I AM

I am the radiating sound of the music of the spheres,             

Singing  in a manifestation

of gold and indigo, green and pink,                                                  glinting and glistening                                                  light and color and sound,

All One Sacred Sound  

I am the dance 

between 

manifestation and eternity, 

twirling into visibility

and out again. 

All One Unceasing Movement

I am weary sorrow,             

present to, entering into, and being

with pain and suffering                         

– mine and yours.

One Heart Beating

And I am the joy of love holding torment and anguish

without resistance

knowing all is Good

I am the soft, still peace that rests in the infinite            

beyond time and space                        

embracing all in tenderness

And I am vibrant action             

in the temporal world of the universe                        

determined and resolute           

Biding my time and then                         

slicing away the dross and excesses

of hatred and torment

For One Purpose

I am hope and despair

Fulfillment and longing,

Whole and in parts

Patient and demanding,

Kind and resolute,

Grounded and flowing fast,                        

Here and not, 

All One Taste of the Infinite  

© Lyndall Johnson 2016

"We will all be Christed when we hear ourselves say, we are THAT to which we pray and the prayer that we are praying.” ~Lyndall Johnson

Transformation

What alchemy of elements is this?

A dragonish nymph

Creeping round and round

In the cool, dark of her watery domain.

Stalking and rapaciously devouring 

Smaller helpless water sprites

With her serrated, ripping jaws….

All the time feeding a hidden, inner secret,…

‘Til the day she feels the upward urge 

To climb towards the light

Birth herself through the crescent meniscus 

Discard her disguise to

Reveal a shimmering comet of 

Ruby iridescence in flight

Reflecting the fire of the sun.

© Lyndall Johnson 

Bali - January 2007

The Cardinal

I gaze upwards searching

for the sweet sound filling the silence

of a crisp spring morning

And find him

High above in a bare budding tree

Crimson red

Against the deep blue of heaven

His head thrown back trilling

Whistling, warbling and calling

For connection in his song

Of sweet, innocence

Ignorant of its meaning.

Devoid of thought or motive

To seduce and lure 

An unknown mate 

A song unsullied

Clear and pure

Bringing me love

Uncluttered

True

Tea

As I sit and laboriously write a chapter that does not want to be born,

 A voice in my head says, “It’s time for a nice cup of tea.”

 I hear it with relief.

 Time for a break, time to pause, time to recalibrate, relax

 and escape the intensity of focus and concentration.

 As I sit holding the warm mug in my hands

 my mind slips backwards into memories of mother.

 The time I arrived on her doorstep broken and confused, my marriage in tatters

 She, uncomfortable with emotion and physical touch, but caring and concerned.

 “Let’s put on the kettle,” she says, “It’s time for a nice cup of tea.”

 Or coming home from the hairdresser, frustrated, angrily tearful at how awful I looked,

 My 17-year-old self quite sure that I would be the laughingstock of the class.

 Mother looked at me and said, “Hmmm, time for a nice cup of tea,”

 Then, she put me in front of the mirror, assessed the damage

 and started redoing the mess

 The warm tea soothing me as I watched.

 Or younger still after a visit to the emergency room,

 frightened and in pain,

 shamed by a male doctor who said there was nothing wrong,

 That I was being a sissy,

 Having mother, tight lipped and angry in my defense,

 put on the water for tea, telling me I was a brave child,

 and sitting with me as the sugary, milky sweetness

 soothed the shock and pain.

 The comfort of that same hot, sweet tea

 with dry crackers, butter and marmite

 the morning after a long night of retching, vomiting and exhaustion.

 And then the tables turned as she sits still and silent,

 tears coursing down her face,

 unable to talk

 about the news that she dying of cancer and I say,

 “Time for a nice cup of tea - I will put on the kettle.”

 I join her now in silent communion

 the white porcelain, smooth in my own old, wrinkled hands,

 the hot steam rising to meet my own tears

 as I remember her

 devoted presence to all the big and little struggles of life

 giving me the respite to resume the tasks of living,

 and knowing the next chapter will be written.

Atonement

I rip open the brown, crackling, packaging paper 

with the numerous postage stamps of birds and flowers, 

that she knows 

I love.

Brittle bits of red sealing wax scatter from the knotted string

(who still uses sealing wax, for god’s sake)

Underneath is the butterfly birthday paper -

It’s been used before and frugally saved,

I can tell.

Crinkly white tissue paper next

and then -

a bright yellow sweater

as soft and warm as melted butter -

I am silent.

I hear 

the quiet, muted, rythmic, clicking of the knitting needles.

My mother’s rough, work worn, arthritic fingers 

catch gently on the wool as they automatically loop 

around and through, around and through, around and through.

Straw into gold, straw into gold, straw into gold.

I see

her bent silver head

as she sits in the shade

on the sunny patio,

the still African afternoon thick with

the scent of roses.

“Every stitch knitted with love - Mom”

The World Wildlife birthday card says.

I remember

a child 

wanting a yellow robe

and being told,

“No, it is a terrible color on you

You look as if you have jaundice

Your skin is too sallow.”

I taste

again 

the dark, slimy green 

of shame

and let it go 

as I feel the soft sunshine

in my hand.

© Lyndall Johnson

Vipers

Like the High Priestesses of Delphi
I have a high tolerance for viper venom; But unlike the ancient oracles
that used the asp poison for it’s hallucinogenic properties
to prophesy the words of the Goddess, I have been taught to stay and listen to the slithering ones of the world
and been held captive by their mesmerizing swaying,
and the unblinking stare
of their frightened eyes
knowing
that a move could mean an overdose that would prove fatal.

Not a soothsayer,
submitting to her own inner Goddess but a hostage, keeping still and quiet by rationalizing,

“Oh, that’s just the way he is,” - and not getting out of the way
or
“She didn’t mean it to come out that way,” - when she saccharines spite and sarcasm or
“I understand how hard her childhood was,” - like that is an excuse,
or
“Perhaps he didn’t mean it that way...” - while hearing the underbelly of hostility or
“He was just joking,” - even though it sounded like a put down,
or
“just be tolerant and patient, she’ll get aware,’ - when no, she has never owned one thing about her own poisonous treachery and betrayal,
but rears up, holding the pose of a flared hood
of superiority and self righteousness
or

“be direct and talk to him,” - when every attempt has been met with a hiss, a twist and fangs in my flesh infecting me with shame and self doubt.

Oh yes,
a viper,
I understand, O Lord, and heed your words ....

a white washed gravestone -
so prettily decorated on the outside, so dead on the inside...

Beware!
A viper does not get aware
and it’s hidden deadly intent numbs the mind into attempts to be kind, understanding and empathic of it’s primitive fear.

If you move out of the paralysis
it’s evil eye induces,
it will strike - again, and again and again, without regard or care -
that is the nature of its frightened, reptilian brain … deadly attack.

The viper does not know that it’s venom can kill -  or even that it has venom that can
erode away the inner structure of a life.
In its destroying - it is innocent and beautiful - in a terrible kind of way.

And I see too that same serpent within my own being - Sometimes a nasty little fault-finding garter snake
and other times a raging, fire-breathing dragon that
I will no longer allow to be unleashed but keep by my side so that I will know when to guard my honor and the hearth of my inner home.

Eventually,

bitten enough times,
you learn at last
to recognize vipers;
keep them in their place
or stay out of their way... and yet,

grateful...
knowing that it is the sting of death that awakens you to the voice of the Great Mother of Truth and Love and a Life so large that
a little venom does nothing but offer the opportunity for prophecy.

Rape

A five year old little girl

Gasping ... 

Choking...

Retching... 

Gagging ...

on semen stuck 

in her lungs

It sounds like a death rattle going on too long,

too weak even to cough

too tired from the struggle to move

Now, grown to womanhood, she says to me

Her dreams are filled with

Dark and terrifying images of blackened dead trees

dripping with sticky stuff

©  Lyndall Johnson 

March 5th 2003

Black crows on white snow,

absorbing

reflecting

accepting

gifting

Breathing …

in …

out …

Life

  Black and White

Countertransference

Weariness 

Washes over me

When you speak.

Warm waves of inertia

engulf me and lull me to sleep.

I struggle to stay awake.

Fatigue 

seeps into the cells of my being 

as you explain 

the endless cycle of abuse 

you heap upon yourself.

“I worked five hours today,”

         you say,

“Cleaning and tidying -

When I was done 

I said to myself

Now why didn’t you 

Do this sooner ....

I know ... I know ...

I am judging myself now,

God I hate it when I do

That... 

What is wrong with me? 

That I can’t stop it ...

I have to stop judging

myself ...

I did do something good tho’,

I broke up with my girlfriend ...

I should have done it before ...

I always procrastinate 

What is wrong with me?

There I go again, judging myself

I need to stop doing that...”

I try to stay present 

Bear witness 

To the closed loop of

Cause and effect -

The karmic wheel of fate  

To which you have strapped yourself 

Turning relentlessly

bruising and breaking you.

I want to say, “STOP!”

But 

you will say as 

you have said before

“I know, I hate myself for doing it.” 

I will continue to try to stay awake

as you squirm,

Skewered on the sharp 

Shaft of your own judgments.

Who can blame God for forsaking Jesus.

I bet He fell asleep 

Watching him suffering on the cross of life -

Wanting a savior -

Instead of just dying 

To the endless

judgments, recriminations, damnations ...

And getting on 

With the business of 

Being born anew.

April 2003

Embrace Shame

Don’t hate your shame. 

It is the alchemy of the sun 

And the dung

- And the toil

Rolled altogether

That creates the

Shiny blue-green

Sacred scarab

The Pharisees

I stand before the pharisees.

My restless, thoughts 

search for an escape

from the pounding of my heart

the agitation of fear

the agony of shame

instinctual, unwarranted.

How do I stay in a place of compassion  - but not weakness ...

                                                 outrage  -  not anger ...

                                                            clarity - not confusion...

                                                                        determination without defensiveness...

                                                                                    peace not lacking power...

                                                                                                Stillness and well considered action...

                                                                                                            Awake without anxiety...

Nothing helps. 

Until, 

I remember 

that deep within 

the recesses of my own heart

is a holy, sacred place of peace.

I am standing on high ground.

The Great Letaba River winds lazily

through the juncture of three countries.

The hot African sun

filters through the leaves of the mighty fever trees

Their smooth, lime green trunks reaching high above me

Providing refuge for a flock of turquiose and yellow bee eaters.

I feel the soft, warm silky sand of the earth beneath my feet.

As I watch the ancient waiting crocodiles basking on the banks

Nervous, delicate impalas approach the waters edge

Alert to the slightest alarm 

Ready to bolt back to the underbrush of lala palms.

And then

I hear the wild, wild haunting call of the African fish eagle

as she majestically glides through the river valley

and my heart soars free with joy 

and I am home.

        I am 

            Home free of the last judgments

                   Facing the pharisees before me and in me

                                                with compassion and outrage,

                                                            clarity and power,

                                                                        determined and at peace

                                                                                                still and strong and awake.

Reverence

Lying on my bed, I peruse my room 

made pretty by the corpses of dead trees…

            The rich orange red, pine headboard, dresser and console,

                        the golden oak trim around the windows and doors,

                                    the deep, ripe, red brown cherry bookcase and 

                                                dark raisin brown mahogany desk

Mismatched to be sure

but each a work of art and functionality

            murdered, measured, 

                        sawn and planed

                                    shaved and carved, 

                                                resurrected from once iving trees 

to make my life luxurious

 ….. and I wonder,

If we made cement of the crushed bones of dead men

And used them to build something ornate and useful for the living,

                        Would we value trees more?

                                                                                    Or men less?

2022

It is Hard to Breathe, sometimes, in Africa

It is hard to breathe, sometimes, in Africa,

when the stench of milky sewage seeps in rivulets down the eroded dirt of the hillside

from the lean-to tin and wooden-slatted shanty shack

clinging precariously to the side of the mountain.

Or when the mangy, tick born, gaunt and starving puppy approaches warily

In the hopes of being thrown a life sustaining scrap.

Or the snotty nosed, dirty little orphans 

with flies buzzing around their eyes 

and their round bellies drum-taught with infestations of worms, 

            and hunger

                        put their arms up for hugs.

I find I sigh a lot in Africa.

Sighs to keep living 

when my soul and breath freezes with sorrow

for young men idling away their lives at the side of the road 

whoring away the strength of their youth to do the bidding of the wealthy 

digging and hauling and carrying –

for a pittance of pennies - enough to feed the starving children on the hill tonight, 

or perhaps to buy oblivion in a bottle 

till the next morning of repetitious waiting

I stop breathing when I receive a little note on my pillow from the domestic worker,

written carefully in 4th grade hand-writing,

“Please can you help me to get my driving license?”

She walks 10 miles a day to and from her work on the opposite hill 

to wash and iron the white peoples’ dirty laundry, 

clean their shitty toilets,

wipe out the toothpaste and phlegm in their sinks 

and pack up the left-over table scraps 

to take home to the hungry children on the other side of town.

I hold my breath listening to the mad intensity of the young man 

who lives in a cave by the sea in the small town of Wilderness 

He explains that “the Father” tells him how to live his life.

He takes in the homeless and bereft – they can sleep in his cave.

I sigh a lot in Africa 

I sigh the sadness into my being.

And sometimes as I open my arms wide to embrace the snotty-nosed dirty orphans and feel their soft little bodies snuggle up close with need,

My heart expands and my breathe becomes vast and fills my being with life and love

Or the beauty of  the shimmering, sun-bejewelled sea, 

untouched by the dramas on her hilly shores, 

is so beautiful that I  breathe in deeply, to take in the fresh clean salty breeze, 

the light and luminosity

and call of the seagulls,

the flashing colors of the sunbirds  and the

noisy community calls of the seals far beneath the rocky cliffs

I cannot breath in enough of the cool pre dawn African air 

filled with the primeval sounds of the lions hunting and calling one another,

the sky and clouds lighting up blue and gold and pink as the earth moves in her orbit,

drawn inexorably back to the light of the sun,

in a regular rotation of necessity.

I want to keep these sounds and sensations, smells and sights

and hungrily breathe them in as if they will then stay with me forever,

Knowing that I must leave soon, this beloved land.

Sometimes my soul relaxes. 

Air rushes in with the smiles of generosity and giving,

the easy laughter of the saints on both hills. 

On one side of town

those that are awake 

give rides to the weary women walking down the hill home, 

to other side, the poor part of town in the evenings. 

On the other side of town, 

the face of smile wrinkles and sparkling eyes of Margaret, 

her head thrown back with a toothless smile as wide as the ocean

As she opens her arms to the lost waifs 

as well as the wealthy benefactors

Everyone is welcome in this house of love.

It is hard to breathe in Africa.

I sigh a lot in Africa.

It is enough to practice the breath in Africa

So that it can become like the regular beating pulse of the land 

And the steady rhythmic natural movement of the ocean

The slow and inevitable rotation of the earth,

No matter what is happening on her surface.

To remain calm and unchanging 

Accepting and present.

To breathe it all in 

And out .