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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230202
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230302
DTSTAMP:20260426T085247
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  2/2/23
DESCRIPTION:poster by Rick Bartow \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 2\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to… \n…send me a short work in prose or poetry about an experience\, a person\, a conversation\, a book\, or an inspiration that changed the way you see\, experience or understand yourself and/or the world. Here’s what people sent: \n  \n  \nIn Memory of \nMy Literary Godmother \n  \nHer name was \n Miriam Soomil \n Of Russian-Jewish descent \nAnd the editor of \nThe Belmont Courier-Bulletin \nA small-town \nWeekly newspaper \nWhere I interned \nOne summer. \n  \nShe smoked \nPall Malls \nDrank black coffee \nDevoured the \nSan Francisco Chronicle \nLoved politics \nHad opinions \nQuoted Keats \nKnew history \nAdored anything \nWell-written. \n  \nI’d never \nMet anyone \nLike her. \nShe was  \nGritty\, smart \nFunny\, flawed \nBig-hearted \nAnd tough \nLike a \nThick slice \nOf dark rye    \nIn my \nWhite bread \nOzzie and Harriet \nWorld. \n  \nWe shared \nAn office \nPounded out \nNews stories \nOn massive \nUnderwood typewriters \nEdited copy \n With pencils \nCut and pasted \nWith scissors \nAnd glue pots \nBeat deadlines \nLogged \nLate nights \nAt the printer.   \n  \nShe didn’t \nSo much \nTeach me \nAs infect me \nWith language \nThe names \nOf poets \nWriters\, books \nIdeas \nAnd \nA care \nUncompromising \nFor words. \n  \nWe became friends \nAnd remained so \nFor years after. \nI visited her \nIn the cabin \nWhere she lived \nIn a grove \nOf Oak trees \nBehind Stanford University \n(Erased by bulldozers \nDecades ago.) \nHer walls \nLined with books \nHer home patrolled \nBy an enormous \nSiamese cat \nHer garden \nThick with basil \nTomatoes\, rosemary. \nWhen I became \nA working reporter \nI sent her clippings. \n  \nSometimes \nI drink \nRed jug wine \nLike I used to \nWith Miriam \nAnd raise \nA toast \nTo her \nA Mensch \nOf this world \nGenerous \nBeyond measure \nIndelibly imprinted \nUpon \nMy own \nSoul’s page. \n  \nIn whatever \nLanguage you \nNow speak \nDear friend \nMay you know \nThe eloquence \nAnd intelligence \nYou bestowed \nUpon us all. \n  \n—Will Hornyak   January 2023 \n* \n  \n                   Coincidence \n  \nFor years I tried right place\, wrong time\, \nthen right time\, but I was somewhere else \nplodding a dark street wondering where \nmy luck had gone. What are the odds \nfor happiness? Could I help chance\, \nassist coincidence\, gamble with verve? \n  \nThe first bird of dawn began to sing \nand I woke to see life on Earth as one \nbig coincidence\, this swirl of stone\, water\, \ncell\, sun\, and in good time all the rest— \nand suddenly\, there you were \ntelling me your name. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nA long time ago when I was visiting Johnny in Portland\, he got a phone call from our friend Sam. \nHe was dying of cancer—finally—after ten years or more of fighting it\, and he invited us down to Houston to attend his passing. \nIn those days it was easy to travel by air. We just went to the airport\, bought tickets\, and flew down to Houston. \nIn his last years\, after an adventurous checkered business career\, Sam had reinvented himself as an academic. \nAfter a few years\, he left Berkeley and got a job in a Texas border town\, teaching social science in a small community college. The students were all Latin American—second generation children of Mexican immigrants—newly citizened Americans hoping to realize the American Dream. \nSam was a man of the world. He gave his students\, not the usual politically correct canned curriculum\, but his best practical wisdom—like an uncle—speaking what usually remains unsaid about what it takes to get by\, to get ahead\, to simply survive\, in racist America. \nHis students adored him. \nSam met Johnny and me in the waiting room of the cancer ward\, and made us feel at home. \nIt was a Friday evening. The head hospice nurse was a friend of Sam’s.  \nShe said she was taking the weekend off to deal with family. \n“This is goodbye\, Sam. We won’t be seeing each other again.” \nSo they parted. \nSam said goodbye to Johnny and me. \nThe nurses took him away. \nVisitors were not allowed\, usually. \nBut they allowed one of his students\, a young woman with whom he was deeply bonded\, to be with him. \nShe cradled his head and gazed into his eyes as he died. \nJohnny and I were reading in the waiting room. The attendants pushed the remains of Sam on a gurney past us through the waiting room and out into the corridor\, heading for parts unknown. \nWe could see that Sam wasn’t there anymore. \n  \n—Charles Erickson \n* \n  \nLooking back on my life\, the text that changed\, and continues to change\, the way I see\, experience and understand myself in the world and as the world is Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself.” Among many other things\, he says: “All truths wait in all things.” And: “a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.” And: \n  \nWhy should I wish to see God better than this day? \nI see something of God each hour of the twenty-four\, and each moment then\, \nIn the faces of men and women I see God\, and in my own face in the glass… \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI have had many dark spots in my life & have always pulled through. There are 3 people in my life that have been my guiding lights for many years. Due to my incarceration I can not do the things for them like I want to or that they deserve. Things like paint the house or fix their car or be there when they need me. To cook them dinner to just show them how much I love them\, with a hug and a smile. Or to bring them my appreciation\, my love\, my joy. The joy they showed me that lives in me. \n  \nOne of them was with me full when I was in a very dark place in life. Yes\, darker than prison. A prison within a prison. I was forced to face my demons\, there would be no running this time and I had never felt so close to death. I was able to completely divulge my life and all its damage. Not judged\, not disciplined\, just accepted and loved and made to feel like all should feel. HUMAN. We are all so beautiful and amazing and shattered and broken just right. \n  \nWe are the beautifully broken. In my life I have people that mean more to me than life itself. And lately being away from them is suffering in itself. They are my family\, family I choose to be family. I wish to be able to show you all how much I love you by Being there in life with you. Like a son should be. \n  \nJohnny\, Nancy\, Howard! You always and forever will be not in my heart but a big piece of my heart\, mind and soul. Love Rocky. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nFive Tanka Written Upon Spending the Night in a New Apartment \n  \n1. \nI mop the floor with \napple cider vinegar\, \nnote the orange leaves \nthat are somehow still hanging \nin January. \n  \n2. \nCan you hear me up \nhere? Sorry I’m so noisy! \nMy boots\, my loud soul… \nI’m setting up my new bed. \nI’ve slept on too many floors. \n  \n3. \nO lovely cooking \naromas wafting through wood! \nMy unpacked dishes… \nA sharp red curry down there \ncalls to my empty white bowl. \n  \n4. \nAround ten p.m. \nI begin to unravel \nmy crisp new mattress. \nAlone\, I read directions: \nThis requires two people. \n  \n5. \nIt is a good thing \nthat I moved in yesterday. \nVery cold today\, \nand brother turned his ankle. \nOn my own again. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nLeftover Rainwater \n  \nOver the years I have been having a series of surgeries to correct a not ideal situation I was born with in my mouth. I found a good surgeon\, a practicing Sikh\, who periodically fixes something and the other day I was getting some stitches out and his assistant said\, “Oh yeah\, the doctor is a leftie”. And I had this little shock. \n  \nAll these years and I never noticed he was working on me primarily with his left hand. \n  \nNot that it matters. \n  \nExcept that I never noticed. I was a rebellious kid and my father used to regularly admonish me to pay attention. \n  \nOff in my own world I would think\, fine\, sure\, I’ll get right on that. Not. My own world was much more interesting\, intoxicating even\, the collage I was making taking up the whole bedroom wall\, the easy chairs with a tail and wings I was drawing everywhere\, all the stories I was reading. I was busy. \n  \nLater as a teenager out in the world with only loose tethers to authority\, I had to learn to pay attention. At least in a certain\, hyper-vigilant\, oh man this place is dangerous way. Is that car following me\, are those gunshots\, might there be drugs in that drink you just offered to share with me. \n  \nAnd then in my work life. Numbers. Nice safe numbers that need to be in certain places at certain times.  Very important to pay attention then. \n  \nThen one day a girlfriend of a work colleague asked me to go to a yoga class with her. It was at a gym. The teacher was an older man\, I had heard somewhere\, I think he told us\, he had been teaching Kung Fu and then there was an accident and he had to figure out how to make his body functional again. \n  \nWhy him? Why then?  He was weird. I often have an affinity for weird people\, at least his kind. One class we would focus on our feet\, one on our necks\, and the girlfriend never came back but I did. He taught us this one posture that made us look like turtles that I still practice today. He only taught for 4 months or so\, but somewhere in there I learned how to truly pay attention. \n  \nThen one day he was gone\, retired they said. \n  \nAnother teacher took his place\, and she became my teacher. I followed her around from gym to studio to rented spaces to finally her own studio. By then I was paying a lot of attention to a wide range of things. And learned to teach the practices to others.   \n  \nAlways though with a memory of the slightly amused look my original teacher would get on his face…this how did I find myself here with the weights clanging and the grunting in the background with all these relatively normal people? \n  \nThe other day\, working with my own students and encouraging them to notice this or be aware of that or to bring their attention somewhere or to let it go\, I could hear my father’s voice. \n  \nThe irony of me now gently admonishing others to be in the moment\, feel what they are feeling and notice things… \n  \nAnd the work I still have left to do. Every day there are so many new things to notice. \n  \nPerhaps a wild chickadee is taking a bath in leftover rainwater out back. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nDear Reader \n  \nFor the March issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding (3/2/23) you are invited to send me a short writing in prose or poetry about something or someone you love. \n  \n—Johnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2-2-23/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230315
DTSTAMP:20260426T085247
CREATED:20230216T000619Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230216T001638Z
UID:3648-1676419200-1678838399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  2/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2023 \n  \nJason Beito sent this poem: \n  \nCloud \n  \nBefore you became a cloud\, you were an ocean\, roiled and\nmurmuring like a mouth. You were the shadow of a cloud\ncrossing over a field of tulips. You were the tears of a\nman who cried into a plaid handkerchief. You were a sky\nwithout a hat. Your heart puffed and flowered like sheets\ndrying on a line. \n  \nAnd when you were a tree\, you listened to trees and the tree\nthings trees told you. You were the wind in the wheels of a\nred bicycle. You were the spidery Maria tattooed on the\nhairless arm of a boy in downtown Houston. You were the\nrain rolling off the waxy leaves of a magnolia tree. A lock\nof straw-colored hair wedged between the mottled pages of a\nVictor Hugo novel. A crescent of soap. A spider the color\nof a finger nail. The black nets beneath the sea of olive\ntrees. A skein of blue wool. A tea saucer wrapped in\nnewspaper. An empty cracker tin. A bowl of blueberries in\nheavy cream. White wine in a green-stemmed glass. \n  \nAnd when you opened your wings to wind\, across the\npunched-tin sky above a prison courtyard\, those condemned to\ndeath and those condemned to life watched how smooth and\nsweet a white cloud glides. \n  \n—Sandra Cisneros \n* \n  \n                      Jinx \n  \nTrees spread their arms\, birds open  \ntheir wings\, rain falls on everyone\, \nand the wind brings breath to all. \n  \nWhen I’m lucky\, do I mother my luck\,  \nknowing how fragile fortune can be? \nAm I generous and kind\, letting luck  \nbrim and flow\, spill and splash to wash \neverything I touch\, everyone lucky enough  \nto stumble into this circle of light? \n  \nOr might I forget how happiness shuns \na place of no love\, where luck leaks  \nfrom a fist clenched to keep it?  \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nNow I close my eyes\, \nand somewhere a butterfly \ncontemplates cocoon. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nIt’s Valentine’s Day. Love Day. I don’t know what love is\, or where it comes from. It’s a Mystery! Wouldn’t it be lovely if everyone lived in love—if we all loved each other\, and loved all the animals and plants and rivers and clouds and stones? Let’s try it and see what happens!  \n  \nWilliam Blake says: \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \nHappy Valentine’s Day! \nLoving Kindness Meditation goes hand in hand with Mindfulness says Thich Nhat Hanh.  \nHere is a link to Thay giving a rare Metta meditation for LovingKindness.  \n  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5luvQp–B8U \n Is there a difference between being nice and being kind?  After practicing LovingKindness meditation I’ve been feeling a pull to agree\, to say yes\, to be more present\,..  Kindness itself is a practice that can make us become and feel more engaged – with others\, in causes\, and in our own true self as well.  This feels like what it means to have meaning in our life.   \n“Just being nice will not be enough to save civility in today’s world. It will take the patience and focus of true and loving-kindness.”  writes Donna Cameron.  She has a book about her year of consciously Living Kindly.  She continues: \n“Kindness is how you see the world\, and you be kind because it needs to be done. On the other hand\,  . . . You can remain distant and still be nice\, but that’s not the case with kindness.  \nKindness doesn’t mean becoming saintly!  \nNo\, we all are humans\, and all of us tend to falter now and then. Just because you get angry and upset doesn’t mean you cannot or should not practice being kind.   \nHealth benefits of kindness  \nKindness has a major effect on our emotional\, mental\, and physical health. Studies have shown that kindness raises serotonin and oxytocin levels in our bodies\, and these chemicals make us happier. This surge isn’t permanent\, hence you have to keep practicing kind acts to keep the level up. These chemicals also help in reducing blood pressure and inflammation.   \nNot only that\, kindness eases our relationships therefore drastically reducing our stress levels. Interestingly\, witnessing a kind act also has the same impact on our body as performing a kind act does. Each act of kindness establishes neural pathways\, therefore it becomes easier and more natural over time.” \nInvitation:  Think of a time you received a kindness\, something small that may have changed you\, or that you often think of even though you may have been young.   \nOr join a Monday night LovingKindness meditation with me and others.   Here’s a link if you would like to sign in.  It is free\, every Monday 8-8:30 p.m. Drop in. \nhttps://www.firstunitarianportland.org/events/lovingkindnessmeditation/ \nA metta practice for you:  Thich Nhat Hanh says there is value in practicing Metta even 5 minutes a day. \n  \nMay I be at peace.  \nMay my heart remain open.  \nMay I awaken to the light of my own true nature. \nMay I be healed.  \nMay I be a source of healing for all beings.  \n  \nContinue with loved ones  – You\, We\, then one you may have a conflict with\, then with the whole world.  \nMay we know Peace.   May we know love. \n  \n“Only your compassion and your loving kindness are invincible\, and without limit.” “Smile\, breathe and go slowly.”  – Thay \n  \n— Katie Radditz \n  \nKatie also sent this poem by Juan Felipe Herrera: \n  \nSong Out Here \n  \nif i could sing \ni’d say everything         you know \nfrom here on the street can you turn around \njust for once i am                     here \nright behind you \nwhat is that flag what is it made of \nmaybe it’s too late i have \ntoo many questions where did it all come from \nwhat colors is it all made of everything \neverything here in the subways \nthere are so many things and voices \nwe are going somewhere but i just don’t know \nsomewhere \nbut i just don’t know \n          somewhere \ndo you know where that is i want to sing \nso you can hear me and maybe you can tell me \nwhere to go so you can hear me and just maybe \nyou can tell me where to go \nall those hands and legs and faces going places \nif i could sing \nyou would hear me and i would tell you \nit’s gonna be alright \nit’s gonna be alright \nit’s gonna be alright it would be something like that \ncan you turn around so i can look into your eyes \njust for once your eyes \nmaybe like hers can you see her \nand his can you see them i want you to see them \nall of us we could be together \nif i could sing we would go there \nwe would run there together \nwe would live there for a while in that tilted \ntiny house by the ocean rising up inside of us \ni am on the curb next to a curled up cat \nsmoking i know its bad for you but \nyou know how it is just for once can you turn around \na straight line falling behind you it’s me i want to sing \ninvincible                                             bleeding out with love \n  \njust for you \n  \n— Juan Felipe Herrera \n* \n  \nI keep what is sacred to me \nsafe in the heart of the sun. \nThe path is a maze of stairs \nmade for the ones I love. \nAll are welcome & if you’re \nable all can come. \nJust being yourself as \nyou were always meant to be. \nEveryone is welcomed and \nall are accepted by me. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nThe Pause \n  \nWhen I read a poem in the mornings \nto the people in boxes on the screen\, \ndear people\, beloved all\, \nthey settle\, they listen \nand when I am done \nthey don’t look at each other\, \nor at me. \n  \nThey look up. \n  \nMany times\, depending of course \non the poem\, there will be a half smile. \n  \nThe threads the words weave \nare a nest for us to rest in together \nto ponder\, wonder\, absorb. \n  \nThere is a pause. \n  \nWe chat then briefly\, \nsometimes seriously\, \nsometimes frivolously\, \nabout an image\, \na confusion\, \nor something else entirely. \n  \nWe learn about each other. \n  \nThen we disperse out into the day\, \nseparate\, yet connected by the resonant \nimprint of a shared moment of apprehending \nsomething we hadn’t thought of ourselves. \n  \n —Elizabeth Domike
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-2-15-23-2/
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