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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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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  6/2/22
DESCRIPTION:painting of Walt Whitman by Rick Bartow \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n\n  \nJune 2\, 2022 \n  \n  \nWalt on my mind…and in my heart \n  \n  \nToday (5/31/22) is Walt Whitman’s 203rd birthday. We celebrated last Sunday with a group reading of “Song of Myself” on Zoom. It was exhilarating! The readers were Alan Benditt\, Steve Cackley\, Nick Eldredge Brent Gregston\, Perrin Kerns\, Andy Larkin\, Ken Margolis\, Todd Oleson\, Katie Radditz\, Jude Russell\, Kristen Sagan\, Toby Scales\, Jeffrey Sher\, Nancy Scharbach\, Kim Stafford\, Johnny Stallings\, Howard Thoresen and Max Walter. \n  \nIn the fourth issue of “peace\, love & happiness\,” we celebrated Walt Whitman. Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-walt-whitman-issue-4-9-4-15/ \n  \nWe just inaugurated a Friends of Walt archive on the Open Road website. There are lots of treasures! Check it out! \n  \nhttps://openroadpdx.com/event/friends-of-walt-an-archive/ \n  \nSo\, I’ve been thinking about my friend Walt a lot lately. He published his first book of poems\, Leaves of Grass\, in 1855. It contained 12 poems\, including the one he later named “Song of Myself. (In the original edition\, the poems didn’t have names.) He sent a copy to Ralph Waldo Emerson\, who wrote back to him: \n  \n  \nCONCORD\, MASSACHUSETTS\, 21 July\, 1855 \n  \nDEAR SIR– \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  \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  \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  \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  \nR. W. EMERSON \n* \n  \nKim Stafford sent this: \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  \nO 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–from the essay “The Poet” by Ralph Waldo Emerson \n* \nDuring the Civil War\, like our friend Ken Margolis\, Walt did hospice work—giving comfort to the sick and dying. He had the first of a series of strokes in 1873\, which left him partially paralyzed. His book Specimen Days was published in 1882. It’s a kind of journal that gives an account of his thoughts and experiences during the Civil War and up to the time it was published.  \nWalt continued to write poems and add them to Leaves of Grass. He revised it five times before he died\, in 1892\, at the age of 72. His friend Robert G. Ingersoll—(whose essay “Crimes Against Criminals” was featured in Issue #7 of “peace\, love & happiness”: https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-5-7-5-13/)–gave a speech at Walt Whitman’s grave. Here it is: \n  \nAddress at the Funeral of Walt Whitman \n  \nAgain\, 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 tribute to his greatness and his worth. \n  \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. He 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. \n  \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. \n  \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 until the sun excludes you will I exclude you.” \n  \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. \n  \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 the recklessness of genius to winds and waves and tides; caring for nothing so long as the stars were above him. He walked among men\, among writers\, among verbal varnishers and veneerers\, among literary milliners and tailors\, with the unconscious majesty of an antique god. \n  \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 has ever said more for the rights of humanity\, more in favor of real democracy\, of real justice. He 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. \n  \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. \n  \nHe was the poet of Love. He was not ashamed of that divine passion that has built every home; 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. \n  \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. \n  \nHe stretched out his hands 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. \n  \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. \n  \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 as a divine melody. \n  \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 can not\, he accepted and absorbed all theories\, all creeds\, all religions\, and believed in none. His 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. \n  \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. Frank\, 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. \n  \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. \n  \nHe was not afraid to live; not afraid to die. For many years he and Death lived 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. \n  \nHe never lost his hope. When the mists filled the valleys\, he looked upon the mountain tops\, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared\, fixed his gaze upon the stars. \n  \nIn his brain were the blessed memories of the day and in his heart were mingled the dawn and dusk of life. \n  \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 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. \n  \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. \n  \nToday we give back to Mother Nature\, to her clasp and kiss\, one of the bravest\, sweetest souls that ever lived in human clay. \n  \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. \n  \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. \n  \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. \n  \nAnd so I lay this little wreath upon this great man’s tomb. I loved him living\, and I love him still. \n  \n—Robert G. Ingersoll\, at Harleigh\, Camden\, New Jersey\, March 30\, 1892
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-6-2-22/
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