THE OPEN ROAD

peace, love, happiness & understanding

 

October 1, 2026

 

Deep Dialogue

 

Deep dialogue has enriched my life immensely. I suspect that a person could graduate from college, even get a PhD, without the subject of deep dialogue ever coming up. Although, hopefully, this imaginary college student must have had a lot of deep dialogues along the way.

 

One of my favorite tropes is: “The arts of peace, love and happiness are not taught in school.” Where do we learn about them? One place is through deep dialogue with ourselves and with others. 

 

Dialogue with ourselves? Yes, emphatically!

 

We spend a lot of our waking hours talking to ourselves—usually not out loud. We ask ourselves questions about who we are and what we are doing. Is this the right choice? Where am I going? What does it mean? Our inner monologue—or dialogue with ourself—doesn’t always qualify as “deep.” A lot of the time we are thinking about basic things—money, food, what to watch on TV. We worry. We play “the same tapes” over and over. We spend a lot of our time daydreaming.

 

One way to deepen the dialogue with ourselves is to keep a journal. There we can ponder more carefully and with more focus. We can, in the process of writing and reading what we have written, observe our thoughts—our life.

 

In my life I’ve had a LOT of one-on-one (deep) conversations in coffee shops and tea shops. I may be the world record holder in this category. Most people outgrow this after their early twenties. Getting a job, getting married, having kids—these things can really cut into your leisure time.

 

For many years I had fifteen or twenty people over to my apartment every Sunday for waffles. (I learned that waffles were a bigger draw than pancakes.)

 

A turning point for me—when I took it to the next level—was when, in July of 2006, I began doing weekly deep dialogues at Two Rivers prison in Umatilla, Oregon. The title of the program was “The Stories We Tell Ourselves—How Our Thinking Shapes Our Lives.” For the first two years, I did two dialogues every Wednesday—one from 1 to 4, and another from 6 to 9. After the first two years, I just did the evening one.

 

We might take topics like “Love,” or “Freedom,” or “Happiness”—or no topic at all. From the beginning, it was amazing! Somehow, people trusted each other and talked honestly about what was most important to them. I quickly gave up on the idea that I was there to teach something, or to help people “improve” in some way. There was no agenda, other than to get together and spend time talking and listening to each other. It seems like the simplest thing in the world, but when was the last time you, dear reader, sat in a circle with twelve or sixteen people for three hours and listened intently while one person at a time shared their thoughts and feelings?

 

As facilitator, I didn’t want to drive six hours and 360 miles to talk about who won the football game. The men understood that. There were no arguments. It was understood that we all had different views and different beliefs. That was just accepted. We listened to each other. 

 

When someone came to the group for the first time, I would usually put them on the spot by asking a question like: “Where are you on your life journey?” Usually there was a pause, while everyone in the circle waited expectantly and respectfully. The new person was probably thinking something like: “What have I gotten myself into?” But everyone in the circle was curious to know something about them. And maybe many people have been waiting their whole life for other people to take an interest in who they are. Maybe a question like that was never asked at home or in school. After hesitating, the new person might begin: “I was adopted. I don’t know who my real parents are…” And another deep dialogue had begun.

 

The men who came regularly every week—sometimes for years—wanted more than superficial conversation. They didn’t want to waste the opportunity to get to know themselves and each other better, and to make new friends. Friendships naturally formed. There was  a lot of love in the room.

 

Every night, when I left the prison, I had a feeling of great elation! Something beautiful and extraordinary had happened. Always. Without fail. Later, when I went only once a month, other people volunteered to make sure the dialogues continued to happen every week. For them, too—Nancy Scharbach, Jude Russell, Bill Faricy, Dick Willis, Kristen Sagan, Deborah Buchanan, Bushra Azzouz, Katie Radditz—the prison dialogues were a life-changing experience. Many of the men who were in the dialogue group have told me how important it was to them. In some cases, it opened up whole new vistas and possibilities.

 

One of the weird things I remember about that time is that all week long I would be looking forward to the next Wednesday—when I could get to go to prison! It was usually the high point of my week. And I thought about how odd it was that people “on the outside” didn’t get together regularly to have that kind of experience.

 

I’m no longer a volunteer with the Oregon Department of Corrections. I stay in touch with many of the friends I made in prison. Some are still inside. Many have gotten out! Hallelujah!

 

It took me a while, but eventually I was able to get a weekly deep dialogue group going “on the outside.” It’s a different demographic—mostly old people (like me). Young people are too busy doing other things—especially, since we meet on a weekday morning—doing things like working and earning money. It makes sense. Food and shelter are high priorities for humans. And…

 

In addition to “making a living”—(strange phrase)—we need love, friendship, community. We need each other! Deep dialogue is a way to make deep friendships and to build community. Highly recommended!

 

Lately, when I’m in Guanajuato, Mexico, as I am right now, I find myself writing odes.

 

It’s Pablo Neruda’s fault.

 

Here are some from last year:

 

Ode to Ode-Makers

 

Inspired by you,

dear Pablo,

maker of more odes

than anyone

who walked this green Earth,

I dare to write poems

with short lines,

short,

like my attention span.

Pablo,

I love

your Ode to Things

and your Ode to Socks

and your odes

to so many humble items

which you have made

immortal.

I also love 

older odes

and ode-makers,

like John Keats.

I love his glorious

Ode on a Grecian Urn,

and the sublime letter

he wrote in 1819

to his brother George

and George’s wife Georgiana,

who had moved

to Louisville, Kentucky,

the previous year.

John left

this vale of Soul-making

the following year,

in 1820,

at the age

of 25.

*

 

Ode to the Avacado

 

Avacado!

You are not like

all those other fruits.

When ripe,

you are green.

You are not 

juicy.

You are

something else,

which can’t be described,

and yet,

that’s all that people

who write poems

ever do—

talk about things

that can’t be

put into words.

Putting things into words—

what a hare-brained idea!

And yet,

irresistible.

Everything,

without exception,

is beyond our ken.

The world is too big!

And everything

is always changing.

We don’t know

anything.

We don’t know

who we are

or

what’s going on here.

Still,

we talk and talk

for the sheer pleasure

of talking.

This poem

doesn’t have much to say

about the avacado

or about anything, 

really.

And now,

having accomplished nothing,

this poem must,

like every other poem,

come to an end.

*

 

Ode to Books

 

My affliction,

my addiction,

my delight,

my obsession,

my possessions,

my companions,

everywhere I go

I bring you with me,

my house 

is filled with books

on shelves,

on the floor,

beside the bed,

I can’t live

without you.

The world

is big

and in the world

are libraries

and in the libraries

are countless worlds.

I want to read

all the books,

I want to visit

all the worlds

before I die,

but I’m old

and there are

too many books

and I read

slowly

in order to

savor the pleasure

of holding you.

And so,

when I turn my last page

and go to sleep

maybe

I will dream

of going

to Heaven

which is 

of course

a Library.

*

 

Ode to Guanajuato

 

Dreamscape

of colors,

clouds,

coffee,

chocolate,

comida,

sunshine,

singers, 

students,

poets,

painters,

printmakers,

laborers,

actors,

dancers,

clowns.

City of music,

of stones.

A bowl in the mountains,

sitting above

a labyrinth

of tunnels.

 

Families

walking up and down

steep hills

in the morning

and at night—

babies being carried,

little children,

big children,

couples,

old people,

very old people.

No one

is in a hurry.

 

City of barking dogs

and of roosters

who don’t know

what time it is.

Giant ancient churches,

fountains,

tortilla machines,

processions,

parades,

fiestas,

fireworks,

explosions.

 

City 

that

my darling

Nancy 

and I

return to

again and again

in order 

to nourish

our souls.

 

paz, amor y felicidad

Juanito

*

 

In spite of our son nearly dying in an automobile accident, in spite of my mother announcing, at age 85, that she’d had five lovers during 60+ years of marriage to my dad, in spite of my dear brother-in-law committing suicide. In spite of John F. Kennedy being assassinated, in spite of 911…

 

In spite of every earth-shaking, earthquaking event, when I felt the world was going to stop spinning, and the earth was going to drop out from beneath my feet—-life went on, bless its heart: the leaves turned scarlet, the moon and stars kept shining at night, the rains continued to fall, the soft, wintery snow whispered, and the leaf buds and daffodils pushed forth. The part of me that was breaking somehow mended,  knowing that life…just… goes on. 

 

Life goes on, in all its beauty and in all its quiet persistence. Just look around; it’s inescapable.

 

peace, love, happiness, and understanding. And beauty.

—Jude Russell