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DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220615
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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  5/15/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n   \nMay 15\, 2022 \n  \nA child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; \nHow could I answer the child?  I do not know what it is any more than he…. \n  \nThe smallest sprout shows there is really no death…. \n  \nAll truths wait in all things…. \n  \nI believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars… \nAnd a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. \n  \n—from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman \n* \n  \nAlbrecht Dürer’s painting reminds me of Walt Whitman’s poem. Both were born in May—Dürer on May 21st\, 1471\, Walt on May 31st\, 1819. At the end of May\, I like to get together with friends and read Song of Myself. \n  \nMeditation and mindfulness are important to me on my life journey. They help me to see and appreciate the miraculous nature of our human life on Earth. Walt’s poem has also been a great help to me. I’ve carried it with me since I was 18. It reminds me that my self is as big as the world\, without beginning or end. It is the wisest and most exuberant utterance to come out of America. Maybe the world. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nTimely Thoughts \n  \nPeople talk of time\, \nSpeak of time with wonder— \nBut what is time\, \nWhy all the thunder? \n  \nWhere’s the lightning \nThe brilliant flash of proof? \nTangible time\, \nIntangible truth! \n  \nThis talk creates storms\, \nAnd brings nightmares to life; \nNightmares I say\, \nAnd terrible strife. \n  \nWe do not need time\, \nIt is time that needs us. \nWait\, what is time— \nAnd why all the fuss? \n  \n—Joshua Barnes © 2022 \n* \n  \nJude and Michel both wrote in response to Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditation “Long Live Impermanence.” (JS) \n  \n#273 Long Live Impermanence! \n  \n“If you suffer\, it’s not because things are impermanent. It’s because you believe things are permanent. When a flower dies\, you don’t suffer much\, because you understand that flowers are impermanent. But you cannot accept the impermanence of your beloved one\, and you suffer deeply when she passes away. If you look deeply into impermanence\, you will do your best to make her happy right now. Aware of impermanence\, you become positive\, loving\, and wise. \n  \nImpermanence is good news. Without impermanence\, nothing would be possible. With impermanence\, every door is open for change. Instead of complaining\, we should say\, ‘Long live impermanence!’ Impermanence is an instrument for our liberation.”  \n  \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nMy dad had a conflicted relationship with impermanence/permanence. Here are two stories that show that conflict: \n  \nHe was a doctor and had witnessed many deaths in his medical career. His many patients loved him\, and he always showed care and great concern for them. When it came to his own life and death\, he was very clear—adamant\, even: “If found unconscious\, do not resuscitate!” To people visiting him in his late 80s\, he had a small plate with slips of paper with the note printed on it. He would offer the plate to friends as if offering a plate of Oreos. “Here\, take one\,” he’d say\, as they walked in the door.  \n  \nHe wrote his own obituary\, professing no big deal that he’d died. Closing statement: “He’s dead. There’s no more Ed!”  You get the picture. \n  \nWe three daughters knew his wishes\, so when his health was failing and he’d experienced a few hospital stays\, we were in accord as to what to do. On his return from one hospital bout\, in his very weakened condition\, my sisters assigned me to talk to him about his choices. I knelt beside him\, tears streaming down my cheeks\, held his hand and explained\, “Dad\, we know your wishes\, and we’ll honor that. You can choose to refuse to eat\, if you believe it’s time. We can’t withhold food from you\, but you can choose not to eat. Or you can choose not to drink water\, but we’ve been told that that is a very painful way to do this. So you can do this\, refuse to eat\, if you want to—we won’t force you\, you know that.” He looked at me a little sweetly puzzled and bewildered\, and said\, “But I like to eat.”  At which we all burst out laughing\, and I said\, “Well\, then let’s make you a bacon sandwich!” \n  \nThe second story is more in keeping with his credo of impermanence. \n  \nA couple years after our mom died\, Dad reignited a long-lost love story with a high school sweetie\, Ginnie. Ginnie’s husband had died also\, and she and Dad started exchanging flurries of letters between Vancouver\, Wa. and Loudonville\, Ohio. He told us he wanted Ginnie to come to Washington so they could get married. All he could talk about was Ginnie and her sweet brown eyes and soft brown hair. (We reminded him that she might look a little different at 90 yrs old than at 17.)  To test the waters\, we all made a trip to Ohio and reunited the two of them for a sweet\, five day visit. We returned to the Pacific Northwest and they kept up the flurry of lovey letter writing.  \n  \nWe noticed at some point that Ginnie hadn’t been writing anymore. No letters for several months\, so I called her caregiver in Loudonville\, and she told me\, chagrined that she’d forgotten to let us know\, that Ginnie had died! Oh no! How are we going to break the news to Dad?!?! So again\, I knelt down beside his reading chair and said\, “Dad\, I have some very sad news to tell you. I’m so sorry…but we just learned that Ginnie—your Ginnie has died.” Dad let the news sink in\, then cocked his head and said\, “Well… she was old.” \n  \nImpermanence acknowledged. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nApril 26\, 2022 \n  \nWisdom rests here. How we face\, accept and adapt to impermanence will play out in our suffering. Allow me to explain. (Read Thây’s writing first!) When I set up an ideal (not reality\, but an interpretation of how I expect reality to be) and reality doesn’t fulfill my “ideal\,” then I suffer—get upset or anxious\, etc. When I can just exist in this moment as it is with no expectations\, then I can be present\, loving\, compassionate and open to all the opportunities the now presents. I have freedom to flow with the reality as it is\, instead of fighting with it for what I want it to be\, but can’t have. Doing this I become a petulant selfish child demanding my way\, attempting to force reality to fit in my box. \n  \nSadly\, it never works like this. We’ve all tried. I have never gotten this to resolve positively; only as more suffering in now\, and later on too! Impermanence is the hero of my story of suffering. All I need to do for the thing I dislike\, or wish were different\, is wait. I don’t have to attach\, judge\, work to change anything; all I need is to accept what is. Shortly all will shift\, and over time things will change. It may not always be my idea of better\, but it will be different. If I accept\, I avoid suffering. (Acceptance does not include grasping or holding on tightly—hold with open hands.) If I attempt to control\, grasp\, hold\, define\, judge\, change—then I get suffering. Long live impermanence! \n  \nHere’s another passage from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh\, and Michel’s meditation on it. (JS) \n  \n#267  How Strange \n  \n“At the moment of his awakening at the foot of the Bodhi tree\, the Buddha declared\, ‘How strange! All beings possess the capacity to be awakened\, to understand\, to love\, to be free\, yet they allow themselves to be carried away on the ocean of suffering.’ He saw that\, day and night\, we’re seeking what is already there within us.” \n  \nApril 14\, 2022 \n  \nHow strange\, indeed! That we should spend (waste even) an entire lifetime in search of that which is already within us. We have only to awaken to what already is. Somehow that is the challenge/trial of our individual quests; to come to an end of self and a realization that what we seek is and has always been within us all along. Instead\, many run around aimlessly for years and decades and lifetimes (multiples for some)\, looking to find our relief in something/someone external. Some seek money\, fame\, beauty\, youth\, knowledge\, possessions\, status\, mates (trophies?)\, glory\, progeny\, legacy\, food\, alcohol\, drugs\, sex\, anything to excess. \n  \nCan I (you-we) stop this endless running for just a moment\, please? Look at the man/woman in the mirror. Is anything external satisfying the “itch” for which we quest to resolve? No?! Face the man/woman in the mirror; get to know him/her; learn to love\, accept\, and express compassion for him/her. And if I’m wrong (I doubt it on this one occasion) what has been lost? Nothing! You’ve only spent some time learning to come home to your true home—your true self. And if I’m right (since I’m only restating wisdom of wiser folks) you’ve started to heal and come home. Welcome home! \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n     Desert Song School \n  \nIn this tattered paradise we left them—these \nacres of muddy reed where the maze of ditch \nand dike lets every wing and cry be sovereign— \nwhen dawn starts the chant by sweet cacophony \nof bittern\, heron\, crane and teal through mist \nin harmony oblique\, a mozart fledgling nested \nin thistledown must mutter her first yearning \nproclamation\, her aria profundo\, shrill or secret \nto split silence be she egret\, avocet\, stilt or tern\, \nibis\, shoveler\, shearling\, pelican or snipe \nto dwell inside a symphony\, to try her tune \nbefore she learns to fly or feed or seek a mate\, \nher one and only way with song\, brief life cry \nwhere waters glitter for the rising sun. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nSmall Kindnesses \n  \nLast week I thought about my mother on Mother’s Day and on her birthday\, Friday\, May 13. Sometimes these anniversaries fall on the same day. I have always liked the pause of remembering my mother and being mindful of how much of her very cells I carry with me. She died from kidney failure when I was in my early 20’s\, so this year I realized I have had 50 years of looking back on my mother’s kindness and my short time with her. I hope you all enjoyed thinking of your mom and loving-kindness.  \n  \nMother’s Day began as a holiday to mark and value peace and kindness toward all persons. Julia Ward Howe made a plea for no more sending our sons to wars. Mother’s Day had a lot of that meaning for us this year.    \n  \nKindness is something we all value. But sometimes we take it for granted. Especially small kindnesses. A couple of weeks ago\, I was taking care of my grandsons. Sylvan\, who is nine years old\, is homeschooling. He had a zoom class on African history and culture that he attended that day. There was a story about the most wealthy King in Africa\, pre-colonization. The King was especially known and loved for his generosity and kindness. The class teacher asked the kids if they could tell about someone who had been generous and kind to them recently. Or could they tell about something they had done for someone else out of kindness? The children\, who had had all kinds of things to say earlier in class\, made no comments. None of the kids had a response! The teacher even told of some small kindness done for her to prompt them\, but nooo. I talked with Sylvan afterward and I realized as a youngster he takes things for granted that adults do for him\, when he’s hungry he gets fed or helps fix the food\, or if he needs a ride his parents take him. And when he is nice to someone there’s always a good reason for working things out. It made me realize that kindness is a concept. Children are naturally living in the moment. And it’s our consciousness that helps us be kind in our actions and aware of kindness done toward us. This consciousness helps open our hearts with mindfulness. \n  \nMy friend Jennifer\, referring to the bumper sticker “Practice random acts of kindness\,” said that it’s a gift when we intentionally do something for a person to make life easier.  \n  \nHere is a poem to prompt us to be aware of kindness and how it makes us feel:    \n  \nSmall Kindnesses \n  \nI’ve been thinking about the way\, when you walk\ndown a crowded aisle\, people pull in their legs\nto let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”\nwhen someone sneezes\, a leftover\nfrom the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die\,” we are saying.\nAnd sometimes\, when you spill lemons\nfrom your grocery bag\, someone else will help you\npick them up. Mostly\, we don’t want to harm each other.\nWe want to be handed our cup of coffee hot\,\nand to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile\nat them and for them to smile back. For the waitress\nto call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder\,\nand for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.\nWe have so little of each other\, now. So far\nfrom tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.\nWhat if they are the true dwelling of the holy\, these\nfleeting temples we make together when we say\, “Here\,\nhave my seat\,” “Go ahead—you first\,” “I like your hat.”  \n  \n—Danusha Lameris\, from Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection \n  \nHealing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection is an anthology that includes poems by Ross Gay\, Marie Howe\, Naomi Shihab Nye and many others. The poems urge us in these polarized times to “move past the negativity that often fills the airwaves\, and to embrace the ordinary moments of kindness and connection that fill our days.”     \n  \nWishing you and the world\, Peace and Kindness     \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-5-15-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220519
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220602
DTSTAMP:20260427T014247
CREATED:20220520T234448Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T131329Z
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  5/19/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nMay 19\, 2022 \n  \n  \nThe Infinite a sudden Guest \nHas been assumed to be— \nBut how can that stupendous come \nWhich never went away? \n  \n* \n  \nA Light exists in Spring \nNot present on the Year \nAt any other period — \nWhen March is scarcely here \n  \nA Color stands abroad \nOn Solitary Fields \nThat Science cannot overtake \nBut Human Nature feels. \n  \nIt waits upon the Lawn\, \nIt shows the furthest Tree \nUpon the furthest Slope you know \nIt almost speaks to you. \n  \nThen as Horizons step \nOr Noons report away \nWithout the Formula of sound \nIt passes and we stay — \n  \nA quality of loss \nAffecting our Content \nAs Trade has suddenly encroached \nUpon a Sacrament. \n  \n—Emily Dickinson \n* \n  \nO Taste and See \n  \nThe world is  \nnot with us enough \nO taste and see \n  \nthe subway Bible poster said\, \nmeaning The Lord\, meaning \nif anything all that lives \nto the imagination’s tongue\, \n  \ngrief\, mercy\, language\, \ntangerine\, weather\, to \nbreathe them\, bite\, \nsavor\, chew\, swallow\, transform \n  \ninto our flesh our \ndeaths\, crossing the street\, plum quince\, \nliving in the orchard and being \n  \nhungry\, and plucking \nthe fruit. \n  \nDenise Levertov  (1923-1997) \n* \n  \nfrom My Wisdom \n  \nWhen people have a lot \nthey want more \n  \nWhen people have nothing \nthey will happily share it \n  \n* \n  \nSilence waits \nfor truth to break it \n  \n* \n  \nCalendars can weep too \nThey want us to have better days \n  \n* \n  \nWelcome to every minute \nFeel lucky you’re still in it \n  \n* \n  \nNo bird builds a wall \n  \n* \n  \nWon’t give up \nour hopes \n            for anything! \n  \n* \n  \nNot your fault \nYou didn’t make the world \n  \n* \n  \nRefuse to give \n   mistakes \n      too much power \n  \n* \n  \nBabies want to help us \nThey laugh \nfor no reason \n  \n* \n  \n Pay close attention to \na drop of water \non the kitchen table \n  \n–Naomi Shihab Nye  \n* \n  \nHappiness \n  \nThere’s just no accounting for happiness\, \nor the way it turns up like a prodigal \nwho comes back to the dust at your feet \nhaving squandered a fortune far away. \n  \nAnd how can you not forgive? \nYou make a feast in honor of what \nwas lost\, and take from its place the finest \ngarment\, which you saved for an occasion \nyou could not imagine\, and you weep night and day \nto know that you were not abandoned\, \nthat happiness saved its most extreme form \nfor you alone. \n  \nNo\, happiness is the uncle you never \nknew about\, who flies a single-engine plane \nonto the grassy landing strip\, hitchhikes \ninto town\, and inquires at every door \nuntil he finds you asleep midafternoon \nas you so often are during the unmerciful \nhours of your despair. \n  \nIt comes to the monk in his cell. \nIt comes to the woman sweeping the street \nwith a birch broom\, to the child \nwhose mother has passed out from drink. \nIt comes to the lover\, to the dog chewing \na sock\, to the pusher\, to the basketmaker\, \nand to the clerk stacking cans of carrots \nin the night. \n                     It even comes to the boulder \nin the perpetual shade of pine barrens\, \nto rain falling on the open sea\, \nto the wineglass\, weary of holding wine. \n  \n–Jane Kenyon  (1947-1995) \n* \n  \nfrom Reconciliation: A Prayer \n  \nII. \nOh sun\, moon\, stars\, our other relatives peering at us from the inside of god’s house walk with us as we climb into the next century naked but for the stories we have of each other. Keep us from giving up in this land of nightmares which is also the land of miracles. \n  \nWe sing our song which we’ve been promised has no beginning or end. \n  \nIII. \nAll acts of kindness are lights in the war for justice. \n  \nIV. \nWe gather up these strands broken from the web of life. They shiver with our love\, as we call them the names of our relatives and carry them to our home made of the four directions and sing: \n  \nOf the south\, where we feasted and were given new clothes. \n  \nOf the west\, where we gave up the best of us to the stars as food for the battle. \n  \nOf the north\, where we cried because we were forsaken by our dreams. \n  \nOf the east because returned to us is the spirit of all we love. \n  \n–Joy Harjo  (1951- ) (Currently Poet Laureate of the United States) \n* \n  \nAt Blackwater Pond \n  \nAt Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled \nafter a night of rain. \nI dip my cupped hands. I drink \na long time. It tastes \nlike stone\, leaves\, fire. It falls cold \ninto my body\, waking the bones. I hear them \ndeep inside me\, whispering \noh what is that beautiful thing \nthat just happened? \n  \n–Mary Oliver  (1935-2019) \n* \n  \nMiracle Fair \n  \nCommonplace miracle: \nthat so many commonplace miracles happen. \n  \nAn ordinary miracle: \nin the dead of night \nthe barking of invisible dogs. \n  \nOne miracle out of many: \na small\, airy cloud \nyet it can block a large and heavy moon. \n  \nSeveral miracles in one: \nan alder tree reflected in the water\, \nand that it’s backwards left to right \nand that it grows there\, crown down \nand never reaches the bottom\, \neven though the water is shallow. \n  \nAn everyday miracle: \nwinds weak to moderate \nturning gusty in storms. \n  \nFirst among equal miracles: \ncows are cows. \n  \nSecond to none: \njust this orchard \nfrom just that seed. \n  \nA miracle without a cape and top hat: \nscattering white doves. \n  \nA miracle\, for what else could you call it: \ntoday the sun rose at three-fourteen \nand will set at eight-o-one. \n  \nA miracle\, less surprising than it should be: \neven though the hand has fewer than six fingers\, \nit still has more than four. \n  \nA miracle\, just take a look around: \nthe world is everywhere. \n  \nAn additional miracle\, as everything is additional: \nthe unthinkable \nis thinkable. \n  \n  \n–Wisława Szymborska  (1923-2012) \n* \n  \nThe Award \n  \nThough not \nA contest \nLife \nIs \nThe award \n& we \nHave \nWon. \n* \n  \nDespite the Hunger \n  \nDespite \nthe hunger \nwe cannot \npossess \nmore \nthan \nthis: \nPeace \nin a garden \nof \nour own. \n  \n\n–Alice Walker  (1944- ) \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-5-19-22/
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DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220530
DTSTAMP:20260427T014247
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UID:2057-1653004800-1653868799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Take a tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
DESCRIPTION:Mask of the Punu people of southern Gabon (19th-20th Century) \n  \nBrowse through the 375\,000 high-resolution images of public domain works from the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art! Here’s a link: \n  \nhttps://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection \n  \nYou can read more about this mask here: \n  \nhttps://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/318667 \n  \nPeace\, Love & Beauty \n  \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/take-a-tour-of-the-metropolitan-museum-of-art/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220529
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220530
DTSTAMP:20260427T014247
CREATED:20220530T175959Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20240616T191444Z
UID:2831-1653782400-1653868799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Friends of Walt: An Archive
DESCRIPTION:painting of Walt Whitman by Rick Bartow \n  \n  \nTo celebrate Walt’s 205th Birthday\, Johnny Stallings performed “Song of Myself” on May 31st\, in Muir Hall at Taborspace\, in Portland.We read from and talked about “Song of Myself” for ¡Bibliophiles Unanimous! on Sunday\,June 2nd. Here’s what Robert G. Ingersoll said at Walt Whitman’s funeral: \n  \nRobert Ingersoll’s Tribute to Walt Whitman \n  \nMY FRIENDS: Again we\, in the mystery of Life\, are brought face to face with the mystery of Death. A great man\, a great American\, the most eminent citizen of this Republic\, lies dead before us\, and we have met to pay a tribute to his greatness and his worth. \nI know he needs no words of mine. His fame is secure. He laid the foundations of it deep in the human heart and brain. \nHe was\, above all I have known\, the poet of humanity\, of sympathy. He was so great that he rose above the greatest that he met without arrogance\, and so great that he stooped to the lowest without conscious condescension. He never claimed to be lower or greater than any of the sons of men. \nHe came into our generation a free\, untrammeled spirit\, with sympathy for all. His arm was beneath the form of the sick. He sympathized with the imprisoned and despised\, and even on the brow of crime he was great enough to place the kiss of human sympathy. \nOne of the greatest lines in our literature is his\, and the line is great enough to do honor to the greatest genius that has ever lived. He said\, speaking of an outcast: “Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you.” \nHis charity was as wide as the sky\, and wherever there was human suffering\, human misfortune\, the sympathy of Whitman bent above it as the firmament bends above the earth. \nHe was built on a broad and splendid plan—ample\, without appearing to have limitations—passing easily for a brother of mountains and seas and constellations; caring nothing for the little maps and charts with which timid pilots hug the shore\, but giving himself freely with recklessness of genius to winds and waves and tides; caring for nothing as long as the stars were above him. \nHe walked among men\, among writers\, among verbal varnishers and veneerers\, among literary milliners and tailors\, with the unconscious majesty of an antique god. \nHe was the poet of that divine democracy which gives equal rights to all the sons and daughters of men. He uttered the great American voice; uttered a song worthy of the great Republic. No man ever said more for the rights of humanity\, more in favor of real democracy\, of real justice. \nHe neither scorned nor cringed\, was neither tyrant nor slave. He asked only to stand the equal of his fellows beneath the great flag of nature\, the blue and stars. \nHe was the poet of Life. It was a joy simply to breathe. He loved the clouds; he enjoyed the breath of morning\, the twilight\, the wind\, the winding streams. He loved to look at the sea when the waves burst into the whitecaps of joy. He loved the fields\, the hills; he was acquainted with the trees\, with birds\, with all the beautiful objects of the earth. He not only saw these objects\, but understood their meaning\, and he used them that he might exhibit his heart to his fellow-men. \nHe was the poet of Love. He was not ashamed of that divine passion that has built every home in the world; that divine passion that has painted every picture and given us every real work of art; that divine passion that has made the world worth living in and has given some value to human life. \nHe was the poet of the natural\, and taught men not to be ashamed of that which is natural. He was not only the poet of democracy\, not only the poet of the great Republic\, but he was the Poet of the human race. He was not confined to the limits of this country\, but his sympathy went out over the seas to all the nations of the earth. \nHe stretched out his hand and felt himself the equal of all kings and of all princes\, and the brother of all men\, no matter how high\, no matter how low. \nHe has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our century\, possibly of almost any other. He was\, above all things\, a man\, and above genius\, above all the snow-capped peaks of intelligence\, above all art\, rises the true man\, Greater than all is the true man\, and he walked among his fellow-men as such. \nHe was the poet of Death. He accepted all life and all death\, and he justified all. He had the courage to meet all\, and was great enough and splendid enough to harmonize all and to accept all there is of life as a divine melody. \nYou know better than I what his life has been\, but let me say one thing. Knowing\, as he did\, what others can know and what they cannot\, he accepted and absorbed all theories\, all creeds\, all religions\, and believed in none. \nHis philosophy was a sky that embraced all clouds and accounted for all clouds. He had a philosophy and a religion of his own\, broader\, as he believed—and as I believe—than others. He accepted all\, he understood all\, and he was above all. \nHe was absolutely true to himself. He had frankness and courage\, and he was as candid as light. He was willing that all the sons of men should be absolutely acquainted with his heart and brain. He had nothing to conceal. \nFrank\, candid\, pure\, serene\, noble\, and yet for years he was maligned and slandered\, simply because he had the candor of nature. He will be understood yet\, and that for which he was condemned—his frankness\, his candor—will add to the glory and greatness of his fame. \nHe wrote a liturgy for mankind; he wrote a great and splendid psalm of life\, and he gave to us the gospel of humanity—the greatest gospel that can be preached. \nHe was not afraid to live\, not afraid to die. For many years he and death were near neighbors. He was always willing and ready to meet and greet this king called death\, and for many months he sat in the deepening twilight waiting for the night\, waiting for the light. \nHe never lost his hope. When the mists filled the valleys\, he looked upon the mountaintops\, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared\, he fixed his gaze upon the stars. \nIn his brain were the blessed memories of the day\, and in his heart were mingled the dawn and dusk of life. \nHe was not afraid; he was cheerful every moment. The laughing nymphs of day did not desert him. They remained that they might clasp the hands and greet with smiles the veiled and silent sisters of the night. And when they did come\, Walt Whitman stretched his hand to them. On one side were the nymphs of the day\, and on the other the silent sisters of the night\, and so\, hand in hand\, between smiles and tears\, he reached his journey’s end. \nFrom the frontier of life\, from the western wave-kissed shore\, he sent us messages of content and hope\, and these messages seem now like strains of music blown by the “Mystic Trumpeter” from Death’s pale realm. \nToday we give back to Mother Nature\, to her clasp and kiss\, one of the bravest\, sweetest souls that ever lived in human clay. \nCharitable as the air and generous as Nature\, he was negligent of all except to do and say what he believed he should do and should say. \nAnd I today thank him\, not only for you but for myself—for all the brave words he has uttered. I thank him for all the great and splendid words he has said in favor of liberty\, in favor of man and woman\, in favor of motherhood\, in favor of fathers\, in favor of children\, and I thank him for the brave words that he has said of death. \nHe has lived\, he has died\, and death is less terrible than it was before. Thousands and millions will walk down into the “dark valley of the shadow” holding Walt Whitman by the hand. Long after we are dead the brave words he has spoken will sound like trumpets to the dying. \nAnd so I lay this little wreath upon this great man’s tomb. I loved him living\, and I love him still. \n  \n—Camden\, New Jersey\, March 30\, 1892 \n  \n  \nThe origin of Friends of Walt comes from an email that Kim Stafford sent me  after our annual reading of “Song of Myself” to celebrate Walt Whitman’s Birthday on May 29th\, 2022. Here’s what he wrote: \n  \nFollowing our shining session today\, would you like to invite the group to send you citations for Whitmania\, to be compiled and shared with everyone: title and author of biographies\, the URL for the Billy Collins talk on YouTube\, Will’s source of quotation for how Emily Dickinson appreciated Whitman\, and anything else. A sort of reading list for us to peruse before the next annual reading? \n  \nJust a thought…and if you reply “Good idea–why don’t you do it?” … we can collaborate. (Perrin’s looking up citations now.) \n  \nHave I ever told you the story about how my father was saved from being lynched in Arkansas in the winter of 1942 because he was reading Whitman when the mob came? We could put that in the bibliography\, too. \n  \n–Kim \n*\n \n\n Okay\, so here we go!\n \n \nStarting with a poem Kim wrote today (5/30/22) about how Walt Whitman saved his dad’s life:\n\n \n \nThe story about Whitman saving my dad…which is told in the first chapter of Down in My Heart…and which Keith Scales made into a little play to perform one time at the Portland Poetry Festival for my dad\, after his last reading\, early August 1993.\n\n  \n\n\n  \n         Memorial Day: How Walt Whitman \n            Saved My Farther from the Mob \n  \nOne Sunday afternoon in 1942\, three peace warriors \nwalked into a little town in Arkansas to loaf by the station \nand take their ease. They were strangers there\, so locals \ngathered\, curious. “What’s that you’re writing?” said one\, \ngrabbing the page. “Why sir\, it’s a poem.” “That aint poetry— \nit don’t rhyme. It’s code. And you! What’s that you’re drawing?” \n“Just a sketch.” “That aint no sketch\, bub—it’s a map for Hitler.” \n“Get a rope!” someone cried out\, and time got bright and fast.  \n“And you!” the hothead shouted at my father\, “What’s that book?”  \nand snatched it\, slapped it open\, and began to read aloud to prove  \npoetry had to rhyme. But lynching’s logic faltered as his fury  \ntrailed off in a run of wild words\, and time slowed down again.  \n“Call the sheriff!” someone shouted\, as the crowd hummed \nand muttered like a hive until the sheriff came\, blustered  \nmy father and his friends into his car\, slammed the door\,  \nturned and said\, “Let’s get you boys out of town.” \n  \nFailing to catch me at first keep encouraged\,  \nMissing me one place search another\,  \nI stop somewhere waiting for you.  \n\n  \n–Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nPerrin Kerns turned me on to some gorgeous videos by Jennifer Crandall. The URL address is \n  \nwhitmanalabama.com.  \n\n \nAlan Benditt sent this link to a video of Charlie Rose talking with Allen Ginsberg\, Sharon Olds and Galway Kinnell about Walt Whitman:\n \n \nhttps://charlierose.com/videos/20510\n\n\n\n \nThis is our little homemade archive. Jeffrey Sher and Kim Stafford sent a link to the University of Nebraska’s vast online Whitman Archive. You can find all kinds of treasures here:\n \n \nhttps://whitmanarchive.org\n \n \nKim said:\n \n \nToday [5/30/22] I’ve been spending some time at this Grand Central Station of Walt Whitman sources\, reading his fiction and journalism\, some so pedestrian it makes Leaves of Grass even more miraculous.\n \n \nToday\, May 31\, 2022\, is Walt Whitman’s 203rd birthday. Happy Birthday\, Walt!!! Howard Thoresen sent a link to the wax cylinder recording that Thomas Edison made of Walt Whitman\, in his old age\, reading or reciting his poem “America.” Here’s what Howard said:\n \n \nThis one has a lot of noise on it but I find it easier to hear than the cleaned up version (maybe because the text is on the screen):\n \n \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBX2L_Re5Cc\n \n \nKim’s response to Howard (5/31/22):\n \n \nThank you\, Howard. If we only we had Walt at 37 reading with full verve. But all the same\, amazing to hear this voice.\n\n\n\n\n \n Johnny\, we might include for the page this mysterious ad from Volvo\, where lines from “Song of the Open Road” are used without attribution:\n \n \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42ZMi0DnMtE\n\n\n\n \n \nWalt selling freedom\, Volvo selling cars…and a little love story folded in where the writer is scruffy hero with expensive wheels. Maybe there’s a Kerouac vibe implied as well.\n \n \n–Kim\n*\n\n\n\n \n \nTo celebrate Walt’s birthday today (5/31/22) I want to share one of my favorite short poems of his:\n \n \nBEGINNING MY STUDIES\n \n \nBeginning my studies the first step pleas’d me so much\, \nThe mere fact consciousness\, these forms\, the power of motion\, \nThe least insect or animal\, the senses\, eyesight\, love\, \nThe first step I say awed me and pleas’d me so much\, \nI have hardly gone and hardly wish’d to go any farther\, \nBut stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs. \n\n\n \n \n–Walt Whitman \n*\n \n \nWill Hornyak recommended a talk that Billy Collins gave on Whitman. Here’s the link:\n\n\n\n\n  \n\n\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VYnkdcDQZA\n\n\n\n\n\n  \n  \n Here’s an interview I did about “Song of Myself” on Marfa Public Radio in 2017: \n  \n  \n \n\n\n \n \nKim sent this:\n \n \nNeed we look further for where Whitman got his cadence than Emerson…perhaps from the essay you mentioned\, “The Poet\,” which Emerson must have composed\, or perhaps revised\, aloud\, in preparation to deliver it as a lecture\, oration\, or operatic performance. Think of the young Whitman\, after toiling on some journalistic task\, encountering music like this last paragraph of Emerson’s essay:\n \n \n     O poet! a new nobility is conferred in groves and pastures\, and not in castles\, or by the sword-blade\, any longer. The conditions are hard\, but equal. Thou shalt leave the world\, and know the muse only. Thou shalt not know any longer the times\, customs\, graces\, politics\, or opinions of men\, but shalt take all from the muse. For the time of towns is tolled from the world by funereal chimes\, but in nature the universal hours are counted by succeeding tribes of animals and plants\, and by growth of joy on joy. God wills also that thou abdicate a manifold and duplex life\, and that thou be content that others speak for thee. Others shall be thy gentlemen\, and shall represent all courtesy and worldly life for thee; others shall do the great and resounding actions also. Thou shalt lie close hid with nature\, and canst not be afforded to the Capitol or the Exchange. The world is full of renunciations and apprenticeships\, and this is thine: thou must pass for a fool and a churl for a long season. This is the screen and sheath in which Pan has protected his well-beloved flower\, and thou shalt be known only to thine own\, and they shall console thee with tenderest love. And thou shalt not be able to rehearse the names of thy friends in thy verse\, for an old shame before the holy ideal. And this is the reward: that the ideal shall be real to thee\, and the impressions of the actual world shall fall like summer rain\, copious\, but not troublesome\, to thy invulnerable essence. Thou shalt have the whole land for thy park and manor\, the sea for thy bath and navigation\, without tax and without envy; the woods and the rivers thou shalt own; and thou shalt possess that wherein others are only tenants and boarders. Thou true land-lord! sea-lord! air-lord! Wherever snow falls\, or water flows\, or birds fly\, wherever day and night meet in twilight\, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds\, or sown with stars\, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries\, wherever are outlets into celestial space\, wherever is danger\, and awe\, and love\, there is Beauty\, plenteous as rain\, shed for thee\, and though thou shouldest walk the world over\, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble.\n \n \n–from the essay “The Poet” by Ralph Waldo Emerson\n\n\n\n\n \n \nWalt Whitman self-published his first book of poems\, Leaves of Grass\, in 1855\, when he was 36 years old. It contained 12 poems\, including the poem now titled “Song of Myself.” (In the original edition\, the poems did not have titles.) He sent a copy of the poem to Ralph Waldo Emerson\, who then sent Whitman this letter:\n \n \nCONCORD\, MASSACHUSETTS\, 21 July\, 1855\n \n \nDEAR SIR–\n \n \nI am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of “LEAVES OF GRASS.” I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it\, as great power makes us happy. It meets the demand I am always making of what seemed the sterile and stingy nature\, as if too much handiwork\, or too much lymph in the temperament\, were making our western wits fat and mean.\n \n \nI give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it. I find incomparable things said incomparably well\, as they must be. I find the courage of treatment which so delights us\, and which large perceptions can inspire.\n \n \nI greet you at the beginning of a great career\, which yet must have had a long foreground somewhere\, for such a start. I rubbed my eyes a little\, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is a sober certainty. It has the best merits\, namely\, of fortifying and encouraging.\n \n \nI did not know until I last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that I could trust the name as real and available for a post-office. I wish to see my benefactor\, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you my respects.\n \n \nR. W. EMERSON\n*\n \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/friends-of-walt-an-archive/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220529T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220529T180000
DTSTAMP:20260427T014247
CREATED:20220521T004419Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220530T174221Z
UID:2815-1653836400-1653847200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Annual Group Reading of "Song of Myself"  5/29/22
DESCRIPTION:painting of Walt Whitman by Rick Bartow \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nOn Sunday\, May 29th\, we celebrated Walt Whitman’s 203rd Birthday with our Annual Group Reading of “Song of Myself”!  \n  \nReaders included: Alan Benditt\, Steve Cackley\, Nick Eldredge\, Brent Gregston\, Perrin Kerns\, Andy Larkin\, Ken Margolis\, Todd Oleson\, Katie Radditz\, Jude Russell\, Kristen Sagan\, Toby Scales\, Nancy Scharbach\, Jeffrey Sher\, Kim Stafford\, Johnny Stallings\, Howard Thoresen and Max Walter. \n  \nAs always\, reading this poem together brings readers and listeners alike into a state of Delirious Happiness and Cosmic Consciousness!  \n  \nAfter the reading\, Kim suggested that we share recommendations for books\, articles\, videos\, et cetera\, relating to Walt Whitman. So\, on this website\, I’m going to create a page called “Friends of Walt\,” where people can share their thoughts and poems and inspirations and bibliographies. Here’s the link: \n  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-annual-group-reading-of-song-of-myself-5-29-22/
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