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.