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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210411
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210425
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SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Mystical Poetry & Prose  4/11 - 4/24/21
DESCRIPTION:Thomas Traherne (1636-1674) \n  \n  \nSongs are thoughts\, sung out with the breath when people are moved by great forces and ordinary speech no longer suffices. Man is moved just like the ice floe sailing here and there in the current. His thoughts are driven by a flowing force when he feels joy\, when he feels fear\, when he feels sorrow. Thoughts can wash over him like a flood\, making his breath come in gasps and his heart throb. Something like an abatement in the weather will keep him thawed up. And then it will happen that we\, who always think we are small\, will feel still smaller. And we will fear to use words. But it will happen that the words we need will come of themselves. When the words we want to use shoot up of themselves–we get a new song. \n  \n–Orpingalik\,  Netsilik Inuit \n  \nOn Sunday\, April 11th\, our theme was MYSTIC POETRY & PROSE from Animist\, Polytheist\, Hindu\, Taoist\, Buddhist\, Jewish\, Christian & Muslim mystics.  \n  \nTodd Oleson read a poem by Emily Dickinson and two poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti\, Jude Russell read poems by Rilke\, Roethke & Blake. Dave Duncan read a poem by Sylvia Plath\, which reminded me of a passage from Hamlet. Martha Ragland read the opening of Tagore’s Gitanjali. Nick Eldredge read the lyrics to Into the Mystic by Van Morrison. I read poems by Staffords William & Kim\, and Waxwings by Robert Francis. Here are some the poems:  \n  \nGod made a little Gentian – \nIt tried – to be a Rose – \nAnd failed – and all the Summer laughed – \nBut just before the Snows \n  \nThere rose a Purple Creature – \nThat ravished all the Hill – \nAnd Summer hid her Forehead – \nAnd Mockery – was still – \n  \nThe Frosts were her condition – \nThe Tyrian would not come \nUntil the North – invoke it – \nCreator – Shall I – bloom? \n  \n–Emily Dickinson  (1830-1886) \n* \n  \nA Better Resurrection \n  \nI have no wit\, I have no words\, no tears; \nMy heart within me like a stone \nIs numbed too much for hopes or fears; \nLook right\, look left\, I dwell alone; \nA lift mine eyes\, but dimmed with grief \nNo everlasting hills I see; \nMy life is like the falling leaf; \nJesus\, quicken me. \n  \n–Sylvia Plath \n* \n  \nHamlet.  I have of late\, but wherefore I know not\, lost all my mirth\, foregone all custom of exercises\, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory\, this most excellent canopy\, the air\, look you\, this brave o’erhanging firmament\, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire—why it appears nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.  What a piece of work is a man\, how noble in reason\, how infinite in faculties\, in form and moving how express and admirable\, in action how like an angel\, in apprehension how like a god\, the beauty of the world\, the paragon of animals—and yet\, to me\, what is this quintessence of dust?  Man delights not me.  No\, nor woman\, neither.  \n  \n–Will Shakespeare \n* \n  \n“Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen” \n  \n“I live my life in widening circles  \nthat reach out across the world. \nI may not complete this last one \nbut I give myself to it. \n  \nI circle around God\, around the primordial tower. \nI’ve been circling for thousands of years \nand I still don’t know: am I a falcon\, \na storm\, or a great song?” \n* \n  \n“Alles wird wieder gross sein und gewaltig” \n  \n“All will come again into its strength: \nthe fields undivided\, the waters undammed\, \nthe trees towering and the walls built low\, \nAnd in the valleys\, people as strong \nand varied as the land. \n  \nAnd no churches where God \nis imprisoned and lamented \nlike a trapped and wounded animal. \nThe houses welcoming all who knock \nand a sense of boundless offering \nin all relations\, amd in you and me. \n  \nNo yearning for an afterlife\, no looking beyond\, \nno belittling of death\, \nbut only longing for what belongs to us \nand serving earth\, lest we remain unused.” \n  \n(I have to add one more here\, read and absorbed shortly after I had experienced my life changing ‘mystical experience\,’ and was still in the deepest throes of LOVE) (I still love it) (Jude) \n  \n”Losch mir die Augen aus; ich kann dich sehen” \n  \n“Extinguish my eyes\, I’ll go on seeing you\, \nSeal my ears\, I’ll go on hearing you\, \nAnd without feet I can make my way to you\, \nwithout a mouth I can swear your name. \n  \nBreak off my arms\, I’ll take hold of you \nwith my heart as a hand\, \nStop my heart\, and my brain will  start to beat\, \nAnd if you consume my brain with fire\, \nI’ll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.” \n  \nRilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God\, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy\,  1996 \n* \n  \nGitanjali \n  \nI \nThou hast made me endless\, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again\, and fillest it ever with fresh life. \nThis little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales\, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. \nAt the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. \nThy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass\, and still thou poorest\, and still there is room to fill. \n  \n–Rabrindranath Tagore \n* \n  \nInto the Mystic \n  \nWe were born before the wind \nAlso younger than the sun \nEre the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic \nHark\, now hear the sailors cry \nSmell the sea and feel the sky \nLet your soul and spirit fly into the mystic \n  \nAnd when that fog horn blows I will be coming home \nAnd when the fog horn blows I want to hear it \nI don’t have to fear it \n  \nAnd I want to rock your gypsy soul \nJust like way back in the days of old \nAnd magnificently we will flow into the mystic \n  \nWhen that fog horn blows you know I will be coming home \nAnd when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it \nI don’t have to fear it \n  \nAnd I want to rock your gypsy soul \nJust like way back in the days of old \nAnd together we will flow into the mystic \nCome on girl… \n  \nToo late to stop now…  \n  \n–Van Morrison \n* \n  \nAsk Me \n  \n  \nSome time when the river is ice ask me \nmistakes I have made. Ask me whether \nwhat I have done is my life. Others \nhave come in their slow way into \nmy thought\, and some have tried to help \nor to hurt: ask me what difference \ntheir strongest love or hate has made. \n  \n  \nI will listen to what you say. \nYou and I can turn and look \nat the silent river and wait. We know \nthe current is there\, hidden; and there \nare comings and goings from miles away \nthat hold the stillness exactly before us. \nWhat the river says\, that is what I say. \n  \n  \n–William Stafford  (1914-1993) \n* \n  \nAll My Relations \n  \nI want to thank all my relations \nfor this chance to be on Earth \nin her time of flourishing; to thank \nthe First People of this place\, the \nMultnomah people\, the Clackamas\, \nMolalla\, Tualatin\, and Chinook\, to honor \ntheir sovereignty in long and continuing \nrelation\, still teaching us how we might \nbe here together; to thank my mother and father\, \nmoon and sun\, for setting me forth before \ntheir own passing on; to thank my grandmother \nwho listened to me so eloquently I learned \nto listen to my own heart and mind\, to find \nstories and songs there; to thank my family \nand friends\, and all the citizens and travelers \nwho study and work for deeper kinship \nin this place\, with one another\, and with \nall creatures\, one Earth\, visible\, palpable\, \nfragile\, intricate\, resonant\, in need of our \nbetter stories. I want to thank you \nwho have gathered to receive what I have \ncarried here–in hope that something \nI have may meet something you need\, \nso all our relations may be strengthened \nfor the life we live together. \n  \n–Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nThe Divine Image \n  \nTo Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nAll pray in their distress; \nAnd to these virtues of delight \nReturn their thankfulness. \n  \nFor Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs God\, our father dear\, \nAnd Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs Man\, his child and care. \n  \nFor Mercy has a human heart\, \nPity a human face\, \nAnd Love\, the human form divine\, \nAnd Peace\, the human dress. \n  \nThen every man\, of every clime\, \nThat prays in his distress\, \nPrays to the human form divine\, \nLove\, Mercy\, Pity\, Peace. \n  \nAnd all must love the human form\, \nIn heathen\, turk\, or jew; \nWhere Mercy\, Love\, & Pity dwell \nThere God is dwelling too. \n  \n–William Blake  (1757-1857) \n* \n  \nIn a Dark Time \n\n\n\n  \nIn a dark time\, the eye begins to see\, \nI meet my shadow in the deepening shade;    \nI hear my echo in the echoing wood— \nA lord of nature weeping to a tree. \nI live between the heron and the wren\,    \nBeasts of the hill and serpents of the den. \n\n  \nWhat’s madness but nobility of soul \nAt odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!    \nI know the purity of pure despair\, \nMy shadow pinned against a sweating wall.    \nThat place among the rocks—is it a cave\,    \nOr winding path? The edge is what I have. \n\n  \nA steady storm of correspondences! \nA night flowing with birds\, a ragged moon\,    \nAnd in broad day the midnight come again!    \nA man goes far to find out what he is— \nDeath of the self in a long\, tearless night\,    \nAll natural shapes blazing unnatural light. \n\n  \nDark\, dark my light\, and darker my desire.    \nMy soul\, like some heat-maddened summer fly\,    \nKeeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I? \nA fallen man\, I climb out of my fear.    \nThe mind enters itself\, and God the mind\,    \nAnd one is One\, free in the tearing wind. \n\n  \n\n\n–Theodore Roethke  (1908-1963) \n* \n  \n\n\n\n\nConstantly risking absurdity \n                                             and death \n            whenever he performs \n                                        above the heads \n                                                            of his audience \n   the poet like an acrobat \n                                 climbs on rime \n                                          to a high wire of his own making \nand balancing on eyebeams \n                                     above a sea of faces \n             paces his way \n                               to the other side of day \n    performing entrechats \n                               and sleight-of-foot tricks \nand other high theatrics \n                               and all without mistaking \n                     any thing \n                               for what it may not be \n\n       For he’s the super realist \n                                     who must perforce perceive \n                   taut truth \n                                 before the taking of each stance or step \nin his supposed advance \n                                  toward that still higher perch \nwhere Beauty stands and waits \n                                     with gravity \n                                                to start her death-defying leap \n\n      And he \n             a little charleychaplin man \n                                           who may or may not catch \n               her fair eternal form \n                                     spreadeagled in the empty air \n                  of existence \n* \n\n\n  \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                         17\n\nThis life is not a circus where\nthe shy performing dogs of love\n                                                   look on\n\nas time flicks out\n                            its tricky whip\n                                                   to race us thru our paces\nYet gay parading floats drift by\n                               decorated with gorgeous gussies in silk tights\n                                       and attended by moithering monkeys\n                                                                  make-believe monks\n                                                                  horny hiawathas\n                                          and baboons astride tame tigers\n                                                     with ladies inside\n                      while googly horns make merrygoround music\n                  and pantomimic pierrots castrate disaster\n                               with strange sad laughter\n             and gory gorillas toss tender maidens heavenward\n                    while cakewalkers and carnie hustlers\n                all gassed to the gills\n                    strike playbill poses\n           and stagger after every\n                                              wheeling thing\nWhile still around the ring\n                                    lope the misshapen camels of lust\n   and all us Emmet Kelley clowns\n                                always making up imaginary scenes\nwith all our masks for faces\n                            even eat fake Last Suppers\n                                                         at collapsible tables\n             and mocking cross ourselves \n                                                          in sawdust crosses\n\nAnd yet gobble up at last\n                                to shrive our circus souls\n            the also imaginary\n                                         wafers of grace\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n–Lawrence Ferlinghetti \n* \n  \nWaxwings   \n  \nFour tao philosophers as cedar waxwings \nchat on a February berrybush \nin sun\, and I am one. \n  \nSuch merriment and such sobriety– \nthe small wild fruit on the tall stalk– \nwas this not always my true style? \n  \nAbove an elegance of snow\, beneath \na silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four \nbirds. Can you mistake us? \n  \nTo sun\, to feast\, and to converse \nand all together–for this I have abandoned all my other lives. \n  \n–Robert Francis  (1901-1987) \n* \n  \nIs anyone still reading this? It’s getting pretty long. But not long enough. On April 11th\, we didn’t get around to mystic prose\, but here’s something loving and lovely from Thomas Traherne: \n  \n47  \n  \nWhat life can be more pleasant\, than that which is delighted in itself\, and in all objects; in which also all objects infinitely delight? What life can be more pleasant\, than that which is blessed in all\, and glorious before all? Now this life is the life of Love. For this end therefore did He desire to Love\, that He might be Love. Infinitely delightful to all objects\, infinitely delighted in all\, and infinitely pleased in Himself\, for being infinitely delightful to all\, and delighted in all. All this He attaineth by Love. For Love is the most delightful of all employments. All the objects of Love are delightful to it\, and Love is delightful to all its objects. Well then may Love be the end of loving\, which is so complete. It being a thing so delightful\, that God infinitely rejoiceth in Himself for being Love. And thus you see how God is the end of Himself. He doth what He doth\, that He may be what He is: Wise and glorious and bountiful and blessed in being Perfect Love.  \n  \n  \n48  \n  \nLove is so divine and perfect a thing\, that it is worthy to be the very end and being of the Deity. It is His goodness\, and it is His glory. We therefore so vastly delight in Love\, because all these excellencies and all other whatsoever lie within it. By Loving a Soul does propagate and beget itself. By Loving it does dilate and magnify itself. By Loving it does enlarge and delight itself. By Loving also it delighteth others\, as by Loving it doth honor and enrich itself. But above all by Loving it does attain itself. Love also being the end of Souls\, which are never perfect till they are in act what they are in power. They were made to love\, and are dark and vain and comfortless till they do it. Till they love they are idle\, or mis-employed. Till they love they are desolate; without their objects\, and narrow and little\, and dishonorable: but when they shine by Love upon all objects\, they are accompanied with them and enlightened by them. Till we become therefore all Act as God is\, we can never rest\, nor ever be satisfied.  \n  \n–Thomas Traherne  (1636-1674) \n* \n  \n  \n(In Centuries of Meditations\, Thomas Traherne has just over four hundred meditations. In the “Second Century\,” he goes on an extended meditation of love\, from numbers 39-67. I have included two typical ones.) \n  \nMay all beings be happy. \nMay we live in love. \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-mystical-poetry-prose-4-11-21/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210415
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210429
DTSTAMP:20260502T025025
CREATED:20210416T160729Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210416T161533Z
UID:2098-1618444800-1619654399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  4/15/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 15\, 2021 \n  \nAll beings rejoice! A new book of Kim’s poems has just been published by Red Hen Press! Sing! Dance! Make Merry! Get your copy today! Act now! Easy monthly payments! No money down! Makes a great gift for all occasions! With Kim’s permission\, here’s a small sampling from the Treasure Trove: \n  \nPoetry in Prison \n  \nYou’re in\, but the question is: \nwhat’s in you? What story \naching to be told do you hold \nin solitary\, shackled\, denied \nits rights to visitors? \n  \nThe hard things that happened are gold \nyou hammer into shape\, the pain \nyou twist\, the grief you make shimmer\, \nthe lost good thing you restore \nby telling it back into being. \n  \nEveryone is in prison\, one way \nor another. And everyone is \nfree\, one way or another. The trick \nis to find your way to bear the story \nforth\, so it shines in the listener’s eyes. \n* \n  \nBlue Brick from the Midwest \n  \nAfter my father collapsed like a bolt of light\, toppled without a word\, \nI was the one to enter his study\, find the jagged note to our mother he \nscratched as he reeled\, the freight train of his departure hurtling \nthrough his heart— \n  \n \n  \n—a sentiment he did not speak in seventy-nine years\, as a tough customer\, \naffable but stern\, inert when grief came\, reserved as granite \nwhen my brother died\, cracking plaintive jokes when we trembled \nin the hospital\, mother going under the knife. \n  \nHis way was trenchant\, oblique. He distrusted those who \ntalk about God\, preferring to honor the holy with a glance\, \na nod\, or silence. Delving deeper\, the day he died\, we found \nin his sock drawer\, under that scant set of flimsy raiment\, the fetching \nphoto of the flirt; our mother\, coy at the sink\, looking back \nover her shoulder\, dressed only in an apron with a big bow. \nNo fool like an old fool. \n  \nAnd delving deeper\, at the back of the bottom file (the niche \nwhere one would hide the stuff of blackmail) I touched the blue \nbrick of love letters our mother had sent him when they \ncourted in the war—brittle leaves kissed snug together \nand bound with string\, the trouble he had carried \nin secret through every move since 1943. She knew \nthem not\, nor had his. “Oh Billy\,” she said. \n  \nFather\, early years taught your way with the heart’s contraband \nwhen the dirty thirties blunted your bravado\, tornado snatched \nyour friends\, the war your tenderness\, and left you with these secrets \nhoarded for us to find when you were gone. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nAt last Sunday’s Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering (April 11th) we shared “Mystic Poems and Prose.” I read William Stafford’s poem “Ask Me.” Kim has a story about this poem (my paraphrase): \n  \nThere was a big event at the Oregon Historical Society for the 100th Anniversary of William Stafford’s birth. OPB was there. Very Important People from the historical society and literary societies\, et cetera. A homeless man wandered in\, and headed for the table with the cookies. The cookies were being guarded by Someone of Importance. The homeless guy asked\, “What’s going on?” “We’re honoring a poet.” “Is he any good?” “Yes\, we think so: William Stafford.” The homeless man says\, “Ask me.” “Ask you what?” “Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made…” After the Uninvited Guest had finished reciting the poem\, the Guardian of the Refreshment Table asked\, “Would you like some cookies?” \n  \nAsk Me \n  \nSome time when the river is ice ask me \nmistakes I have made. Ask me whether \nwhat I have done is my life. Others \nhave come in their slow way into \nmy thought\, and some have tried to help \nor to hurt: ask me what difference \ntheir strongest love or hate has made. \n  \nI will listen to what you say. \nYou and I can turn and look \nat the silent river and wait. We know \nthe current is there\, hidden; and there \nare comings and goings from miles away \nthat hold the stillness exactly before us. \nWhat the river says\, that is what I say. \n  \n–William Stafford  (1914-1993) \n* \n  \nAt the Zoom gathering Todd Oleson read his favorite Emily Dickinson poem: \n  \nGod made a little Gentian – \nIt tried – to be a Rose – \nAnd failed – and all the Summer laughed – \nBut just before the Snows \n  \nThere rose a Purple Creature – \nThat ravished all the Hill – \nAnd Summer hid her Forehead – \nAnd Mockery – was still – \n  \nThe Frosts were her condition – \nThe Tyrian would not come \nUntil the North – invoke it – \nCreator – Shall I – bloom? \n  \n–Emily Dickinson  (1830-1886) \n* \n  \nJude read this poem by William Blake: \n  \nThe Divine Image \n  \nTo Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nAll pray in their distress; \nAnd to these virtues of delight \nReturn their thankfulness. \n  \nFor Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs God\, our father dear\, \nAnd Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs Man\, his child and care. \n  \nFor Mercy has a human heart\, \nPity a human face\, \nAnd Love\, the human form divine\, \nAnd Peace\, the human dress. \n  \nThen every man\, of every clime\, \nThat prays in his distress\, \nPrays to the human form divine\, \nLove\, Mercy\, Pity\, Peace. \n  \nAnd all must love the human form\, \nIn heathen\, turk\, or jew; \nWhere Mercy\, Love\, & Pity dwell \nThere God is dwelling too. \n  \n–William Blake  (1757-1857) \n* \n  \nLast Fall\, I walked out the back door and found the deck and the entire back yard covered with little orange polka dots. It was mysterious! Where had they come from? I looked up and discovered that a flock of cedar waxwings was flying back and forth from our maple tree to some neighbor’s bush or tree\, bringing hundreds (maybe thousands!) of orange berries. They ate the berries in the maple tree and spit out the skins. Mystery solved. This has absolutely nothing to do with the following poem\, which I have always loved: \n  \nWaxwings   \n  \nFour tao philosophers as cedar waxwings \nchat on a February berrybush \nin sun\, and I am one. \n  \nSuch merriment and such sobriety– \nthe small wild fruit on the tall stalk– \nwas this not always my true style? \n  \nAbove an elegance of snow\, beneath \na silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four \nbirds. Can you mistake us? \n  \nTo sun\, to feast\, and to converse \nand all together–for this I have abandoned all my other lives. \n  \n–Robert Francis  (1901-1987) \n* \n  \nWe bibliophiles didn’t get around to mystic prose last Sunday\, but as a special “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding” bonus\, here’s something loving and lovely from Thomas Traherne: \n  \n47  \nWhat life can be more pleasant\, than that which is delighted in itself\, and in all objects; in which also all objects infinitely delight? What life can be more pleasant\, than that which is blessed in all\, and glorious before all? Now this life is the life of Love. For this end therefore did He desire to Love\, that He might be Love. Infinitely delightful to all objects\, infinitely delighted in all\, and infinitely pleased in Himself\, for being infinitely delightful to all\, and delighted in all. All this He attaineth by Love. For Love is the most delightful of all employments. All the objects of Love are delightful to it\, and Love is delightful to all its objects. Well then may Love be the end of loving\, which is so complete. It being a thing so delightful\, that God infinitely rejoiceth in Himself for being Love. And thus you see how God is the end of Himself. He doth what He doth\, that He may be what He is: Wise and glorious and bountiful and blessed in being Perfect Love.  \n  \n48  \nLove is so divine and perfect a thing\, that it is worthy to be the very end and being of the Deity. It is His goodness\, and it is His glory. We therefore so vastly delight in Love\, because all these excellencies and all other whatsoever lie within it. By Loving a Soul does propagate and beget itself. By Loving it does dilate and magnify itself. By Loving it does enlarge and delight itself. By Loving also it delighteth others\, as by Loving it doth honor and enrich itself. But above all by Loving it does attain itself. Love also being the end of Souls\, which are never perfect till they are in act what they are in power. They were made to love\, and are dark and vain and comfortless till they do it. Till they love they are idle\, or mis-employed. Till they love they are desolate; without their objects\, and narrow and little\, and dishonorable: but when they shine by Love upon all objects\, they are accompanied with them and enlightened by them. Till we become therefore all Act as God is\, we can never rest\, nor ever be satisfied.  \n  \n–Thomas Traherne  (1636-1674) \n* \n  \nIn Centuries of Meditations\, Thomas Traherne has just over four hundred meditations. In the “Second Century\,” he goes on an extended meditation of love\, from numbers 39-67. I have included two typical ones.  \n  \nMay all people be happy.  \nMay we live in love.   \n  \n—Johnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-15-21/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210415
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210515
DTSTAMP:20260502T025025
CREATED:20210416T163844Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210416T164502Z
UID:2109-1618444800-1621036799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  4/15/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  \nSongs are thoughts\, sung out with the breath when people are moved by great forces and ordinary speech no longer suffices. Man is moved just like the ice floe sailing here and there in the current. His thoughts are driven by a flowing force when he feels joy\, when he feels fear\, when he feels sorrow. Thoughts can wash over him like a flood\, making his breath come in gasps and his heart throb. Something like an abatement in the weather will keep him thawed up. And then it will happen that we\, who always think we are small\, will feel still smaller. And we will fear to use words. But it will happen that the words we need will come of themselves. When the words we want to use shoot up of themselves–we get a new song. \n  \n—Orpingalik\, Netsilik Inuit \n  \n April 15\, 2020 \n  \nWelcome to our eighth meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. The tag on my Yogi tea bag says: “Let your heart speak to other hearts.” \n* \n  \nA MEMORY OF WHAT \nafter Tracy K. Smith \n  \nAngels with days for eyes \nlay their hands on the dead. \n  \nWho is so fixed & desolate \nthat they cannot see the walls of honey \n  \nclosing in on a fugitive grief? They wince so \nbeautifully against the sun\, calamity: \n  \nchildren\, aspects of children\, falling \nin love with a flower. They are lost \n  \nin a memory of what the field was. \nIn a memory of when the field was \n  \nin love with a flower\, we are lost \nchildren\, aspects of children\, falling \n  \nbeautifully against the sun\, calamity \nclosing in on a future grief. We wince so \n  \nwe cannot see the walls of honey. \nWhat is fixed & desolate \n  \nlays its hand on the dead \nangels with days for eyes. \n* \n  \nAMONG THE CATTAILS \n  \nIf all that’s left are ashes \nin a lazy\, bending wind \namong the cattails— \nif a moth is blown off course \nand lost in lust \nfor wander\, a crazing of grasses— \nif the cottonwoods are twinned \nby the sky’s calm sister\, \nsunrisen water—if \nyou find one day that you miss me\, \nmiss everyone\, and your days \nare an inconsolable star \nwithout a night to fall from— \nwe will wake as seedlings \namong the cattails. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nI have been unusually busy and am only now catching up on my readings. I apologize to this group for my comments printed in the January 15th newsletter. These were intended as a personal communication with Johnny\, and not at all intended for the newsletter. The miscommunication is entirely my fault\, I did not adequately delineate my comments as a side conversation. The context was Johnny and I discussing tradition and lineage\, and my own confusions about these topics. My comments were not in any way a criticism of this group or its participants. \n  \n—Shad Alexander \n* \n  \nMy Foolproof Plan for World Peace \n  \nI hereby declare today to be International Love Day. \nAnd a General Armistice. \nAll hostilities must cease on International Love Day. \nHenceforward\, every day is International Love Day. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \n[Three entries from Michel’s (almost) daily March meditation journal.] \n  \nMarch 7\, 2021  #92  Don’t Take Side \n  \nReconciliation is a beautiful idea. Yet\, even in here\, every one of us wants to be on “a side”—the winning sports team (or unit ball team)\, the “right” side of the power players (however one sees power displayed in prison: violence/aggression\, staff informant\, etc.)\, having the “right” charges and/or associates leading to the right job. Because whatever or whomever is of the “wrong” is to be despised\, belittled\, attacked\, exploited\, destroyed\, not tolerated to co-exist. So much suffering\, trauma\, and drama exists over this dualistic battle. I don’t recall (free) society being any different—possibly more subtle in some areas. We always have those who have/want power\, those who want to be close to power\, since they can’t have their own\, and those who run from power (maybe over-simplified\, and/or “wrongly” thought out.) \n  \nAs I read on\, Thây reminds me that: “What we (I) need are people who are capable of loving and not taking sides so that they can embrace the whole of reality….” “look at all beings with the eyes of compassion\, and we (I) can do the real work of helping to alleviate suffering.” I see that\, not only do I need/want to have people in my life “capable of loving and not taking sides\,” I also need/want to be that person in the world. When I (we) “look at all beings with the eyes of compassion…” it alleviates suffering—mine and theirs. \n  \nWhile I desire reconciliation with former friends and victims of my selfish choices\, I wonder how much simpler reconciliation I can do among my current friends and associates and/or family\, with whom I have contact. Or\, how much I need with my own self—letting me “off the hook” (providing forgivness) for mistakes\, big and small\, no longer taking a “side\,” and cultivating loving compassion to ease suffering in my world. \n  \nI imagine this reconciliation isn’t easy\, but it can’t be “hard” either. Thây wants me (us) to continue practicing mindfulness and reconciliation till I (we) see the suffering of others as my (our) own.  \n  \nThis is where it gets deep and demands much\, to give up self as separate from other\, and to see that we’re all made from the same mud. We all share the same source. Even though we insist on seeing separateness—me vs. you\, us vs. them—reconciliation helps us see the common ground we share\, upon which we can begin anew to build a future together\, not excluding anyone\, to strive toward relieving (alleviating)  suffering. \n  \nI believe I can do this work of developing mindfulness—breathing\, being aware\, holding compassion (instead of contempt)\, sharing love as acceptance\, patience and understanding. \n* \n  \nMarch 9\, 2021  #93  The Spiritual Dimension \n  \nOh\, if only all people pursued peace! What an amazing world this would be. But\, Wait! I can encourage friends\, family\, and anyone who is open to do so. I can bring the peace I have (find\, learn) into the world I already live in\, to begin a healing work in others I contact. Remind me again: Why is it I need to wait for the (war) world leaders to pull out and learn the ways of peace for their lives? Short answer: I don’t. I can communicate my desires for them to learn and pursue peace. But\, I can only find and cultivate my own. And\, I can support anyone else’s journey by expressing/living a life of peace. \n* \n  \nMarch 24\, 2021  #102  Like the Moon in the Sky \n  \n“Abandoning ideas” could be scary; especially if they are ideas of identity—“me\,” this self. It’s not that I cease to exist\, per se\, or that I wholly abandon my role in this play going on here. I LET GO of my attachment to the “role” and the “character’s” story. Shakespeare put it well when he called us all merely actors. \n  \nTo me\, an actor picks up a role: and a part in the story is begun. He or she develops a backstory\, beyond what’s provided\, to drive the character through conflicts to resolution. When the curtain falls for the last time\, the actor sets down the role and picks up with the role of the self. (But it’s not really different.) \n  \nI think this freedom Thây is speaking of today is like that actor. When I set down my attachment to all the stories spun for this role of Michel: then\, I become free to exist and move as I was created\, to be the person I came here to be—instead of this assumed role I was once convinced was the “real” me. (PS: I think glimpses of the “real” do shine through\, as with all actors bringing a piece of the self to a role.) \n  \nThe more I identify and attach to this story/role\, the more I face the challenge to discover a “real” self within this role. Thây is right\, happiness can’t come from this conflict (inner turmoil). It comes easily when I set down attachment to this role of “me.” The story of Michel persists\, until it ends: My participation is how I pursue suffering\, or ease into happiness…my breathing exercises. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nQuiet Day \n  \nDawn day. Gone gray. \nNo car. No key. No place to be. \nNo task. No mask. No fancy shoes. \nNo news. Nothing to lose. \nNo greeting. No meeting. \nA quiet nook. A long look. \nNo call. No knock. Forgotten clock. \nSinging birds. Few words. Taking stock. \nDusk slow. Moon glow. Let go. \n* \n  \nAll My Relations \n  \nI want to thank all my relations \nfor this chance to be on Earth \nin her time of flourishing; to thank  \nthe First People of this place\, the  \nMultnomah people\, the Clackamas\, \nMolalla\, Tualatin\, & Chinook\, to honor  \ntheir sovereignty in long and continuing  \nrelation\, still teaching us how we might \nbe here together; to thank my mother and father\,  \nmoon and sun\, for setting me forth before  \ntheir own passing on; to thank my grandmother \nwho listened to me so eloquently I learned \nto listen to my own heart and mind\, to find \nstories and songs there; to thank my family  \nand friends\, and all citizens and travelers  \nwho study and work for deeper kinship  \nin this place\, with one another\, and with  \nall creatures\, one Earth\, visible\, palpable\,  \nfragile\, intricate\, resonant\, in need of our \nbetter stories. I want to thank you  \nwho have gathered to receive what I have  \ncarried here — in hope that something \nI have may meet something you need\, \nso all our relations may be strengthened \nfor the life we live together. \n  \n—Kim Stafford\, from Singer Come from Afar\, Red Hen Press\, 2021 \n* \n  \n#50  The Basic Principle \n  \n“Have we wasted our hours and our days?Are we wasting our lives? These are important questions.” \n  \nWaste: This is what caught my attention. All my life (well\, at least for the last 30 years or so) my guiding desire\, my guiding principle has been to Not Waste Life. Live this life! Be Alive!  Do Not Waste  Life. If you are afraid of something\, move into it; don’t run from it. Expand\, don’t contract.  \n  \nTo that end\, I have had a (very) full life. Full of good times and also very difficult times. I am aware of and grateful for both. Many will say that I have Too Many Things going on. Do you ever stop going? they ask. To be clear\, these activities are not things I think I should be doing. They are all passions\, things I love\, or feel strongly about —some despite\, or because of their difficulty or complexity. \n  \nMy husband has set some rules: For every new thing you take on\, something else has to go. You want to sing in the Voci Choir? Fine\, then you might stop leading those hikes for young girls. Learn how to graft fruit trees? Cool\, but stop digging and potting up your two hundred plants for the plant sale. Take classes in Middle eastern cooking? Cook meals for that new Hispanic family? Only if you stop cooking for that other family.  \n  \nSo I’m busy\, maybe ‘over scheduled.’ That is until recently when I had to stop everything for two months to recover from foot surgery. And not like the Pandemic Stop\, when I could still ride my bike and hike and carry on almost as always. This stoppage has a requirement of REST\, of HEALING\, of SLEEP\, of RECOVERY. In other words\, being quite…motionless. \n  \nThis has undermined my brain pattern of ‘activity’ as being ‘not wasting life.’ If I can’t ‘do’ anything\, I must be wasting life. But then I came around to this: I am ‘doing’ something active by recovering\, by healing. That is ‘productive!’ Whew! I am not wasting life.  \n  \nBut then I read the rest of The Basic Principle. “Practicing Buddhism is to be alive in each moment. When we practice sitting or walking\, we have the means to do it perfectly. During the rest of the day\, we also practice. It is more difficult\, but it is possible. The sitting and the walking must be extended to the non-walking\, non-sitting moments of our day. That is the basic principle of meditation.”  Not wasting life is not about being active\, or being active in being inactive. It’s not about being ‘productive\,’ although I’ve never been proud of the word nor used it as a complimentary personal characteristic. Moment by moment being active and aware\, being still and aware. Being in the moment\, every moment. Not wasting life is about being alive in each moment. It is not about always doing something. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nMorning Walk \n  \nIn the park \nImmersed in birdsong \nDrowned in trees \nI breathe it in \nUntil I smile \n  \n—Kristen Sagan \n* \n  \nMeditation and Mindfulness are simply the Art of paying attention. This is the most wonderful time of year\, when we can first take a walk outside after a cold winter and enjoy seeing the new life that comes\, without any need but the energy of life. The pink azaleas have bloomed\, and the magnificent magnolias. The ground is polka dotted after a wind with plum blossoms. This week on my son’s farm\, three sheep have given birth to one lamb each. Each one a surprise because their winter wool hides the mamas’ full bellies. Surprise and awe are two of the gifts of a happy life.  \n  \nThis sense of transformation is also ours just by noticing and being present to how we feel when happiness or kindness shows up.  \n  \nMy wish for us all this beautiful month of spring is to enjoy and notice the rebirth in the world; this can resonate within ourselves.  If you don’t have a wonderful outside view\, may you find some quiet time for breathing meditation.  I like to take that time every day at 3 p.m. and know that others are creating lovingkindness energy along with me.  In Vietnam at the same time\, Thich Nhat Hanh and Sister Chan Kong and the monks and nuns will be meditating together in the morning after ringing the temple bell.   \n  \nHere is a note from Thich Nhat Hanh on what we can do paying attention to our breath: \n  \n“Our breathing is a stable solid ground that is always there for us to take refuge in. Whenever we are carried away by regret about something that has happened\, or swept away in our fears or anxiety in the future\, we can return to our breathing\, and re-establish ourselves in the present moment.  \n  \nWe don’t need to control the breath in any way. We simply encounter it\, just as it is. It may be long or short\, deep or shallow. With the gentle energy of mindfulness it will naturally become slower and deeper.” \n  \nPeace and Love\,   \n  \nIf i could I would send you all peach blossoms\,     \n  \n—Katie Radditz
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-4-15-21/
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