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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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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  10/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nOctober 15\, 2023 \n  \n  \nWalk beautifully\, talk beautifully\, live beautifully. \nLet your heart speak to other hearts. \n  \n—wisdom from Yogi Tea bags \n* \n  \nBe joyful\, though you have considered the facts. \n  \n—Wendell Berry \n* \n  \nSome excerpts from a recent letter (8/31/23) from Rocky: \n  \nToday was a good day for me here. Almost everything ran smoothly. My dog Nelly is programming well & so am I. I’m on my way to being one of the primary trainers. That means I will also be training another A.I.C. [Adult In Custody]! Real work! All of this is going well. \n  \nMy mind has been wondering & thinking about what we have been talking about in the whole relationship department. I’m not sure how all of that will happen. “Organically” I hope. But you do not have to worry about me trying to save anyone! I might be the one that needs to be saved. LOL. I’m getting out to a whole new world\, one that I do not know too much about. \n  \nHonestly\, I want someone I can admire and appreciate and muse over. A simple\, kind love that is fun & sweet. That would be really…nice. Hummm…we will see how it goes! It should be hard to find her I think. LOL. I would like to know & love someone completely & be known & loved by them. Kind & gently & with happiness. I don’t feel I am damaged any longer. I can only feel the scars\, which is really good. It took a long time for them to heal. \n  \nWhen I was 22 or 23 years old\, I was working as a “cedar maggot.” We did not cut down living trees\, but cut up and cleaned up what the old time pioneers left on the forest floor. You see\, bugs don’t like cedar wood too much & cedar does not really rot too fast. The old timers would cut only the “clear” wood\, from the stump to where the branches started\, and leave the rest to rot. That’s where we came in. We cut all that left over stuff and we turned it into cedar bolts for shakes & shingles. \n  \nOne morning I climbed up on a tall cedar stump to sharpen my saw. There\, stuck in the stump\, was a rusted old wedge & the head of an axe with a splintered handle! There were also five pieces of yellow glass and an aluminum ring laying in a pile of rust—the remains of an old time lantern! All that stuff had been there for a long time. \n  \nAll of these moments we all have in our lives are what we are made of—strands of our hearts\, links in our minds\, reflections in our souls. I\, in my mind\, have returned to that stump\, the smell of the woods\, many times over the many years I’ve been in prison. My place of peace & solace when the weight of correction becomes much too much. \n  \nThe place in the woods\, the stump\, wedge\, axe & lantern glass are all lost\, as they should be. Magic does not just linger in one place. Maybe I took it in my soul & that is a good thought & it’s true? I go there often & I could have captured it that day so long ago all for myself & that is a good thought. It makes me smile to think it’s all mine\, & now yours too. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \n#363   Why Wait to be Happy? \n“Many people in our society are not happy\, even though the conditions for their happiness already exist. Their habit energy is always pushing them ahead\, preventing them from being happy in the here and now. But with a little bit of training\, we can all learn to recognize this energy every time it comes up. Why wait to be happy?”  \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nWhat makes me happy? What brings me joy? I’ll tell you\, for me\, it’s opening to love. Letting love in. \n  \nI have to admit\, sometimes I have episodes of resentment\, judgment\, selfishness\, defensiveness…more often than not\, though\, these episodes are brief and they just—melt away. The other day we were discussing Thanksgiving. I’d already offered to have Thanksgiving at our house\, for ‘my side’ of the family\, and then in passing\, I offered and invited David’s sister and others on ‘his side.’ When Mary called to confirm\, she breezily\, albeit apologetically\, announced that ‘everyone’ wanted to come\, like fourteen people!  ‘My side’ includes only five people. I had the distinct physical sensation of my heart balling up like a tight fist. ‘Fourteen\,’  I kind of gasped. Did I gasp\, or bellow? I’m not sure. I struggled for a bit with all those big negative feelings: resentment (pretty nervy to descend with fourteen people!)\, selfishness (‘my side’ will be engulfed!)\, judgment (they are not ‘my kind’ of people). But then the miracle happened: just as precipitously as my heart clenched into that hard fist\, it spilled open and…love…poured out. I just relaxed into love and happiness. “Well\, I think that will just be fine\,” I said. And I meant it. To have all those people\, young and old\, want to come up to our home on the mountain all of a sudden was a wonderful thing. I felt such love and happiness and joy at the thought of twenty family—‘my side’ or ‘his side’—spending the day of Thanksgiving together in our warm\, cozy home\, fire in the fireplace\, maybe even with a dazzling mountain view\, or maybe with a few snowflakes drifting down… \n  \nThis happens often; one moment I’m feeling a little ‘grrrr\,’ the next moment I’ve dissolved into love\, and happiness. Don’t ask me the formula\, the key to unlocking—I don’t understand it myself. I sure recognize it every time it comes up\, but don’t understand the radical nature of it. All I know is that I am in wonder of it myself and never fail to feel blessed. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \npast parentage or gender \nbeyond sung vocables \nthe slipped-between \nthe so infinitesimal \nfault line \na limitless \ninteriority \n  \nbeyond the woven \nunicorn   the maiden \n(man-carved   worm-eaten) \nGod at her hip \nincipient \nthe untransfigured \ncottontail \nbluebell and primrose \ngrowing wild   a strawberry \nchagrin   night terrors \npast the earthlit \nunearthly masquerade \n  \n(we shall be changed) \n  \na silence opens \n  \n—excerpt from “Silence” by Amy Clampitt \n  \nMay we be at peace \nMay all be healed \nMay we be a source of healing for all beings. \n  \nlove\,  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nLast Thursday\, when friends had gathered for coffee and conversation\, Will Hornyak asked: “What do you do to feed your soul in difficult times?” I passed that question along to some friends\, and here is what they sent me: \n  \nThree poems from Kim for Gaza and Israel: \n  \n     War for the Holy Land \n  \nYou could say it’s Biblical\, this fury \nbetween the children of Yahweh and Allah\, \nthis frenzy of rockets and bombs opening \nthe gates of hell for fire to take and take \nwhere hungry Death stalks the streets. \n  \nWeak leaders need war\, or else we would \nrequire them to be wise and kind. Instead\, \nthis fury allows them to say\, “We wage war \nbecause it’s the anniversary of war\,” and \n“We wage war because they wage war\,” \n  \nand everyone else goes along with it\, \nan eye for an eye\, a child for a child. \n  \n  \n     Peacenik\, War-nik \n  \nWhen there are two sides\, \nand one side starts shooting\, \nwhat are the rest of us to do? \nPeace-mongers may run and hide\, \n  \nwhile war gives warriors a certain \nclarity: be the implement between \ncommand and death. Hawks seek \nprey\, while doves sort seed. \n  \nFlower child\, thistle child—when \nwe hear an angry leader speak \nof vengeance\, of human animals\, \nthen it’s up to all of us. \n  \n  \n     Armor \n  \nWhat armor can our hearts put on \nwhen facts and photos find us\, far war \nhunting us from hiding? Now news \nbecomes an implement to pry us open \nso we\, too\, carry children through smoke \nand rubble. We bury victims of atrocity\, \nflee with only what we can carry. We find \nour kinfolk heaped. We are the massacre. \nWe try to keep the beating drum from \ngiving in\, giving up. We guard our capacity \nfor hurt\, each wound proving we feel\, proving \ndivisions are a lie\, proving our complicity. \nOld heart\, let suffering prove we are kin. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nNavigation \n  \nIn early morning dark\, I could meditate. \nI have done. 40 mornings. Sa Ta Na Ma. \nThe fingers of both hands in rhythm. \nAwkward\, fumbly. Good for the brain \n  \nThey say. Integration of the hemispheres. \nInstead\, I feed the cat. Fend off the worst \nof the arthritis with small movements \nuntil I can sit upright at a keyboard. \n  \nNo\, not music. That would be lovely\, \na little Chopin. A laptop. Precious tool\, \ndictation. I close my eyes. And talk. \nIf I look\, I want to edit\, dangerous walk \n  \nThis revision thing. More conversational \nthis way. The petty indignities\, frets from \ndays before\, get out all the surface stuff\, \nthe annoyances\, so the sweet stuff \n  \nHas room to grow into the day. \nAn unexpected bloom of affection \nor engagement with something \nabsurd and wonderful. \n  \nDid you know that if you smell \nThe inside of your elbow \nIt clears the nasal palate for all \nThe aromas the next encounter will bring? \n  \nElizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nIn answer to Will’s question… \n  \nThe times are always difficult. There is still the urgent question: How do you feed your soul? I try to nurture peace\, love\, happiness and understanding within myself. Without them\, I don’t have much to offer my fellow mortals that might be helpful. And I enjoy them for their own sake. I try to live a life that is rich in meaning. Life is short. Each day\, each moment\, is precious. I try to pay attention. And not forget to say thank you thank you thank you. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI write. That takes many forms. Novel\, screenplay\, song\, essay\, memoir. Just whatever I’m currently doing\, that has a world I can dive into\, and let everything else fall away. If I’m too brain-tired to do any of that\, I’ll do a crossword puzzle\, and if that’s too much\, I’ll go for Wordle. I lose myself in words\, and if I’m doing a song\, the music is extra bonus points. \n  \n—J Kahn \n* \n  \nHow to cope with a calamity\, of which there seem to be a surfeit? I started to add “right now” but that is not true…there is always a surfeit of despair. One necessary action is to be involved in preventing or ameliorating the disaster. Often you can help others. It sustains all of us to mutually better situations and solve problems.  \n  \nHow else do we come to terms with difficulties? For me both music and poetry are deep sources of consolation. I started to list poems and then realized the list is endless. Follow your own loves and you will find many poems that speak to the heart. A good starting one is Wendell Berry’s: \n  \nThe Peace of Wild Things \n  \nWhen despair for the world grows in me\nand I wake in the night at the least sound\nin fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be\,\nI go and lie down where the wood drake\nrests in his beauty on the water\, and the great heron feeds.\nI come into the peace of wild things\nwho do not tax their lives with forethought\nof grief. I come into the presence of still water.\nAnd I feel above me the day-blind stars\nwaiting with their light. For a time\nI rest in the grace of the world\, and am free. \n  \nAnd\, yes\, being in the wild\, whether a city park or untrammeled mountains\, is a deep source of nurture. Not consolation. Nature can be wild and destructive but not cruel. It is a vital reminder of the nurture and persistence of the world.  \n  \nOliver Sacks said that music is the one art that is both abstract and emotional\, it can elevate and reassure us\, deeply touch the place where we have no words. That is certainly true\, and my music may be very different than yours but both are the endless world of sound and silence that envelop us. \n  \nBut above all: find what you love\, give yourself to it\, work through reward and pain and frustration. Give yourself to it. Your immersion will carry you through so many griefs. Don’t do it all alone. We need one another\, we need community and its irreplaceable links. As the poet June Jordan often reminded us\, we are a community in fact and in aspiration. \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nJill sent this poem: \n  \nThe Red Wheelbarrow \n  \nso much depends \nupon \n  \na red wheel \nbarrow \n  \nglazed with rain \nwater \n  \nbeside the white \nchickens \n  \n—William Carlos Williams \n  \n—Jill Littlewood
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-10-15-23/
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