Have you ever heard something fall
under water, the dull scrape
of a fishing weight onto granite rock,
the drag, fisherman on the surface,
oblivious to you hiding, suspended
alongside dull mossy green bass,
still and not struggling between
crevasses of boulders, tumbled by time
into that glacial abyss; now tugging
his thin nylon line free, only to break
calm waters to cast again, this time
perhaps successfully;

The shafts of brilliant sunlight
as they pierce the shimmering pond,
how they illuminate that same boulder,
glint of metal on stone, almost too startling
for limited vision, breath taken in order
to descend, lungs now burning,
foolish gill-less fish, unable to remain
submerged indefinitely;

And now I rest under the bluest sky,
breathing in, exhaling that thin mountain air
without effort, cracking of beaks breaking seed
or the snoring of dogs, discerning sounds
as if in command of my own destiny, which,
as we know, is as indistinct a fabrication
as those distant lakeside conjurings.

Postponing Joy

Remember Wimpy from Popeye cartoons? I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today! That guy knew what he wanted and couldn’t wait to enjoy it, although I’m not entirely sure about the indebting part, but I digress …

Some truths are hard to swallow. Yet is it possible we court death in postponing joy? When you die, says the Koran, God will call upon you to account for all the permitted pleasures you did not enjoy while on earth. From the Talmud, A person will be called upon to account, on Judgment Day, for all the permitted pleasures he might have enjoyed but did not.

I possess a wicked work ethic, and don’t consider it a bad thing. No matter the pressures of daily living, no matter what sticky situation I find myself mired in, I can always source joy through creative expression and participating in nature. If I find myself making excuses or justifications (some indeed compelling), it is important to recognize them for what they are so that I do not delay any longer. If I sense the corners of my mouth are cranked down in frustration or too much concentration, I know it’s time to get out into the garden and/or with the dogs and start smiling again.

Deepening consciousness through whatever avenues requires that I open my eyes to what is around me, to awaken further to how thoughts and desires co-create my life, moment to moment. Perhaps if one were ever mindful of temporality, one would live that much more fully. We could prioritize like never before while dismissing grievances and getting on with engaging ‘best possible self’ more than occasionally.



Of Cycles and Metaphors

The waters of birth released me, dolphin-like,
into a realm of wonder and delight, only to realize
I was swimming with sharks; they, friendly enough
when sated, aggressive and dangerous when needy
and I swam for my life, filling lungs and stomach
and for the sheer sensation of viscous water
stroking sleek skin and oh, I kept on moving,
for once out of water I would perish;

The oceans were vast and dark and deep, caverns
and voids, brilliant colors and textures and hooks;
barbs dangling through refracted rays of sunlight,
tiny concentric circlets framing slender drop lines
nearly invisible, a too-tidy meal wrapped sinuously
around each of them, appearing not quite right
this fast food, still I was hungry and sampled the fare
and the hook jerked and jabbed, piercing my flesh,
tearing off bits here and there; it was painful,
yet still I remained at liberty to continue my journey;

On an on I swam, for what else is a dolphin to do;
each day the waters remained the same, each day
they changed, some tinged with toxic debris,
at other times those brilliant hues of turquoise
and indigo were balm to a weary heart and now,
decades later, I discover tiny hooks embedded still.
As I carefully dislodge each barb, there is
searing pain mitigated by relief; I am free,
if scarred. I am free.


Is it familiar, the aching sentiment
when what seemed known becomes
assumption and once again melts
down, dilutes into watercolor illusion,
deceiving like a dramatic heist
of the pureness of Being;

All feels just until it ceases to be,
no more mistaking favor
for authentic regard
when we find ourselves ducking
into corners to avoid a situation,
as if fate could be averted this way
or that, only not today, we say,
not now, I cannot face it
in this moment;

We do not plan chance, it handles us
until we can no longer hide from who
or what we have revealed ourselves to be
aside from the ego’s estimation;
rightness or wrong of it matters not,
paste-up face turned to a world wrapped
in artifice does not sustain deep down
when we fail to confront the depth
of our own lack of congruity;

It is a gift, this, even though at the time
we feel cursed, abandoned by
the very source to whom we pray,
Please set me free from this dark wheel
of suffering, yet only we facilitate
re-cognition of our own innate liberation,
encountering what chance tosses daily
into a path provisioned by partnering
up in equal measure, shadow and light.


What if nature existed merely to be noticed;
if our job in life was simply to recognize
the fundamental glory of Creation,
discover a place, either town or in forest,
relax, enjoy, and flow with the current?

What if time, itself was only a ruse
to keep us anchored to terra firma,
our stomping grounds for a century or so,
then back into the flow of no-time;

Instead we lose the ability to view stars,
hear birdsong, recognize rustle
in a lover’s hair; are deaf to small toenails
on tree bark, misinterpret thunder for traffic
as we speed along the road to nowhere,
fretting about nots;

Not having enough minutes in a day,
enough understanding friends,
money, attention, quiet, time, time
to do, to go, to have, to be
whatever it is we keep ourselves
from actualizing;

What if this was enough?
If perfection existed, moment to moment,
in spite of aspirations and worries,
as we sit numbly before a beggar’s banquet,
nervous and dreaming, burning holes
in theories of spontaneity
and to what end in this wrinkle,
this blip on eternity’s radar?

Mahukona spring 2016 ~ bj
Mahukona spring 2016 ~ bj


Most of the things we carry did not come
through a portal straight into our hands.
Most of the things we carry
were collected then forgotten like stones
on a dusty shelf somewhere in the recesses
of our home and mind.

Still these burdens are there, churning around
inside like corpuscles winking signals
across the blank screen of a vacant movie theatre.
Maybe one day we venture in, hungry
for entertainment and we are not choosy.
Maybe we are triggered by another person.

In either case, the projector whirrs to life,
seeming at first to offer inchoate, fragmented clips
that make no sense. Then slowly images form,
both benign and shocking, as we realize the subject
of this movie is uncomfortably close to the bone.
This movie reflects those things we carry.

The great thing about previews is we can walk
away from the shock and awe
while we contemplate meaning, relevance.
The great thing about our own movie trailer
is the ability to edit, eliminating preconceptions
and memorized dialogue while updating the content
and tone of the production until, at long last, we procure
for ourselves a different conclusion.



Just because we are doesn’t mean we always
must be.

Who ever convinced me but myself,
long yardstick held over my own head,
measuring down, not measuring up,
listening out instead of listening in.

This is the time, there is no other.
I sit in mindfulness,
at long last the Observer
of my own folly and fabulousness.

When a nagging voice queries,
Who said so? Is that right?! 
quaking illusory future colliding
with enjoyment of the present,
I gently recall vermiculite beginnings
and all speak to me of purpose.

Mostly I am standing here in this moment
alongside past and future, animated ink blot
pausing time and space
to record, perchance to experience
the glory gift of this existence.

2015-07-09 22.18.15

Born Open

I think most of us come into life this way. Open, free, arms and legs flailing, lungs gulping air and expelling futility. We have no idea of the world until we do. We find it safe or frightening, depending on luck, circumstance, and perhaps fate.

I wonder about children in foreign lands – countries that seem always on the brink of civil unrest. How must it feel to fear the night, to keep one’s head down during daylight hours, to roam the streets with armed guards patrolling every block? Yet somehow growing up, I became imprisoned inside myself. I admit this because I hardly think I am alone. Half of me pulled inward while the other part learned how to play the outside game. I wonder how many never reconcile these disjointed factions, once maturity liberates us from the need to placate them.

How often have I repeated Scene I, Take II, over and over again? My story, and unknowingly I stuck by it. For years. Was I attempting to reinvent the past, to right innumerable wrongs? Did I simply forget to ad lib? How attached the guileless seem to the script we have been handed through no fault or direction of our own, as if the gods struck stage marks and we are loathe to step away.

Is free will a disease? For, although I possessed a plethora of choices all along once I attained adulthood, contagion seemingly took forever. But oh, when it caught on! It was like clamping my eyes shut and praying to grab the most fragrant, the loveliest bridal bouquet; watching in disbelief as it sailed right through the molecules of sky, straight into my eager hands.

copyright Bela Johnson

Perspectives on Truth

I used to be completely committed to telling the truth. In a way, I still am. What the requisites are, however, has changed. It seems the older I get, the more valuable incorporating other viewpoints becomes; for what, ultimately, is The Truth? Perspective must be considered when exploring this in any given situation.

I realize in the past, part of the truth telling was predicated more upon the rightness of my own thinking rather than the ultimate truth in context and content. Defending my claim to rightness was a byproduct of fear, though I wouldn’t have called it that at the time.

For all the good an early religious upbringing may have accomplished, it did no service when it locked me into a belief structure so tightly that I feared anything contradictory. God, as perceived by The Church, might be wrong, and I could not go there. Disentangling myself from a fundamentalist background took many years. I was well into my thirties before I was brave enough to crawl out from under the rock of that crumbling stanchion. The result has been a continuing unfolding of greater universal truths and a more grounded, relaxed state of being. Seeing God in everyone and in every living thing has paradoxically allowed me to actually walk the walk, rather than simply sitting at the feet wishing only to be worthy. Enough.

The longer I live, the more I am aware of what I do not and cannot know. Experience is so objective that I now take a brief mental pause before responding, if needed. There are as many ways of looking at the same issue as facets to a diamond. Pause, reflect, reset. Then write. And write some more.

2014-08-10 10.27.11




Lucid dreams and time bombs
light up folds of the mind like fireworks
stamping images that fade,
leaving only memory trails in their wake.

In bright light or deepest shadow
lies truth, pulsing quietly
and insistently amidst folly;
flickering neon placards of inquiry,
arising purely from desire
to set course aright.

Why do we struggle, perceiving bondage
when freedom ever unfolds before us
like flowers, or the endless skies?

Peace is possible when a heart yearns ardently
to be free, marking time only heaven knows,
awaiting the great unveiling.