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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230915
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231015
DTSTAMP:20260425T204758
CREATED:20230917T003740Z
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UID:4139-1694736000-1697327999@openroadpdx.com
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/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20231005
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20231102
DTSTAMP:20260425T204758
CREATED:20231006T234331Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T135356Z
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  10/5/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nOctober 5\, 2023 \n  \n  \nMy friend\, I am going to tell the story of my life\, as you wish; and if it were only the story of my life I think I would not tell it…. \nIt is the story of all life that is holy and is good to tell\, and of us two-leggeds sharing it with the four-leggeds and the wings of the air and all green things; for these are children of one mother and their father is one Spirit…. \nNow that I can see it all as from a lonely hilltop\, I know it was the story of a mighty vision given to a man too weak to use it; of a holy tree that should have flourished in a people’s heart with flowers and singing birds\, and now it is withered; and of a people’s dream that died in bloody snow. \nBut if the vision was true and mighty\, as I know\, it is true and mighty yet; for such things are of the spirit… \n  \n—Black Elk Speaks by Black Elk\, transcribed and edited by John G. Neihardt\, pp. 1-2 \n* \n  \nBlack Elk (Heháka Sápa) was born on December 1\, 1863 near the Little Powder River in the Montana Territory. He was a holy man of the Oglala Lakota people. He was second cousin of Crazy Horse\, fought in the Battle of Little Bighorn\, participated in the Ghost Dance movement\, survived the Wounded Knee Massacre and toured Europe with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He is best known for the account of his life he gave to John G. Neihardt\, which was first published in 1932\, and remains in print to this day.  \nAt the age of nine\, Black Elk got a fever\, and remained lying as if dead for twelve days. While absent from this world\, he had a great vision. Here’s a brief excerpt: \n  \nAll the universe was silent\, listening; and then the great black stallion raised his voice and sang. The song he sang was this: \n  \n“My horses\, prancing they are coming. \nMy horses\, neighing they are coming; \nPrancing\, they are coming. \nAll over the universe they come. \nThey will dance; may you behold them. \n                                                             (4 times) \nA horse nation\, may you behold them.  \nMay you behold them.” \n                                                              (4 times) \n  \nHis voice was not loud\, but it went all over the universe and filled it. There was nothing that did not hear\, and it was more beautiful than anything can be. It was so beautiful that nothing anywhere could keep from dancing. The maidens danced\, and all the circled horses. The leaves on the trees\, the grasses on the hills and in the valleys\, the waters in the creeks and in the rivers and the lakes\, the four-legged and the two-legged and the wings of the air—all danced together to the music of the stallion’s song. \nAnd when I looked down upon my people yonder\, the cloud passed over\, blessing them with friendly rain\, and stood in the east with a flaming rainbow over it. \nThen all the horses went singing back to their places beyond the summit of the fourth ascent\, and all things sang along with them as they walked. \nAnd a Voice said: “All over the universe they have finished a day of happiness.” And looking down I saw that the whole wide circle of the day was beautiful and green\, with all fruits growing and all things kind and happy. \nAnd a Voice said: “Behold this day\, for it is yours to make. Now you shall stand upon the center of the earth to see\, for there they are taking you.” \nI was still on my bay horse\, and once more I felt the riders of the west\, the north\, the east\, the south\, behind me in formation\, as before\, and we were going east. I looked ahead and saw the mountains there with rocks and forests on them\, and from the mountains flashed all colors upward to the heavens. Then I was standing on the highest mountain of them all\, and round about beneath me was the whole hoop of the world.* And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit\, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being. And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that made one circle\, wide as daylight and as starlight\, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father.  And I saw that it was holy. \n  \n*Black Elk said the mountain he stood upon in his vision was Harney Peak in the Black Hills.” But anywhere is the center of the world\,” he added. \n  \n—Black Elk Speaks by Black Elk\, transcribed and edited by John G. Neihardt\, pp. 41-43 \n* \n In his vision six grandfathers who were “old like hills\, like stars” blessed him and told him that he must save his people. He said: “I knew that these were not old men\, but the Powers of the World.” \nAs a nine-year-old boy\, he was unable to tell his people about his vision. By the time he was 17\, his tribe re-enacted much of his vision. This was a very important event in Black Elk’s life. As an old man\, he was heart-broken by what he had lived through and what had happened to his people. He was sad that he had been unable to make real the vision of peace and harmony that had been granted to him. At the end of his life he was a practicing Catholic. He also continued to perform the sacred rites of the Lakota people. \nIn 1947\, Joseph Epes Brown met Black Elk. Concerned that his sacred tradition not be lost\, Black Elk gave him an account of the seven sacred rites of the Oglala Sioux. In 1953\,  Brown published The Sacred Pipe. It is a treasure trove for indigenous peoples and for the rest of us\, whose ancestors were surely indigenous at some point. John Trudell used to say: “We all come from tribes.” \nBlack Elk died in 1950. His vision and his wisdom live on. \n* \n  \nKim Stafford was Oregon’s Poet Laureate from 2018-2020. \n  \nAll My Relations \n  \nI want to thank all my relations \nfor this chance to be on Earth \nin her time of flourishing; to thank \nthe First People of this place\, the \nthe Multnomah people\, the Clackamas\, \nMolalla\, Tualatin\, and Chinook\, to honor \ntheir sovereignty in long and continuing \nrelation\, still teaching us how we might \nbe here together; to thank my mother and father\, \nmoon and sun\, for setting me forth before \ntheir own passing on; to thank my grandmother \nwho listened to me so eloquently I learned \nto listen to my own heart and mind\, to find \nstories and songs there; to thank my family \nand friends\, and all citizens and travelers \nwho study and work for deeper kinship \nin this place\, with one another\, and with \nall creatures\, one Earth\, visible\, palpable\, \nfragile\, intricate\, resonant\, in need of our \nbetter stories. I want to thank you \nwho have gathered to receive what I have \ncarried here—in hope that something \nI have may meet something you need\, \nso all our relations may be strengthened \nfor the life we live together. \n  \n—from Singer Come from Afar by Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nJoy Harjo is a member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. She was Poet Laureate of the United States from 2019-2022. She said about her work: \n  \n“I feel strongly that I have a responsibility to all the sources that I am: to all past and future ancestors\, to my home country\, to all places that I touch down on and that are myself\, to all voices\, all women\, all of my tribe\, all people\, all earth\, and beyond that to all beginnings and endings.” \n  \nMy House is the Red Earth \n  \nMy house is the red earth; it could be the center of the world. I’ve heard New York\, Paris\, or Tokyo called the center of the world\, but I say it is magnificently humble. You could drive by and miss it. Radio waves can obscure it. Words cannot construct it\, for there are some sounds left to sacred wordless form. For instance\, that fool crow\, picking through trash near the corral\, understands the center of the world as greasy strips of fat. Just ask him. He doesn’t have to say that the earth has turned scarlet through fierce belief\, after centuries of heartbreak and laughter—he perches on the blue bowl of the sky\, and laughs. \n  \n—from Secrets from the Center of the World by Joy Harjo \n* \n  \nJohn Trudell (1946-2015) was a member of the Santee Dakota tribe. \n  \nGrandfathers Whispering \n  \nGrandfathers whispering \nIn the wind \nRejoice at the life \nYou are a part of \nNatural energy \nBound to natural laws \nYou will survive this \nTemporary madness imposed upon you \nNatural life is longer \nThan oppressors illusionary insanity \nSpirits experience human deeds \nBut need not end \nThis is just one place of changes \n  \nSpirit life is forever if you want \nThe universe is your home \nYou can survive here \nDo not let them kill you \nKeep your spirit strong \nFor distant stars and distant drums \nAre the memories of spirit infancy \nChildren of earth let the spirit live \nSo you can grow in your place \n                                    In the universe \n  \n—from Lines from a Mined Mind by John Trudell \n* \n  \nGary Snyder won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1975. \n  \nMOTHER EARTH: HER WHALES \n  \nAn owl winks in the shadows \nA lizard lifts on tiptoes\, breathing hard \nYoung male sparrow stretches up his neck \n                     big head\, watching— \n  \nThe grasses are working in the sun. Turn it green. \nTurn it sweet. That we may eat. \nGrow our meat. \n  \nBrazil says “sovereign use of Natural Resources” \nThirty thousand kinds of unknown plants. \nThe living actual people of the jungle \n             sold and tortured— \nAnd a robot in a suit who peddles a delusion called “Brazil” \n             can speak for them? \n  \n             The whales turn and glisten\, plunge \n                     and sound and rise again\, \n             Hanging over subtly darkening deeps \n             Flowing like breathing planets \n                   in the sparkling whorls of \n                           living light— \n  \nAnd Japan quibbles for words on \n             what kind of whales they can kill? \nA once-great Buddhist nation \n             dribbles methyl mercury \n             like gonorrhea \n                            in the sea. \n  \nPère David’s Deer\, the Elaphure\, \nLived in the tule marshes of the Yellow River \nTwo thousand years ago—and lost its home to rice— \nThe forests of Lo-yang were logged and all the silt & \nSand flowed down\, and gone\, by 1200 AD— \n  \nWild Geese hatched out in Siberia \n                    head south over basins of the Yang\, the Huang\, \n                    what we call “China” \nOn flyways they have used a million years. \nAh China\, where are the tigers\, the wild boars\, \n                    the monkeys\, \n                        like the snows of yesteryear \nGone in a mist\, a flash\, and the dry hard ground \nIs parking space for fifty thousand trucks. \nIS man most precious of all things? \n—then let us love him\, and his brothers\, all those \nFading living beings— \n  \nNorth America\, Turtle Island\, taken by invaders \n             who wage war around the world. \nMay ants\, may abalone\, otters\, wolves and elk \nRise! and pull away their giving \n             from the robot nations. \n  \nSolidarity. The People. \nStanding Tree People! \nFlying Bird People! \nSwimming Sea People! \nFour-legged\, two legged\, people! \n  \nHow can the head-heavy power-hungry politic scientist \nGovernment         two-world         Capitalist-Imperialist \nThird-world          Communist        paper-shuffling male \n               non-farmer         jet-set        bureaucrats \nSpeak for the green of the leaf? Speak for the soil? \n  \n(Ah Margaret Mead…do you sometimes dream of Samoa?) \n  \nThe robots argue how to parcel out our Mother Earth \nTo last a little longer \n                      like vultures flapping \nBelching\, gurgling\, \n                       near a dying Doe. \n  \n“In yonder field a slain knight lies— \nWe’ll fly to him and eat his eyes \n                       with a down \n          derry derry derry down down.” \n  \n             An owl winks in the shadow \n             A lizard lifts on tiptoe \n                          breathing hard \n             The whales turn and glisten \n                           plunge and \n             Sound\, and rise again \n             Flowing like breathing planets \n  \n             In the sparkling whorls \n  \n             Of living light. \n                                                  Stockholm\, Summer Solstice 40072 \n  \n——from Turtle Island by Gary Snyder \n* \n  \nIn his old age\, Black Elk saw no contradiction between his traditional beliefs and those of Christianity: \n  \nWe have been told by the white men\, or at least by those who are Christian\, that God sent to men His son\, who would restore order and peace upon the earth; and we have been told that Jesus the Christ was crucified\, but that he shall come again at the Last Judgment\, the end of this world or cycle. This I understand and know that it is true\, but the white men should know that for the red people too\, it was the will of Wakan-Tanka\, the Great Spirit\, that an animal turn itself into a two-legged person in order to bring the most holy pipe to His people; and we too were taught that this White Buffalo Cow Woman who brought our sacred pipe will appear again at the end of this “world\,” a coming which we Indians know is now not very far off. \nMany people call it a “peace pipe\,” yet now there is no peace on earth or even between neighbors\, and I have been told that it has been a long time since there has been peace in the world. There is much talk of peace among the Christians\, yet this is just talk. Perhaps it may be\, and this is my prayer that\, through our sacred pipe\, and through this book in which I shall explain what our pipe really is\, peace may come to those peoples who can understand\, an understanding which must be of the heart and not of the head alone. Then they will realize that we Indians know the One true God\, and that we pray to him continually. \nI have wished to make this book through no other desire than to help my people in understanding the greatness and truth of our own tradition\, and also to help in bringing peace upon the earth\, not only among men\, but within men and between the whole of creation. \nWe should understand well that all things are the works of the Great Spirit. We should know that He is within all things: the trees\, the grasses\, the rivers\, the mountains\, and all the four-legged animals\, and the winged peoples; and even more important\, we should understand that He is also above all these things and peoples. When we do understand all this deeply in our hearts\, then we will fear\, and love\, and know the Great Spirit\, and then we will be and act and live as He intends. \n  \n—from Black Elk’s Foreword to The Sacred Pipe\, recorded and edited by Joseph Epes Brown
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-10-5-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20231014T193000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20231014T210000
DTSTAMP:20260425T204758
CREATED:20231003T004040Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20231003T004204Z
UID:4172-1697311800-1697317200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:SILENCE written and performed by Johnny Stallings
DESCRIPTION:painting of Johnny by Nancy Scharbach \n  \n  \nSILENCE \na theatre piece about meditation \nwritten & performed by \nJohnny Stallings \nSaturday\, October 14th\, at 7:30 pm \nat PAUSE *  133 SW 2nd\, #300
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/silence-written-and-performed-by-johnny-stallings/
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