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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20231207
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20240104
DTSTAMP:20260425T154123
CREATED:20231207T210507Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20231207T211351Z
UID:4261-1701907200-1704326399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  12/7/23
DESCRIPTION:Grinnell Lake in Glacier National Park \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nDecember 7\, 2023 \n  \nFrom Rocky: \nOctober 18\, 2023\, 5:40 a.m. \nDear Johnny \n  \nHello and good day to you. I hope that this letter finds you in a moment of peace & joy. I am just starting my day here & it is a beautiful day & the autumn sunrise is starting to fill the sky. I love this time of year. Between October & April is the time of year I love the most. The holidays & friends & food! The feeling you get from being close to the ones you love. Well\, I have to start the day now. I’ll be back soon. \n  \nOctober 19\, 2023\, 6:11 a.m. \n  \nDo you know the dreams you dream at night that let you know everything is alright? I had one of them last night. A friend & I just sat & talked about the last 25 years of our lives. It would seem we did it in the blink of an eye\, or\, 40 winks. We just sat and talked & it was so nice to see her\, even if it was only in a dream. \n  \nOctober 30\, 2023\, 5:10 a.m. \nDear Johnny & Nancy\, \n  \nIt’s a very cold morning here & it is also beautiful Autumn out\, my favorite time of the year. Family\, friends\, food & good times. I had an amazing October this year. \n  \nThe harvesting of the last of the Summer’s growth & the tilling of the earth for the crop. The falling of the leaves\, each one of them landing on the bed of my heart. Autumn has always been dear to me\, even when I was a child. \n  \nThe smell of pies & of chopping wood\, the smoke from the chimneys as the smell fills the neighborhood. Children in costumes\, bags full of candy and running noises—running towards Thanksgiving with their families. With Christmas on the way. \n  \nIt was so nice to talk to you two while you were picking out a tree for your yard. I closed my eyes & could see you shopping together. I know you came to the right one and it will look great in your yard for many years to come. I wish I could have been there to plant it for you\, while you enjoyed some coffee while I dug the hole. I know the digging around there is not so easy. I’m more than happy to do these things for you two. I want to enjoy life with my friends & family. \n  \nThe last few days have been so cold here! It is going to be one of those years\, I think. Long Cold Winter! \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nKatie sent this: \n  \nGate A-4 \n  \nWandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal\, after learning \nmy flight had been delayed four hours\, I heard an announcement:\n“If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic\, please\ncome to the gate immediately.” \n  \nWell—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there. \n  \nAn older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress\, just\nlike my grandma wore\, was crumpled to the floor\, wailing. “Help\,”\nsaid the flight agent. “Talk to her. What is her problem? We\ntold her the flight was going to be late and she did this.” \n  \nI stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.\n“Shu-dow-a\, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway\, Min fadlick\, Shu-bit-\nse-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew\, however poorly\nused\, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled\nentirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the\nnext day. I said\, “No\, we’re fine\, you’ll get there\, just later\, who is\npicking you up? Let’s call him.” \n  \nWe called her son\, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would\nstay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to \nher. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just \nfor the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while\nin Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I \nthought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know\nand let them chat with her? This all took up two hours. \n  \nShe was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life\, patting my knee\,\nanswering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool\ncookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and\nnuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.\nTo my amazement\, not a single woman declined one. It was like a\nsacrament. The traveler from Argentina\, the mom from California\, the\nlovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered\nsugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie. \n  \nAnd then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two\nlittle girls from our flight ran around serving it and they\nwere covered with powdered sugar\, too. And I noticed my new best friend—\nby now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag\,\nsome medicinal thing\, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi-\ntion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. \n  \nAnd I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought\, This\nis the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that\ngate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about\nany other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women\, too. \n  \nThis can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost. \n  \n—Naomi Shihab Nye \n  \nI think this is perfect for our times. The importance of language and listening and compassion can lead to deep understanding and inter-connectedness.  \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nTodd Oleson shared this: \n  \nKurt Vonnegut wrote:  \n  \nWhen I was 15\, I spent a month working on an archaeological dig. I was talking to one of the archaeologists one day during our lunch break and he asked those kinds of “getting to know you” questions you ask young people: Do you play sports? What’s your favorite subject? And I told him\, no I don’t play any sports. I do theater\, I’m in choir\, I play the violin and piano\, I used to take art classes. \n  \nAnd he went WOW. That’s amazing! And I said\, “Oh no\, but I’n not any good at ANY of them.” \n  \nAnd he said something then that I will never forget and which absolutely blew my mind because no one had ever said anything like it to me before: “I don’t think being good at things is the point of doing them. I think you’ve got all these wonderful experiences with different skills\, and that all teaches you things and makes you an interesting person\, no matter how well you do them.” \n  \nAnd that honestly changed my life. Because I went from a failure\, someone who hadn’t been talented enough at anything to excel\, to someone who did things because I enjoyed them. I had been raised in such an achievement-oriented environment\, so inundated with the myth of Talent\, that I thought it was only worth doing things if you could “Win” at them. \n* \n  \nDriving to the Headlands  \non the 23rd of December \n  \nWhat a light this morning! \nGlowing peach balloons for clouds\, \ntowering bouquets of them\, \nsuspended by an invisible clown \nacross the heavens. \n  \nAt last the greening of our hills comes to pass\, \nlike iridescent birds beside a charcoal sky. \nA jungle phoenix whose feathers color \nwith inhalation and sunlight. \n  \nAnd there’s an egret \ndoing tightrope tricks \nabove the marsh on my way to work. \nAll white and long necked\, \nshe bows and scrapes  \nfrom her telephone wire \nacrobat in nature’s circus\, \nwaiting for applause. \n  \n—Gail Lester\, from Transformed by Other Places \n* \n  \n           Water Song \n  \nI flow lower\, slower\, sliding wet in rivulet \nor defile\, creep deep\, seep under\, sift through\, \nturn blue\, mist up from wave or pool\, fool \nto be gone\, abscond beyond accountability\, \nmyriad molecule sipped by Caesar\, fog \nfurrowing battlefields\, shining shields\, \nsurrender’s yield sealed sacred\, feeling \nmy way out from thicket or conflict\, \nhealing drought\, ooze from wounds\, \nsound of splash\, blood from lash\, river’s \ndash from peak to sea\, pleased to meet \nyou\, travel through you\, be lost\, ghost \nin your shape\, rain cape descending\, \nsending my battalions over islands\, \nstorm stallions stamping feet of lace\, \ndawn song\, small saint\, clear paint\, \nface dressed\, soul blessed\, best taste\, \nnot much\, a healing touch\, and gone. \n  \n—Kim Stafford\, from As the Sky Begins to Chang \n(forthcoming as a print book from Red Hen Press\, April 2024\, and also as an audiobook) \n  \n \n(QR code for “Water Song” poem by Kim Stafford) \n* \n  \nJ Kahn sent a link to “Nature’s Mystery: Watch the Hypnotic Dance of a Starling Murmuration”: \n  \n \n  \nHe says: “I personally believe it is an example of meta-consciousness.” \nCheck it out! \n* \nHonesty \n  \nMirroring one another \nthe herb pale and round \nas the moon is pale \nand round shows in the house \nof light that all favors \nhave been showered upon us. \n  \nThe object\, barred by the dragon\, \ncinnabar\, sulphur\, and mercury \njoined to find salt\, we’re keeping \nthe wax warm for the inscription. \n  \nThe rhythm of hymns \nprotects us from the snake. \nThe tree\, branches \nthrough each state\, \nvapor rises as the eagle rises \nthe serpent held aloft eats his tail. \n  \nNature is one substance \nin different forms\, \nthe very last thing left behind.   \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nThere is a ribbon \nso deep in shadowed rubble \nit is colorless. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nIf we could read the secret history of our enemies\, we should see sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility. \n  \n—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  \n  \n(quoted by Jack Kornfield in The Art of Forgiveness\, Lovingkindness\, and Peace\, p. 32) \n  \n There is no statistical evidence that harsh punishment\, including the death penalty\, acts as a deterrent to crime—(109 countries have abolished the death penalty). On the international level\, the idea that the world can be improved by war has long been a popular one. The results so far are not encouraging. Twenty-five hundred years ago\, Buddha said: \n  \nIn this world \nHate never yet dispelled hate. \nOnly love dispels hate. \nThis is the law\, \nAncient and inexhaustible. \n  \n—Dhammapada\, translated by Thomas Byrom \n  \nAnd as Tiny Tim says: \nGod Bless Us\, Every One! \n  \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-7-23/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20231215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20240115
DTSTAMP:20260425T154123
CREATED:20231215T214256Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T162748Z
UID:4277-1702598400-1705276799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  12/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nDecember 15\, 2023 \nLet us be kind and compassionate to remove the sadness of the world. \n—tag on a Yogi Tea bag \n* \n  \nSomeone at a lecture asked Suzuki Roshi about psychoanalysis. \n  \nIn answer he said\, “You think the mind is like a pond that you throw things in\, and they sink to the bottom\, like old shoes\, and later they rise to the surface. But actually\, there’s no such thing as the mind!” \n  \n—from To Shine One Corner of the World: moments with Suzuki Roshi \n* \n  \nWhat Christmas Means to Me \n  \nIt took me a long time to discover the error in presuming to write something with a title like “What Christmas Means.” But I’m an authority on “What Christmas Means to Me.” Who else? \n  \nIt seems to me that every spoken or written sentence should begin with the phrase “it seems to me.” But that would be tedious. I am not and you are not in a position to make pronouncements about the way things are.  \n  \nOnly Donald Trump is in that position. Just kidding.  \n  \nAnd so\, dear reader\, don’t take offense. This does not pretend to be the right way to look at Christmas. Just my way. \n  \nThe birth of Jesus is a symbolic event\, not a historical one. What it symbolizes is that every baby born on Planet Earth is an incarnation of the Divine. \n  \nEnd of essay. That’s about all I’ve got to say on the subject\, but I enjoy saying it. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings\, from the forthcoming book The Nonstop Love-In \n* \n  \n  Earth Eve \n  \nYes\, we know that telling\, about the apple \nand the exile\, how one son slew the other\, \nso we descended from their legacy of loss  \nand violence\, and blamed our troubles \non a woman’s taste for sweet. But \n  \nin another telling she remained resident \nin green\, her daughters Wind and Willow \ndanced together\, could bless without fire \nor sacrifice\, could follow moth by night\, \nbutterfly by day\, moon and sun\, enough. \n  \nWhich story shall we tell the children: \nhow we failed\, or how they might live. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nBrandon sent these quotes: \n  \nWhen we love\, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are\, everything around us becomes better too. \n  \nIt’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting. \n  \nThere is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure. \n  \nTell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams\, because every second of the search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.     \n  \n—Paulo Coelho\, The Alchemist \n  \n—Brandon Gillespie \n* \n  \n“It is very important to have at least one meal together every day. This meal should be an occasion to practice mindfulness\, and to be aware of how fortunate we are to be together. After we sit down we look at each person\, and breathing in and out\, smile to him or her for a few seconds. This practice can produce a miracle. It can make you real\, and it can make the others at the table real also.”—#359 “A Family Meal” from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nWelll—-ha ha ha! “A Family Meal\,” “an occasion to practice mindfulness\,” “breathing in and out\, smile to him or her for a few seconds…” I don’t know how many of the twenty three people at our Thanksgiving meal had a chance to enact these practices\, but I know that everyone laughed and hugged and ate and jabbered for hours and hours…and hours. One woman said\, “You don’t know me\, but Mary said she thought you wouldn’t mind…”  Another said\, “Oh I’m Sean’s son’s girlfriend and Sean thought it would be okay if…”  \n  \nOf course it was okay. It was a gorgeous\, sunny\, chilly day\, and the snowy mountain gleamed as white as the mounds of whipped cream on the pumpkin pies. Six kids under five years old caromed from wall to wall\, inside and outside. They poked at Lolo the dog’s nose and ears\, then shrieked and ran when she growled her old dog growl. We had to cook on the outside barbecue to get all the food ready; doors flung open and shut a hundred times. Cold air in\, warm air out. “Hey\, close that door!” “Can’t! Gotta’ heat up this ham because she has turkey in the oven!” Everyone\, it seems\, brought pies—pumpkin(s)\, apple\, peach\, blueberry/blackberry\, pecan…  One of the pumpkin pies had a huge slice carved out of it. Sister\, Holly\, waving her wine glass around\, announced\, “Pie before dinner is my motto!” \n  \nIn spite of all the chaos\, the meal went off without a hitch. Sisters and brother-in-law spent the night\, along with a few others who decided they were so comfortable they would\, too. \n  \nSo: Mindfulness? Not so much. Except for our singing of a round that my family has sung before each Thanksgiving meal since I was little. I passed out copies to groups of 4 or more; I sang for them to introduce the simple tune\, then instructed groups to chime in after a few bars. Everybody settled down\, and we sang. It sounded like a chorus of bells being rung. Ethereal. Holy. \n  \n    “Around the table now we praise the Lord of earth and heaven. \n     In grateful songs to thee we sing for all thy mercies giv’n.” \n  \nWe sang several rounds until the last group echoed away\,  “….for all thy mercies giv’n.” And there was silence for a hushed moment. I guess that was our “mindfulness moment\,” and we did all smile to each other\, and we were real. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nOpen the Door \n  \nOpen the door \nReceive the breath like a wave \nWeave a sense of calm \nWhisper soft and shallow \nResonate – an underground stream \nSmooth continuous deepening calm \nNourishing release \nFeet heavy\, lower legs settle \nStillness in the knees \nThighs heavy \nHips belly chest back \nSinking \nHands lower arms elbows upper arms \nShoulders – head heavy \nEffortless heaviness \nSilent silent \nPeace peace peace on the in breath \nPeace peace peace on the out breath \nBody infused with peace \nMind saturated with peace \nBecome peace \nAwareness \nPeace inside the body \nPeace outside the body \nPeace above the body \nPeace below the body \nSurrounding the body \nOn the breath – in the mind \nAbsorbed \nUnchanging \nUndisturbed \nThe source \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nClairvoyance \n  \nWhen you work in newspapers\, you’re always a few days in the future. On Tuesday you’re talking with your editor about Thursday\, and on Wednesday you’re talking about Friday. On Saturday I talk about nothing. I sit on the patio at 5 a.m. facing the eastern dark\, remembering how I tossed and turned in utero. I’m really not so intelligent as people think. I forget books as soon as I’ve read them\, articles as soon as I’ve written them. I got through all of Proust in five months but could tell you little about it\, other than how I superimposed my great loves over those of the narrator. When you work in newspapers\, “today” is always in the rear-view\, familiar but strange\, like your lover’s face when you see it in the mirror\, a speck of toothpaste in the corner of their backward smile. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar\, originally published in SAND \n* \n  \n5  “It was beginning winter” \n  \nIt was beginning winter  \nAn in-between time\,  \nThe landscape still partly brown: \nThe bones of weeds kept swinging in the wind\,  \nAbove the blue snow.  \n  \nIt was beginning winter\,  \nThe light moved slowly over the frozen field\,  \nOver the dry seed-crowns\,  \nThe beautiful surviving bones  \nSwinging in the wind.  \n  \nLight traveled over the wide field;  \nStayed.  \nThe weeds stopped swinging. \n The mind moved\, not alone\, \nThrough the clear air\, in the silence.  \n  \nWas it light?  \nWas it light within?  \nWas it light within light?  \nStillness becoming alive\,  \nYet still?  \n  \nA lively understandable spirit  \nOnce entertained you.  \nIt will come again.  \nBe still.  \nWait. \n  \n—from the poem “The Lost Son” by Theodore Roethke \n  \n“unto us a child is born” \nUnto all of us. Delana Nalin Kloster has been born unto us\, into our family and our loving\, wise tribe.  \nWe are blessed and so happy to have you friends around us. Even in this time that\, like all times\, is troubled and people feel hopeless—more war\, less water. \nBut a child comes into the world and all around this shining space\, there  \nis anticipation and hope!   \nA not so subtle shift; she comes like a force of nature\, hungry for life.   \n  \nDelana – named by her parents Kornvipa “Ying” and William Forest Kloster\, is an ancient name with many meanings in many cultures. It symbolizes the embodiment of beauty and love\, sunlight\, and resilience. \nNalin – in Sanskrit means Beautiful Lotus Flower. Named by her Thai Grandfather\, following the tradition of waiting in meditation for the right meaning\, \n  \nDelana Nalin arrives at Christmas time when millions of people are celebrating the birth of a child. \nMay she be a princess of Peace\, Love\, and Happiness \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nThis year is coming to an end. I just looked through the Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogues for 2023. It’s quite a treasure trove of beauty and inspiration! If\, from time to time you find yourself in need of either\, please visit the Meditation & Mindfulness Archive on the Open Road website: https://openroadpdx.com/event/open-road-meditation-mindfulness-archive/ \n  \nMuch love to everyone reading this!—now and in the year ahead. \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-12-15-23/
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