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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230907
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231005
DTSTAMP:20260425T204804
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UID:4105-1694044800-1696463999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  9/7/23
DESCRIPTION:One Happy Man (Rocky Hutchinson) with Eight Puppies (two are black) \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nSeptember 7\, 2023 \n  \nIf you help one person\, you help humanity. \n—Ai Weiwei \n  \nKen Margolis sent this poem by Ai Qing\, who is the father of the artist Ai Weiwei: \n  \nYARKHOTO \nIt’s almost as if a caravan is wending its way through town \nA clamor of voices mingling with the tinkle of camel bells \nThe markets bustling as before \nAn incessant flow of carts and horses \nBut no—the splendid palace \nHas lapsed into ruin \nOf a thousand years of joys and sorrows \nNot a trace can be found \nYou who are living\, live the best life you can \nDon’t count on the earth to preserve memory \n  \n—Ai Qing  (1980) \n* \n  \nA letter from Abe Green: \n  \nIt’s early morning \n          I’m sitting in my backyard acquainting myself with the \nrichness of this new day \n          The sun bright and warm \n          The air intoxicatingly fresh           [small feather taped to the page] \n          I gulp it with delight \nA hundred thoughts clamor for my attention but I deny all in \nanticipation of the song birds arrival at my feeder \n          I am patient \nSuddenly a single wren swoops in alighting on the small \ntable next to my chair \n          Next to my arm \n          We both seem surprised and take cautious appraisal of  \none another \n          She inspecting this mysterious land-bound creature \n          I observing her intricate feathering \n          Her tiny yet powerful legs and feet \n          And most of all her dark probing eyes \n  \nGazing into those ebon portals I was confronted with the \nfull creative power of life \n          Did she see the same in mine? \n          Did she see the earth song in my heart? \n  \nHow beautiful those few heartbeats were for me and \n          How beautiful was her perfection \n  \nThen with three resonant chirps as if clarifying an essential \ntruth with this benign human \n          She took wing to be about further business \n  \n          How astonishing is creation in its continual \n          bursting forth with life \n  \n          And how wonderful is the human experience to be \n  \n                    Astonished! \n  \n—Abe Green \n* \n  \nDear Johnny \n  \nHey there\, my friend. It’s been quite some time now since I’ve written you a letter. But you know that I’ve just been really busy. My skills that I’ve been obtaining the last few years have been shining through the last few weeks in my work. It’s an amazing thing to see all you can accomplish when you really apply your heart\, mind & soul into life. The truth is\, is that for me the difficulties are worth the accomplishments. \n  \nMy lesson with the dog today went surprisingly well. The things I’m doing now are so hard to do\, but my trainer is very good at this & is helping me to be better too. As I performed all the “get help” cues with the dog\, I got to do them by the flowers I planted this Spring. As I gave direction to the dog with cues\, my eyes took in the beauty of the gladioluses\, brown eyed daisies\, foxgloves & a rose bush. It was an enchanted few seconds\, sacred in the pause of the mind. My hope is that my life will be this way once I’m out of here. I’m happy & wish to stay so. \n  \nWe got to take pictures with the puppies & you’ll be getting some soon. As luck would have it\, my favorite one\, “Unique\,” a 9 lb female black lab has moved into my cell “for a short stay.” She is a lot of work!! She is 41 days old & knows her name\, comes\, sits & potties on the pad. She will be doing rides & hills by 60 days old. They are an amazing litter…. \n  \nI wanted to let you and Nancy know about a movie I caught a few days ago. It’s called “Maudie”! It’s about a Canadian folk artist that had arthritis badly. Very good movie…very humble life. When I see such things…it gives me a sense of calmness\, knowing that the best lives are full of difficulties & that makes the joy we find in them all the sweeter for us\, and maybe for those we touch. \n  \nWell\, you can use this whole letter in the Open Road newsletter if you’d like. It’s all good & beautiful. I love you & miss you & hope to hear from you soon. \n  \nBeautiful things on the Golden path are like finding the best rocks in the river on a Summer’s day. The best things we all have in life are the joys we give & get & the love we let shine from our hearts that grow all the good things. It feels like I’ve got raven wings to fly on\, shiny\, strong and true\, for carrying all the love I have to all the ones I love so true. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson  (8/13/2023) \n* \n  \nPrairie Radio \n  \nWay out on open hills we get \nno reception—no news or message \ngets through\, so we listen to birds \nexplain existence\, and by scent of dust \nand flowers apprehend our chance. \n  \nBack home in cities\, signals bombard \nour tender minds with wars and other \ntroubles\, air around us thick with \nwarnings and sorrows\, light around us \nthick with poisons for heart and mind. \n  \nBut anywhere\, if you turn your head\, \nwind delivers light across prairie hills \nfrom far to inform your ancient soul. \n  \n—from Beauty So Intense You Shield Your Eyes by Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nScott Teitsworth recently read this inspiring passage from Brian Doyle’s essay “The Final Frontier” to some of his friends: \n  \n….I began\, slowly and dimly\, to realize that humble was the only finally truly honest way to be in this life. Anything else is ultimately cocky\, which is either foolish or a deliberate disguise you refuse to remove\, for complicated reasons perhaps not known even to you. \n  \nOf course you do your absolute best to find and hone and wield your divine gifts against the dark. You do your best to reach out tenderly to touch and elevate as many people as you can reach. You bring your naked love and defiant courage and salty grace to bear as much as you can\, with all the attentiveness and humor you can muster. This life is after all a miracle and we ought to pay fierce attention every moment\, as much as possible. \n  \nBut you cannot control anything. You cannot order or command everything. You cannot fix and repair everything. You cannot protect your children from pain and loss and tragedy and illness. You cannot be sure that you will always be married\, let alone happily married. You cannot be sure you will always be employed\, or healthy\, or relatively sane. \n  \nAll you can do is face the world with quiet grace and hope you make a sliver of difference. Humility does not mean self-abnegation\, lassitude\, detachment; it’s a more calm recognition that you must trust in that which does not make sense\, that which is unreasonable\, illogical\, silly\, ridiculous\, crazy by the measure of most of our culture. You must trust that you being the best possible you matters somehow. That trying to be an hones and tender parent will echo for centuries through your tribe. That doing your chosen work with creativity and diligence will shiver people far beyond your ken. That being an attentive and generous friend and citizen will prevent a thread or two of the social fabric from unraveling. And you must do all of this with the certain knowledge that you will never get proper credit for it\, and in fact the vast majority of things you do right will go utterly unremarked. Humility\, the final frontier\, as my brother Kevin used to say. When we are young we build a self\, a persona\, a story in which to reside\, or several selves in succession\, or several at once\, sometimes; when we are older we take on other roles and personas\, other masks and duties; and you and I both know men and women who become trapped in the selves they worked so hard to build\, so desperately imprisoned that sometimes they smash their lives simply to escape who they no longer wish to be; but finally\, I think\, if we are lucky\, if we read the book of pain and loss with humility\, we realize that we are all broken and small and brief\, that none among us is ultimately more valuable or rich or famous or beautiful than another; and then\, perhaps\, we begin to understand something deep and true about humility. \n  \nThis is what I know: that the small is huge\, that the tiny is vast\, that pain is part and parcel of the gift of joy\, and that this is love\, and then there is everything else. You either walk toward love or away from it with every breath you draw. Humility is the road to love. Humility\, maybe\, is love. That could be. I wouldn’t know; I’m a muddle and a conundrum shuffling slowly along the road\, gaping in wonder\, trying to just see and say what is\, trying to leave shreds and shards of ego along the road like wisps of litter and chaff. \n  \n—One Long River of Song by Brian Doyle\, pp. 58-59
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-9-7-23/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230915
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231015
DTSTAMP:20260425T204804
CREATED:20230917T003740Z
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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  9/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nSeptember 15\, 2023 \n  \nIf the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is\, infinite. \nFor man has closed himself up\, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern. \n—William Blake\, from THE MARRIAGE of HEAVEN and HELL\n* \n  \n#103  A Garden of Poems \n  \nOne day in New York City\, I met a Buddhist scholar and I told her about my practice of mindfulness in the vegetable garden. I enjoy growing lettuce\, tomatoes\, and other vegetables\, and I like to spend time gardening every day. \nShe said\, “You shouldn’t spend your time growing vegetables. You should spend more time writing poems. Your poems are so beautiful. Everyone can grow lettuce\, but not everyone can write poems like you do.” \nI told her\, “If I don’t grow lettuce\, I can’t write poems.” \n  \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nThis one really made me laugh. For me\, it’s playing music\, or drawing\, or writing. If I don’t do these things it is difficult for me to think correctly in my day-to-day life. Everything is out of tune & I don’t feel right. One of the counselors here asked me about my drawings. I told her that I did not have time to draw anymore. She said\, “NO! You must find the time to draw & express yourself\, so you feel right!” \n  \nSo I found the time & she was right. I can in fact think better now. My tasks run smoother and I just feel better. So I do get what Thich Nhat Hanh is saying here. We must do the things that we are passionate about & we must do the things that feed our being so we’re capable of doing all of the things we need & want to do. \n  \nLove you all so much. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \n#10    “Lotus in the Mud”       \n  \n“The goodness of suffering is something real. Without suffering\, there cannot be happiness. Without mud there cannot be any lotus flowers. So if you know how to suffer\, suffering is okay. And the moment you have that attitude\, you don’t suffer much anymore. And out of suffering\, a lotus flower of happiness can open.” \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nBefore I ever read this\, I believed this. Going back to my first marriage of thirteen years in an abusive\, alcoholic relationship\, I suffered in such a way that my mind and body simply shut down. I stopped talking\, I stopped eating\, I stopped feeling. It was the only way I could keep living—by not living. I suffered internally and externally\, not understanding either condition.  \n  \nIt was only when I escaped the marriage that I was released from suffering and moved—no\, vaulted\, catapulted\, jetted!—into joy\, into happiness. Into gratitude. I had plenty of scars\, physical and emotional\, but I came to understand and rejoice in what I had lived through. I rejoiced in the suffering\, because I was now living life. Getting unstuck from the mud of suffering is how I came to be grateful for the suffering. So to happiness\, I would add gratitude as an ingredient that blossoms from the mud.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \n                         Holy Land \n  \nWhere the angel gave black stone to the prophet\, \nwhere the old man woke under a tree\, where \na king killed a worthy friend\, first there is silence\,  \nthen singing\, chanting\, sweet smoke\, and visions. \n  \nWhere the bones of a frail saint lie\, where a newborn \nslept in straw\, where a father did not slay his son— \npilgrims have passed by places without stories  \nby the thousands to be here weeping and praying. \n  \nIt’s all in how you see it\, how you tell it.  \nOn this rocky hill\, a peasant met a virgin girl. \nOn that one\, he did not. Here a cathedral\,  \nthere only the wind twitching dry grass.  \n  \nUnder the sky in a burning world\, how can  \nwe choose what is holy and what is not? \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nI have already seen red leaves on a tree! Autumn is lulling in even during this hot summer day. I think of this poem\, as the beauty and sorrows in the world unfold together. And it helps me feel the expansive wonder of it all.   \n  \nThree Times my Life has Opened \n  \nThree times my life has opened.\nOnce\, into darkness and rain.\nOnce\, into what the body carries at all times within it and\nstarts to remember each time it enters the act of love.\nOnce\, to the fire that holds all.\nThese three were not different.\nYou will recognize what I am saying or you will not.\nBut outside my window all day a maple has stepped\nfrom her leaves like a woman in love with winter\, dropping\nthe colored silks.\nNeither are we different in what we know.\nThere is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of\nlight stays\, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor\,\nor the one red leaf the snow releases in March. \n  \n—Jane Hirshfield\, from The Lives of the Heart: Poems \n  \n—Love and Peace\,  Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nOde to things (Oda a las cosas) \n  \nI have a crazy\, \ncrazy love of things. \nI like pliers\, \nand scissors. \nI love \ncups\, \nrings\, \nand bowls— \nnot to speak\, of course\, \nof hats. \nI love \nall things\, \nnot just \nthe grandest\, \nalso \nthe \ninfinite- \nly \nsmall— \nthimbles\, \nspurs\, \nplates\, \nand flower vases. \n  \nOh yes\, \nthe planet \nis sublime! \nIt’s full of \npipes \nweaving \nhand-held \nthrough tobacco smoke\, \nand keys \nand salt shakers— \neverything\, \nI mean\, \nthat is made \nby the hand of man\, every little thing: \nshapely shoes\, \nand fabric \nand each new \nbloodless birth \nof gold\, \neyeglasses\, \ncarpenter’s nails\, \nbrushes\, \nclocks\, compasses\, \ncoins\, and the so-soft \nsoftness of chairs. \n  \nMankind has \nbuilt \noh so many \nperfect \nthings! \nBuilt them of wool \nand of wood\, \nof glass and \nof rope: \nremarkable \ntables\, \nships\, and stairways. \n  \nI love \nall \nthings\, \nnot because they are \npassionate \nor sweet-smelling \nbut because\, \nI don’t know\, \nbecause \nthis ocean is yours\, \nand mine: \nthese buttons \nand wheels \nand little \nforgotten \ntreasures\, \nfans upon \nwhose feathers \nlove has scattered \nits blossoms\, \nglasses\, knives and \nscissors— \nall bear \nthe trace \nof someone’s fingers \non their handle or surface\, \nthe trace of a distant hand \nlost \nin the depths of forgetfulness. \n  \nI pause in houses\, \nstreets and \nelevators\, \ntouching things\, \nidentifying objects \nthat I secretly covet: \nthis one because it rings\, \nthat one because \nit’s as soft \nas the softness of a woman’s hip\, \nthat one there for its deep-sea color\,  \nand that one for its velvet feel. \n  \nO irrevocable  \nriver \nof things: \nno one can say \nthat I loved \nonly \nfish\, \nor the plants of the jungle and field\, \nthat I loved \nonly \nthose things that leap and climb\, desire\, and survive. \nIt’s not true: \nmany things conspired  \nto tell me the whole story. \nNot only did they touch me\, \nor my hand touched them: \nthey were \nso close \nthat they were a part  \nof my being\, \nthey were so alive with me \nthat they lived half my life \nand will die half my death. \n  \n—Pablo Neruda\, from Odes to Common Things\, edited & illustrated by Ferris Cook\, translated by Ken Krabbenhoft \n  \nlove to all\, \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-9-15-23/
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