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.