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.