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SUMMARY:Martin Luther King Day! (1/15/24) & Black History Month in February
DESCRIPTION: \n\n\n\n\nToday is Martin Luther King Day!\n\n\n\n\n \n \n\n\n\nBlack History Month is coming up in February!\n\n\n\n\n \n \n\n\n\nBelow is a link to a speech Dr. King gave a few days after Rosa Parks was arrested for not sitting at the back of a bus in Montgomery\, Alabama\, in 1955. As far as I know\, it is the earliest recorded speech of of his. The quality of the recording is not very good\, but it’s a miracle that we have it. This YouTube video contains a transcription of the speech. \n \nSomething happens near the end. The people in the church realize that in this moment\, in this place\, the world is going to change. The roof comes off the church.\n \nI’ve listened to this recording many times. I cry every time\, without fail.\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TmoFoG5P-U\n \n \n\npeace\, love & justice\n\nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/martin-luther-king-day-black-history-month/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20240115
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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  1/15/24
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nJanuary 15\, 2023 \n  \nThe mind is its own place\, and in itself \nCan make a Heav’n of Hell\, a Hell of Heav’n. \n  \n—from “Paradise Lost” by John Milton \n* \n  \nA couple poems from Kim. I’d like to read the imaginary book that he wrote this prologue for: \n  \n                   Prologue \n  \nThis book should probably be banned \nbecause the author not only believes in  \nfreedom\, but practices freedom by talking  \nabout hard things that may distract you.  \nYou should probably not read this book  \nif you are afraid to see things in a new way\,  \nencounter ideas that require thought\, or  \ncome to know people you have discounted. \nIf anyone sees you reading this book\, they \nmay judge you in ways you can’t control.  \nThis book could cause young people to  \ndevelop open minds\, then—who knows \nwhat might happen? Maybe close this book  \nright now—unless you feel brave\, and free. \n  \n  \n                   Be Alive \n  \nSometimes you see it on the street \namong the many pedestrian pedestrians \ndragged by errands\, slouching toward work— \nthis one youth skipping with joy. \n  \nOr in the store where shoppers lean on carts  \nheaped with plunder\, one bright-eyed\,  \ngray-haired wisp of woman humming\,  \nbuoyant in the baking aisle. \n  \nDon’t die before you die. It’s possible\, even  \nin dark days to wake in wonder\, lift your gaze\,  \nmake them stare\, amaze the sleeping multitudes  \nby how you swim through air.  \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nI bless the redbrick \nobsolete city center \nfrom the nineteenth floor. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \n#352  “Why Hurry to the Grave?” \n“There is no need for us to struggle to arrive somewhere else. We know that our final destination will be the cemetery. Why are we in a hurry to get there? Why not step in the direction of life\, which is in the present moment?” \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nHahaha! Oh\, that Thich Nhat Hanh has a funny bone in his body! Why hurry to the grave\, indeed?! There’s way too much living to do: too many dahlias to plant; too many dogs to save; kids to teach\, and kids to learn from; prisons to badger; trails to find\, or trails to find me; bike routes to tackle; Asian dishes to cook—wait! African and Indian dishes to try; short stories to write…. \n  \nEvery day is a new day. Every moment is a new moment.  \n  \nI want to take up cardiac surgery; there are a few hearts I’d like to transplant. \n  \nSo I’d better get moving—this January 29th I will be 80 years old. Ack!!! Oh well\, my dad was planting 10” Christmas tree seedlings when he was 90 years old. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nJill sent this quote: \n  \nBe kind to people; you never know what they’re going through. They might look perfectly normal\, but if you could see into their heart of hearts\, you might discover that they’re a poet\, forced to wander the world noticing\, noticing\, noticing\, until they’re hearts give out. I should know: my brother is one such unfortunate. So you never can tell. \n  \n—Sofia Warren \n  \n—Jill Littlewood \n* \n  \nThe Pelican \n  \nFinding oneself alone \nlocked out\, just after dark \nin snow\, 15 degrees\, \nwith only one’s clothes and one’s wits \nsharpens awareness of vulnerability. \n  \nA bit like a knife finds one’s weak spots. \n  \nBut this is about wittering\, \nor lack thereof. \nThe longing for much \nmaligned chit chat \nthat is the crack in a door left slightly open \nfor a glimpse of loss\, grief\, loneliness. \n  \nThat’s where the brown pelican \ncomes in\, prehistoric\, living \ndinosaur chasing an osprey\, \nterrifying huge bucket of a mouth open \nto catch\, hopefully\, a dropped fish. \n  \nWe sit with it. \n  \nThe fear\, the maw\, the missing\, \nthe nature of things. \n  \nAnd then we get up \ngo to the dining hall or grocery \nand make a joke to the person \nahead of us in line. \n  \nAbout the weather. \n   \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nClear blue sky this morning. It’s cold out. Snow on the ground. Wondering what to write for the Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue—what to say about the unsayable. Emily’s poem pops into my mind\, and says what I want to say better than I can: \n  \nThe Infinite a sudden Guest \nHas been assumed to be — \nBut how can that stupendous come \nWhich never went away? \n  \n—Emily Dickinson \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nWe are experiencing snow with our original nature of AWE like we were children. \n  \nFurry Bear \n  \nIf I were a bear\,\n   And a big bear too\,\nI shouldn’t much care\n   If it froze or snew;\nI shouldn’t much mind\n   If it snowed or friz—\nI’d be all fur-lined\n   With a coat like his! \n  \nFor I’d have fur boots and a brown fur wrap\,\nAnd brown fur knickers and a big fur cap.\nI’d have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws\,\nAnd brown fur mittens on my big brown paws.\nWith a big brown furry-down up to my head\,\nI’d sleep all the winter in a big fur bed. \n  \n—A.A. Milne \n  \n“When somebody has access  \nwho did not previously have access\,  \nthat’s powerful . . .” \n  \nI read this sign on the front of the Metro Newsletter about where to hike in Portland. The lead article was about who has access to the rivers and the hiking paths. Metro is creating more accessible paths for people with difficulty walking. How essential is our ability to wander in the woods\, to be in the wild\, by running water?   \n  \nI was reflecting on this quote on the way to the showing of Bushra’s film “A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Prison” at First Unitarian Church last Saturday. There was a wonder-full audience of receptive people who were astonished and moved by the beautiful experience of being able to see this story unfold. And I realized the profundity of access\, not only to people imprisoned\, but also to the friends\, mothers\, fathers\, daughters and sons who have not been able to visit their loved ones in prison. How powerful it is to have access to theater\, reading\, Shakespeare\, performing\, music\, visitors\, freedom\, transformation\, spectacle \, joy\, laughter\, hugging\, love—to feel so alive and engaged in life! \n  \nI received a new year poem from Kim and Perrin – “Be Alive” so timely. We have access to so much that can make us happy to be alive. Even when the power goes out\, branches are breaking\, the internet is disabled\, water only runs cold. When you wake in the dark under piles of quilts to stay warm\, as Perrin and Kim write in their poem\, “it’s possible\, even in dark days to wake in wonder.” \n  \nThis storm will pass.  \n  \nWith love and thanks to you all and our expanding community.   \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-1-15-24/
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  2/1/24
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 1\, 2024 \n  \n¡Saludos from sunny México! \n  \nRecently\, I asked some friends: “Over the years\, and right up to now\, what experiences\, people\, books\, movies have enlarged your world?” Kim sent this: \n  \nThe Key to Sweden \n  \nIn July of 1969 I was hitchhiking north into Sweden\, after spending a few days at a commune called Dragon Houses just across the strait from Copenhagen. I had a small rucksack containing a sleeping bag\, a camera\, my journal\, and a recorder\, which I played inexpertly while waiting for a ride on the increasingly empty roads of Sweden stretching into the interior. I was nineteen. \n     A woman driving alone picked me up. She didn’t speak English\, and seemed very preoccupied\, as we drove north along what turned out to be a narrow peninsula stretching out into a great lake. At the end of the road\, we got out\, and I looked around. She made a rather halting speech in Swedish\, then awkwardly got in the car and drove back south\, leaving me there. All afternoon I waited. It was a dead-end road. Maybe no one else ever came there. Finally\, in the evening\, three French lads arrived in a little car\, we all went for a swim\, and then they drove me back to the main road\, and left me at an improbable English-themed pub standing alone in a field\, far from anything. Clearly\, I was meant to enter. \n     Inside it was loud. Lots of young travelers\, a scruffy lot like me. A din of languages. Lots of beer going down. Shouting and laughter. Long benches pulled up to long tables\, and smoke from many cigarettes wafting up toward the rafters. I bought a beer at the bar\, found an empty seat at one of the long tables\, and settled in to nurse my silence. I was so solitary in those days\, and sick with grief about it. \n     As I hunched over my half-empty glass\, the traveler beside me — a boy about my age\, from England\, by his voice — turned to me out of the blue and shouted the wanderer’s existential question into my ear: Where are you going? \n     I leaned over and shouted into his ear: Göteborg\, just then deciding. \n     He shouted to me: Do you have a place to stay? \n     I shook my head. But before I could turn back to my beer\, a young woman on the bench behind me rose to her feet\, and extended her hand toward me. In her hand was a key. She bent close to shout in my ear\, I will not be using it. Then she took the pen from my pocket\, and wrote an address on my palm\, put the key there\, closed my fingers around it\, and stepped away. In a moment\, she had disappeared into the crowd. \n     I hitched to Göteborg\, found the address\, opened the door to a snug refuge\, lived there three days\, baked bread\, read a copy of The Grapes of Wrath I found on her shelf\, cleaned the place as an act of gratitude\, left the key on the kitchen table\, and pulled the locked door shut behind me. \n     For decades now\, I have carried that moment of generosity and trust as a talisman for the possibility of human kindness. When young people ask me\, “What was it like in the 60s?” I tell about the key to Sweden\, and the address written on my hand by a trusting stranger. \n  \n—from Little Book of Common Good by Kim Stafford\, (Little Infinities\, 2018) \n* \n  \nProust’s In Search of Lost Time has enlarged my world more than any other book. It taught me the vastness of life. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nFor a number of years I facilitated dialogue groups at Two Rivers prison. The name I gave to the dialogue program was: “The Stories We Tell Ourselves: How Our Thinking Shapes Our Lives.” I am obsessed with stories—especially what they do to us. We live inside of stories. We tell ourselves stories all day long—stories about who we are\, about the world in which we live\, and our relationship to it. Individually and collectively\, we have worldviews\, which are subject to change. \n  \nStories can define and confine us. They can rob us of the joy that is our birthright. We can live in fear. And we can live in love. \n  \nThe question I asked my friends—“what has enlarged your world?”—arose out of my own quest to see through the ideas\, opinions\, prejudices and dogmas that imprison me. I’m always wondering: what can make me wiser\, kinder\, happier\, more generous\, more loving\, more free? I ask again and again: “What’s going on here?” I’m constantly on the lookout for the next book that will give me new insights and deepen my understanding\, the next film that will make me laugh or break my heart\, the next friend who will do…whatever it is that friends do. Love me? Enliven me? Correct me? Inspire me? \n  \nIt’s a long way from Whitefish\, Montana to Udhagamandalam\, Tamil Nadu. Looking back on my life journey\, I can see that Indian yogis made my life bigger and better. Also\, American yogis\, like Howard Thoresen\, Alan Benditt & Walt Whitman. \n  \nShortly after escaping from high school\, I encountered people in books and in “real life” who changed the way I see the world. J. Krishnamurti spoke of “freedom from the known\,” and from authority (including religious authority)\, and from fear. In Autobiography of a Yogi\, Paramahansa Yogananda made India seem like a magical place. He wrote about meditation and spiritual ecstasy—samādhi. I wanted that! Instead of going to college or to Vietnam\, in my twenties\, I spent a lot of time with two Indian yogis\, Nitya Chaitanya Yati and Nataraja Guru\, in Udhagamandalam and elsewhere. There is an old idea in India\, that one’s true self is not other than the All—which has no beginning or end. I spent a lot of time meditating on that. \n  \nDuring the years I was studying Indian Philosophy\, I always had Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass in my back pocket. In the poem “Song of Myself\,” Walt says: \n  \n“I believe in the flesh and the appetites\, \nSeeing\, hearing\, feeling are miracles\, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.” \n  \nIt doesn’t sound like something an Indian yogi would say. But the next lines of the poem sorta do… \n  \n“Divine am I inside and out\, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from\, \nThe scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer\, \nThis head more than churches\, bibles\, and all the creeds.” \n  \nI don’t know of anything that has enlarged my world more than Walt’s poem. Back in the day—before the Internet!—the Looking-Glass Book Store was full of books that blew my mind. The Whole Earth Catalog\, the I Ching\, the Tao Te Ching\, and the books of Jack Kerouac\, Carlos Castaneda\, Buckminster Fuller\, Shunryu Suzuki\, Hermann Hesse\, Alan Watts\, Carl Jung and Nikos Kazantzakis come to mind. \n  \nMore recently\, paradoxically\, going into the confined space of prisons made my world bigger. I made many friends there. Friends continually enrich my world—too many to name here. However\, Nancy Scharbach\, more-than-a-friend\, deserves special mention. \n  \nAs an actor and director\, William Shakespeare has given me boundless gifts. \n  \nThat’s enough for now. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nThis morning\, I opened “my” blog that is kind of like a diary site online called Prosebox. I have been writing like this since 1998 and read notes and writings from my Icelandic friend who lives in Sweden and writes horror fiction and takes amazing photographs. There is a retired child minder grandmother who lives in a comfortable cottage town near Edinburgh who has a troubled adult son that is mentally ill. \n  \nThere is something pretty much every day from my friend\, a recent widow\, who since the beginning of the pandemic and Zoom\, also is now my yoga student. She lives in Peterborough Australia\, (a flyspeck of a town she calls it) about as far north of Adelaide as Seattle is from Portland.   \n  \nThere is my friend who is a retired maths teacher living in Victoria Australia\, a fifth-grade teacher in a Catholic School outside Calgary Alberta\, a journalist writing for a prestigious medical journal on mental health and related topics in Washington D.C. who is obsessed with birds\, all kinds. \n  \nThere is a paper artist in San Diego\, an inn keeper in rural South Africa who co-authored a book last year on native plants\, a recent empty nester\, fiddle player\, master gardener and homeschooler (both kids now in college) in rural Maine. \n  \nThe affiliation is loose and unstructured. \n  \nWe don’t use our “real” names but over the years most of us have exchanged addresses and links to things in our lives. Interestingly\, all our pets are described using their real-world names. My cat Carlo is internationally known. \n  \nBecause of the way of these things\, the original site we used closed down about seven years ago\, but someone set up another less annoying one and many of us moved over there. \n  \nWe talk about all sorts of things. Big things. Life changing things\, small things\, an annoying drawer\, dogs barking in the night. Over the years we have learned what to share (so as not to annoy our loved ones) and what not to. I have had occasion to meet some of the people as they have passed through town. Mostly at Powell’s coffeeshop\, because\, why not? \n  \nOne of the lovely things about all this\, besides knowing what the weather is like all over the place each day\, is that we know each other well. One of us has developed dementia in the meantime and she uses her old posts to help her remember friends and events and we act as a kind of collective memory for her. \n  \nIt is a joy. And a bit weird. And not at all like Facebook. It has most determinedly enlarged my world. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nI’ve still been thinking about the Dalai Laman’s top suggestion for cultivating Joy in one’s life. If we are suffering\, the Dalai Lama suggests that we get a wider perspective\, to see the bigger picture. \n  \nAfter reading the newsletter a few months ago with Black Elk’s vision and telling of the midwest Native massacres\,  I discovered i knew nothing of the Trail of Tears in the Willamette Valley.  \n  \nI read in National Geographic that a Mountain in the Cascade foothills near Cottage Grove was being renamed. From Mt. Swastika to Mt. Halo\, it was renamed for Chief Halo who had refused to move his family from his homeland in 1856.  From Tualatin to the Southern  Oregon border\, the indigenous People were forced to the coast where they were promised all the food they could eat. Most of the people died from disease or starvation along the route. The survivors ended up at two camps\, one on the southern coast and the other that is now the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde.   \n  \nIt is a paradox that to read this history and have more understanding  feels expansive.  It is easy to relate the stories to what is happening now in the Middle East\, and what has gone on for centuries. I can’t say it brings me Joy\, but it does make me have a broader view as well as deep compassion that will find a way to compassion in action. \n  \nReparation takes a long time\, but we do hear now recognition of those who lived on this land before European conquest. There is more awareness\, and realization that there are descendants that are struggling to keep their culture. And there are stories of returning land to tribe members from those who have benefited for years from  living on what was stolen.  \n  \nThere are books on this history\, written by Americans\, about the settlers and the US military and the tribes; about the Applegates\, the Indian government authorities\, and the Kalapuya. But now there is a book by scholar David Lewis\, a member of the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde.  Tribal Histories of the Willamette Valley tells the rich history and systematic removal of The Kalapuyans who lived in the Valley for thousands of years.  It opened my heart and mind to their/our ongoing story.  \n  \nAs we get older there is some letting go of despair over terrible news. Annie Lamott wrote about it this way recently\, about aging and insight\,  \n  \n“In my younger days when the news was too awful\, I sought meaning in it. Now not so much. The meaning is that we have come through so much\, and we take care of each other and\, against all odds\, heal\, imperfectly. We still dance\, but in certain weather\, it hurts. \nThe portals of age also lead to the profound (indeed earthshaking) understanding that people are going to do what people are going to do” \n  \nSo this leaves me with feeling that kindness on an everyday basis\, cultivating joy for the sake of those around me\, enjoying nature and art especially books are the things that matter most.  \n  \nMay we be healed\, may we be a source of healing for all beings. \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2-1-24/
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