Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

 

September 15, 2023

 

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.

For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.

—William Blake, from THE MARRIAGE of HEAVEN and HELL
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#103  A Garden of Poems

 

One day in New York City, I met a Buddhist scholar and I told her about my practice of mindfulness in the vegetable garden. I enjoy growing lettuce, tomatoes, and other vegetables, and I like to spend time gardening every day.

She said, “You shouldn’t spend your time growing vegetables. You should spend more time writing poems. Your poems are so beautiful. Everyone can grow lettuce, but not everyone can write poems like you do.”

I told her, “If I don’t grow lettuce, I can’t write poems.”

 

—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh

 

This one really made me laugh. For me, it’s playing music, or drawing, or writing. If I don’t do these things it is difficult for me to think correctly in my day-to-day life. Everything is out of tune & I don’t feel right. One of the counselors here asked me about my drawings. I told her that I did not have time to draw anymore. She said, “NO! You must find the time to draw & express yourself, so you feel right!”

 

So I found the time & she was right. I can in fact think better now. My tasks run smoother and I just feel better. So I do get what Thich Nhat Hanh is saying here. We must do the things that we are passionate about & we must do the things that feed our being so we’re capable of doing all of the things we need & want to do.

 

Love you all so much.

 

—Rocky Hutchinson

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#10    “Lotus in the Mud”      

 

“The goodness of suffering is something real. Without suffering, there cannot be happiness. Without mud there cannot be any lotus flowers. So if you know how to suffer, suffering is okay. And the moment you have that attitude, you don’t suffer much anymore. And out of suffering, a lotus flower of happiness can open.”

—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh

 

Before I ever read this, I believed this. Going back to my first marriage of thirteen years in an abusive, alcoholic relationship, I suffered in such a way that my mind and body simply shut down. I stopped talking, I stopped eating, I stopped feeling. It was the only way I could keep living—by not living. I suffered internally and externally, not understanding either condition. 

 

It was only when I escaped the marriage that I was released from suffering and moved—no, vaulted, catapulted, jetted!—into joy, into happiness. Into gratitude. I had plenty of scars, physical and emotional, but I came to understand and rejoice in what I had lived through. I rejoiced in the suffering, because I was now living life. Getting unstuck from the mud of suffering is how I came to be grateful for the suffering. So to happiness, I would add gratitude as an ingredient that blossoms from the mud. 

 

—Jude Russell

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                         Holy Land

 

Where the angel gave black stone to the prophet,

where the old man woke under a tree, where

a king killed a worthy friend, first there is silence, 

then singing, chanting, sweet smoke, and visions.

 

Where the bones of a frail saint lie, where a newborn

slept in straw, where a father did not slay his son—

pilgrims have passed by places without stories 

by the thousands to be here weeping and praying.

 

It’s all in how you see it, how you tell it. 

On this rocky hill, a peasant met a virgin girl.

On that one, he did not. Here a cathedral, 

there only the wind twitching dry grass. 

 

Under the sky in a burning world, how can 

we choose what is holy and what is not?

 

—Kim Stafford

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I have already seen red leaves on a tree! Autumn is lulling in even during this hot summer day. I think of this poem, as the beauty and sorrows in the world unfold together. And it helps me feel the expansive wonder of it all.  

 

Three Times my Life has Opened

 

Three times my life has opened.
Once, into darkness and rain.
Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and
starts to remember each time it enters the act of love.
Once, to the fire that holds all.
These three were not different.
You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.
But outside my window all day a maple has stepped
from her leaves like a woman in love with winter, dropping
the colored silks.
Neither are we different in what we know.
There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of
light stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor,
or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.

 

—Jane Hirshfield, from The Lives of the Heart: Poems

 

—Love and Peace,  Katie Radditz

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Ode to things (Oda a las cosas)

 

I have a crazy,

crazy love of things.

I like pliers,

and scissors.

I love

cups,

rings,

and bowls—

not to speak, of course,

of hats.

I love

all things,

not just

the grandest,

also

the

infinite-

ly

small—

thimbles,

spurs,

plates,

and flower vases.

 

Oh yes,

the planet

is sublime!

It’s full of

pipes

weaving

hand-held

through tobacco smoke,

and keys

and salt shakers—

everything,

I mean,

that is made

by the hand of man, every little thing:

shapely shoes,

and fabric

and each new

bloodless birth

of gold,

eyeglasses,

carpenter’s nails,

brushes,

clocks, compasses,

coins, and the so-soft

softness of chairs.

 

Mankind has

built

oh so many

perfect

things!

Built them of wool

and of wood,

of glass and

of rope:

remarkable

tables,

ships, and stairways.

 

I love

all

things,

not because they are

passionate

or sweet-smelling

but because,

I don’t know,

because

this ocean is yours,

and mine:

these buttons

and wheels

and little

forgotten

treasures,

fans upon

whose feathers

love has scattered

its blossoms,

glasses, knives and

scissors—

all bear

the trace

of someone’s fingers

on their handle or surface,

the trace of a distant hand

lost

in the depths of forgetfulness.

 

I pause in houses,

streets and

elevators,

touching things,

identifying objects

that I secretly covet:

this one because it rings,

that one because

it’s as soft

as the softness of a woman’s hip,

that one there for its deep-sea color, 

and that one for its velvet feel.

 

O irrevocable 

river

of things:

no one can say

that I loved

only

fish,

or the plants of the jungle and field,

that I loved

only

those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.

It’s not true:

many things conspired 

to tell me the whole story.

Not only did they touch me,

or my hand touched them:

they were

so close

that they were a part 

of my being,

they were so alive with me

that they lived half my life

and will die half my death.

 

—Pablo Neruda, from Odes to Common Things, edited & illustrated by Ferris Cook, translated by Ken Krabbenhoft

 

love to all,

—Johnny Stallings