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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/2/23
DESCRIPTION:photograph by Kim Stafford \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nMarch 2\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to… \n…please send me one of your favorite poems and say a little bit about why you like it. Here’s what people sent: \n  \nVernal Sentiment \n  \nThough the crocuses poke up their heads in the usual places\,\nThe frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green\,\nAnd boys moon at girls with last year’s fatuous faces\,\nI never am bored\, however familiar the scene. \n  \nWhen from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter\,—\nTwo yellow and black\, and one that looks in between\,—\nThough it all happened before\, I cannot grow bitter:\nI rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nI think why I am so fond of this poem and tend to read it every spring\, often many times\, is that it captures perfectly my delight and joy as the subtle and sometimes not so subtle signs of spring emerge. And yes\, “I (truly) rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been.” This short poem seems almost perfect to me and brings me joy just as witnessing the first signs of the pussy willows\, the first call of the returning robins\, the glorious scent of daphne wafting over the damp air\, enlivens me and gets my pulse slightly elevated. Roethke masterfully captures the delight that is so available in the ordinary!!. I believe that we all need to pay more attention to these ordinary miracles that reveal themselves if we pay attention. \n  \nCheers my friend! \n  \n—Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nAfter an Illness\, Walking the Dog \n  \nWet things smell stronger\,\nand I suppose his main regret is that\nhe can sniff just one at a time.\nIn a frenzy of delight\nhe runs way up the sandy road—\nscored by freshets after five days\nof rain. Every pebble gleams\, every leaf. \n  \nWhen I whistle he halts abruptly\nand steps in a circle\,\nswings his extravagant tail.\nThe he rolls and rubs his muzzle\nin a particular place\, while the drizzle\nfalls without cease\, and Queen Anne’s lace \nand Goldenrod bend low. \n  \nThe top of the logging road stands open\nand light. Another day\, before\nhunting starts\, we’ll see how far it goes\,\nleaving word first at home.\nThe footing is ambiguous. \n  \nSoaked and muddy\, the dog drops\,\npanting\, and looks up with what amounts\nto a grin. It’s so good to be uphill with him\,\nnicely winded\, and looking down on the pond. \n  \nA sound commences in my left ear\nlike the sound of the sea in a shell;\na downward\, vertiginous drag comes with it.\nTime to head home. I wait\nuntil we’re nearly out to the main road\nto put him back on the leash\, and he\n—the designated optimist— \n  \nimagines to the end that he is free. \n  \n—Jane Kenyon \n  \nI like the designated optimist and think of him or her often. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nMy favorite poems….of the moment! \nAnd I’m cheating a bit as I am sending in two short ones\, from two extremely different writers and I list the books they are from as the books are quite spectacular. \n  \nFirst: \nUntitled. From Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings by Joy Harjo. Really the entire book is an intact work but here is a current favorite small poem. Harjo is Creek/Muskogee\, writes intimately from within a native community\, is a former US Poet Laureate and a jazz saxophonist. \n  \nI thought of all the doors that had opened and closed. \nI thought of how so many I loved were no longer on \nThis earth. I thought of all my mother’s songs looking \nFor a place to live. I thought of all the Saturdays in the  \nWorld. I started with G and rounded the bend at B-flat. \nI followed my soul. \n  \n—Joy Harjo \n  \nSecond: \n“A Meadow” from Facing the River by Czeslaw Milosz. Again the book is really a unit\, written after returning to his native village after being in exile for fifty years. He grew up in then-Lithuania\, now Poland\, survived the Nazi invasion\, the Soviet invasion and then Occupation. He first served with the Communist government but soon left. He won the Nobel prize for Literature. \n  \nIt was a riverside meadow\, lush\, from before the hay harvest\, \nOn an immaculate day in the sun of June. \nI searched for it\, found it\, recognized it. \nGrasses and flowers grew there familiar in my childhood. \nWith half-closed eyelids I absorbed luminescence. \nAnd the scent garnered me\, all knowing ceased. \nSuddenly I felt I was disappearing and weeping with joy.  \n  \n—Czeslaw Milosz \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nThe Waking \n  \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI feel my fate in what I cannot fear. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nWe think by feeling. What is there to know? \nI hear my being dance from ear to ear. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \n  \nOf those so close beside me\, which are you? \nGod bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there\, \nAnd learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nLight takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? \nThe lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow.  \n  \nThis shaking keeps me steady. I should know.  \nWhat falls away is always. And is near. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nHands down my favorite poem. Every morning when I wake up\, I try to not be in a rush\, or have a plan\, but let life take me slowly into the day\, and learn from where it takes me. \n  \n—Dave Duncan \n* \n  \nHere’s my submission to your beautiful request\, and I will say it might not be my “favorite” poem but it is an artifact in my younger life when I somehow imparted the power of poetry to my two now grown daughters. \n  \nEaster\, 1916 \n  \nI have met them at close of day    \nComing with vivid faces \nFrom counter or desk among grey    \nEighteenth-century houses. \nI have passed with a nod of the head    \nOr polite meaningless words\,    \nOr have lingered awhile and said    \nPolite meaningless words\, \nAnd thought before I had done    \nOf a mocking tale or a gibe    \nTo please a companion \nAround the fire at the club\,    \nBeing certain that they and I    \nBut lived where motley is worn:    \nAll changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nThat woman’s days were spent    \nIn ignorant good-will\, \nHer nights in argument \nUntil her voice grew shrill. \nWhat voice more sweet than hers    \nWhen\, young and beautiful\,    \nShe rode to harriers? \nThis man had kept a school    \nAnd rode our wingèd horse;    \nThis other his helper and friend    \nWas coming into his force; \nHe might have won fame in the end\,    \nSo sensitive his nature seemed\,    \nSo daring and sweet his thought. \nThis other man I had dreamed \nA drunken\, vainglorious lout. \nHe had done most bitter wrong \nTo some who are near my heart\,    \nYet I number him in the song; \nHe\, too\, has resigned his part \nIn the casual comedy; \nHe\, too\, has been changed in his turn\,    \nTransformed utterly: \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nHearts with one purpose alone    \nThrough summer and winter seem    \nEnchanted to a stone \nTo trouble the living stream. \nThe horse that comes from the road\,    \nThe rider\, the birds that range    \nFrom cloud to tumbling cloud\,    \nMinute by minute they change;    \nA shadow of cloud on the stream    \nChanges minute by minute;    \nA horse-hoof slides on the brim\,    \nAnd a horse plashes within it;    \nThe long-legged moor-hens dive\,    \nAnd hens to moor-cocks call;    \nMinute by minute they live:    \nThe stone’s in the midst of all. \n  \nToo long a sacrifice \nCan make a stone of the heart.    \nO when may it suffice? \nThat is Heaven’s part\, our part    \nTo murmur name upon name\,    \nAs a mother names her child    \nWhen sleep at last has come    \nOn limbs that had run wild.    \nWhat is it but nightfall? \nNo\, no\, not night but death;    \nWas it needless death after all? \nFor England may keep faith    \nFor all that is done and said.    \nWe know their dream; enough \nTo know they dreamed and are dead;    \nAnd what if excess of love    \nBewildered them till they died?    \nI write it out in a verse— \nMacDonagh and MacBride    \nAnd Connolly and Pearse \nNow and in time to be\, \nWherever green is worn\, \nAre changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats \n  \n—Mark Danley \n* \n  \nMy favorite poem has often been one by T’ao Ch’ien (365-427 A.D. )\, translated by David Hinton. Here is this one: \n  \nTogether\, We all go out Under the Cypress Trees in the Chou Family Burial-Grounds \n  \nToday’s skies are perfect for a clear  \nflute and singing koto. And touched  \nthis deeply by those laid under these \ncypress trees\, how could we neglect joy? \nClear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine \nstarts pious faces smiling. No knowing \nwhat tomorrow brings\, it’s exquisite  \nexhausting whatever i feel here and now. \n  \n—T’ao Ch’ien \n  \nI feel T’ao Ch’ien as present as my Great Aunt Emma\, who knew much deprivation but was so joyful that we would arrive for a visit to the Farm. We would sit out in the grass looking for four leaf clovers for hours\, and she would bake us blackberry pies. \n  \nI like to write back to T’ao Ch’ien—over many years now. He has inspired me to stop\, be in the wild\, appreciate the moment as beauty at the same time\, feeling all that’s been lost and is gone. And he led me to the Buddhist sutras!!  \n  \nI also love to find another poet respond to him\, like Billy Collins does\, below. Though it may not be for T’ao Ch’ien himself\,  it’s across time and distance\, enchanted still in the twentieth century by what they wrote in the the fifth.     \n  \nReading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty\, I pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of their Titles \n  \nIt seems these poets have nothing \nup their ample sleeves \nthey turn over so many cards so early\, \ntelling us before the first line \nwhether it is wet or dry\, \nnight or day\, the season the man is standing in\, \neven how much he has had to drink. \n  \nMaybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow. \nMaybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name. \n  \n“Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune \non a Cloudy Afternoon” is one of Sun Tung Po’s. \n“Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea” \nis another one\, or just \n“On a Boat\, Awake at Night.” \n  \nAnd Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with \n“In a Boat on a Summer Evening \nI Heard the Cry of a Waterbird. \nIt Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying \nMy Woman Is Cruel—Moved\, I Wrote This Poem.” \n  \nThere is no iron turnstile to push against here \nas with headings like “Vortex on a String\,” \n“The Horn of Neurosis\,” or whatever. \nNo confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over. \n  \nInstead\, “I Walk Out on a Summer Morning \nto the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall” \nis a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders. \n  \nAnd “Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors” \nis a servant who shows me into the room \nwhere a poet with a thin beard \nis sitting on a mat with a jug of wine \nwhispering something about clouds and cold wind\, \nabout sickness and the loss of friends. \n  \nHow easy he has made it for me to enter here\, \nto sit down in a corner\, \ncross my legs like his\, and listen. \n  \n—Billy Collins \n  \n —Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nMay I never be complete \nMay I never be content \nMay I never be perfect \n  \nFrom Fight Club! I remember reading that over 10 years ago and being inspired by the hidden beauty of a concept like willing ones self to never want completeness… I’m going to always be learning growing struggling to figure out what the hell I am on this Giant beautiful rock… It’s not easy to accept flaws… growing… Being content as in settled in\, not striving to learn… it’s a beautiful sentiment… That’s my fav poem… That I’ll prolly get tattooed someday. \n  \n—Jeff Kuehner \n* \n  \nMax Ritvo is one of my favorite poets\, and “Afternoon” is my favorite poem by him. He died young\, of cancer\, and he produced a great deal of work during his final years\, while he was very sick. I find much to admire in this poem\, but perhaps what stays with me the most\, and will always stay with me\, is the fountain. I won’t spoil it. Just read the poem and see for yourself. \n  \nAfternoon \n  \nWhen I was about to die \nmy body lit up \nlike when I leave my house \nwithout my wallet. \n  \nWhat am I missing? I ask \npatting my chest \npocket. \nand I am missing everything living \nthat won’t come with me \ninto this sunny afternoon \n  \n—my body lights up for life \nlike all the wishes being granted in a fountain \nat the same instant— \nall the coins burning the fountain dry— \n  \nand I give my breath \nto a small bird-shaped pipe. \n  \nIn the distance\, behind several voices \nhaggling\, I hear a sound like heads \nclicking together. Like a game of pool\, \n  \nplayed with people by machines. \n  \n—Max Ritvo \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nValentine \n  \nOn the eve of the apocalypse\,\nthe wild turkeys are tuning up for their dance\, flared\nstately stepping upon the new fallen snow\nI continue to ponder \n  \nRuby Crowned Kinglet.\nHe is fixed in my mind because\nunknown to him\,\nset upon a background of olive green feathers\nembering with gold and\nfloating above his brain there glows\na fire ruby jewel. \n  \nLike the mandalas radiating from ancient bodhisattvas\,\nthe feathered crown of hunter gatherer peoples\, branched trees on\nthe halos of saints\, the heads of shamans\nthat they say all together\,\nlook how I see you.\nSee how you look through my open heart. \n  \n—Ken Hunt \n  \nKen Hunt is an artist\, saddle-maker\, horse-trainer living in a remote canyon in NE Oregon\, and he has a vibrant sense of his place and the creatures there. He lives close to all kinds of wild beings\, and in this poem brings them close to us\, so close they can see through our eyes and hearts. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nDeb thought another poem would not go amiss\, so she invited me to join your party this once. \n  \nAmong lots of favorite poems\, Frost’s “Mending Wall” has grown in depth to me for my whole life. Frost’s simple example demonstrates how we sabotage unity by drawing thick lines between groups and positions\, and then fighting over them. The poem details how we carefully resurrect these divisions\, where they aren’t needed. The conflict is merely hinted at. \n  \nOnce\, after I had written about the poem in my weekly blog\, a friend told me that the PM of Israel\, don’t recall which\, had recently cited the poem to justify their apartheid: “good fences make good neighbors.” Of course\, this is the antithesis of the poem\, but how many tumultuous patriots would have known this? On behalf of Frost’s dignity and immense compassion\, I humbly offer perhaps his greatest poem\, though it does have competitors in his oeuvre. \n  \nMending Wall \n  \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat sends the frozen-ground-swell under it\, \nAnd spills the upper boulders in the sun; \nAnd makes gaps even two can pass abreast. \nThe work of hunters is another thing: \nI have come after them and made repair \nWhere they have left not one stone on a stone\, \nBut they would have the rabbit out of hiding\, \nTo please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean\, \nNo one has seen them made or heard them made\, \nBut at spring mending-time we find them there. \nI let my neighbor know beyond the hill; \nAnd on a day we meet to walk the line \nAnd set the wall between us once again. \nWe keep the wall between us as we go. \nTo each the boulders that have fallen to each. \nAnd some are loaves and some so nearly balls \nWe have to use a spell to make them balance: \n‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’ \nWe wear our fingers rough with handling them. \nOh\, just another kind of out-door game\, \nOne on a side. It comes to little more: \nThere where it is we do not need the wall: \nHe is all pine and I am apple orchard. \nMy apple trees will never get across \nAnd eat the cones under his pines\, I tell him. \nHe only says\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \nSpring is the mischief in me\, and I wonder \nIf I could put a notion in his head: \n‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it \nWhere there are cows? But here there are no cows. \nBefore I built a wall I’d ask to know \nWhat I was walling in or walling out\, \nAnd to whom I was like to give offense. \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him\, \nBut it’s not elves exactly\, and I’d rather \nHe said it for himself. I see him there \nBringing a stone grasped firmly by the top \nIn each hand\, like an old-stone savage armed. \nHe moves in darkness as it seems to me\, \nNot of woods only and the shade of trees. \nHe will not go behind his father’s saying\, \nAnd he likes having thought of it so well \nHe says again\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \n  \n—Robert Frost \n  \n—Scott Teitsworth \n* \n  \nThat Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” is my all-time favorite poem is a well-known fact (among my friends)\, but I have many favorite poems. In the not-too-distant past (five years ago\, maybe?) I had the great good fortune to come upon the writings of Thomas Traherne (1637-1674). His poems and meditations were first published in 1903\, ten years after they were rediscovered in manuscript—229 years after his death. I often start the day by reading a poem and/or a meditation by him. His wild delight is contagious. He helps me to get the day off to a glorious start. The first four poems in The Collected Works of Thomas Traherne are all sublime: “The Salutation\,” “Wonder\,” “Eden\,” and “Innocence.” Here’s the first: \n  \nThe Salutation \n  \n         These little limbs\, \n    These eyes and hands which here I find\, \nThese rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins\, \n    Where have ye been? behind \nWhat curtain were ye from me hid so long? \nWhere was\, in what abyss\, my speaking tongue? \n  \n         When silent I    \n    So many thousand\, thousand years \nBeneath the dust did in a chaos lie\, \n    How could I smiles or tears\, \nOr lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? \nWelcome ye treasures which I now receive. \n  \n         I that so long \n    Was nothing from eternity\, \nDid little think such joys as ear or tongue \n    To celebrate or see: \nSuch sounds to hear\, such hands to feel\, such feet\, \nBeneath the skies on such a ground to meet. \n  \n         New burnished joys\, \n    Which yellow gold and pearls excel! \nSuch sacred treasures are the limbs in boys\, \n    In which a soul doth dwell; \nTheir organised joints and azure veins \nMore wealth include than all the world contains. \n  \n         From dust I rise\, \n    And out of nothing now awake; \nThese brighter regions which salute mine eyes\, \n    A gift from God I take. \nThe earth\, the seas\, the light\, the day\, the skies\, \nThe sun and stars are mine\, if those I prize. \n  \n         Long time before \n    I in my mother’s womb was born\, \nA God preparing did this glorious store \n    The world for me adorn. \nInto this Eden so divine and fair\, \nSo wide and bright\, I come His son and heir. \n  \n         A stranger here \n    Strange things doth meet\, strange glories see; \nStrange treasures lodged in this fair world appear\, \n    Strange all and new to me; \nBut that they mine should be\, who nothing was\, \nThat strangest is of all\, yet brought to pass. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI Corinthians\, Chapter 13\, which ends: \n  \nLove never faileth: but whether there be prophecies\, they shall fail; whether there be tonguers\, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge\, it shall vanish away. \nFor we know in part\, and we prophesy in part. \nBut when that which is perfect is come\, then that which is in part shall be done away. \nWhen I was a child\, I spake as a child\, I understood as a child\, thought as a child: but when I became a man\, I put away childish things. \nFor now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part: but then shall I know even as also I am known. \nAnd now abideth faith\, hope\, and love\, these three; but the greatest of these is love. \n  \n—Ken Margolis
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-2-23/
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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  3/15/23
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nMarch 15\, 2023 \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods. \n  \n—from Ulysses by James Joyce\, p. 340 \n* \n  \nAll truths wait in all things. \n  \n—from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman \n* \n  \n#344  To Cherish Your Beloved   \n                                                  \n“When we know that the person we love is impermanent\, we will cherish our beloved all the more. Impermanence teaches us to respect and value every moment and all the precious things around us. When we practice mindfulness of impermanence\, we become fresher and more loving.” \n–from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nIt can be mighty hard to be constantly aware of our beloved’s impermanence—or of our own impermanence\, and to be endlessly fresher and more loving. That can be exhausting\, to be honest. \n  \nAnother way to be reminded of cherishing your loved one is to have someone close to you die swiftly and unexpectedly. This is happening right now\, in this moment. Kim is my dear friend\, and her husband\, who is/was my dear friend\, too\, just died two days ago. He collapsed at home while Kim and I were walking on the waterfront and having coffee in Hood River\, as we do once a week or more. She returned home\, intending to run errands with John and found him on the floor\, unresponsive\, unconscious. 911\, Skyline Hospital\, Emanuel Hospital in Portland\, where doctors found a blood clot which had traveled to his brain from the left ventricle\, causing multiple\, massive strokes. And John is gone. How does one express shock and disbelief and utter grief…  So here it is: Impermanence at work. \n  \nMy heart and soul are with her right now. I love her and want to hold her close. But the one I also really want to hold close is my husband. I am instantly drawn to cherish him and all we have together\, all we have had for 39 years together. He is in Arizona right now\, and I will fly down next week. I call him and tell him I love him dearly\, and thank him for the life we have together. I tell him I miss him and can’t wait to hold him and be held.  \n  \nI am aware that this is how I always want to be with him\, this expressive and caring and loving\, and maybe\, just maybe\, I will be able to cherish my beloved due to the impermanence (and sacrifice) of another.  \n  \n—Jude Russell  \n* \n  \nSmall Offering \n  \nThis evening I would be the emperor of delay \nif I could order the small bird with bluish \nplumage to drop his fish and look up \nto see violet angels weave a tapestry \nof dreams with the four evening elements. \n  \nHere at Sunset Point\, the overlook \nis high enough that mist hovers \nin patches. Sunlight sweeps from above \nhighlighting the solid wall of mountains. \nThe bird dives again\, silver flash in his beak. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nDHARMA \n  \nSix months after I turned seventy I moved into an ashram where I would reside for the next 9 1⁄2 years (2012-2021) of my life. I’d been assisting in the care of my mother for two years\, and when she passed on\, one week after her 96th birthday\, I was in a state of ambivalence as to why I had no feeling of grief\, or even the slightest indication of sadness. How could this be? I was her only son\, and had dutifully been there for Her in these past years– cooking for her\, reading to her\, rubbing her swollen legs\, heavy with edema; escorting her on shopping trips and pleasant drives through the golden wheat fields of her childhood in North Central Oregon. Was I experiencing a kind of release from a period of time that had kept me so preoccupied that my own needs for self-examination and intellectual stimulation were suffocating? \n  \nI had spent two years in England (1983-85) studying the metaphysical philosophy of Rudolf Steiner\, but had not yet arrived at that internal place of a disciplined practice in study and meditation—of simplifying the material circumstances of my daily life; of coming to grasp the ego-transcendent state of the Eternal Self. And so when I was offered a room in the Portland ashram of the Sarada Ramakrishna Vivekananda order at the behest of the guru\, Robert Kindler\, I decided that a quiet and spiritually dedicated environment might inspire and deepen self-reflection. I might add that I had had the benefit of seven years of coming to know and respect the depth of the guru’s knowledge of the sacred texts of ancient India—the Upanishads\, Bhagavad Gita\, and the Puranas\, as well as the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna (most recent avatar of West Bengal (b. 1836-’86)—through frequent classes and retreats. And I was further inspired by his remarkable facility in speaking the ancient Sanskrit slokas (passages from scripture)\, as well as his gift of musicianship\, having been a professional orchestral cellist with abilities to compose and perform hymns of praise offered to the deities of the Hindu spiritual tradition. \n  \nI took a small 12’ x 12’ room\, and began an exploration of ashram regimen—sharing a simple and contemplative daily schedule of 6am/10pm meditation\, vegetarian diet\, weekly classes of scriptural study\, and shared maintenance and cooking chores amongst the four of us—two men and two women—co-habitants upon the dharmic path. The intent was to “still” the restless mind to enable a depth of self-perception whereby the ephemerality/impermanence of day-to-day “reality” (regarded as Maya—the veil covering the eternal truths of aparanama (free of change) and ajativada (birthless/deathless))\, could be grasped\, and the elevated state of consciousness attained by the sages\, seers\, siddhis\, yogis and saviors could be glimpsed. \n  \nMy 9 1⁄2 years\, grounded in a consistent daily meditation practice\, and an inquisitive research into the philosophical richness of the sacred texts of India\, as well as the offering of my service/work in maintaining the grounds and shrines\, and serving as “the Abbot of the Ashram\, has deepened my self- perception and brought me to a place of self-trust and contentment at a depth that I have never before experienced. And I am inspired to proffer this brief koan-like offering from my experiential Realizations (aparokshanubhuti) \n  \nTHE YOGI SITS IN THE CAVE OF THE HEART\, \nONE EYE OPEN                                                                           \n  \n—Sam A. Muller \n* \n  \nGod Praying \n  \nSometimes we are discouraged from praying\, \nwe lose faith in the possibility of prayer\, \neverything seems blocked. \nWe have no trust in words\, \nin ourselves\, \nwe feel exiled\, distant. \nThere is no one to awaken compassion for us. \nFrom within our despair \nwe can reveal a new opening\, \na surprising one\, \nand ask God to pray for us\, \nto give words to our inner scream\, \nto have compassion on us in our exile. \n  \n—Rabbi Singer \n  \nThis idea melts my mind. I thought it was to God I’ve been praying\, and now Rabbi Singer (and others) suggest I now ask God to pray for me—to whom\, though? To ask the Self-Existent One to peer into my deepest recesses\, where I’m oft too scared to look\, and express\, for me\, my deepest heart’s desires. It seems both ludicrous and sensible all at the same time. Can I just sit here with my self—all inclusive—and allow those hidden away hopes\, dreams\, feelings\, memories\, etc.\, to just percolate up for Divine consideration or attention. Truth is\, God should already “know” these things—all knowing and all—which means I need only sit with and accept these pesky demons (self-made?) as part of my experience. \n  \n—Michel Deforge\, February 4\, 2023 \n* \n  \nAlex Tretbar sent this poem by Jessica Jacobs: \n  \nGodwrestling \n  \nThe river has tasted the salt of your skin\, has lapped\nat your calves with its current. The river has swallowed \n  \nthe press of your steps. There is no record of your crossing.\nThe river is between you and everything you call your life. \n  \nSo you step into a stranger’s arms. Your shoulder fits\ntheirs like a bone in its socket. Your jaw notches theirs. \n  \nAll around you\, a profusion of oleanders beams\nback the moonlight\, offering a carpet of fallen petals. \n  \nIn your arms\, all the promises you’ve yet to keep\, all\nyou’ve done that shames you. But what is wrestling \n  \nif not an embrace? It’s too dark to know\nyou have the same face and only like this\, cheek to cheek\, \n  \neach looking over the other’s shoulder\, can you see\nthe world whole. Close\, at first\, as a slow dance\, \n  \nyou spin and spin\, your tracks a tight coin; matched\,\nyou step out\, making a spear tip of your bodies; matched\, \n  \nyou step further\, levered like rafters\, needing the other\nto stay aloft—your tracks trace widening circles\, ringing \n  \nout through the fallen blossoms. Names are required\nonly when not alone. This stranger \n  \ndoes not give you a new name\, just dippers up\nthe true one you tender in your chest. The day is breaking \n  \nthe night’s hold. The far bank is calling.\nOn one side\, you. On the other\, your life. Join them.  \n  \n—Jessica Jacobs \n* \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.  \n  \n–from Ulysses by James Joyce\, p. 340 \n  \nHere’s what Joseph Campbell has to say about this passage from Ulysses: \n  \n“I mentioned this basic theme before with respect to the esthetic experience: Any object can open back to the mystery of the universe. You can take any object whatsoever—a stick or stone\, a dog or a child—draw a ring around it so that it is seen as separate from everything else\, and thus contemplate it in its mystery aspect—the aspect of the mystery of its being\, which is the mystery of all being—and it will have there and then become a proper object of worshipful regard. So\, any object can become an adequate base for meditation\, since the whole mystery of man and of nature and of everything else is in any object that you want to regard. This idea\, the anagogical inspiration of Joyce’s art\, is what we are getting in this little moment.” \n  \n—from Mythic Worlds\, Modern Words: On the Art of James Joyce by Joseph Campbell\, p. 130 \n  \nHere’s one of my small poems that seems à propos: \n  \na bowl of oatmeal \nand a cup of coffee \ndid you think heaven was up in the sky somewhere? \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMore of my thoughts on LovingKindness meditation: \n  \nBefore beginning Loving Kindness meditation practice each Monday\, I center myself remembering my friend and teacher Bob Schaibly. His teaching mantra was\, “What the World Needs from Us is our Non-Anxious Presence.” Reciting and listening to the Loving Kindness phrases these past couple of years\, I have come to understand that this is what we are training ourselves to do. To find equanimity and to be able in the midst of changes—good or bad—to  find stability in equanimity. This doesn’t mean being passive or uncaring\, but to have courage\, to not let our emotions make us frantic\, to not react immediately with judgement. In this way we can stay present to whatever might arise. We can observe and check our fears and anger and deep sadness without causing harm to ourselves and others\, without blocking our feelings.  \n  \nCompassion in Sanskrit means being present—with yourself or with another. I have two stories that came to my mind about acts of kindness on a small scale that are examples of compassion in action. When I had a bookstore in downtown Portland\, one day two people I hardly knew\, came in and presented me with a rose. Just to say thank you for having the bookstore where they always felt happy to browse and meet up. I was stunned. They said they liked to go places that make them feel happy and take a flower or two. I also heard a story last week about a woman who wished she could do something for her sick uncle who lived far away. She sent him a bouquet of flowers. He called her and said that in his long life\, no one had ever sent him flowers and he was so thankful. \n  \n Thich Nhat Hanh says it takes mindfulness training with loving kindness to bring compassion. He writes: \n  \n“Loving kindness should be practiced every day. Suppose you have a transistor radio. To tune into the radio station you like\, you need a battery. In order to get linked to the power of loving kindness of bodhisattvas\, buddhas\, and other great beings\, you need to tune in to the “station” of loving kindness that is being sent from the ten directions. Then you only need to sit on the grass and practice breathing and enjoying.  \n  \nBut many of us are not capable of doing that because the feeling of loneliness\, of being cut off from the world\, is so severe we cannot reach out. We do not realize that if we are moved by the imminent death of an insect\, if we see an insect suffering and we do something to help\, already this energy of loving kindness is in us. If we take a small stick and help the insect out of the water\, we can also reach out to the cosmos. The energy of loving kindness in us becomes real\, and we derive a lot of joy from it.  \n  \nThe Fourth Precept of the Order of Interbeing tells us to be aware of suffering in the world\, not to close our eyes before suffering. Touching those who suffer is one way to generate the energy of compassion in us\, and compassion will bring joy and peace to ourselves and others. The more we generate the energy of loving kindness in ourselves\, the more we are able to receive the joy\, peace\, and love of the buddhas and bodhisattvas throughout the cosmos.”  \n  \nLast Sunday\, I heard a story about an acrobat flying from one trapeze bar to the next. It was a story about letting go of how things have been in the past in order to break free and into some new engagement. Even though we might not know what that will be. In Buddhism\, the term for this refreshing process is “renunciation.” Rather than giving up things it is about what we practice in LovingKindness: becoming aware of where we might feel an aversion—a fear\, a grudge\, anxiety\, resentment—by recognizing it\, then softening our hearts\, we can let these negative emotions have less power over us. Through that we find more equanimity and ability to act with compassion\, with ourselves and for others. With that  foremost in our minds\, we can become unstuck and as Bob encouraged us\, to participate fully in the midst of life’s difficulties with a non-anxious presence.    \n  \nin love and peace\,    \n  \n—Katie Radditz
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-3-15-23/
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