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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  11/6/25
DESCRIPTION:The Good Samaritan by Vincent Van Gogh \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nNovember 6\, 2025 \n  \nThe Stories We Tell Ourselves \n  \nThese are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands\, they are not original with me\, \nIf they are not yours as much as mind\, they are nothing… \n  \n—Walt Whitman\, from “Song of Myself” \n* \n  \nA man is what he thinks about all day long. \n  \n—Ralph Waldo Emerson \n* \n  \nWe are what we think. \nAll that we are arises with our thoughts. \nWith our thoughts we make the world. \n  \n—Buddha\, from Dhammapada \n* \n  \nethnosphere: “the sum total of all thoughts\, beliefs\, myths and institutions made manifest today by the myriad cultures of the world.” \n  \n–Wade Davis\, from Light at the Edge of the World\, p. x \n* \n  \nMortals suppose that the gods are born\, and wear clothes\, and have voice and form like themselves. \n  \nBut if cattle and lions had hands\, and could paint with their hands\, and fashion images\, as men do\, they would make pictures of their gods in their own likeness; horses would make them like horses\, cattle like cattle.             \n  \n—Xenophanes (570-478 B.C.) \n* \n  \nI…peruse manifold objects\, no two alike and every one good\,  \nThe earth good and the stars good\, and their adjuncts all good.  \n  \n—Walt Whitman\, from “Song of Myself” \n* \n  \n…this our life\, exempt from public haunt\, \nFinds tongues in trees\, books in the running brooks\, \nSermons in stones\, and good in every thing. \n  \n—Duke Senior in Shakespeare’s As You Like It\, Act 2\, scene 1 \n* \n  \nI believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. (Nobel Prize speech\, 1964) \n  \nI have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear. \n  \nHate paralyzes life; love releases it. Hate confuses life; love harmonizes it. \n  \nI know that love is ultimately the only answer to mankind’s problems. \n  \n—Martin Luther King \n* \n  \nwhat we think is who we are \nas indivduals \nand collectively \n  \nFor more than twenty years\, i’ve been turning this phrase over in my mind:  \n  \nthe stories we tell ourselves \n  \nI’m fascinated by how each of us constructs an identity and a worldview—stories about who we are and about the world and our relationship to it. Each of the things I’ve chosen for this “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding” suggests a story—a way of experiencing or understanding our life. My own felt sense of things is that Johnny Stallings is a fictional character\, and from moment to moment I’m dreaming the world in which I live. \n* \n  \nA Story that Could be True \n  \nIf you were exchanged in the cradle and\nyour real mother died\nwithout ever telling the story\nthen no one knows your name\,\nand somewhere in the world\nyour father is lost and needs you\nbut you are far away. \nHe can never find\nhow true you are\, how ready.\nWhen the great wind comes\nand the robberies of the rain\nyou stand on the corner shivering.\nThe people who go by—\nyou wonder at their calm. \nThey miss the whisper that runs\nany day in your mind\,\n“Who are you really\, wanderer?”—\nand the answer you have to give\nno matter how dark and cold\nthe world around you is:\n“Maybe I’m a king.” \n  \n—William Stafford \n* \nThe parable of the good samaritan: \n  \n25 And\, behold\, a certain lawyer stood up\, and tempted him\, saying\, Master\, what shall I do to inherit eternal life? \n26 He said unto him\, What is written in the law? how readest thou? \n27 And he answering said\, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart\, and with all thy soul\, and with all thy strength\, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself. \n28 And he said unto him\, Thou hast answered right: this do\, and thou shalt live. \n29 But he\, willing to justify himself\, said unto Jesus\, And who is my neighbour? \n30 And Jesus answering said\, A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho\, and fell among thieves\, which stripped him of his raiment\, and wounded him\, and departed\, leaving him half dead. \n31 And by chance there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him\, he passed by on the other side. \n32 And likewise a Levite\, when he was at the place\, came and looked on him\, and passed by on the other side. \n33 But a certain Samaritan\, as he journeyed\, came where he was: and when he saw him\, he had compassion on him\, \n34 And went to him\, and bound up his wounds\, pouring in oil and wine\, and set him on his own beast\, and brought him to an inn\, and took care of him. \n35 And on the morrow when he departed\, he took out two pence\, and gave them to the host\, and said unto him\, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more\, when I come again\, I will repay thee. \n36 Which now of these three\, thinkest thou\, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves? \n37 And he said\, He that shewed mercy on him. Then said Jesus unto him\, Go\, and do thou likewise. \n  \n—Luke 10:25-37  (KJV) \n* \nHere’s a more recent version of the same story\, by E. E. Cummings: \n  \na man who had fallen among thieves\nlay by the roadside on his back\ndressed in fifteenthrate ideas\nwearing a round jeer for a hat \nfate per a somewhat more than less\nemancipated evening\nhad in return for consciousness\nendowed him with a changeless grin \nwhereon a dozen staunch and leal\ncitizens did graze at pause\nthen fired by hypercivic zeal\nsought newer pastures or because \nswaddled with a frozen brook\nof pinkest vomit out of eyes\nwhich noticed nobody he looked\nas if he did not care to rise \none hand did nothing on the vest\nits wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt\nwhile the mute trouserfly confessed\na button solemnly inert \nBrushing from whom the stiffened puke\ni put him all into my arms\nand staggered banged with terror through\na million billion trillion stars \n  \n—e. e. cummings \n* \nThis is an old folktale: \n  \nThe Shirt of a Happy Man \n  \nOnce there was a king who wanted to be happy. His wise counselors informed him that he needed to acquire the shirt of a happy man. So\, he sent his soldiers out in quest of such a shirt. One by one they returned empty-handed. None of them could find a happy man. Finally\, the last soldier returned.  \n  \nThe king asked\, “Did you find a happy man?”  \n  \n“Yes\,” the soldier said.  \n  \n“Where’s his shirt?\,” asked the king.  \n  \n“He didn’t have one.” \n* \n  \nCheck out the Playing for Change version of “Peace Train” by Yusuf/Cat Stevens on YouTube! \n  \n* \nMy dad liked this poem: \n  \nAbou Ben Adhem \n  \nAbou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) \nAwoke one night from a deep dream of peace\, \nAnd saw\, within the moonlight in his room\, \nMaking it rich\, and like a lily in bloom\, \nAn angel writing in a book of gold:— \nExceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold\, \nAnd to the presence in the room he said\, \n“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head\, \nAnd with a look made of all sweet accord\, \nAnswered\, “The names of those who love the Lord.” \n“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay\, not so\,” \nReplied the angel. Abou spoke more low\, \nBut cheerly still; and said\, “I pray thee\, then\, \nWrite me as one that loves his fellow men.” \n  \nThe angel wrote\, and vanished. The next night \nIt came again with a great wakening light\, \nAnd showed the names whom love of God had blest\, \nAnd lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. \n  \n—Leigh Hunt \n* \n  \nPlato told this story: \n  \nSome people are in a cave. They are chained up in such a way that they can’t move\, and can’t turn their heads. They are all looking straight ahead.  \n  \nBehind them are people with torches who are carrying things back and forth and talking to each other. The cave-dwellers see shadows on the wall in front of them—their own shadows and the shadows of the objects that are being carried back and forth. As far as they know\, the only reality is these shadows and the conversations that the shadows appear to be having with each other. \n  \nOne man escapes from his bondage and is able to turn around and see what’s going on in the cave. Then he leaves the cave and sees the sun illuminating an amazing world. \n  \nHe wants to tell the people in the cave about what he has seen and understood. He goes back down into the cave. When he tries to tell the people what he has seen\, they think he is mad. \n* \n  \nHere’s one from William Blake: \n  \nThe Garden of Love \n  \nI went to the Garden of Love\, \nAnd saw what I never had seen: \nA Chapel was built in the midst\, \nWhere I used to play on the green. \n  \nAnd the gates of this Chapel were shut\, \nAnd ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door; \nSo I turn’d to the Garden of Love\, \nThat so many sweet flowers bore.  \n  \nAnd I saw it was filled with graves\, \nAnd tomb-stones where flowers should be: \nAnd Priests in black gowns\, were walking their rounds\, \nAnd binding with briars\, my joys & desires. \n  \n—William Blake \n* \n  \nThese are a few or my favorite passages from my favorite poem\, Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself: \n  \n20 \n…Why should I pray?  Why should I venerate and be ceremonious? \n  \nHaving pried through the strata\, analyzed to a hair\, counseled with doctors and calculated close\, \nI find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. \n  \nIn all people I see myself\, none more and not one a barley-corn less… \n  \n24 \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  \nDivine 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  \nEach moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy…. \n  \nA morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. \n  \n30 \nAll truths wait in all things… \n  \n31 \nI believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars\, \nAnd the ant is equally perfect\, and a grain of sand\, and the egg of the wren\, \nAnd the tree-toad is a masterpiece for the highest\, \nAnd the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven\, \nAnd the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery\, \nAnd the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue\, \nAnd a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. \n  \n44 \nImmense have been the preparations for me…. \n  \nCycles ferried my cradle\, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen\, \nFor room to me stars kept aside in their own rings\, \nThey sent influences to look after what was to hold me. \n  \nBefore I was born out of my mother generations guided me\, \nMy embryo has never been torpid\, nothing could overlay it. \n  \nFor it the nebula cohered to an orb\, \nThe long slow strata piled to rest it on\, \nVast vegetables gave it sustenance\, \nMonstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care. \n  \nAll forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me\, \nNow on this spot I stand with my robust soul. \n  \n48 \n…whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud… \nAnd to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times… \nAnd there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe…. \n  \nWhy should I wish to see God better than this day? \nI see something of God each hour of the twenty-four\, and each moment then\, \nIn the faces of men and women I see God\, and in my own face in the glass\, \nI find letters from God dropt in the street\, and every one is signed by God’s name\, \nAnd I leave them where they are\, for I know that wheresoe’er I go \nOthers will punctually come for ever and ever. \n  \n—Walt Whitman \n* \n  \nThomas Traherne was a Seventeenth Century Christian mystic. I love his ecstatic poems and meditations! In this meditation he is writing about how he experienced the world as a small child: \n  \nThe corn was orient and immortal wheat\, which never should be reaped\, nor was ever sown. I thought it had stood from everlasting to everlasting. The dust and stones of the street were as precious as gold: the gates were at first the end of the world. The green trees when I saw them first through one of the gates transported and ravished me\, their sweetness and unusual beauty made my heart to leap\, and almost mad with ecstasy\, they were such strange and wonderful things. The Men! O what venerable and reverend creatures did the aged seem! Immortal Cherubims! And young men glittering and sparkling Angels\, and maids strange seraphic pieces of life and beauty! Boys and girls tumbling in the street\, and playing\, were moving jewels. I knew not that they were born or should die; But all things abided eternally as they were in their proper places. Eternity was manifest in the Light of the Day\, and something infinite behind everything appeared: which talked with my expectation and moved my desire. The city seemed to stand in Eden\, or to be built in Heaven. The streets were mine\, the temple was mine\, the people were mine\, their clothes and gold and silver were mine\, as much as their sparkling eyes\, fair skins and ruddy faces. The skies were mine\, and so were the sun and moon and stars\, and all the World was mine; and I the only spectator and enjoyer of it. I knew no churlish proprieties\, nor bounds\, nor divisions: but all proprieties and divisions were mine: all treasures and the possessors of them. So that with much ado I was corrupted\, and made to learn the dirty devices of this world. Which now I unlearn\, and become\, as it were\, a little child again that I may enter into the Kingdom of God. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne\, from Centuries of Meditations \n* \n  \nIn Dostoevsky’s great last novel\, The Brother’s Karamazov\, there is a monk named Father Zossima. When I first read the novel\, fifty years ago\, I was impressed with the words of Father Zossima\, which are of course Dostoevsky’s words: \n  \nBrothers\, do not be afraid of men’s sin\, love man also in his sin\, for this likeness of God’s love is the height of love on earth. Love all of God’s creation\, both the whole of it and every grain of sand. Love every leaf\, every ray of God’s light. Love animals\, love plants\, love each thing. If you love each thing\, you will perceive the mystery of God in things. Once you have perceived it\, you will begin tirelessly to perceive more and more of it every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an entire\, universal love…. \n  \nMy friends\, ask joy from God. Be joyful as children\, as birds in the air…. \n  \nWhen you are alone\, pray. Love to throw yourself down on the earth and kiss it. Kiss the earth and love it\, tirelessly\, insatiably\, love all men\, love all things\, seek this rapture and ecstasy. Water the earth with the tears of your joy\, and love those tears. Do not be ashamed of this ecstasy\, treasure it\, for it is a gift from God\, a great gift\, and it is not given to many\, but to those who are chosen.  \n  \n—Fyodor Dostoevsky \n* \n  \nHere are some recent small poems from my journal: \n  \nwalking on the earth \nevery step a prayer \n* \n  \nraspberries say what i want to say \nbetter than i can \n* \n  \nhow did i get to be old? \ni used to be young  \nwhat the hell happened? \n* \n  \nbriefly visiting book after book \ni’m like a hummingbird going from flower to flower  \n* \n  \nstart your day with hummingbirds \nnot the new york times \n* \n  \nthe problem with being one-with-everything  \nis all the misery \n* \n  \nmodern farming \n  \nget up early \nfeed the tofurkys \nmilk the oats \n* \n  \nit’s the most beautiful day since the world began \na bumblebee is on the lobelia \n* \n  \ni’m transitioning \nfrom happiness \nto bliss \n* \n  \nLet’s end with a brief passage from the book Peace Is Every Step by the Vietnamese Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh. Like many of the things here\, it’s a story in the sense that it is a way of experiencing and understanding our precious life on this beautiful planet  \nHere’s a thought: \nIf you find yourself feeling ungrateful\, you might remind yourself that the average surface temperature on the planet Venus is 867 degrees Fahrenheit. \n  \nInterbeing \n  \nIf you are a poet\, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud\, there will be no rain; without rain\, the trees cannot grow; and without trees\, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here\, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. “Interbeing” is a word that is not in the dictionary yet\, but if we combine the prefix “inter-“ with the verb “to be\,” we have a new verb\, inter-be.  \n  \nIf we look into this sheet of paper even more deeply\, we can see the sunshine in it. Without sunshine\, the forest cannot grow. In fact\, nothing can grow without sunshine. And so\, we know that the sunshine is also in this sheet of paper. The paper and the sunshine inter-are. And if we continue to look\, we can see the logger who cut the tree and brought it to the mill to be transformed into paper. And we see wheat. We know that the logger cannot exist without his daily bread\, and therefore the wheat that became his bread is also in this sheet of paper. The logger’s father and mother are in it too. When we look in this way\, we see that without all of these things\, this sheet of paper cannot exist. \n  \nLooking even more deeply\, we can see ourselves in this sheet of paper too. This is not difficult to see\, because when we look at a sheet of paper\, it is part of our perception. Your mind is in here and mine is also. So we can say that everything is in here with this sheet of paper. We cannot point out one thing that is not here—time\, space\, the earth\, the rain\, the minerals in the soil\, the sunshine\, the cloud\, the river\, the heat. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper. That is why I think the word inter-be should be in the dictionary. “To be” is to inter-be. We cannot just be by ourselves alone. We have to inter-be with every other thing. This sheet of paper is\, because everything else is. \n  \n—Thich Nhat Hanh\, from the book Peace Is Every Step
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-11-6-25/
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