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...
A Committee of Vultures
Hovering and hopping around,
Great black wings outspread
Angels of death
Competing and cowering, cowering and competing
constantly scavenging and gorging,
waiting their chance, necks outstretched,
to rip and tear into
the carrion of another’s suffering and misery,
death and decay.
“Here, let me help you….”
“Oh, your poor thing, how awful, what can I do?”
“Would you like me to…...?”
“You really should follow my good advice,”
“Can I bring food, a gift, a token of my goodness and concern for you?”
They crane their scraggly necks and tear at the flesh
until the bones are white and exposed,
A continual feeding frenzy , they squabble as they take turns
To peck for another morsel and swallow it down whole,
Filled up, till the next broken victim arrives to satiate their own
Desperate, insatiable need to be good – and useful
God save me from the “do-gooders” of this world.
© Lyndall Johnson August 2024
Acceptance
I watched myself
sink
slowly
down
into the primeval bog.
I complained to my daughter,
“I am wallowing in the “poor me’s” and the “It’s not fairs,”
mucking with old beliefs about what is good and what is bad,
squishing around in my anger and irritation
and the endless pit of shame and worthlessness,
thoroughly disgruntled and out of sorts -
I think only my nostrils and eyeballs are above the mud!
No soaring high on wing today - just kind of reptilian and toady.”
“How lovely,” she replied,
“We all need a nice warm mud pack now and then,
full of minerals - and sooo good for the skin.”
Demands and Expectations
Demands and expectations,
judgements and criticisms
attacks and observations
critical analyses
and thoughtful debate
what is the meaning of this
and what is the meaning of that
why, and when and wherefore
- all distractions
I am impatient when they bite
and demand blood
I pause to hear and see them,
And swat them away
like mosquitoes in the woods.
© Lyndall Johnson
Florida
The cultivated cancer of conspicuous consumerism
golf courses and vitamin outlets
artificial ponds, artefacts, antiques and acupuncture
hotels, resorts, spas, stores and pedicures
designer clothes, designer cars, and gourmet food
manicures and massage and martial arts
fences and barricades, walls and hedges
all to keep paradise out and prolong life in hell.
© Lyndall Johnson
Light and Shadow
Without the shadow cast be the reality of creation,
There would be no contrast for the sun’s illumination
To showcase the brilliant red and gold, green and yellow of the fall trees.
I stand in awe of the beauty
and remember to love the shadow in me that makes me too
stand out as beautiful,
A tree of life.
What a gift without any substance at all.
© Lyndall Johnson
Mandala of Death
Easter 2015
They chose a dead seagull to be the center of the mandala
Someone arranged a few desultory yellow flowers
on it’s wet bedraggled broken body,
perhaps as a token hope
that there could be new life to this collective effort
But flight requires perfect balance and harmonious cooperation of the body
and this symbol of self was a distorted attempt of a circle.
Like a cancer cell it grew prolifically and rapidly
haphazardly and chaotically
with no symmetry, rhyme or reason
out of the disorganized inner thinking of the group mind
Built with natural substances, but also debri and pollution from the beach
The process included the rearranging of the garbage, not removing it.
Silent hostility and power struggles ensued
for the positioning of the rubbish
and the decorating or camouflaging of the pollution
washed up from the sea –
Like a group of noisy squabbling seagulls
but macabre without the sound
Blessedly, the collective effort of expressing suffering
was alleviated by a child.
A small boy
silently entered the circle
took the palm leaf
washed up from distant tropical shores,
and insisted it stand upright
and that he do this without help from others
And his name was Christian.
Perhaps some life could come out of this expression of collective horror after all.
My mother likes the word “Solid”
On Sunday afternoon drives through the suburbs
she remained impassive to the glamorous homes
until she saw a four-square brick house and said,
“Now, that’s a nice solid house!”
Then there was her bull terrier named “Boy.”
It was a good solid name for a good solid dog.
He stood steadfastly, compactly, on four sturdy legs,
dependable and loyal, with a body as hard as rock.
And my mother likes steam engines
and large trucks, and the massive span of
huge bridges and people who, like her,
are not afraid of putting in a good, solid days’ work.
And she likes sturdy, solid furniture and
solid pots and gets very irritable with anything flimsy
and fragile and badly constructed.,
“Worthless piece of rubbish,” she would mutter.
And so, I looked up the word “solid,”
and it said, “entirely of one metal containing
a minimum of alloy necessary to impart hardness”
and gave the illustrative example of solid gold.
Positive Thinking
I asked my dad how he was doing with the news he got today.
“Fine,” he said,
“I turned the compost
planted bulbs,
sowed seeds,
the garden is looking lovely.
The poppy seed you sent has sprouted.”
“No,” really Dad,
“Are you afraid?”
“Nothing to worry about,” he said,
“I feel fine.
The doctor says I am in excellent health
for a man my age.
The heart is good,
appetite sound,
body fit and trim ...
Nothing wrong with my mind either
I won a hundred rands
for sending in the answer to that hard
crossword puzzle in the paper.”
“Well, Dad, I’m scared,”
“You shouldn’t be ... he said
“No point in worrying before we
know more.”
“What if they cannot treat it?”
“I never wanted to get old
and senile like my mother.
I never wanted to live out my
days in some old peoples’ home.”
“Well, I guess you’re doing just fine...?”
“Yeah....
I’m just a little afraid of being sore ....
...... but if I just jump over that phase, in my mind,
to phase seven in the process of
dying of cancer ...
I feel joyful and free.”
Shades of green bamboo
shimmering light and shadow
on Life’s path to the threshold
Lyndall Johnson
Bali 2007
The little lizard
Knows it is safe
Close to the sun warmed
Heart of the Buddha
Lyndall Johnson
Borobudur 2007
Does the butterfly
Remember when
It was a caterpillar?
Or does it sip
The sweet nectar
of celestial flowers
In the sunlight of
Now?
© Lyndall Johnson
Bali 2007
Mandala
Of
Life
And
Death
© Lyndall Johnson
Bali 2007
Buddha nature
Pure gold
Still
Silent
Eternal
Indestructible
Untouched
by the
Struggles of
Ego
The essence of your being
©Lyndall Johnson
Java 2007
The sweet perfume of
Divinity
At the center of
The lotus
Is found by walking
The stony, spiral
Path of life
The eightfold way
Of the
Buddha
© Lyndall Johnson
Bali 2007
What is Creation?
Creation is the movement and vibration of Stillness
The sound, the word, the Logos of Silence
The unceasing Energy flowing through matter
The Life Force expressing itself in you
The Light of Consciousness in the density of your unawareness
The Living Water in the desert of your life
The infinite, ever flowing finite expressions of Oneness
The clear, light, crisp sunlight air of your existence
Is polluted only
by the smoke of illusion, self-hatred,
Judgment and frustration
Remember who you are and bring the wind to the smog,
The sun to the dark fog,
The rain to the filth of your life.
© Lyndall Johnson
May you learn to see deeply into the dark night
of your soul’s longing
to be freed
from scurrying terrors,
petty hoarding of little grains of security,
restless rushing
to and fro,
up
and
down
round and round.
May fierce compassion be born
out of your own piercing in-sight
and may you
silently,
on wings of power
swiftly
swoop down,
devour and digest your fears
transforming them into
strength to soar
exultant
and
free.
© Lyndall Johnson
Bali 2007
A Whole Life
If we want to live powerfully, we must drop our notions of weakness.
If we want to live in beauty, we must let go of what is not beautiful from our minds.
If we want to live in truth, we must question every belief to which we cling and write our own creeds.
To know and experience union, we have to integrate our learned
dualities and lean into the essence of everything around us.
There is not the sacred and the profane, the earthly and the heavenly,
the sinners and the saved.
There is only God, infusing and infused into everything.
These bodies of ours, these are our souls’ sacred vessels,
the instruments through which the Great Beloved sings, laughs, labors and loves.
We are the ‘Yes’ through which God sees, the mind through which God ponders,
the hands through which God touches.
As we dwell as cells in the body of God,
God dwells in us as our vital force pushing outward,
awaiting release, prompting communion, awareness, and joy.
To love ourselves is an act of faith,
a sacrament of acknowledgment, a gesture of solidarity with the holy one within.
It is the first and most important step, for we can only love others as we love ourselves.
No matter what you were ever told about loving yourself,
remember now that your body is the materialization of divine energy.
Love it extravagantly, cherish it, adore its mystical workings and miraculous potential.
Look beyond the surface as you peer into your mirror,
and thank the one within for this chance to be alive,
to be of use, and to be a co-creator of this magnificent experience called life.”
~Lyndall Johnson