![](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5e8101e8737abc0444e1620e/1598990826664-3JQ629WW3OS2K4D9GBUV/A2A06730-47C0-4C53-8131-F2E597727D7E_1_201_a.jpeg)
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
Little Girl in Green
A bright and happy child with a tattered top of green,
Skipped back to her post from play,
Squatted by her pyramid of peppers and basket of beans,
And smiled up at me.
Black, sparkling eyes and a head of wayward curls
Open and expectant of the world
Moving from spontaneity and fun
To duty
Without a care.
Perhaps to her it is still all one.
Tonglen
It takes intense effort
to not exert effort,
But to surrender
into the sweet embrace of Love
in which we are always held
And in so doing
we can reach into the torment of another soul
and hold her in that same gentle comforting embrace,
Breathing in her agony
even as it twists and racks our own body with pain
Breathing out the known comfort that infuses our being
and so, reach into the very bowels of hell
We can only know god in this way,
in our own body and flesh,
the cells of our being,
Not through learning and books and erudite theory and knowledge,
Not by listening to the wise men, gurus, experts, and priests,
Nor by shrinking from pain,
Nor striving for joy
But sinking into the full experience of our own knowing
© Lyndall Johnson February 2016
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 .
God of Infinite Knowing and Ultimate and Absolute Truth,
Help us let go of our notions of weakness, so that we may act Powerfully,
our ideas of inadequacy, so that we may fulfill our potential,
our judgments that limit so that we can can fly free,
Make it easy for us to
reject what is ugly in our minds that we may walk in Beauty,
surrender dark unconcsious fears and needs
for the light of your all accepting and loving embrace,
question every belief to which we cling, so that we may live in Truth
give up our learned dualities, so that we may come to know union
and lean into the essence of everything around us.
Assist us in realizing that there is not
the sacred and the profane,
the earthly and the heavenly,
the sinners and the saved
but to know your Holy Intelligence and Presence,
infusing and infused into everything.
Let us come to know our bodies as our soul’s sacred vessels,
instruments through which your truth sings, laughs, labors and loves,
reconciles, bridges and heals,
Help us become the eyes through which you can see,
the mind through which you meditate,
the hands through which you touch,
and to know our bodies as the materialization of divine energy, truth and love.
In silence,
before words,
we come to you,
to know you...