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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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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  2/15/24
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2023 \n  \nwhen the mind is still \nall views disappear \n  \ntrying to quiet the mind \nis just more activity \n  \n—Seng Ts’an \n* \n  \n“Abandoning concepts is of prime importance for a meditator.” \n  \n—from The Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh\, p. 319 \n* \n  \nAnd a favorite quote for Valentine’s Day: \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n  \n—William Blake \n* \n  \n¡Greetings from Guanajuato! \n  \nThis morning (2/6/24) I was thinking about Thomas Traherne. He’s a Christian mystic from the Seventeenth Century. Naturally\, he believes in God. For him\, God created the heavens and the earth\, and everything that lives here–including us.* He’s terrifically pleased with all this\, grateful\, and eloquent. I enjoy reading his poems and meditations. In my mind\, I have to do some translating of what he says into ideas that are more congenial to me. So\, this morning\, instead of doing it in my head\, I tried a couple things in my journal. \n  \nIn Centuries of Meditations Thomas Traherne wrote… \n  \n58 \nThe Cross is the abyss of wonders\, the centre of desires\, the school of virtues\, the house of wisdom\, the throne of love\, the theatre of joys\, and the place of sorrows; It is the root of happiness and the gate of Heaven. \n  \n…which I changed to… \n  \n58 \nSilence is the abyss of wonders\, the center of desires\, the school of virtues\, the house of wisdom\, the throne of love\, the theater of joys\, and the place of sorrows; it is the root of happiness and the gate of heaven. \n  \nA longer passage from Thomas Traherne… \n  \n71 \nBut what life wouldst thou lead? And by what laws wouldst thou thyself be guided? For none are so miserable as the lawless and disobedient. Laws are the rules of blessed living. Thou must therefor be guided by some laws. What wouldst thou choose? Surely  since thy nature and God’s are so excellent\, the Laws of Blessedness\, and the Laws of Nature are the most pleasing. God loved thee with an infinite love\, and became by doing so thine infinite treasure. Thou art the end unto whom He liveth. For all the lines of His works and counsels end in thee\, and in thy advancement. Wilt not thou become to Him an infinite treasure\, by loving Him according to His  desert? It is impossible but to love Him that loveth. Love is so amiable that it is irresistible. There is no defense against that arrow\, nor any deliverance in that war\, nor any safeguard from that charm. Wilt thou not live unto Him? Thou must of necessity live unto something. And what so glorious as His infinite Love? Since therefore\, laws are requisite to lead thee\, what laws can thy soul desire\, than those that guide thee in the most amiable paths to the highest end? By Love alone is God enjoyed\, by Love alone delighted in\, by Love alone approached or admired. His Nature requires Love\, thy nature requires Love. The law of Nature commands thee to Love Him: the Law of His nature\, and the Law of thine. \n  \n…in my argot becomes… \n  \n71 \nIt is impossible not to love someone who loves you. Love is so amiable that it is irresistible. There is no defense against that arrow\, nor any safeguard from that charm. What life would you lead? By what would you be guided? We must have something to live for. What would you choose? Why not live in blessedness? Why not live in love? You must live for something. What more glorious than infinite love? Where there is infinite love there is infinite treasure. Choose the most amiable paths that lead to love and joy. By love alone is life enjoyed\, by love alone delighted in. Love is the essence of life. It is our true nature. \n  \n*Darwin’s version seems more plausible to me than the account given in the book of Genesis–where Adam is a clay figurine and Eve is created from his rib. \n  \npaz\, amor y felicidad \n  \nJuanito \n* \n  \nKim wrote in response—and sent a poem: \n  \nThank you\, Johnny\, for these thoughts and texts. What you have done seems to me a version of what every reader does–adapt a text into one’s own frame of reference. I like that you took the time to spell it out in your own lingo. \n  \nI remember my father telling me about the early Spanish priest deep in the Amazon jungle preparing to preach the Christian gospel to the local tribe. For them\, animals were gods. So the priest\, to tell the story of Christ\, began: “Once a jaguar was born in a nest of grass….” \n  \nThis form of radical transformation of a text in translation\, my father said\, was called “an economy.” That is\, an utterly thrifty and practical conversion of currency from one culture to another. \n  \nThis you have now done\, and all becomes a little more clear…. \nAll praise to the Jaguar. \n  \nKim \n  \n    Deep State II \n  \nAny songbird is a likely spy watching your \nevery move\, head turned to hear your thoughts\, \nowl on night watch channeling your dreams\, \nwheeling hawk agent in feathered surveillance  \non the payroll of the CIA (Compassion in All)  \nto know your part in the great extinction. If \nyou are complicit\, it’s not too late to change— \nswitch loyalty to Earth and earn exoneration. \nJoin the underground in radical solidarity with \ninsects serving the FBI (Friend Bond Intrinsic)  \nfor the long-game operation eons old\, code name \nConspiracy of Rivers trafficking in mist by secret  \ntransport hidden in plain sight\, sotto voce bats \nchanting dispatch passed along by moth wing  \nsemaphore for the sleeper cells of bees. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nPrayer for the Reader Who Photocopies This Prayer and Shares It with Friends and Sisters \n  \nDear Coherence: Thank You for beer and friends and pencils and socks and the Red Cross and cellos and Paul Desmond’s saxophone and Wiffle balls and elm trees and woodpeckers and transistor radios in the pockets of old men who are fishing for bass and perch but also keeping one ear on the baseball game. Thank You for suspenders and Larry Bird. Thank You for typewriter keys and stamps and windowpanes and coffeepots. Thank You for Rosemary Clooney’s voice especially in her later years. Thank You for photocopy machines and friends and sisters and the refrigerators on which we pin up small lovely strange things people we love send us in the mail. Thank You for teeth and earphones. Thank You for sand crabs and safety belts. Thank You for the way men pat their pockets while checking for their keys and wallets and phones. Thank You for the way people defer to each other while boarding the bus. Thank You for all the little things that are not little. Absolutely beautiful work there. If You had a supervisor I would so  be writing a letter of commendation for Your personal file\, but…And so: amen. \n  \n—from A Book of Uncommon Prayer by Brian Doyle \n* \n  \nWalt Whitman says: \n  \n…The smallest sprout shows there is really no death\, \nAnd if ever there was it led forward life\, and does not wait at the end to arrest it\, \nAnd ceas’d the moment life appear’d. \n  \nAll goes onward and outward\, nothing collapses\, \nAnd to die is different from what anyone supposed\, and luckier. \n  \n7 \nHas anyone supposed it lucky to be born? \nI hasten to inform him or her it is just as luck to die\, and I know it. \n  \nI pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe\, and am not contain’d between my hat and boots\, \nAnd peruse manifold objects\, no two alike and every one good\, \nThe earth good and the stars good\, and their adjuncts all good. \n  \n—from “Song of Myself\,” sections 6 & 7 \n* \n  \n#318  “True Generosity” \n  \n“True generosity is not a trade or a bargaining strategy. In true giving there is no thought of giver and recipient. This is called ‘the emptiness of giving\,’ in which there is no perception of separation between the one who gives and the one who receives. \nThis is the practice of generosity given in the spirit of wisdom\, with the understanding of interbeing. You offer help as naturally as you breathe. You don’t see yourself as the giver and the other person as the recipient of your generosity\, who is now beholden to you and must be suitably grateful\, respond to your demands\, and so on. You don’t give so you can make the other person your ally. When you see that people need help\, you offer and share what you have with no strings attached and no thought of reward.”—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nI am not a good board member; I am especially not effective as a fundraising committee member. I would like to be helpful in that area\, but I am definitely a liability rather than an asset. In fact I have been quietly dropped from the two committees I’ve been on in the past. Let me explain. \n  \nDecades ago\, I volunteered to go door-to-door soliciting donations for the American Cancer Society to put on the ‘resume’ for our Lake Grove Garden Club\, to show others how charitable we were. I launched my campaign door-to-door\, and after about a dozen or so households\, I’d gathered a smattering of small checks and bills. Seemed like everyone had other needs for their money\, very understandable. I’d collected about $75 when I came to the last house for the day. An elderly woman greeted me sweetly. I told her my reason for being there\, and she whispered\, “Oh my dear\, I would love to help\, but I have just finished my last round of chemotherapy myself\, and I have not a penny left to my name\, but I do wish you luck.” Well\, I felt so terrible and could truly feel her pain\, so I rummaged through my envelope of donations and gave her $60 of my $75 collection of the day. It was evident that she needed that $60\, and much more; it was also evident that all the others I’d approached were in need themselves. Life is hard\, I explained to the club members when I turned over my $15.00. Soon after\, I was quietly taken off the fundraising committee and assigned to the cookie sales committee. \n  \nThe fundraising committee of the Portland Artquake board evidently had not learned of this when they assigned me a spot in their group. They discussed with me how it was an essential component  that we donate a portion of our artists’ sales profits to other organizations. This was followed by a heated discussion about what we would get in return for our donation: If we gave X amount\, could we expect to get X in return? Could we give less than X amount and still get what we wanted/needed in return? Could we get a particular in-kind\, non-fungible (I was 29 years old and just learning the definition of ‘fungible’) favor/gift? Would that qualify as an equal\, or more than a win-win for us? I was naive\, and puzzled. \n  \nDuring a moment of stony silence in the arguing\, I piped up\, “But isn’t this a gift? I thought you didn’t expect something in return for a gift. Isn’t it something you give with no expectation of some reward\, or return? It’d sure be easier that way.” The silence turned frigid\, and pitying. One man sneered at me in disbelief\, “You don’t think we do this crap for nothing\, do you? This is business\, sweetheart\, business!”  The light dawned and I nodded slowly\, knowingly. \n  \nDays later they told me everyone thought I’d be great on the arts display committee. They told me it was a promotion\, an honor—but I’ve always wondered… \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nMirror \n  \nShipmates\, we float on a sea of story. \n  \nBooks become companions for a while\, \nsaving us from chaos in our minds \n  \nWe stay up to find \nout what in the end \nholds that particular narrative line.  \n  \nEven though we can guess\, \nthe thirst is there to know \nno matter how twisty we go. \n  \nJust not too. \n  \nNot too easy\, not too twisty\, \nnot too overblown\, or risky. \n  \nNot too sappy\, \npedestrian\, predictable \nand please\, not too happy. \n  \nA challenge or predicament \nmust engage \ncould be in the form of a wizened sage. \n  \nPerhaps there is a tiger \nunexpectedly on a raft \nor a talking spider \ncaught in an updraft. \n  \nA bear and his friends\, \nan unwholesome fish\, \nit could even be someone \ntrying to find the right sized dish. \n  \nThere are colors and places \nand narrow cramped spaces \nfull of smells \nand remarkably… tolling bells. \n  \nWherever we go \nwe are still here\, \nnever having gone and yet… \nthings become\, curiously\, more clear. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nThese days I am taking care of my granddaughter about 2 hours a day. Delana is nine weeks old. She is so tiny she looks like a baby buddha\, with her mother\, Ying’s\, Thai genes. She looks more like a little old man than a girl when she is serious. My husband often refers to her as “he” even now. When my son Will\, her papa\, comes to pick her up\, his face transforms. He starts beaming when he looks into her eyes. And he exclaims\, “She is so darling! Even when she’s crying\, I think she is darling!” I see Will’s face shining\, as he remembers over and over that he’s totally\, unabashedly\, unconditionally in love.  It lights up the room! \n  \nAnd I think of this poem. I carry this poem with me\, I carry it in my heart!   \n  \n(i carry your heart with me) \n  \ni carry your heart with me(i carry it in \nmy heart)i am never without it(anywhere \ni go you go\,my dear;and whatever is done \nby only me is your doing\,my darling) \n                                                      i fear \nno fate(for you are my fate\,my sweet)i want \nno world(for beautiful you are my world\,my true) \nand it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant \nand whatever a sun will always sing is you \n  \nhere is the deepest secret nobody knows \n(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud \nand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows \nhigher than soul can hope or mind can hide) \nand this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart \n  \ni carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) \n  \n—e. e. cummings \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-2-15-24/
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