Photo by Kim Stafford

 

 

 

Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

 

June 15, 2022

 

For long years a bird in a cage;

Now, flying along with the clouds of heaven.

 

(quoted by R. H. Blyth, in Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics, p. 37)

*

 

Buddha nature

not

a gift

from

Buddha

but

from

nature.

 

—Alice Walker, from A Poem Traveled Down My Arm

*

 

Joseph Campbell quotes from Ulysses and then provides a brief commentary:

 

“Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.”

 

I mentioned this basic theme before with respect to the esthetic experience. Any object can open back to the mystery of the universe. You can take any object whatsoever—a stick or stone, a dog or a child—draw a ring around it so that it is seen as separate from everything else, and thus contemplate it in its mystery aspect—the aspect of the mystery of its being, which is the mystery of all being—and it will have there and then become a proper object of worshipful regard. So, any object can become an adequate base for meditation, since the whole mystery of man and of nature and of everything else is in any object that you want to regard. This idea, the anagogical inspiration of Joyce’s art, is what we are getting in this little moment.

 

—Joseph Campbell, from Mythic Worlds, Modern Words: On the Art of James Joyce, p. 130.

*

 

Katie sent this:

 

”Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.”

 

—Max Ehrmann, 1872 – 1945

*

 

Well, it’s a beautiful morning here. The sky is full of massive cumulonimbus. The wind pushes them at an amazing speed. On the big grass-covered hill the wind blows the tall grass in waves and swirls, which makes it possible to truly see the shape and living being of the wind & how it kisses the Earth. To be allowed to partake in the beauty of life, in the simple rite of nature & to view “life” is a gift. I know that it’s not always an easy place, this world we live in. All we can do, any of us, is to live as best we as we can & don’t pass up the small moments of peace, or the deep breaths of life’s beauty that is alive all around us. How we view life in our mind reflects in the actions of our hearts, which are the paint brushes we use to allow others to truly see who we are. It’s the actions in deeds & words & the intent in our beings that either bind us to others or pull us apart.

 

The rays of the sun are exploding through one of the massive clouds…such beauty…it can never belong to just one being, it belongs to us all.

 

—Rocky Hutchinson (5/23/22)

*

 

This is from Nicole Rush:

 

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters, by Portia Nelson

 

Chapter 1

 

I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in.
I am lost.
I am hopeless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

 

Chapter 2

 

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place. But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

 

Chapter 3

 

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there.
I still fall in.
It’s a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

 

Chapter 4

 

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.

 

Chapter 5

 

I walk down another street.

 

I have spent a lot of my life stuck somewhere in Chapters 1 – 4. Sometimes I really just didn’t see the hole. Perhaps I was distracted. Maybe I’m just clumsy, tripped and fell in. Or maybe it felt exciting to always be falling in and figuring a way out. Maybe it kept me from walking where I knew I should but was afraid to go. 

 

I was in an intensely emotional and complex relationship with my ex-husband for 21 years. There were moments I saw him in the hole and willingly climbed in just so I could be with him. Other times I saw him in there and felt thankful to be on the other side, standing alone. And I left him there. And other times we fell in the hole together. Sometimes I was stuck down there hoping he’d hear me calling out, wanting to be rescued, but he couldn’t save me because I had pushed him in a different hole. He was stuck, too, calling out for me. And I pretended not to hear him. Then we both climbed out but we were on different sides of the street, walking in different directions. 

 

The choice was always there. I suppose sometimes I close my eyes because walking inside of the dream feels easier than being present. But when my eyes are open I see that I have a choice. I see the path I am meant to walk down, even if it isn’t the one I am used to. 

 

Today I am walking down a new street. I have a vague idea where I’m going but if I don’t make it there, I know it’ll be okay. I’m paying attention to each step I take. I’m looking out for the holes. When I see one, I know I can leap over or turn onto a new street. 

 

Mindfulness is like spectacles for our consciousness. Sitting in stillness, welcoming where we are, wherever we are, allows us to access the clarity to witness ourselves. There’s no use in judging ourselves for being in a hole – what good does that do? It certainly doesn’t make the hole go away or help us climb out. When we see ourselves from a place of compassion we can then reach inside and touch the wisdom that is always resting there. That wisdom and awareness is what shows us when it’s time to turn the corner.

 

In gratitude

 

—Nicole Rush

*

 

(This is from Alice Walker’s book The Cushion in the Road) (JS):

 

Life Lessons: Gratitude Is My Only Prayer

 

July 27, 2011

 

Many years ago I was drubbed by a mysterious illness (later self-diagnosed as Lyme disease) that brought me to my knees. At the same time critics pilloried me: my work, it appeared, severely offended them. Moreover, my love life crashed around my feet. Still, one day, after years of being under a cloud of sickness and censor, I realized I was not only rising from my ashes, but shining. From that time to this I’ve lost the need for lengthy prayers. I have only one, but it is constant. Thank you, I say, before eating, working, moving. Loving. Thank you. It is enough.

 

These are other “life lessons” that have helped clear my path.

 

   If you love doing it, it isn’t “work.”

 

I have written over thirty books, yet looking back I hardly remember the work it took to create them because I enjoyed writing them so much. It’s the same with everything: I can spend two hours grubbing about in my garden, dazed with pleasure and intent, and it feels like five minutes. Therefore, before I embark on any new venture, I ask myself: will the joy of doing this make me lose track of any concern for time? If the answer is yes, I proceed!

 

   A bad mood is temporary. So is depression.

 

I learned this when I was much younger. I used to be depressed quite often, a chemical imbalance made intolerable by my monthly cycle. I used to want to do away with myself. Somehow I managed to keep a journal during these periods, tracking every weird turn in my emotional life. Over months—possibly years—I discerned something quite interesting: my moods and depressions had a beginning, middle and end. Aha, I thought, I need only learn to witness them and wait them out. This I began to do until, by my thirties, they were mostly gone.

 

   To have peace of mind is to be wealthy.

   (Also to know when you have enough!)

 

When I was much younger I thought people were made happy by the things they possessed. I also wanted things. I now have lots of things, and I enjoy them. But if they were taken away I could still be quite happy, though I might miss them. I’ve learned that things are not what make happiness, but rather a calm stability of Being and serenity of spirit. The peace I experience in my own mind is my most prized possession.

 

   Love everyone and everything you can!

   (They don’t even have to know about it.)

 

I used to think the most important thing about love was to receive it. Now I understand it is more important to feel it and to give it. That the good feeling we associate with love is generated by us, not by a lover of us. Their love is very nice, and I welcome it, but the feeling of actually generating love within one’s self is so exquisite it almost leaves being loved by another in the dust! My greatest joy comes from loving everything and everyone I can. And it is amazing how big this can get! Daffodils, coconuts, frogs, catamarans, indie movies, dogs, bougainvillea, tribal art, snowstorms, old people, the Alps, chickens, my various “children,” regardless of what they think of me, and so on.

 

   When in doubt, find a nice hammock.

 

People who work hard often work too hard. I’ve learned to take time out and swing in one of the many hammocks I have wherever I live. From a hammock the world seems quite doable, especially if one is listening to a good audiobook and having lemonade. From my hammock I send out good wishes to all of human- and animal- and plant-kind. May we learn to honor the hammock, the siesta, the nap and the pause in all its forms. May peace prevail.

 

(This piece was written for a magazine in the Middle East.)

 

—Alice Walker

*

 

(My old friend Marc Frank sent me this poem; ruhi ruki rumi is his pen name.) (JS)

 

ah these words that 

want to come out

 

who’s voice speaks

to utter out things

 

i hear the inner voice

write what i tell you ‘write’

 

i listen to the voice within

out of silence it comes in

 

i feel the feeling inside

sounds in the head reside

 

words come one after another like drops appear

 

take heed take warning

times are more than changing

 

time to hold onto God

no matter your thought 

 

if Einstein spent the last weeks of his life mathematically wanting 

to know God’s mind

 

why wouldn’t you 

who comes & goes

 

ah the intrigue of your game my eye begin to see the joke of all things

 

—ruhi ruki rumi

*

 

#358- So Many Reasons to be Happy

 

“We have so many reasons to be happy. The earth is filled with love for us, and patience. Whenever she sees us suffering, she will protect us. With the earth as a refuge, we need not be afraid of anything, even dying. Walking mindfully on the earth, we are nourished by the trees, the bushes , the flowers, and the sunshine. Touching the earth is a very deep practice that can restore our peace and our joy.” 

 

(from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh)

 

…and nourished by the creatures therein, as well. In prison, men have infrequent opportunities to experience or interact with nature. I, on the other hand, am constantly living in and relating to nature. Because it is such an integral part of me, I find that I always want to bring some experience into our discussion in the dialogue group; I am hesitant, however, because of the enforced paucity of nature in their daily lives of incarceration. 

 

But they find a way. Five years or so ago, an inmate described an experience that got him out of a cycle of anger, depression, and repeated solitary confinement in ‘the hole.’ He was in for murder and life without parole. One day while in ‘the hole,’ he discovered a praying mantis on the floor in a corner. He was going to step on it, crush it with his shoe, but stopped when he noticed the mantis’ legs sawing away. He sat down and watched the mantis’ movements with fascination. When his lunch came, he tore off a piece of lettuce and placed it in front of the creature. The mantis devoured it. The inmate continued to feed and observe the activity of the insect—water from a plastic spoon, other bits of vegetation, bread crumbs, dead flies, etc. 

 

Weeks passed, and months. The mantis stayed alive because of the inmate’s care. They were in ‘the hole’ together for eight months. Over those months, the inmate’s behavior changed, softened, and he realized that he wanted his life to be one of caring and not one of anger and destruction. He was released from segregation and put back into the general prison population, and eventually was approved to join our group. 

 

He never saw the praying mantis again. His story told us that even a minute connection to nature can change a life, save a life—of an insect and of a man. 

 

—Jude Russell

*

 

This is one excerpt from the many entries in Michel Deforge’s May meditation journal—inspired by a meditation in Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh:

 

May 8, 2022;  Mother’s Day!;  #281  Loving Words

 

This is so fitting for today. So often it is the mother (or gentle nurturer) who speaks the loving words into our lives as children. For some this didn’t, or couldn’t, happen. For others the ideals got warped somehow. BUT, we are not our past traumas! We can speak these words of love and encouragement into our own lives and the lives of others. When we catch someone doing a kind, loving, compassionate deed for any other being we can praise them privately….

 

Do you speak loving words into your life? Does it sound too “weird,” too touchy-feely (for a men’s prison—or other environ)? I get it. I’m not experienced at this either. Ponder the words you long to hear from your own mother (or surrogate), or father—the words rarely, if ever, spoken to/about you. Let go of feelings and recriminations, guessing why these words went unsaid, and focus on what you want to hear. Now speak those words to yourself—words of love, compassion, approval, admiration, support, encouragement, recognition of success, pick-me-ups for sadness or “failure.”

 

We all know the words we want and need to hear. We might even speak some to our friends, family and loved ones; they likely need this as much as any of us. Mother’s Day doesn’t have to be the only day to celebrate our own mothers—as Carl is fond of observing—we just need to celebrate the people in our lives whom we love when it occurs to us. (This may take some effort to occur more than rarely, but it can be done.)

 

I don’t know why I’ve delayed telling my friends that “I like you,” and give a reason why, so it’s not just patronizingly said for the sake of saying it. Yet, I do put it off. Could it be the rare chance encounters with not enough time for meaningful speech? Probably. Must we wave and scurry on our way? Always?! What happens to my life if I write a letter, or slow down and really greet a friend—looking him in the eyes and saying some loving words I genuinely mean?

 

I may be delayed a few seconds from an appointment I’m already tardy to attend. What if I never express my joy at seeing someone, and a tragic event occurs and the opportunity is lost? While in college Psych class, an exercise demonstrated that regrets are often easily avoided if we can overcome social fears. (We have these barriers among friends? Still?!) Will he reject, rebuff, stop liking me, get weirded out by my affection or kind words…? The internal dialogue of our old neuroses and no-longer-helpful or necessary post-trauma coping skills does not serve our better selves. I don’t know how to surpass these barriers of fear—except through love. The challenge becomes being courageous enough to be first to say, “I love you,” “I like you because…,” “You’re special to me…,” “You matter in my life…” I think the picture is clear. So…why do I still stand here wanting to speak, yet stay silent? I’m not alone in this…

 

—Michel Deforge

*

 

Dear friends,     

 

This past week, I drove along the Columbia River all the way to Walla Walla and noticed how the rolling hills of the Gorge are green. I don’t ever remember on our way to Umatilla, these velvety brown hills ever being tinged with green. But this Spring, well almost summer, they are asparagus and sage green, and they are full of yellow and purple wild flowers.  

 

It was so uplifting and I felt deep gratitude for the long spring rains.  

 

We were not even gone a week, but on our return our yard looked like a tropical jungle, the paths barely passable for the giant ferns and drooping maple branches. And the rhododendrons have the biggest red flowers we have ever had in our yard.   

 

I paused to think how important it is to have beauty, abundant nature to quiet our minds to wonder and open our hearts to fearlessness and to soften.   

 

In the mornings since Russia invaded Ukraine, I join a Shambhala group in Ukraine for morning meditation. The sangha members in Ukraine feel supported by our ongoing presence and help; we foreign participants feel equal support in facing from afar the destruction and fear of the war. So familiar, this feeling like being together in dialogue or at a play in prison.  

 

Yesterday, Slava, one of the hosts in Ukraine gave his daily check in on how he and his family and town are doing. His bookshelves and Buddhist altar and photos are usually in the background. Like most zoom get togethers look. But yesterday he was outside on his bicycle in the mountains. He had taken a retreat weekend away from the war, and he said summer had come at last after a cold spring! Just like Portland. He posted a photo that helps him remember his true nature, calling it our basic goodness. He wanted us to be able to meditate with a picture of Ukraine that is beautiful. From a vast hill full of yellow and pink and white wildflowers the scene swept down to a river valley and mountains jutted up on the other side. It could have been the Columbia gorge.   

 

What ensued after meditation was a joyous discussion about how regeneration in Spring, especially the beauty of blossoms,  is this instant reminder that can help us stay centered and true to ourselves and our Humanity, no matter how discouraging the news and life can be. A reminder even that it is not us against them, but a confusing, political, global state of affairs.   

 

When we drove back home through the Gorge we got so happy thinking that in August there will be peaches again near Umatilla at Peach Beach. Hope blossoms! So here are two poems for blossoms to keep our humanity solid and our hearts open to loving life despite the sorrow it can bring:

 

How It Might Continue

 

Wherever we go, the chance for joy,

whole orchards of amazement—

 

one more reason to always travel

with our pockets full of exclamation marks,

 

so we might scatter them for others

like apple seeds.

 

Some will dry out, some will blow away,

but some will take root

 

and grow exuberant groves

filled with long thin fruits

 

that resemble one hand clapping—

so much enthusiasm as they flutter back and forth

 

that although nothing’s heard

and though nothing’s really changed,

 

people everywhere for years to come

will swear that the world

 

is ripe with applause, will fill

their own pockets with new seeds to scatter.

 

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

*

 

From Blossoms

 

From blossoms comes

this brown paper bag of peaches

we bought from the boy

at the bend in the road where we turned toward

signs painted Peaches.

 

From laden boughs, from hands,

from sweet fellowship in the bins,

comes nectar at the roadside, succulent

peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,

comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

 

O, to take what we love inside,

to carry within us an orchard, to eat

not only the skin, but the shade,

not only the sugar, but the days, to hold

the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into

the round jubilance of peach.

 

There are days we live

as if death were nowhere

in the background; from joy

to joy to joy, from wing to wing,

from blossom to blossom to

impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

 

Li-Young Lee

*

  

May we be at peace,   

 

—Katie Radditz