BEGIN:VCALENDAR
VERSION:2.0
PRODID:-//The Open Road:  a learning community - ECPv6.15.3//NONSGML v1.0//EN
CALSCALE:GREGORIAN
METHOD:PUBLISH
X-ORIGINAL-URL:https://openroadpdx.com
X-WR-CALDESC:Events for The Open Road:  a learning community
REFRESH-INTERVAL;VALUE=DURATION:PT1H
X-Robots-Tag:noindex
X-PUBLISHED-TTL:PT1H
BEGIN:VTIMEZONE
TZID:America/Los_Angeles
BEGIN:DAYLIGHT
TZOFFSETFROM:-0800
TZOFFSETTO:-0700
TZNAME:PDT
DTSTART:20240310T100000
END:DAYLIGHT
BEGIN:STANDARD
TZOFFSETFROM:-0700
TZOFFSETTO:-0800
TZNAME:PST
DTSTART:20241103T090000
END:STANDARD
END:VTIMEZONE
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20240415
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20240515
DTSTAMP:20260425T084704
CREATED:20240415T184245Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20240415T185109Z
UID:4615-1713139200-1715731199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  4/15/24
DESCRIPTION:photo by Abe Green \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nApril 15\, 2024 \n  \nJude wrote this for the March issue: \n  \nTOUCH THE EARTH \n  \n“Walking is a form of touching the earth. We touch the earth with our feet\, and we heal the earth\, we heal ourselves\, and we heal humankind. Whenever you have an extra five\, ten\, or fifteen minutes\, enjoy walking. With every step it’s possible to bring healing and nourishment to our body and to our mind. Every step taken in mindfulness and freedom can help heal and transform\, and the world will be healed and transformed together with us.”  —Thich Nhat Hanh\, from Your True Home  #232 \n  \nI am so\, so lucky to live where I do. Every morning\, rain or shine—or snow—I take my dog\, Lolo\, and we walk up to the irrigation canal (or the ditch\, as most ingloriously call it) and walk for at least a half hour\, usually more. Most mornings the mountain is accompanying us. Some mornings her cloudy cloak is covering her shoulders; if so the cloak is tinged with pink and peach with the rising sun. I hear an owl\, a red-winged blackbird. I smell the red-flowering currant and the heady mock-orange draping the path.  \n  \nBut it’s what’s at my feet that settles my heart: moss and grasses\, ferns\, frilly lichens\, maybe the golden newts wriggling to escape my footsteps. The path itself is made up of pine needles\, fir needles\, smushed oak leaves\, aspen leaves—all of which exhale their delicious scents at each step. There’s the earth itself\, the dirt: moist and crumbly in the spring\, dry and powdery in the summer\, muddy after a fall rain. \n  \nAnd winter? I try to celebrate winter up here in the snowy woods. It is beautiful—for awhile. The sculpting snow transforms and heightens and softens every branch\, every shrub\, every leaf. The ‘for awhile’ part last…for awhile; but come early March\, when crusty\, pockmarked snow still covers my trail\, I long for all those delectable senses of the earth uncovered. I am more than ready now! C’mon SPRING! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n3/18/24 \n5:30 a.m. \nHAPPY SPRING TIME \n\nDear Johnny \n  \nHello and good day to you my friend\, it’s a beautiful morning here so far. I’m in the day room now and the TV is still off! So nice and peaceful. I really don’t like the TV very much…most of the time. \n  \nI’ve been thinking…the day I get out—if I release from here or Columbia River [prison]—I need to stop at Multnomah Falls\, “or any waterfall\,” & stand under it and let it wash over me. I just have this overwhelming feeling that I need to stand under a waterfall\, let it cleanse my soul. \n  \nFor almost a year now I’ve been having these subtle changes take place in me. All of the prison “things” that seem to plague everyone\, stress\, anger\, frustrations\, turmoil\, etc.\, for me most of them have slipped away. All of those things just don’t matter as much & it’s sad to see others stuck in this frame of mind in here when you really don’t have to be at all\, anytime. It’s really only a choice of a state of mind…. \n  \nIn two years from now I will be starting my new chance at life\, a re-birth\, the spots & stains from my past remain as a reminder of where I came from\, never will go back to. \n  \nAll of the things in the world that used to call on me have become mute and they have no appeal to me at all. I can feel the calling of a beautiful path\, full of simple joys\, filled with friends and a family\, like I’ve never had in my life before. For the first time in my life good things await me. \n  \nThe sun is just now filling the sky with its colors…the beauty we witness and have is a universal gift to everyone. Life can be so beautiful…if we look. Coming from a dark place in life\, the beauty of it all for me always seems to be a gift from within the veil\, wrapping me in itself. Thank you for giving my heart eyes to see the things only few can see\, my friends! \n  \nLove\, \n  \nRocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nKen Margolis shared this poem by Billy Collins: \n  \nAimless Love \n  \nThis morning as I walked along the lake shore\, \nI fell in love with a wren \nand later in the day with a mouse \nthe cat had dropped under the dining room table. \n  \nIn the shadows of an autumn evening\, \nI fell for a seamstress \nstill at her machine in the tailor’s window\, \nand later for a bowl of broth\, \nsteam rising like smoke from a naval battle. \n  \nThis is the best kind of love\, I thought\, \nwithout recompense\, without gifts\, \nor unkind words\, without suspicion\, \nor silence on the telephone. \n  \nThe love of the chestnut\, \nthe jazz cap and one hand on the wheel. \n  \nNo lust\, no slam of the door— \nthe love of the miniature orange tree\, \nthe clean white shirt\, the hot evening shower\, \nthe highway that cuts across Florida. \n  \nNo waiting\, no huffiness\, or rancor— \njust a twinge every now and then \nfor the wren who had built her nest \non a low branch overhanging the water \nand for the dead mouse\, \nstill dressed in its light brown suit. \n  \nBut my heart is always propped up \nin a field on its tripod\, \nready for the next arrow. \n  \nAfter I carried the mouse by the tail \nto a pile of leaves in the woods\, \nI found myself standing at the bathroom sink \ngazing affectionately down at the soap\, \n  \nso patient and soluble\, \nso at home in its pale green soap dish. \nI could feel myself falling again \nas I felt its turning in my wet hands \nand caught the scent of lavender and stone. \n  \n—Billy Collins \n* \n  \nJill Littlewood sent a quote and a poem: \n  \nThere’s no money in poetry but then there’s no poetry in money either. \n—Robert Graves \n* \n  \nBecause These Failures Are My Job \n  \nThis morning I failed to notice the pearl-gray moment  \njust before sunrise when everything lightens; \nfailed also to find bird song under the grinding of garbage trucks\, \nand later\, walking through woods\, to stop thinking\, thinking\, \nfor even five consecutive steps. Then there was the failure to name \nthe exact shade of blue overhead\, not sapphire\, not azure\, not delft\, \nto savor the soft squelch of pine needles underfoot. \nLater I found the fork raised halfway to my mouth \nwhile I was still chewing the last untasted bite\, \nand so it went\, until finally\, wading into sleep’s thick undertow\, \nI felt myself drift from dream to dream\, \nforever failing to comprehend where I am falling from or to: \nthis blurred life with only moments caught \nin attention’s loose sieve — \ntiny pearls fished out of oblivion’s sea\, \nlaid out here as offering or apology or thank you \n  \n—Alison Luterman \n* \n  \nThoughts on presence and absence \n  \nAs I age and find that this appears to be a time of perpetual loss—of friends\, loved ones\, abilities—and all of the minor affronts and assaults that living a fairly long life brings\, I have spent some time in reflection about the importance of remaining aware and grateful for what remains present in my life. I believe it is all too easy to reflect on the unavoidable losses and become consumed with what is absent. And of course this is not merely an affliction of the aging and aged. In my years as a psychotherapist\, I often noticed how people often focused upon what was absent in their lives: the job lost\, the fractured friendship ended\, the fantasy trip not taken\, etc. And with this focus on what was absent\, what was both actually or potentially present and the vitality and affirmation of the potential current richness always still available was lost. Yes\, I can no longer run a marathon\, but I can walk along the river and be grateful for that opportunity. Shall I mourn and obsess over the loss of a friendship for reasons that I never understood\, or shall I rejoice in the meaningful friendships that I do have? I think there is always a choice to put one’s emotional energy and focus on what is missing— Absence—or what is available right now—Presence. And in attending to what is present a deep sense of Gratitude often emerges. While I am not a formal meditator\, this is my practice. Give it a try sometime! \n  \n—Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nOn Friday\, Johnny and I spent a Day of Mindfulness\, in dialogue and meditation practice on keeping our hearts open. \n  \nWe read this poem together in our group of 24 people:    \n  \nKindness \n  \nBefore you know what kindness really is\nyou must lose things\,\nfeel the future dissolve in a moment\nlike salt in a weakened broth.\nWhat you held in your hand\,\nwhat you counted and carefully saved\,\nall this must go so you know\nhow desolate the landscape can be\nbetween the regions of kindness.\nHow you ride and ride\nthinking the bus will never stop\,\nthe passengers eating maize and chicken\nwill stare out the window forever. \n  \nBefore you learn the tender gravity of kindness\nyou must travel where the Indian in a white poncho\nlies dead by the side of the road.\nYou must see how this could be you\,\nhow he too was someone\nwho journeyed through the night with plans\nand the simple breath that kept him alive. \n  \nBefore you know kindness as the deepest thing inside\,\nyou must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.\nYou must wake up with sorrow.\nYou must speak to it till your voice\ncatches the thread of all sorrows\nand you see the size of the cloth.\nThen it is only kindness that makes sense anymore\,\nonly kindness that ties your shoes\nand sends you out into the day to gaze at bread\,\nonly kindness that raises its head\nfrom the crowd of the world to say\nIt is I you have been looking for\,\nand then goes with you everywhere\nlike a shadow or a friend. \n  \n— Naomi Shihab Nye \n* \nI have been thinking of Naomi—how her heart is aching for her Palestinian friends and family\, her  loved-ones. I feel her warmth and hear her voice\, reading the poems in her 2019 book\, The Tiny Journalist. \n  \nSome excerpts from My Wisdom: \n  \nWhen people have a lot \nthey want more \n  \nWhen people have nothing \nthey will happily share it \n  \nNo bird builds a wall \n  \nOpen palms \nhold more \n* \n  \n In Some Countries \n  \nThere were people who had a hundred handbags \nPeople who hired maids to take care of their maids. \n  \nYou could float down the Rhine and see castles. \nDogs wore coats for daily walks in Central Park.  \n  \nA dog’s diamond collar glistened.  \nWe were not dreaming of these things for ourselves.  \n  \nWe needed basics\, starting small. \nHello\, you look like a human being to me. \n  \nIt’s hard to know what open roads mean \nif you’ve always had them.  \n  \nWe can’t imagine  \nthe luxury of open reads. \n  \n—Naomi Shihab Nye \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nAfter Hours \n  \nLately I have been too cold by furnace\, \nwarm as I shoulder the bag of ice \n  \nin the aisle of ignored announcement: \nit is closing time\, and no clerk \n  \ncan I convince that I have already gone\, \nam home\, removing every bulb \n  \nwith ceremony\, with a touch like hers\, how \nwhen something is removed it is itself \n  \nagain\, holy in the original sense \nof being set aside\, and always when I wake \n  \nit is like this\, my bed more public a place \nthan I should like it\, a bird or bothered person \n  \nin conversation I cannot parse\, machines \nare being fixed all around me\, and I like it: \n  \nto be broken and unreachable\, to be a camera \nwithout film and yet recording. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar  \n(first published in Colorado Review) \n* \n  \nKatie Radditz and Pat Malone led “A Day of Mindfulness” at First Unitarian Church last Friday. It was a lovely way to spend a day. Several people said they “needed it\,” because they felt overwhelmed—mostly by the daily news. Katie and I started this monthly Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue in September of 2020 as a way of reaching in to friends in prison with support and encouragement for their spiritual practice. (“Spiritual practice” can be anything that gives our lives meaning.) Since then\, a lot of our prison friends have “graduated.” This currently goes to 10 men in prison and about 70 people “on the outside.” It comes out on the 15th of every month. If you get this\, feel free to contribute.  \nHere are some things from my “Translating Traherne” project: \n  \n26 \nAll things are spiritual—being objects not just of the eye\, but of the mind. The more you value each thing\, the happier you will be. Pigs eat acorns\, but don’t consider the sun and rain and soil that nourished the tree from which the acorns came. We can appreciate the endless miracles of life and live in joy\, or live in ignorance and be miserable. \n  \n27 \nYou never enjoy the world aright\, till you see that a grain of sand is a perfect miracle. Everything is here for your delight—not just because things are beautiful\, or useful\, but because our life is woven into the tapestry of all that is. Wine quenches more than our thirst when we feel it to be one of the countless miracles which are ours to enjoy\, and give thanks. When the happiness of others makes us happy\, life is good. To be grateful for all our blessings is to be blessed\, to live in Paradise. \n  \n28 \nYour enjoyment of the world is never right till every morning you awake in Paradise—until you look upon the earth and sky with boundless joy. If you are grateful for everything\, no one who ever lived has more reason to be happy than you. \n  \n29  \nYou never enjoy the world aright\, till the sea flows in your veins\, till you are clothed with the heavens\, and crowned with the stars—till you perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world\, and more than so\, because people are in it who are every one sole heirs as well as you. Till you can sing and rejoice and delight in all of creation\, as misers do in gold\, you never enjoy the world. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne (1636-1674) from Centuries of Meditations\, versions by Johnny Stallings \n  \n  \npeace & love\, y’all \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-4-15-24/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20240502
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20240606
DTSTAMP:20260425T084704
CREATED:20240503T184641Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20240503T191806Z
UID:4641-1714608000-1717631999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  5/2/24
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nMay 2\, 2024 \n  \nKatie sent this poem. Joy Harjo was Poet Laureate from 2019-2022. \n  \nRemember \n  \nRemember the sky that you were born under\, \nknow each of the stars’ stories. \nRemember the moon\, know who she is. \nRemember the sun’s birth at dawn\, that is the \nstrongest point of time. Remember sundown \nand the giving away to night. \nRemember your birth\, how your mother struggled \nto give you form and breath. You are evidence of \nher life\, and her mother’s\, and here. \nRemember your father. He is your life\, also. \nRemember the earth whose skin you are: \nred earth\, black earth\, yellow earth\, white earth \nbrown earth\, we are earth. \nRemember the plants\, trees\, animal life who all have their \ntribes\, their families\, their histories\, too. Talk to them\, \nlisten to them. They are alive poems. \nRemember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the \norigin of this universe. \nRemember you are all people and all people \nare you. \nRemember you are this universe and this \nuniverse is you. \nRemember all is in motion\, is growing\, is you. \nRemember language comes from this. \nRemember the dance language is\, that life is. \nRemember. \n  \n—Joy Harjo \n* \n  \nBirthing Your Secret Self \n  \nMusic can get you without being seen. \nPainting can move you without a word. \nPoetry works because you can’t explain. \nDrawing distills your vision’s blur to lines. \nWith film\, you swim a different river. \nLive theater plucks you from time’s prison. \nPuppets lift you into antic life. Dance \ntugs your dreams from darkness to stand \nand stamp\, pivot\, swoon and swirl. So\, \nfreed from gravity\, from barren facts\, \nyour spirit sings its colors hid too long. \nBy art\, slow days are quickened\, and \nall your torn hopes healed as by these \nmagic acts to your inner eye at last \nrising tall you stand revealed. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nNot So Much \n  \nI used to be captured by longing. \nNot so much anymore. The ghost \nof it resonates\, rain on an \nindustrial drum outside a warehouse \nnear an old dock\, quiet on a Sunday afternoon. \n  \nThe place the ache left remains. \nWind comes up then whistles \nthrough big sky\, open horizon. \nThe possibilities aren’t quite as endless \nas they used to be. Blue petals \n  \nof a flower open anyway. \nThere is a break in the clouds. \nI go for a walk. \nEven if it is just in my mind. \nMore space has opened up to roam. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \n“MAD” \n  \nIt never makes Sense. \nOnce you’re down the rabbit hole\, \nYou’ll never come up. \n  \nOh no! I must be morbidly mad; \nFor can’t you see that everything that falls upon me— \nthe good\, the bad\, the pretty\, the ugly was eloquently \nenvisioned to carry me (no\, not you! Rather simply just me.) \nthrough the event horizon to a new reality? \n  \nMy mind\, it ebbs and it flows on the shore with the \nrocks. I mustn’t be late! Tick…Tock…alas it \ndoes seem\, I am in need\, of a new “cuckoo” clock. \n  \nThe stars in the sky\, they seem so high. \nThat is of course unless you view them from my \nmind’s eye. A light year’s not far\, and an eon’s not \nlong. \n  \nWill you come with me to a new dimension? \n  \n—Brandon Lee Roy \n* \n  \n3-26-24 \n5:40 a.m. \nDear Johnny \n  \nIt’s a beautiful rainy Spring morning here. I just wanted to start sending pieces for both newsletters again. I should never be too busy for this. \n  \nWhen I read “The Open Road” & “Mindfulness  & Meditation” I feel the Love & emotions that every one has in them. The amount of wisdom I get is…stunning\, to say the least. To me they are works of art from everyone’s heart. Nothing in these compilations we all participate in are simple information; they’re complex\, beautiful & cultivate positive growth within each of us in some way. In some way each of us needs some piece of them to complete some part of us…for me\, that’s how it feels. \n  \nLove You All \nLove\, Rocky \nAll of the ways I’ve seen\, all the paths I’ve walked\, all that life was\, is & will be—can it be that I have found in it all the paths that set my heart ablaze with love and the will to be free from self doubt & self limitations? \n  \nEven confined within the concrete walls\, the fences\, the endless spools of razor wire\, through the fightings\, cuttings\, stabbings and broken bones\, the lying\, backstabbing\, manipulations\, and the fear of the prison guards who play with our lives\, minds and souls\, I’ve found this path. \n  \nThe path is not an easy one to navigate all the time. Every day has its distractions & traps to overcome\, same as life outside the walls of prison. But the golden path is the path I’m on\, and no one can take me off of it but me. I’ve no plans of trekking away from it any time soon. \n  \nThe world keeps spinning\, eclipses happen like a cosmic clock\, my heart is like yours—limited beats full of wounds\, love and joy. It rages like a thunderstorm on the sea in my chest\, the engine of my soul driving along my golden daily path. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nHere’s an old poem: \n  \nWe Are Seven \n  \n—-A simple Child\, \nThat lightly draws its breath\, \nAnd feels its life in every limb\, \nWhat should it know of death? \n  \nI met a little cottage Girl: \nShe was eight years old\, she said; \nHer hair was thick with many a curl \nThat clustered round her head. \n  \nShe had a rustic\, woodland air\, \nAnd she was wildly clad: \nHer eyes were fair\, and very fair; \n—Her beauty made me glad. \n  \n“Sisters and brothers\, little Maid\, \nHow many may you be?” \n“How many\, Seven in all\,” she said\, \nAnd wondering looked at me. \n  \n“And where are they? I pray you tell.” \nShe answered\, “Seven are we; \nAnd two of us at Conway dwell\, \nAnd two are gone to sea. \n  \n“Two of us in the church-yard lie\, \nMy sister and my brother; \nAnd\, in the church-yard cottage\, I \nDwell near them with my mother.” \n  \n“You say that two at Conway dwell\, \nAnd two are gone to sea\, \nYet ye are seven! I pray you tell\, \nSweet Maid\, how this may be.” \n  \nThen did the little Maid reply\, \n“Seven boys and girls are we; \nTwo of us in the church-yard lie\, \nBeneath the church-yard tree.” \n  \n“You run about\, my little Maid\, \nYour limbs they are alive; \nIf two are in the church-yard laid\, \nThen ye are only five.” \n  \n“Their graves are green\, they may be seen\,” \nThe little Maid replied\, \n“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door\, \nAnd they are side by side. \n  \n“My stockings there I often knit\, \nMy kerchief there I hem; \nAnd there upon the ground I sit\, \nAnd sing a song to them. \n  \n“And often after sun-set\, Sir\, \nWhen it is light and fair\, \nI take my little porringer\, \nAnd eat my supper there. \n  \n“The first that died was sister Jane; \nIn bed she moaning lay\, \nTill God released her of her pain; \nAnd then she went away. \n  \n“So in the church-yard she was laid; \nAnd\, when the grass was dry\, \nTogether round her grave we played\, \nMy brother John and I. \n  \n“And when the ground was white with snow\, \nAnd I could run and slide\, \nMy brother John was forced to go\, \nAnd he lay by her side.” \n  \n“How many are you\, then\,” said I\, \n“If they two are in heaven?” \nQuick was the little Maid’s reply\, \n“O Master! we are seven.” \n  \n“But they are dead; those two are dead! \nTheir spirits are in heaven!” \n’Twas throwing words away; for still \nThe little Maid would have her will\, \nAnd said\, “Nay\, we are seven!” \n  \n—William Wordsworth (April 7\, 1770-April 23\, 1850) \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-5-2-24/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/0.jpeg
END:VEVENT
END:VCALENDAR