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.

Taking the Plunge

In Zen Peacemakers there's a term used to express stepping into an unknown experience, perhaps of your own accord, or perhaps through happenstance. I had such a stepping-into moment two weeks ago, and I've been mining it ever since. As is my favorite way for a story to unfold—a poem...

Inside A Compass Rose
©April 24, 2024 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com

“Israel and Gaza’s war is in my spine,” a loved one says,
describing his blown out back.

Thousands of miles away,
a newborn child is presented to a father to hold.
He rips off his shirt like a stripper,
smiling wider than ever before.
The miracle of a five pound life,
six weeks premature,
moves an ocean of tears to flow
and flow…
baptizing beating hearts,
skin to skin.
Hands longer than the length of baby’s body
cup tiny, curved vertebrae.
Papa drops his head,
whispers to child,
intricately woven.

After all of this, a 90-minute open dialogue—
Jane Hirshfield reading her poetry,
“Let them not say: we did not see it.
We saw.
Let them not say: we did not hear it.
We heard….
Let them not say: they did nothing.
We did not enough.”

I go to class where I teach 19 students
a beautiful and silent language,
American Sign Language.
In the midst of our circle,
a halo of laughter and quiet intimacy,
an unknown young man walks into room’s center,
holding an open laptop computer.
Confused, agitated,
he asks what we know of Pythagorean Theorem.
Hands shocked still, eyes riveted,
the pin drops,
it happens that fast.
I walk toward him, slowly reach out my hand,
touch his open laptop screen, turn him around
and ask, “What do you need help with?”

He shows computer screen: typed profanity,
lines and lines of wing-ding font,
equations in a multitude of colors.
With the other hand on his back, I guide him to the door,
a pungent odor enveloping us.
He asks, now, quietly, “Why is no one answering me?”

I say, “Some are Deaf and don’t hear you.”
Goosebumps cover my whole body—
it’s the truest thing I’ve said all day.
Beneath my hand, tense shoulders relax,
ripple out like water.
“Don’t worry about it then,” he says docilely 
and stumbles away.

Life is lived in the body,
this concise moment is life.

Life wakes us up,
again and again.

Each of us feels the way,
magnetized needle,
pulling in cardinal directions,
inside the circle of a compass rose.

Where are we going?
When I meet you,
may we find our way.

*~^*~^~~*^ *~^*~^~~*^ *~^*~^~~*^

If someone had said I would respond to an incident in the classroom by engaging, touching and guiding the disruptive and confused person out the door, I would have replied, no way. Yet, in the moment, I knew what to do, and, mysteriously, had no fear. I engaged as if it was the most ordinary thing to do. I've taken the moments apart, really wanting to know—what allowed me to be fully present and respond with an unguarded heart?

I've recognized three components. First, I had just participated in a 90 minute offering of poetry and was truly in a place of peace, well-being and beauty. And...three days before, I had been part of a two day retreat offering that was total nourishment. I was still very much in this reality of healing and tenderness. 

Second, the responsibility to my students overrode every other response. In my head, I heard clear as a bell, "He must leave the classroom." I knew we were vulnerably exposed with him in our center and there was no other option. I was responsible, and yet, aren't we, at every moment, responsible for each other? During the disturbance, a few students began to giggle nervously and the young man became increasingly agitated. I made eye contact with them, trying to convey that laughter could escalate the situation. The students read the communication clearly and stopped. We are intricately entwined. We always belong to one another, don't we? In an instant our actions harm, our actions soothe. 

Third, I've been exposed to loved ones struggling to find balance in waves of overwhelming confusion. My heart opened to the man’s suffering, not his chaos, because I’ve been exposed to similar despair in loved ones and those in addiction and recovery. Working in the field, I recognized some signs and symptoms.

Internal well-being, responsibility to protect those in my charge, understanding based on personal experience—these three factors allowed my heart to embrace and not resist the painful situation. Over the last two weeks, I've readjusted my schedule, taken things off my plate and added things that give me nourishment. I've experience the power of responding from a restful place.

I've also added a daily practice of contemplating interconnectedness. It's impossible to be in this world alone, the sufferings and joys of the whole world find us. As mysterious and beautiful life will have it, a loved one reached out during this reflective two weeks, sharing a tremendous mental health challenge—another plunge opportunity. Connecting with my loved one honed and added to my personal experience, challenging me to turn towards whatever arises, to take the plunge and not walk away.   

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....