think, rather, we felt. 

If I’m to be honest, back then the main reason I loved animals so much was because I saw them as innocents—scuffed, bruised, and injured because of human carelessness. I had a very low opinion of human beings. Over the last ten years or so, my heart has slowly but steadily softened. I still adore animals, but now—I equally love the two legged variety. 

Here is another such story. Last week my dear nephew decided to ride his bike down a busy road, without a helmet (optional in PA). A man pulled out of a busy diner and my nephew was struck, in his words, “going up over the car and directly into the lane of oncoming traffic.” After landing, he found he couldn’t get up. The man who hit him, pulled his car out to block traffic as the cars swerved around my nephew. A woman, risking her own life, ran out of the diner, into the street and sat by my nephew’s side, rubbing his back and acting as a buffer until the ambulance and police arrived. Once he was safely home, my family and I sat with him as he processed what had happened.  I marveled at this woman, and praised her high and low, my heart full of gratitude. We do not know her name or who she was. 

I thought of the ducks, I thought of my love of them, directing my actions on the busy street. I thought of my nephew, this woman’s love of his life, directing her actions as she kept him safe and calm until help arrived. 

These days I find myself in various venues, sitting with our tossed aside human beings. Last night I listened to an old man, 82 years old, who had lost his daughter at age 38. She had two kids that he helped raise. Now his grand daughter is caring for him. We shared hot soup together at a table with another man who, “lives with the bears and coyotes.” He mesmerized us with stories of goats, bears, horses and quail. The whole table came alive. For love of them, for pure love. 

What is this care, this deep care for the preciousness of life? Can it be touched, protected, held and cherished? Walking out our doors we never know if we may be called upon to help another great or small being. Or perhaps, it’s happening in our homes right now. May our hearts be open, receptive and not turn way or be turned away from. Bless those who are moved to help, may they be safe and secure, protected from all harm as they offer protection, love, and security

What Do I Do Now?

 

Recently, I sat with a young man who has been in and out of Addiction Recovery Centers for over 15 years. He recently stepped off the streets of the Tenderloin in San Francisco and is two weeks sober. 

 

In his story, I heard my own story reflected, and the story of so many impacted by the steam of losses accompanying substance abuse and mental health challenges. Rather than take a position of counselor, which I could have done, I consciously sat in the most open state I could manage and let him teach me about resilience and the continued fight to live a free life. And it is a fight! Not with right and wrong, or good or bad, but with conditions that will always tug on us to go in unwholesome directions.

 

During our time together, what guided me was a tremendous desire to acknowledge his goodness and the steps he’s taking to reclaim his life. The nearest word I can use to describe how I felt and what was present—is awe. Rather than sadness, despair, or pain, I felt a great tenderness, a pure connection, an expression of love beyond this individual, my own story and the wider world. Awe at what he carries, the loads we all carry. 

 

What can we do to lighten the load for ourselves, one another and our communities? What do we do when the ground drops out from under us? When we begin talking to those around us with sincerity, we discover, this young man is not unusual. Everyone struggles, especially in the last five years of illness, wars and economic downfall

“What Do I Do Now?” Is a question seeking to be answered because it’s entirely relevant to our personal lives, our relationships with our loved ones and the health of our communities. Won’t you join me in taking the dive this September 12-17 at Samish Retreat Center to explore our retreat theme— “What Do I Do Now?” As a community we will take a deep and contemplative dive into this question. You are invited, honored, and held as we step into 5 days of exploration. REGISTRATION INFORMATION.

Seating Arrangements

Seating Arrangements
©2025 Karla Johnston, Innerconstellation.blogspot.com

Sitting at a restaurant table, looking out at Tahoe sunset
through a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.
Colors pink, tangerine against a darkening sky.
Friends show phone pictures of a recent trip to Egypt,
sitting on camels, waving merrily,
speak of Labubu dolls,
and finding them cheap in Japan.
While outside directly behind them,
on the other side of the glass,
a man pulls up on his bicycle,
a makeshift rikshaw,
and walks to the window.
He’s disheveled, in need of a shower.
We lock eyes.
I smile a soft greeting,
he waves, then begins picking through the trash can
positioned against the restaurant wall.
There’s a cage-like contraption over the top
with a small open hole,
making it difficult to pull out the cans and other goodies he collects.
Man doesn’t stay long.
Friends are unaware, their backs turned.
My husband sees, I feel him beside me, an equal softness.

I’m pulled in the direction of True North,
in the direction of compassion for our equally empty lives,
spinning in many directions, trying to survive—not empty like meaningless,
but empty like full of everything there is to experience
in this one life.
Empty: not sad, not happy, not lucky, or down and out—simply precious.

My heart full,
I turn to my friends,
take my husband's hand,
and smile. 

Anxiety Melts

Today was a memorable day. After nearly 2 years of study, my cohort and I were officially installed into the Zen Peacemakers Order (ZPO). What does this mean? Daily dedicated actions that bring peace to ourselves and those around us. This is done in community. 

When the ceremony finished, I decided to dodge the raindrops and drive over to the Presbyterian Church where they do a weekly community feed. I was greeted with warm hugs, exclamations of love, smiles, and a steaming bowl of vegetable soup. Connection, brightness, peace. 

I saw a young woman I hadn't seen in months, and I pulled up a chair to join her. We caught up on singing, her love of music, along with her newest development--using AI to create images that catered to her off-beat, insatiable artistic bent with no judgment, fully embracing all her possibilities. We giggled and interspersed our conversation with riotous AI created pictures. Connection, brightness, peace.  

Connection ~ Brightness ~ Peace

After an hour of catching up and AI silliness, she said, "It's funny...I can be wracked by anxiety, literally unable to sit still, yet when I come here, it melts. A community of loving presence does that some how. 

May we search and find the places deemed unfindable, incurable, misunderstood, and hopeless. May all being be embraced, cherished, and feel worthy of goodness. 

 

 

The Light Inside Everything

Last night, I called my dear nephew to share something meaningful: I’ve been invited to speak in a documentary about my teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh, and how mindfulness has helped transform the suffering of addiction.

“Our story will be shared,” I told him. “And with it, the stories of so many families who’ve struggled and been helped. It’s very hopeful.”

Throughout our conversation, he kept thanking me—again and again, in different ways. He was deeply touched. But the truth is, his suffering has shaped some of my deepest realizations. It’s become the foundation of the most meaningful work I do in my community. Where does he end and I begin? 

There is no clear line. There is no beginning or end.

After our talk, I realized two things. First, despite everything he’s been through, his heart remains whole and good. Unconquerable. I see this in so many people in the recovery space—authentic, hard-won wisdom; it’s what endears me to this population.

Second, the importance of being seen. I know it sounds like a cliché, but it’s true—we need to be seen to be understood. Suffering and joy must be fully seen to be comprehended. There is light inside everyone, every situation. When we consciously see it and speak to it, the light grows inside and around us. Seeing and being fully present is when healing begins. Let’s commit to being there for those we love, speaking to the light inside everything, no matter the situation.  

I write this at 2:28 a.m., awakened by the full moon of July 10, casting a soft glow across the garden outside my window.

Love Letter to the Tenderloin

Love Letter to the Tenderloin
©2025 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com
March 15, 2025

We step onto the San Francisco streets, our bellies full from dinner at Mel’s Kitchen on Van Ness. I consciously begin walking-meditation, as if my life depends on it. We’re going to a place many have deserted. I breathe long and full, calming my heartbeat, lightly thrumming in my ears.  

 “We have just entered the Tenderloin,” says my guide, as we begin to cross the street.

“Watch out, now, watch out,”
softly speaks a man, under his breath.
He steps around us,
extending his arm across our chests,
blocking us
from entering the crosswalk.
Red sweatshirt barricade.
We now view his back,
feel the skin and bones touch,
as he physically breaks our momentum.
Startled, we stop.
Arm of the man, drops,
as his other hand
pulls out a pistol
and slides it behind his leg.
His finger extends alongside the metallic barrel
12 inches, maybe 18 away.

My companion and I barely miss a step,
turn, and walk down the side street
as yelling breaks out
between the gun wielder and a much larger man.
Realizing we are in the line of fire,
we cross over,
we cross over.

Gratitude floods over me. Thank you, thank you for stopping us, warning us, blocking us. Was it the shirts we wore, identifying us as street companions? Was it the walking, the breathing?

Dear gun-wielding man and his “enemy,”
Dear emergency operator receiving our call,
Dear dealers and users, in open-air,
Dear families holding their children’s hands,
Dear ones in a stupor, or in raging psychosis,
Dear Charlie’s Bar and the Drag Queen Show,
Dear police precinct on the edge of the abyss.
How do you get by, day by day, by day,
knowing you have been abandoned
to utter mayhem?  

Heart shocked at the sights, a growing light—left to one’s own devices is not the answer, this is not the answer.

Dear Tenderloin, violence of body, violence of mind, violence of heart. Is being present with these conditions true care? Is putting one’s own life at risk wise compassion? Is bearing witness to this unfolding crisis humane?    

Harm Reduction? Housing first? Treatment first?

Humanity first—my only answer.

Dear Tenderloin, what if your streets are home to my son, my daughter, my loved one, as it’s been, as it is? What is then your greatest need?

If I were you, Dear Tenderloin, and you were me (as we are), safety would be necessity. Safety for myself and others, safety for the land and all inhabitants. Before anything else could be done to heal, I would call out for safety.    
 
“Watch out, now, watch out.”
My body
stops your body,
keeps you from harm,
even at my own hand.

 

Four Days at Folsom Prison

Sometimes my work takes me into correctional spaces. Last week I worked at Folsom Prison. I'm still digesting the eye-opening experiences, which will inform my mindfulness offerings at my local Juvenile Treatment Center. 

Upon return, I gave myself a full day to rest, eat well, and hold it all. More than 24 hours will be needed for integration, but this is my start. I keep returning to three things. First, an alarming 35% of correctional staff at Folsom Prison self-report suffering from PTSD. The average street cop reports 10-15% so this 35% is huge. Repeated exposure to known individuals in desperate situations and the worker’s responsibility for these individuals seem to increase the likelihood of trauma. It’s not a random, once-and-done person who is suffering or being a cause of suffering, it’s a person who is seen daily, hourly, and minute by minute. Another factor is the exposure to serious events that are witnessed inside a prison: riots, suicides, attacks on inmates and officers, psychotic episodes, and tremendous levels of despair.

Secondly, California is serving as a model for prison reform, adopting prison protocols in Norway. The Norway Model seems like steps in the right direction. It encourages tight security in immediate proximity, a strong focus on building rapport and care of inmates in one’s charge, growing a community of respect, dignity, and ethical values, and self-reflection resulting in constant measurement of effective action. There are probably many more points, but these are what I gathered through my involvement with staff training. I found the transformative move towards rehabilitation and care very refreshing. There’s even a focus on allowing cats, iPads for calling friends and family, and other means of connection.

Thirdly, I remembered that recognizing our simple humanity will save us (my words). While being involved in these reform trainings, I had the unique opportunity to be a fly on the wall, literally a person at the front of the room, viewing the 40 or so participants. I saw their expressions, their eyes, and their body language mirror the tragedies analyzed in camera footage. The pain of the inmate and the subsequent pain of the correctional staff were very closely mirrored and demonstrated.

I ask myself now—What do I do with this knowledge? How do I  practice with this experience? What is mine to do? Coming out of the Folsom Prison experience I know one thing—community is vital, connection is vital. With suffering of such tremendous magnitude, it’s impossible to go it alone. Going it alone will be our demise—PTSD numbers will climb, and suicide, substance abuse, and all coping strategies that keep us in isolation, will skyrocket. Community is one response, it’s one answer, I know it with absolute certainty.  

Another practice I come back to is deep looking. On my drive home from Folsom each night, I passed Bridal Veil Falls. With recent rains, the waterfall flowed over the cliff face with enough magnitude to spray everything below. Each evening I stopped, stood in front of that powerful force of life, and soaked it into my whole being, from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. At bedtime, as I closed my eyes, I returned—not to images of the day, but to that clear, ever-flowing source. A blessing arose as I slipped off to sleep, riding my in-breath and my out-breath,

“May the refreshing and healing qualities of life
sustain all beings everywhere.”

I’m reminded of my teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh’s words of wisdom, straight from the heart of  embodied social action: 

 

Continue practicing until you see yourself in the most cruel and inhumane political leader, in the most devastatingly tortured prisoner, in the wealthiest man, and in the child starving, all skin and bones. Practice until you recognize your presence in everyone else on the bus, in the subway, in the concentration camp, working in the fields, in a leaf, in a caterpillar, in a dewdrop, in a ray of sunshine. Meditate until you see yourself in a speck of dust and in the most distant galaxy.

- Thich Nhat Hanh

May the refreshing and healing source of life that flows inside and around us nourish us, sustain us, comfort us and continually guide us in the right direction....

Finding Beauty

This week, I visited the Juvenile Treatment Center for work. As I waited for the security screening, I noticed a woman looking tense. She picked up brochures, read for a few seconds, then moved on to the next one. She eventually began to read the inmate's Bill of Rights poster hanging on the wall, her arms tightly wrapped around her body as she leaned in, anxiety etching her face, searching and searching, endlessly. She was trying to hold it together.

Finally, she walked into the bathroom. Just then, an officer brought a young girl, maybe 14 or 15 years old, into the receiving area. I smiled at them in greeting, but the girl didn't notice—her eyes downcast, her face hardened. She seemed to deflate as she looked around. 

"Where's your mom?" asked the officer, "They said she was out here."

I spoke up, "I believe her mom might be in the bathroom."

A few minutes later, the woman returned. Her face dropped to expressionless, as cold and closed as the prison door her daughter had just passed through. She was all business and asked the officer, "What about the charges?" He calmly and officially explained the next steps.

When questions were exhausted the officer turned to go. In what seemed to be a timed instant, the mother and daughter latched onto one another as everything fell away, replaced with sobs and murmurings. They stayed like that for a few seconds before breaking apart, and the stoic masks slid back on. My mind held a kind of blessing, I whispered as they left—"may this soft center lead the way from here.” Mother walked briskly and daughter followed, her head down, unaware of the sun breaking through the clouds above her, unaware of her newfound freedom.

I was struck by the moment I had just dropped in on. Not long ago, seeing such an interaction would have struck a deep place of sadness, a place of memory. Now, however, when I go through security and walk through the maze of halls and doors, hope fills me. I look forward to witnessing the masks fall away on the faces of the teens I visit. Such moments stretch out and lengthen. In those moments we practice mindfulness—consciously touching our central core, our deep roots, the inexhaustible sources of compassion, peace, and forgiveness. We practice allowing these central tenets to lead us out of hardships.

Finding beauty in difficult moments has become a practice of mine. Find beauty and stretch it out. Last night at dinner, I sat with a man who has schizophrenia. Some days, he is unapproachable, unconsolable, and combative, but other days, he is wildly engaging. When I walked into the dining room, he tapped the chair beside him, "Sit!" he commanded joyfully.

I first met this man over 20 years ago at a NAMI meeting for families with loved ones with mental illness. He was there, blue eyes sparkling, as that was a happy day. He pumped my hand and beamed a beatific smile. I still remember the moment. 

Last night, he asked me my name, even though I had told him more times than I could remember. As I opened my mouth to speak, he said, "Karla. Karla with a K, Karla." 

"You got it!" I encouraged.

His next question was like a Zen Koan, "What did you look like when you were younger?"  

"I looked like this, only younger," I answered.

He laughed freely, "I remember!" 

"What did you look like when you were younger?" I asked.

He nodded and sweetly said, "You know...you know." 

A moment of connection. I live for these; they are my heart's work. 

In uncomfortable times, connection is even more precious, it is an absolute necessity if we are to get through this precious life smiling. May we all be guided by our soft, forgiving, loving, peaceful, and compassionate centers. Thank you for the open-hearted care you give—it’s what our loved ones and our world need most.

 

End of Year Blessings

I sit at my kitchen table in the hour before sunset, watching the day’s rain-sleet mix turn to snow. Flakes fall in every direction, pushed at a slant by the wind as the evergreens sway. I’ve lit a candle in remembrance of a loved one who made their transition on Christmas evening. A candle shines beside me, as does the loved one, whom I’ve felt close since taking down the Christmas altar and dedicating space to her and the treasure of her life. Going through pictures, I’m touched by the sassiness of her nature captured in so many shots. It shines as bright as the candle, as the sliver moon, transitioning to dark. 

As I light the altar candle and do a remembrance ceremony, a chant makes its way into my heart, sung at “The Gate of Sweet Nectar” ceremony:

Calling out to hungry hearts,

Everywhere through endless time.

You who wander, you who thirst, 

I offer you this Bodhi mind.

Calling all you hungry spirits, 

Everywhere through endless time.

Calling out to hungry hearts,

All the lost and the left behind.

Gather round and share this meal.

Your joy and your sorrow,

I make it mine.*

This chant is based on an ancient practice of offering care and compassion to every imaginable being, not only in physical forms we see, but beings in every stage and plane of existence. It announces—here I am, offering my alive and quiet mind, witnessing the pain of unending and relentless hungers, even those that can never be satisfied. I am you, gather round and receive care, compassion, relief….

For many, the holidays are a time of difficulty, when the insatiable hungers of addiction, loss, and loneliness become stronger. After holiday, the hunger may recede as we look to a New Year, new possibilities offered in every moment ~ every lighting of the candle, every chant, every breath. 

There is a line in the Chanting from the Heart Ceremony for the Deceased that says, "The peace and joy of the entire world, including the worlds of the living and the dead, depend upon our own peace and joy in this moment. With all our heart and one-pointed mind, let us begin anew for the benefit of ourselves and our beloved ones." 

As I write on December 29th, two days before New Year’s Eve 2025, I dedicate my actions, my thoughts, and my quiet mind to care and compassion in the midst of hunger. I gather with my community at the table. May we reflect the great heart of compassion, always flowing to us and our loved ones in every moment. 

If you or a loved one feel the impact of the holidays and are affected by addiction and recovery and could benefit from open hearts, turned toward living a happy and peaceful life in the midst, please come to Lotuses in the Mud online recovery sangha, Thursdays at 7:45a Pacific. Zoom ID 988-3428-9711 Password: LTMC

* Calling Out To Hungry Hearts by Krishna Das, created for Zen Peacemakers

  

  

Balance Between Giving and Receiving

In this season of giving, I’m aware more strongly than ever, of giving’s counterpoint ~~ receiving. When we’re expressing love and care to another, unless it’s truly desired, our giving may not be helpful, in fact, it could be a downright source of distress. I was in the home of an elderly couple recently and asked how they were doing. One answered, “Not so good, I had a meltdown.” When I asked what happened, she reached over and placed a Starbucks bag on the table in front of us. She proceeded to pull out two ginormous coffee mugs with little knitted sweaters (koozies) on each. I couldn't contain myself and busted out laughing--they looked like two square headless people wearing knitted tube tops. 

The couple laughed along with me, saying, “These are so stinking heavy! With coffee in there, we can hardly lift them, even with two hands! By the time we put the little sweaters on—our beverage heat would go out the huge openings and be stone cold!” I added to the absurdity, "And, if you're like me and you dribble, the sweater is ruined!" Next, they told the story of receiving a coffee machine with all kinds of bells and whistles which was so confusing, they couldn’t get it to work and put it away for another day. Then, came two electric blankets, which they attempted to pass to me. “Christmas is so overwhelming!" was their conclusion. "We’re trying to downsize and in come all these gifts we just don’t need.” 

Of course, these gifts were given because the couple are dearly loved, we didn't miss that greatest gift. Who is being served when we give what is not needed, or wanted? 

After decompressing a bit, the three of us ticked down a project list: picking up deliveries from the front porch, putting the above gifts into a Goodwill pile!, breaking down cardboard boxes and taking them out to recyclables, considering a cycle for changing sheets on the bed, preparing the table for lunch, meeting the delivery driver and setting up the vittles. When I went to leave, the couple said, “This is what we needed today, you made life easier, thank you.” The smile on their faces, ease in their expressions and hugs were my greatest gifts that day. 

As I got in the car and drove home, I had received a true teaching that I continued to ponder on the drive. Reciprocity comes from genuine connection, knowing one another and not holding back, and doing our best to listen with our whole bodies and minds. What if I asked myself--what opportunity for giving is showing up right now? It may not be anything physical or monetary. Perhaps listening ears are one of the greatest gifts I can give. I had received a joy, indescribable, and returned to me.   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

 

Stepping Inside (The Circle)

This weekend, I had the good fortune of working alongside a most compassionate nurse in the ICU where I work as an American Sign Language Medical Interpreter. I’ve written about the stability and presence of this remarkable nurse in a previous blog article. When I entered ICU, we greeted each other and touched base. He looked fresh and alert, his shift having just started. 

As we turned towards the patient, my knowledge added to the mix. I had known the patient for over 30 years and knew preferences and idiosyncrasies such as: the dominant signing arm upon bending to communicate, will occlude IV fluids, memory loss impacts tolerance for uncomfortable tubes, opening the window a crack to let in “cool, refreshing Lake Tahoe air,” is a personal prescription for healing, etc. Walking into the patient’s room was like taking on my “second skin.” I voiced the distress clearly etched on the patient’s features and signs as the care team listened attentively, asked questions and administered life stabilizing care. Respiratory came in and hooked up a suction wand. She asked, “I don’t know if this is appropriate, but with patient’s cognition, the wand will be forgotten. Do you mind reminding and encouraging?” I took a moment to check in with myself—how fully do I make contact with my patient’s experience? There was no resistance to this added role outside my professional parameters, no conflict, so I answered, “Yes. I sure can.” 

Foundation One of the Eight Foundations of Caregiving by Jonathan Prescott is described as, The Balance Between Self and Other. Do we consciously touch into the experience of those receiving our care or do we remain on the outside of their experiences? Exactly when is the point of contact? Every moment of care is a decision point. If we jump in with both feet, we leave behind our resources and our wisdom. To say it as directly as possible—we abandon ourselves in the care equation. However, if we consciously make a decision to touch in, allow the experience of the other person to penetrate our understanding, then we, who have a stable mind and compassionate heart, can be a wise and skillful foundation.

Just as importantly, there are times when rooting ourselves in our own resources is beneficial. Take for instance a painful procedure done only with local anesthesia, which happened this weekend in the ICU. If I touch my patient’s experience too viscerally, jumping two feet in, I will not be an effective interpreter passed out on the floor! It’s a constant dance, an interplay of myself and others. We are one and…we are also two. 

Caregiving Contemplation: This week as you meet people experiencing suffering, can you become aware of the point of contact? When and what is being asked of you? It may not be as direct as the question asked of me, it may be in a vacant expression, a movement, or your own fatigue sapping your strength. As you meet people experiencing happiness, can you be aware of  the point of contact? What draws you in? Every moment is an opportunity to decide, to connect with the joy and pain in ourselves and in our care circles. What is the balance as we ride the scale of wise compassionate care, self and other?  

As the Leaf, So am I

I'm sitting at my writing table window, watching the wind whip clean the Pine branches. Dead, brown pine straw lets go of the trees and flutters to the ground. Everywhere, three-pronged offerings spin down and are received by the earth without any fuss. It's Autumn, after all, it's the cycle of change. I don't always feel the season sloughing off with ease. Many years I have held onto summer as long as possible, but this Autumn, I'm genuinely experiencing letting go. 

Friday, I was invited to participate in feeding our local marginalized community. I showed up at the gathering hall, hoping to sit with people, eat dinner, listen, and get to know folks. The serving team supported my goal one hundred percent, yet something inside kept me busily at a distance. I arrived early and fell into the role of dutifully helping here and helping there. I noticed when I was "serving," taking the plate to a guest, offering water, and asking what was needed, I felt comfortable, friendly, and genuinely connected. Serving was my comfort zone. 

Twice I sat down and engaged with people and was entirely rewarded, not by what I gave but by what I received. Eventually, I met two Jamaican men and asked what brought them to Tahoe. One of the men gently smiled, explaining that the Jamaican dollar had devalued over the years to the point that it was barely worth anything ($100 Jamaican dollars are worth 63 US cents). Socialist Democracy had taken over his country. I knew none of this and listened with rapt attention as he explained his plan to work in the USA and get his life back. He said in a lilting voice, "I'm a man of peace, I don't do violence. Someone told me to come to Lake Tahoe, CA, so here I am. It's beautiful and the people are so nice." He oozed warm-hearted gratitude. 

The other person I sat with was a bedraggled, wild-eyed man who I had met years ago at the Mental Health Department. He bombastically strolled in, sat down, shoveled in his food, and then dramatically pushed his finished plates across the table for the approaching server to gather. He was told to settle down. Genuinely wishing to reconnect, I sat down with this man and another older fellow who quietly sat beside him. He watched all the commotion and didn't move away as the others at his table had. Before I could wonder what to say, I was asked rocket-fire questions: Do you live in Tahoe? How long? How old are you? Do you have children? When did you graduate? Then...introductions followed. The carbonated atmosphere calmed as we told stories and shared desserts. 

At night's end, after cleaning up, the friend who invited me asked if I got what I wanted from the evening. Yes, I answered, and then shared my strong pull towards serving and productivity, not wanting to appear as being a slacker by the team and...the great joy of finally making deeper connections. My friend reiterated her support to just sit, eat, and be with the guests. The team members close by nodded in agreement, "It's what they need most." 

It's what I need most. Is service a shield I wear, or perhaps a cape I tie on before I fly in to save the day? What might happen if I simply show up and let the winds blow me here, blow me there? I know I am ultimately supported 100%, by my practice, by the ground of who I am--the ancestors, my good heart, love, compassion--those things AT MY SERVICE that are inexhaustible. 

May our letting go of the season be gentle, full, and thorough. May we not fight change but trust where it's leading us. Letting go, may we meet our neighbors with nothing to fix and everything to learn.

  

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

…find out what it means to me….

An opportunity to pilot a street chaplaincy program in my hometown has arisen. I recently visited with someone I consider an expert in the arena of street living—a loved one who struggles with homelessness and substance abuse. I asked him, “What’s your advice for me?” This is what he said:

RESPECT — no matter where someone is on their journey, they deserve respect. When I’ve been at my lowest— dirty, garbage bags full of belongings, I’m looked at differently. When I go to Franklin and Marshall College campus, carrying my backpack, in context, I’m treated like everyone else. I’m not bothered, I’m left alone. Yet, when I’m at my worst, someone who smiled at me the day before looks at me differently. When someone is at their lowest, isn’t this when they need respect the most?

BE CAREFUL – if someone doesn’t want to talk, leave them alone. People are capable of doing anything when they’re desperate. Don’t push it, give people space. You never know the full extent of what a person is going through.

It all boils down to respect.

*~*~^’^~**~*~^*~*~^~*~*~*~^
This beautiful conversation reminded me of our basic humanity and goodness—we all deeply yearn for respect, safety, and dignity. These are universal desires and when extended to another, they connect us in the hardest of circumstances. How many times do our perceptions color what is actually before us? Labels such as addict, recovery, homeless, affluent, and many others, inform our responses. In an age of recognizing and celebrating differences, is basic shared goodness forgotten? Is it possible to simply SEE? Shared humanity and longing are the root of my loved one’s advice based on his personal experience. May all beings everywhere know their worth, and see it reflected back to them. May we be clear mirrors for one another.      

* If you and your family are impacted by substance abuse, homelessness or mental health challenges, please consider reaching out for community support both face-to-face and online at InnerConstellation.com

Trump’s Assassination Attempt

I’m just going to say it plain and say it straight. The attempt on former President Trump was not such a shocker to me given the rising political discord. Without a stop-break, discord will grow. What’s the real shocker to me are the public responses I’m reading on social media. Where is the decency, where is the compassionate heart for everyone affected by last night’s events? 

I was given a very clear mirror of my own limited heart this morning when, during a call with a community of meditators, I mentioned engaging with the current news. A few people didn’t know what I was referring to, so I mentioned the injury to Trump, another person in critical condition, and the loss of one life. Another person added, like a clear mirror—“and the shooter.” I thanked him, seeing how unconsciously I had dismissed the sniper’s life. After the call, I sat with my dismissal of the one who perpetrated the violence. It was completely unconscious. Why was the sniper left out of my compassionate response? The night before, watching the unfolding events, I had felt a great sadness for the sniper, but most deeply for his family. How might it feel to have one of your own commit an act of violence, did the family feel a sense of responsibility? I can certainly relate. I’ve experienced members of my family who have actually become menacing to society and were incarcerated. I have felt great accountability. Why had I dismissed the sniper’s life? 

For me, “dismissed,” is a key action. How could I have “dismissed,” another as not worthy of my compassion?  One of my first honest questions when viewing the event was, “how many people were struck?” And then, “Who would do this?” All on stage were literally sitting ducks, how terrifying. Next, my mind went to the secret service agents, especially the young woman who continually put her full body in front of Trump’s heart, again and again, until he was in relative safety. There was a doctor on stage who immediately began tending victims. These heroes operated from a place of preserving life and negating a threat to life. 

I’ve identified three key components for myself and I’m mindfully practicing with them this week during the chaos that will certainly ensue: identify when I close down in my body, tend to myself, and open my heart.

I know what dismissal and closed off feels like in my body, I know how to breathe and recognize, breathe and open. In/out until I can engage my heart. What and who am I dismissing? Who is outside of my love and attention? Can I soften those hard lines? 

I’m committed to not having a part in promoting more discord, but in transforming the tragic events of Saturday night. May all impacted by our country’s discord be shocked awake, may we put all resistance aside and embrace the universal right for all people to be free, safe and happy. 

Fourth of July

I’m sitting in the garden on the Fourth of July, beneath an old and mighty Pine tree. Flowers have been watered, garden lettuce is wet and smiling, there’s even a little frog tucked into the crease of the patio chair cushion beside me. All is right in the Independence Day Tahoe world as I smell the grills firing up in anticipation of a community BBQ in about half an hour. I don’t anticipate finishing this vignette before the parade comes alive on my street, kiddos on tricked out bikes and dogs and people decorated in reds, whites and blues, but I wish to get a start. You see, I don’t want to be pulled away, distracted by the long weekend, disconnected from a reality that I see appearing again and again in my life—that of interdependence.

Interdependence began last week in the hospital where I work, when I happened across a precious moment in time. I had walked into the ICU to put away a piece of equipment. The ICU is in the shape  of a rectangle with nursing station in the center and sides of the rectangle, made of see-through glass walls, so each room’s occupants can be monitored at a glance. The door I  entered was directly beside a row of rooms, where within was a very frail, old man, lying supine, eyes closed. Draped over his body was an American flag, whose top corner had just left the hand of a male nurse, having finished pulling the flag across the body.

I stopped in my tracks, took in the sight as the nurse stood at bedside, head bowed and unmoving. Goosebumps covered my whole body, as I, too, dropped into the sacred moment— a gift of honor—the final act of care. No one else was in the room, no family, no other personnel just the veteran and his nurse, connected through happenstance, both living lives of service. It was deeply moving. 

As if this was not enough to demonstrate interdependence, that evening I went to a graduation where a man spoke about a veteran who had died that day. He had been the last surviving D-Day veteran in our town. I wondered—could this have been the man draped with the flag?

(I pause at this dramatic moment to stroll in the parade and eat July 4^th lunch with the neighbors!)

I’m back, once more in the writing nook, beneath the Pine, belly full, heart even fuller in celebration’s wake. I understand, honor and cherish our country’s history, the men and women who died fighting for freedom, Veterans of War covered beneath the red, white and blue and…the reality of interdependence is also alongside freedom. As if the hospital and graduation were not enough to confirm interdependence, guess who I saw at the community BBQ—the nurse who draped the flag! Yes, no lie, (my husband and the nurse are my witnesses!) Whoever is sending the messages, I get it!  

No single act, not a single one, goes without ripples. Every thought, word, action, has a reaction and the ripples go out and go out and touch lives. We are intricately connected, woven in more ways than can be imagined. Countless times throughout the day, we are given glimpses of our interdependence. Is there recognition? Is there someone with eyes to see?  I am you. You are me. My freedom is your freedom. We are profoundly connected with all things, we are interwoven. We are interdependent, a cause for celebration!
 

We Thirst, so We Dug A Well

I’m sitting on a meditation Zoom call, in the garden. A brilliant blue Steller's Jay lands in the empty granite pond and cocks it’s head like they do, looking for water. Turning off my laptop camera, I get up to fetch the hose. I’m moved to tears. A few days ago, a dear loved one slid into homelessness, and my heart is blown open. What is this human tendency to only fully enter another’s suffering when it hits home? I’m very attuned, in this moment, to all those who may struggle to find food, water, safety and shelter. As a child I remember wondering, why does my father’s suffering affect me so deeply, but the suffering of a random man at the grocery store does not? 

Immediacy opens the heart and may it not close, may it never close. The same can be said about joy, I suppose. When someone we love dearly is given a tremendous fortune, say they buy a house or have a baby—we’re overjoyed for them, when it’s a complete stranger, not so much. Our joys, our sorrows, come back to the I: preferences, desires, me and mine. What if the whole world is ours? What if? 

Because it is. This is what I’m realizing. The only way I can be so wide, spacious and free is with the support of my spiritual practice and my community. Everyone deserves such support—the Steller's Jay, my dear beloved ones, the stranger in the grocery store. We all need friends on the path of life, looking out for one another. May we remember:

The whole world is ours, from the smallest grass to the wide blue sky. If we see a joy, may we rejoice. If we see someone thirsting, may we get up and dig a well.

The practice of mindfulness is the clear lens through which I see. Only when I stop and look with eyes that are awake and undisturbed, can I see what is beyond me. Perhaps, even see that life is never just about me and mine. The whole world belongs to me. As my loved one stumbles through his pain and sorrow, he is like a domino, touching here, touching there. May Bodhisattvas near and far help stop the momentum, see him as the whole world—the smallest grass to the wide blue sky. As a community, may we feel the thirst, and help dig a well.