Gifts

I realize what it is, this gift I am given, it is enough, the wisdom of the word, when for others it is the peace of prayer; where to sit in meditation with this restless energy seems futile, not indigenous to the personality, and so I walk, cycle, move, contemplating flow;

One axis brings healing, profound from the intention up, the other holds the created universe, such as humans are capable of manifesting into being, in peaceful hands, fashioning useful things of lasting worth, and that gift is likewise enough;

One holds relationships higher than the value of self, whilst another overturns the moneylenders in the temple, and yet another holds visions far beyond what most are able to perceive;

Let it shine, let it stream through the fingers that type the words, let the roots settle and not strangle, tending always the ground of our fertile, living, dying existence, from one paradigm to the next.

Rio Grande, Taos, NM ~ bj

Under the Quiet

Golden showers stream down
in dappled luminescence,
crescent slivers of fragrant
eucalyptus leaves
and she sits, no distraction
save the gurgle of a coppery-
bottomed meandering brook,
sparkling and nosing its way
through giant boulders
rolled into place long
before flows were choked back
to mere trickles, still it exudes
contentment, beauty;

She wonders at the silence
under the silence, what is the
texture of a thing unseen?
Too fine a vision has gotten her
in trouble more than once,
overactive imagination
they called it yet it persists,
and her mind can’t stop wondering
if there is this, than there must
be that, something deeper
in the woven shadows of trees,
the hollows of husky trunks,
the shapes of billowing clouds,
themselves harbingers of light
released from cerulean skies
in the form of diamond drops,
lustrous liquid giving off
the only sound in a world
once silent as grass,
or the thoughts that plague
her now.

Mana Rd., Big Island HI ~ bj

Possibilities

On the opposite side of my heart
lies an echo chamber of silence
where tiny bats dive and swoop,
clearing invisible pathways
in the open skies for those who fly
by day; this pitch black of night
finds deep comfort within me;

As light emerges from shadows,
sweeping them away as dust
from corners of a vast room,
the heart engages, pumps greater
volumes of life force, stretches out
to encompass all the eye surveys,
holding it close in order to enfold fully
as might be, before all is compromised
by those who suffer from lack of beauty
and seek to destroy what is sacred;

And obvious to any who treasure this
earth so, is the magic beheld in the space
between spaces, the cracks in the fabric
of accepted reality, eyes that see beyond
daylight into the soul’s frontiers,
a dimensional shift where beauty is
all there is, gazing deeply into everything
where others may perceive nothing,
a deep river of potentialities and a place
where all is possible in the realm
of grace and pure love.

Huaka’i Pō

Sometimes known as death dealers, these little
people of old marched through our Moloka’i
living room one night, nearly thirty years ago;

My own father was visiting, as he rarely did,
forced into life in the moment after receiving
a prostate cancer diagnosis; hopped a flight
to the islands, Pearl Harbor reunion after the war,
had not visited since, not that one could call
wartime a vacation, but it is how so many
young men viewed Paradise, wretched paradox
that it was;

A longtime alcoholic, he thought he was having
delusional visions, waking up to footsteps,
opening groggy eyes to many small figures marching
through our tiny house; he did not cross them,
nor did he likely look any in the eye, both forbidden
or face the consequences; the gripping fear
of the unknown might have been this man’s
one dread, eschewing any type of spirituality,
having been abused by priests as a young orphan;

It is said in Hawaiian folklore that a person should
not live in a house where doors line up, and this
small house in Japanese camp from pineapple
plantation days bore out that history, evident
as we scrubbed obscenities off walls before painting,
as if somehow a surface renewal might soften
the harshness of its history;

We never saw them, Chris and I, though we might have
appreciated the vision; instead, the disbeliever
among us witnessed what many relegate to myth,
and dad went on to live many years afterward, cancer
in remission; it was a legacy of abuse he could not escape,
and died, some might say, of a broken heart.

Moloka’i footsteps

Choices, Choices

Will we be part of the madness, or will we join in a vision of a better world?

How many times has this thought occurred to you in the past few decades? Yet now more than ever, the question becomes crucial. My friend Sue Dreamwalker recommended a series of video/audiofiles a few months ago called Time of the Sixth Sun. This is a brilliant compilation of visions and voices of Indigenous peoples throughout the world. As one speaker says, we are all Indigenous to somewhere. Think about it, and you’ll realize it’s true. We may have lost our roots, but we haven’t lost the desire to belong to something larger than ourselves.

I have shared this website with many, and gifted several series memberships to loved ones, as a result. The information presented is brilliant and illuminates corners of my very being that had lights blinking on and off for a time. I am grateful to have the affirmations of many, stated in various ways that touch on each corner of what most now term Reality (which is, after all, an agreed-upon collective ‘creation’). And participants turn these corners upside-down and inside-out with their grounded earth-based wisdom. If you want to heal the earth, or more particularly our relationship to it, I know of no better compliation of work. I realize, and you might as well, that we Can be the change we want to see.

The ‘old guard’ is not going to go without a fight, the like of which is plastered across worldwide news media screens like a bloody banner these days. I always thought watching corporate news was a waste of time, but now it’s even more blatantly clear why this is so. There is So much going on, So many wondrous things happening in our world! Yet the same sources all over the world hash and re-hash the same fear-based agendas: war, conflict, politics and greedy corporate business machinations. Most of us know that political systems are breaking down left and right, making a mockery of any sort of Democracy or social justice constructs. Do we really want to play into this fantasy vision of reality? It is a choice we make with every breath we take.

~ bj photo “Kohala Windmills” 2020

 

Of Death and Magic

Cracking through his crusty skin,
the butterflies await therein;
In trembling light, antennae perched
in front, ahead, and primed to lurch;

The quavered sense that life’s amiss
somehow obscures the hours of bliss;
the chores and drudge originate,
perspective laid upon his plate;

It stretches out, then snaps again
around a fix-ed clutch of ken,
persona-non-so gratified as truth
confirmed with startled eyes;

The darkness plunges overhead,
a trembling, aching fear and dread;
As sensate options push and shove,
pure mercy fills him with its love;

The spell is cast, illusion broken,
he lives no more like pawn or token,
and from a trusting, willing mind
white magic steals in from behind.

Butterfly House, Botanical Gardens, Albuquerque, NM ~ 2019 Bela Johnson

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes!

Last Monday we closed on the lovely property pictured here. We are now in a position of having secured the ground for our future whilst awaiting the selling of the home we have lovingly restored from old Plantation times to its present incarnation. It’s been so much fun, and yes, a lot of work! We never planned on leaving it, so we made it our own, tropical gardens and all. You can view it here.

Still, we might have known better. Living wide open necessitates a willingness to shift and grow, both inwardly but also occasionally outwardly, at least for us. So back we go to where we lived many years ago. The high desert of New Mexico is singularly unique. And we look forward to the variety of topography and wildlife we remember from that time, as well as different opportunities for us both. Aloha for now!

photo credit for all images: Laurie Hilton; last image: Alexander Berlonghi

Solid

Trembling gently in twilight,
rippling like a mirage,
what seems solid during the day
becomes otherworldly by nightfall
when things left unresolved
return to haunt the living;

Important then to honor passing
dreams, full-blown stories once told
to the very young, remembering that
which they could not yet apprehend;

Take heed to flights of fancy,
diamond secrets borne upon the back,
then spilling forth and landing
like rocks from the sack.

 

Etheric

ETHERIC

Activate, move! Directions barely registered
in that middle place between worlds;
life in the ethers more familiar, more desirable
than this constant adjusting; bold when she
should choose circumspection; equally
withdrawn when action seems desirable,
imperative even, in the face of those who wait,
feigning patience as though expecting something,
anything, while she remains frozen inside,
tears rolling down pale cheeks, filling roles
chosen by others so that she might survive
the duration of some unknown tenure;

When finally it arrives, that inner direction spills
in surges, haltingly familiar as once-bluster,
then streaming forth clear as spring water,
filling chasms in the incomplete puzzle
form she inhabits, firming up pathways once
simply perceived, interstitial patterns, linked codes
scattered randomly in pitch dark possibilities;

Some say a path is chosen, while others claim
destiny guides, yet in the end (which is likewise
a beginning), one is motivated by forces
only barely understood much less named;
so a deity arises to fill that void, our human need
to attribute, a magic mirror to ask and receive,
and all is well and right; sense is restored, proper
place and timing imbued with meaning,
while mystery, in all its splendor, endures.

Unity

The sea rolls out and cannot pause long before
once again seeking the safety of the shoreline;
children leave home until they sprout sturdy wings
of their own, only to one day return older,
perhaps wiser, with appreciation of rootstock
and richness of the nurturing ground;

Fingers of the infinite, we jump ship and land
on foreign soil, forgetting, longing to return
to that One Magnificent Tree from which billions
of branches have cleaved;

Yet why do we yearn for reunion before we have
fully experienced the capacity and magnitude
of a multidimensional self which ever informs
the One, expanding it, enlarging its own ability
to conceive a more colorful body of light?