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SUMMARY:Will Hornyak upcoming performances
DESCRIPTION:The Open Road Recommends: \n  \nWill Hornyak is a Featured Storyteller at this year’s National Storytelling Festival! \nFriday\, Saturday\, Sunday: October 2\, 3 & 4 \nJonesborough\, Tennessee \n  \nFiddlin’ & Folktales: A magical evening of music and storytelling with Will Hornyak and Seth Moran. \nFriday\, October 9\, 7 pm \nHistoric Covington House in Vancouver\, Washington   \nfor tickets: https://www.zeffy.com/en-US/ticketing/fiddlin-and-folktales \n  \nMonsters\, Ghosts and Tricksters with Will Hornyak with Susan Strauss. \nSaturday\, October 10\, 6 pm \nBend Waldorf School\, 2150 NE Studio Road #2\, Bend\, OR  97701  \nTickets: $15 (soup & bread included)  \nSpecial Puppet Show at 5 pm! \n\n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/will-hornyak-upcoming-performances/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20260903
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  9/3/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nSeptember 3\, 2026 \n  \nHi Johnny- \n  \nSince you and I are both cloud lovers I thought I’d send you this little idea that occurred to me. I hope you get a kick out of it. \n  \nLove & peace\, of course\,            \n– Bill \n  \nYou know the way some surfers get towed by a jet ski out to the biggest waves?  Well\, some day when those huge\, white cumulus clouds are at their height\, when they’re even more spectacular than usual\, maybe we could hire a helicopter to take us up a few thousand feet.  Then we could just step out onto one of the larger clouds and spend the afternoon playing in the sky…. \nWe can roll around on the tops of the clouds like a big feather bed.   \nRide them like horses.   \nWe could jump from one cloud to another\, like being at a trampoline park.   \nWe can play tag\, or dive inside the clouds playing hide & go seek.   \nWe could strap a cloud on each foot and run around\, pretending we’re giants. \nIf more friends come with us we can each take a cloud and hold races.  Or we could line up and make a parade!  Or we can all hold hands from our individual clouds and make a big train— “The Cumulus Express”! \nOr if we’re feeling really adventurous we could go a little higher up and have a friendly snowball fight. \nWe might get a look at the daytime moon\, or get to see an eagle at work. \nMaybe we’d snuggle down into one of the warmer clouds and take a little nap. \nWhen we get thirsty we can drink the dew; when we’re hungry we can snack on the cloud fluff (better than cotton candy—sugar free).  \nWhen we’re played out and the Sun starts going down it would be time to hitch a ride on one of the heavier\, darker clouds as it’s slowly sinking down to earth.  We’d gently step off as the fog settles near our homes\, just in time for supper.   \nAnd then we get to sleep in our own beds\, putting our heads on our pillows\, fluffy and white like the clouds\, and float away into our next dreams…. \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \nFan of Fall \n  \nSeptember. Finally! Finally I can write about Fall and why I love it so much. You might say\, Oh\, but you must learn to love where and when you are in the moment\, in the present. Sorry\, not sorry. August is my least favorite month. The only plus it has going for it is that it is a harbinger of Fall—of beautiful September\, October\, and November. They are the three most luxurious\, stimulating\, and captivating months of the year. We are out of the stultifying heat of summer and into the fresh\, sharp\, clear air of the fall months. All of my senses are fresher. More observant. More in the present: the vine maples turning scarlet. The daylight hours constricting. The moon and stars sharpening against the darkness. And the air! Cool mornings\, fresh afternoons chilly evenings. My pumpkins swelling to the size of beach balls. Tomatoes\, green beans\, chrysanthemums\, asters\, all welcoming the fall sunshine. \n  \nAnd right now I’m off to can pears in the slanting sunlight. Happy in September! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nCarl Alsup read me a poem by Dustin Smith. A short time later\, Dustin mailed it to me. Here it is: \n  \nThe Treasure of the Sierra Padre \n  \nMemories of my father run quietly \nIn the background of my mind \nLike old black and white movies. \n  \nThe silently shifting scenes hurt \nLike celluloid cigarette burns \nThrough clenched teeth. \n  \nI feel the rattling reels vibrating \nThrough me; thrumming a dull\, deep ache \nIn the darkened hush of recollection. \n  \nMy father was reserved; stoic. \nA Humphrey Bogart type. Solemn\, \nSolitary\, with a certain quiet desperation. \n  \nHe was a mountain of a man\,  \nLooming large in the horizon behind me. \nSeemingly inevitable; eternal. \n  \nHis hands keep leaping out at me \nIn vivid 3-D reveries\, \nWrapped around tall bourbons\, \n  \nNeat\, like bottomless still-glass pools \nAmongst old stones\, reflecting the \nAmber fires of setting suns. \n  \nHis rings stand out most of all; \nClinking against cut-crystal highballs. \nBrilliant flashes of color \n  \nAmidst the deepening gloom \nOf time and space. \nRough\, calloused hands; gnarled and twisted \n  \nFrom weathering storms. \nI see the broken\, craggy cliffs \nOf knuckles towering over me\, \n  \nRiddled with rich veins of gold \nAnd gemstones; the luster of the ore \nSoftening the hardened earth. \n  \nDangerous. Breath-taking. \nThose cliffs had broken men \nUpon their slopes. \n  \nBut they were tender too. \nI still feel their presence \nResting heavy on my shoulders \n  \nWith the comforting heft of \nThe permanence of love; \nA granitic weight \n  \nSheltering me from the world \nLike a valley nestled within the arms \nOf a natural colossus. \n  \nMy father was a mountain of a man; \nShaped by the molten heat \nAnd violence of the world; \n  \nSoftened in perspective and \nCaptured forever in memory. \nA timeless classic that perseveres. \n  \n—Dustin Smith \n7/29/26 \n* \n  \nI asked Kim to send a poem about his dad. He generously obliged. \n  \nBack Then\, His Words  \nWere Not Enough… \nNow They Are Precious \n  \nWe stopped on a road in Montana \nthe last summer of my father’s life\, \nbut we didn’t know. I turned off the car  \nand poured out my sorrows\, my life  \nfalling apart\, my marriage over\, my brother  \ndead\, my old landmarks gone. \n  \nHe was silent\, my father\, silent. We listened  \nto the river. Two crows flew over\, shouting.  \nThey could go anywhere. In hard light\,  \nthe river flowed silver at the long bend\,  \nwillows bowing green. My father  \nput his hand on my sleeve: \n“Be of good heart\, my friend.” \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \nPrayer for My Father \n  \nIn memory of my father William J. Hornyak M.D. (1909-1981) \nwho died when I was 28 but left an indelible impression on my life. \nI miss him every day. \n  \nMy father \nWho art in heaven \nHallowed by thy name. \nYou gave to me daily \nThe bread of yourself \nForgave me my ingratitude \nAnd led me not \nInto your expectations \nOf my future \nBut towards a vision \nOf my own. \n  \nYour labors and love \nSeeded tenderness and discipline \nCourage and compassion \nUpon my soul. \nYour surgeon’s hands healed many \nBut your medicine was humor \nLaughter and music. \nYou left so soon \nBut remind me still \nTo be of good cheer \nAnd of service \nTo make things \nWith wood and words \nTo love and respect \nMy sisters \nTo give freely \nThe bread of myself to others \nAnd deliver people upon occasion \nFrom melancholy and boredom \nWith a joke or story. \nFor mine is a kingdom \nMade from the soil \nOf your sacrifice and love. \nAll glory and honor to you my father \nWho art in heaven \nNow and forever \nAmen. \n  \n—Will Hornyak\, from This Altar of Earth and Sky \n* \n  \nThese two poems by William Stafford seem to me to complement each other in some mysterious way. \n  \nAn Archival Print \n  \nGod snaps your picture—don’t look away— \nthis room right now\, your face tilted \nexactly as it is before you can think \nor control it. Go ahead\, let it betray \nall the secret emergencies and still hold \nthat partial disguise you call your character. \n  \nEven your lip\, they say\, the way it curves \nor doesn’t\, or can’t decide\, will deliver \nbales of evidence. The camera\, wide open\, \nstands ready; the exposure is thirty-five years \nor so—after that you have become \nwhatever the veneer is\, all the way through. \n  \nNow you want to explain. Your mother \nwas a certain—how to express it?—influence. \nYes. And your father\, whatever he was\, \nyou couldn’t change that. No. And your town \nof course had its limits. Go on\, keep talking— \nHold it. Don’t move. That’s you forever. \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. \n  \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. \n  \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 \nReprinted with permission of The Estate of William Stafford. \n* \n  \nI wrote this the day my dad died. \n  \nHere are some of my thoughts about my father: \n  \nMary and I thanked Dad for all he had given us over the years\, especially for that most precious of all gifts—the gift of life. As I have gotten older I have gained a deeper appreciation for what a good father he was to me. Over the years he has given me lots of support and encouragement in all kinds of undertakings. He was a generous man. From early childhood on\, he respected me as a person\, and gave me a sense that I could accomplish anything I gave my best effort to. As a father\, his natural impulses went against the kind of shaming and blaming that paralyzes a person and makes them feel worthless and guilty. He always encouraged in me the qualities of happiness\, exuberance and generosity that come naturally to children. A great deal of the abundant happiness that has been my lot in life is due to the positive reinforcement and praise I received as a small boy from both my parents and from my older sister. Looking back\, I’m impressed at how much time Dad had to teach me how to pass and catch a football\, to field and hit a baseball\, to make a lay-in with my left hand\, to stand on my head and on my hands\, to do front and back somersaults\, to dive off a diving board. I have vivid memories of assuming the starting position for wrestling with Dad again and again on the living room floor. He was more eager to teach me arithmetic\, geometry and algebra than I was to learn them. He patiently taught me how to use a hammer\, a saw and an axe. He taught me how to build a house and how to paint one\, how to mow the lawn\, how to ride a bike and a unicycle\, how to garden. He took me to baseball games\, basketball games\, football games\, track meets\, wrestling meets\, gymnastic meets and hockey matches. He taught me a lot about the life of the body and of the mind. He recited poetry to us. Both our parents took us to plays\, movies\, concerts\, museums\, and cultural events of all kinds. I got to see Angus Bowmer play Shylock and Sir Toby Belch. We went to hear Louis Armstrong (twice)\, Harry Belafonte\, The Dave Brubeck Quartet\, The Oscar Peterson Trio\, Al Hirt and Peter\, Paul and Mary. By the time I was five I had been in a high school play\, thanks I’m sure to Dad. Around our house the love of books\, of reading\, of ideas was contagious. We went camping and travelled around the country. We lived in Montana and Oregon and Hawaii. We had a cabin on Flathead Lake\, on the Sandy River\, and on the Oregon Coast. Our parents promised to pay for our college educations. As I look at the long list of things my mom and dad did for us kids it sounds like a life of wealth and privilege\, but our parents made this happen as hard-working\, frugal\, middle-class people. As a schoolteacher\, Dad got off work before Mom\, so he usually did the grocery shopping and made dinner. \n  \nI ran into conflict with my dad in adolescence. Readers of Freud won’t be too surprised by this. I guess it’s more accurate to say that my lifelong conflicts with my father reached their peak intensity at that time. This conflict came to a head with my decision to not just be a “conscientious objector” (legal)\, but to be a “draft resister” (illegal) against the war in Vietnam. By that time all our family agreed that the war was wrong\, but my liberal parents\, who had both graduated from Law School\, could not agree with my rejection of Capitalism\, Industrialism and the Nation State as innately destructive. Our disagreements reached the exploding point\, but out of the catharsis came a new understanding and respect for each others’ views\, for each others’ basic humanity\, and for each others’ efforts to make sense of our lives—to accept and love each other as fellow-suffering mortals. Since that time\, despite disagreements\, my father and I have known each other and loved each other man to man. \n  \nI said “good-bye” to Dad this morning. I’m sad. I miss him. My father’s love for my mother and her love for him were an inspiration to all who knew them. They loved us kids. It is a great blessing to grow up in a loving home. This morning\, as Dad and I looked deep into each others’ eyes for the last time\, I felt that saying “I love you” somehow implied that we were separate. So I said to him: “This is Love. This is who you are. This is who we are. Nothing will ever happen to this. This was not born and cannot die. Love. Yes. Love. Yes. Love. Yes. Love. Love. Love.” \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n11/27/96 \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-9-3-26/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20260922
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20261003
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SUMMARY:STORYTIME! 9/22/26-10/2/26
DESCRIPTION:STORYTIME!\n \n \nArt Degraded\, Imagination Denied\, War Governed the Nations.\n \n–William Blake\n\n\n\n \n\n\n \n¡Amigos!\n\n\n\n \n\n\nWhile I’m in Mexico…\n \n…starting tomorrow night (9/22/26) and going through October 2nd\, I’m going to be reading a story every evening on Zoom\, starting at 8 pm\, Pacific Daylight Time. I’ll read for a half hour\, and then people who want to can have a chat together. I WILL BE WEARING MY DINOSAUR PAJAMAS! You are invited to wear your pajamas–to maximize a feeling of coziness.\n \nThe first story will be one of Nancy and my favorites. It is a hilarious (and ultimately profound) tale for children of all ages. The ideal way to enjoy it is to come for the first exciting episode\, and not miss any. If you can’t do that\, drop in whenever. Each reading will begin with a very brief synopsis of “our story so far…” so that no matter when or how often you come–you will always have fun!\n \nGUARANTEED TO BE A LOVE-IN OR YOUR MONEY BACK\n \nI hope to see y’all for STORYTIME! Here’s the Zoom link:\n \n\n \n\nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/89534225375 \n  \nI don’t know what the next story will be\, but there are millions to choose from\, so that shouldn’t be a problem. \nCurrent plan is: after I get back to Portland\, do it in an ongoing way on Friday evenings\, with lots of guest readers taking turns sharing their favorite stories. \n  \npaz\, amor y felicidad \nJuanito \n\n \n\nOde to My Pajamas \n  \nNancy\, \nwho loves me\, \ngot me a pair \nof turquoise pajamas \nwith dinosaurs \nand volcanoes. \n  \nAt night \nwhen I put them on \nI’m magically transformed \ninto the happy little boy  \nI once was. \n  \nIn the morning\, \nI sit around for hours \nreluctant to change \nout of my dinosaur pajamas \nand into \nthe kind of clothes \nwe are required to wear \nwhen we go out \ninto the so-called \n“real world.” \n  \n—Guanajuato\, 2/4/26
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/storytime-9-22-26-10-13-26/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20261001
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20261105
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  10/1/26
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nOctober 1\, 2026 \n  \nDeep Dialogue \n  \nDeep dialogue has enriched my life immensely. I suspect that a person could graduate from college\, even get a PhD\, without the subject of deep dialogue ever coming up. Although\, hopefully\, this imaginary college student must have had a lot of deep dialogues along the way. \n  \nOne of my favorite tropes is: “The arts of peace\, love and happiness are not taught in school.” Where do we learn about them? One place is through deep dialogue with ourselves and with others.  \n  \nDialogue with ourselves? Yes\, emphatically! \n  \nWe spend a lot of our waking hours talking to ourselves—usually not out loud. We ask ourselves questions about who we are and what we are doing. Is this the right choice? Where am I going? What does it mean? Our inner monologue—or dialogue with ourself—doesn’t always qualify as “deep.” A lot of the time we are thinking about basic things—money\, food\, what to watch on TV. We worry. We play “the same tapes” over and over. We spend a lot of our time daydreaming. \n  \nOne way to deepen the dialogue with ourselves is to keep a journal. There we can ponder more carefully and with more focus. We can\, in the process of writing and reading what we have written\, observe our thoughts—our life. \n  \nIn my life I’ve had a LOT of one-on-one (deep) conversations in coffee shops and tea shops. I may be the world record holder in this category. Most people outgrow this after their early twenties. Getting a job\, getting married\, having kids—these things can really cut into your leisure time. \n  \nFor many years I had fifteen or twenty people over to my apartment every Sunday for waffles. (I learned that waffles were a bigger draw than pancakes.) \n  \nA turning point for me—when I took it to the next level—was when\, in July of 2006\, I began doing weekly deep dialogues at Two Rivers prison in Umatilla\, Oregon. The title of the program was “The Stories We Tell Ourselves—How Our Thinking Shapes Our Lives.” For the first two years\, I did two dialogues every Wednesday—one from 1 to 4\, and another from 6 to 9. After the first two years\, I just did the evening one. \n  \nWe might take topics like “Love\,” or “Freedom\,” or “Happiness”—or no topic at all. From the beginning\, it was amazing! Somehow\, people trusted each other and talked honestly about what was most important to them. I quickly gave up on the idea that I was there to teach something\, or to help people “improve” in some way. There was no agenda\, other than to get together and spend time talking and listening to each other. It seems like the simplest thing in the world\, but when was the last time you\, dear reader\, sat in a circle with twelve or sixteen people for three hours and listened intently while one person at a time shared their thoughts and feelings? \n  \nAs facilitator\, I didn’t want to drive six hours and 360 miles to talk about who won the football game. The men understood that. There were no arguments. It was understood that we all had different views and different beliefs. That was just accepted. We listened to each other.  \n  \nWhen someone came to the group for the first time\, I would usually put them on the spot by asking a question like: “Where are you on your life journey?” Usually there was a pause\, while everyone in the circle waited expectantly and respectfully. The new person was probably thinking something like: “What have I gotten myself into?” But everyone in the circle was curious to know something about them. And maybe many people have been waiting their whole life for other people to take an interest in who they are. Maybe a question like that was never asked at home or in school. After hesitating\, the new person might begin: “I was adopted. I don’t know who my real parents are…” And another deep dialogue had begun. \n  \nThe men who came regularly every week—sometimes for years—wanted more than superficial conversation. They didn’t want to waste the opportunity to get to know themselves and each other better\, and to make new friends. Friendships naturally formed. There was  a lot of love in the room. \n  \nEvery night\, when I left the prison\, I had a feeling of great elation! Something beautiful and extraordinary had happened. Always. Without fail. Later\, when I went only once a month\, other people volunteered to make sure the dialogues continued to happen every week. For them\, too—Nancy Scharbach\, Jude Russell\, Bill Faricy\, Dick Willis\, Kristen Sagan\, Deborah Buchanan\, Bushra Azzouz\, Katie Radditz—the prison dialogues were a life-changing experience. Many of the men who were in the dialogue group have told me how important it was to them. In some cases\, it opened up whole new vistas and possibilities. \n  \nOne of the weird things I remember about that time is that all week long I would be looking forward to the next Wednesday—when I could get to go to prison! It was usually the high point of my week. And I thought about how odd it was that people “on the outside” didn’t get together regularly to have that kind of experience. \n  \nI’m no longer a volunteer with the Oregon Department of Corrections. I stay in touch with many of the friends I made in prison. Some are still inside. Many have gotten out! Hallelujah! \n  \nIt took me a while\, but eventually I was able to get a weekly deep dialogue group going “on the outside.” It’s a different demographic—mostly old people (like me). Young people are too busy doing other things—especially\, since we meet on a weekday morning—doing things like working and earning money. It makes sense. Food and shelter are high priorities for humans. And… \n  \nIn addition to “making a living”—(strange phrase)—we need love\, friendship\, community. We need each other! Deep dialogue is a way to make deep friendships and to build community. Highly recommended! \n  \nLately\, when I’m in Guanajuato\, Mexico\, as I am right now\, I find myself writing odes.  \n  \nIt’s Pablo Neruda’s fault.  \n  \nHere are some from last year: \n  \nOde to Ode-Makers \n  \nInspired by you\, \ndear Pablo\, \nmaker of more odes \nthan anyone \nwho walked this green Earth\, \nI dare to write poems \nwith short lines\, \nshort\, \nlike my attention span. \nPablo\, \nI love \nyour Ode to Things \nand your Ode to Socks \nand your odes \nto so many humble items \nwhich you have made \nimmortal. \nI also love  \nolder odes \nand ode-makers\, \nlike John Keats. \nI love his glorious \nOde on a Grecian Urn\, \nand the sublime letter \nhe wrote in 1819 \nto his brother George \nand George’s wife Georgiana\, \nwho had moved \nto Louisville\, Kentucky\, \nthe previous year. \nJohn left \nthis vale of Soul-making \nthe following year\, \nin 1820\, \nat the age \nof 25. \n* \n  \nOde to the Avacado \n  \nAvacado! \nYou are not like \nall those other fruits. \nWhen ripe\, \nyou are green. \nYou are not  \njuicy. \nYou are \nsomething else\, \nwhich can’t be described\, \nand yet\, \nthat’s all that people \nwho write poems \never do— \ntalk about things \nthat can’t be \nput into words. \nPutting things into words— \nwhat a hare-brained idea! \nAnd yet\, \nirresistible. \nEverything\, \nwithout exception\, \nis beyond our ken. \nThe world is too big! \nAnd everything \nis always changing. \nWe don’t know \nanything. \nWe don’t know \nwho we are \nor \nwhat’s going on here. \nStill\, \nwe talk and talk \nfor the sheer pleasure \nof talking. \nThis poem \ndoesn’t have much to say \nabout the avacado \nor about anything\,  \nreally. \nAnd now\, \nhaving accomplished nothing\, \nthis poem must\, \nlike every other poem\, \ncome to an end. \n* \n  \nOde to Books \n  \nMy affliction\, \nmy addiction\, \nmy delight\, \nmy obsession\, \nmy possessions\, \nmy companions\, \neverywhere I go \nI bring you with me\, \nmy house  \nis filled with books \non shelves\, \non the floor\, \nbeside the bed\, \nI can’t live \nwithout you. \nThe world \nis big \nand in the world \nare libraries \nand in the libraries \nare countless worlds. \nI want to read \nall the books\, \nI want to visit \nall the worlds \nbefore I die\, \nbut I’m old \nand there are \ntoo many books \nand I read \nslowly \nin order to \nsavor the pleasure \nof holding you. \nAnd so\, \nwhen I turn my last page \nand go to sleep \nmaybe \nI will dream \nof going \nto Heaven \nwhich is  \nof course \na Library. \n* \n  \nOde to Guanajuato \n  \nDreamscape \nof colors\, \nclouds\, \ncoffee\, \nchocolate\, \ncomida\, \nsunshine\, \nsingers\,  \nstudents\, \npoets\, \npainters\, \nprintmakers\, \nlaborers\, \nactors\, \ndancers\, \nclowns. \nCity of music\, \nof stones. \nA bowl in the mountains\, \nsitting above \na labyrinth \nof tunnels. \n  \nFamilies \nwalking up and down \nsteep hills \nin the morning \nand at night— \nbabies being carried\, \nlittle children\, \nbig children\, \ncouples\, \nold people\, \nvery old people. \nNo one \nis in a hurry. \n  \nCity of barking dogs \nand of roosters \nwho don’t know \nwhat time it is. \nGiant ancient churches\, \nfountains\, \ntortilla machines\, \nprocessions\, \nparades\, \nfiestas\, \nfireworks\, \nexplosions. \n  \nCity  \nthat \nmy darling \nNancy  \nand I \nreturn to \nagain and again \nin order  \nto nourish \nour souls. \n  \npaz\, amor y felicidad \nJuanito \n* \n  \nIn spite of our son nearly dying in an automobile accident\, in spite of my mother announcing\, at age 85\, that she’d had five lovers during 60+ years of marriage to my dad\, in spite of my dear brother-in-law committing suicide. In spite of John F. Kennedy being assassinated\, in spite of 911… \n  \nIn spite of every earth-shaking\, earthquaking event\, when I felt the world was going to stop spinning\, and the earth was going to drop out from beneath my feet—-life went on\, bless its heart: the leaves turned scarlet\, the moon and stars kept shining at night\, the rains continued to fall\, the soft\, wintery snow whispered\, and the leaf buds and daffodils pushed forth. The part of me that was breaking somehow mended\,  knowing that life…just… goes on.  \n  \nLife goes on\, in all its beauty and in all its quiet persistence. Just look around; it’s inescapable. \n  \npeace\, love\, happiness\, and understanding. And beauty. \n—Jude Russell \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-10-1-26/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20261105
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20261203
DTSTAMP:20261113T150208
CREATED:20261106T231611Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20261110T192544Z
UID:6511-1793836800-1796255999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  11/5/26
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nNovember 5\, 2026 \n  \nSending Out Love Vibes \n  \nSending out Love Vibes (positive Love Vibes) \nto all the creatures of the universe \n  \n—Larry Yes\, from the song “Love Vibes” \n* \n  \nWith our love\, we could save the world… \n  \n—George Harrison\, from the song “Within You Without You” \n* \n  \nLove’s in need of love today \nDon’t delay \nSend yours in right away \n  \n—Stevie Wonder \n* \n  \nChildren of the future age\, \nReading this indignant page\, \nKnow that in a former time\, \nLove\, sweet Love\, was thought a crime. \n  \n—William Blake \n* \n  \nLove is the greatest force in the universe.  \n  \n—Dr. Martin Luther King\, Jr. \n* \n  \nWho loves not\, knows not God; for God is Love. \n  \n1 John\, 8:4 \n* \n  \n20 \nIn all people I see myself\, none more and not one a barley-corn less… \n  \n48 \n…whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud… \nIn the faces of men and women I see God\, and in my own face in the glass \n  \n—Walt Whitman\, from “Song of Myself” \n* \n  \nwake up\, heart! \n  \nwake up\, heart! \nwake up and love everyone and every thing \nlove the unlovable \nthe unhappy old men who start the wars \nthe geniuses who collapse the economy \nthe heads of the big corporations who ruin the earth \nthey need love\, too \nwhy else would they do stuff like that? \nwe all want to love and be loved \nwe all need to love and be loved \nlove everything that moves \nand everything that won’t budge \nlove the person who is reading or listening to this poem \nyou might start with the easy ones \npassing dogs \nlaughing children \nfluffy white clouds \nall the spring flowers shouting “love me!” \npractice on the easy ones \nuntil you get so good at it that you accidentally love the weird and scary homeless people\, the criminals\, the people whose views differ from yours—before you have time to think about it \nheart\, you were born for love \nmr. brain sometimes tells you not to \n“don’t love that one\,” he says\, “that one doesn’t deserve it” \n“don’t be a fool” \nforgive mr. brain \nhe can’t help it \nhe’s always making distinctions between this and that \nhe needs a hug \nyou know better \nyou know that the thing to do is just to love \nto wake up and love without limit \n  \n—from The Nonstop Love-In by Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nIn his poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner\,” Samuel Taylor Coleridge was imitating an archaic style of ballad. An old guy grabs a young man on his way to a wedding\, sits him down and tells him his story: \n  \nIt is an ancient Mariner\, \nAnd he stoppeth one of three. \n‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye\, \nNow wherefore stopp’st thou me?…. \n  \nHe holds him with his glittering eye— \nThe Wedding-Guest stood still\, \nAnd listens like a three years’ child: \nThe Mariner hath his will. \n  \nThe Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: \nHe cannot choose but hear; \nAnd thus spake on that ancient man\, \nThe bright-eyed Mariner… \n  \nThe ancient mariner tells the wedding guest how his ship was surrounded by ice\, and how by following an albatross they were able to get into the open sea… \n  \nAnd a good south wind sprung up behind; \nThe Albatross did follow\, \nAnd every day\, for food or play\, \nCame to the mariner’s hollo!… \n  \nUnfortunately…. \n  \n‘God save thee\, ancient Mariner! \nFrom the fiends\, that plague thee thus!— \nWhy look’st thou so?’—With my cross-bow \nI shot the ALBATROSS… \n  \nAfter he kills the innocent bird of good omen\, the ship is cursed and become becalmed. \n  \nWater\, water everywhere \nAnd all the boards did shrink. \nWater\, water everywhere \nNor any drop to drink… \n  \nThe sailors hang the dead bird around his neck. All 200 of his shipmates are slowly starving to death. Then\, suddenly they all drop down. At this point the wedding guest gets scared. Don’t worry\, the Mariner says to reassure him: \n  \n“This body dropt not down.” \n  \nSo\, that’s a relief. He’s not a damned soul\, back from Hell. On the ship it’s still a terrible Hell realm with all those corpses. When he looks over the side of the boat all he sees is “a thousand slimy things.” He tries to pray. He can’t. But he keeps looking over the side of the boat. And as he looks\, something happens: \n  \nWithin the shadow of the ship \nI watched the water-snakes—their rich attire: \nBlue\, glossy green and velvet black\, \nThey coiled and swam; and every track \nWas a flash of golden fire. \n  \nO happy living things! no tongue \nTheir beauty might declare: \nA spring of love gushed from my heart\, \nAnd I blessed them unaware: \nSure my kind saint took pity on me\, \nAnd I blessed them unaware. \n  \nThe self-same moment I could pray; \nAnd from my neck so free \nThe Albatross fell off\, and sank \nLike lead into the sea… \n  \nWith the help of a troop of blessed spirits\, the ship sails back to his own country. A hermit shrives him\, but from time to time he has to tell his tale to someone. The last thing he says to the Wedding Guest is: \n  \nFarewell\, farewell! but this I tell \nTo thee\, thou Wedding-Guest! \nHe prayeth well who loveth well \nBoth man and bird and beast. \n  \nHe prayeth best\, who loveth best \nAll things\, both great and small; \nFor the dear God Who loveth us\, \nHe made and loveth all. \n  \n—Samuel Taylor Coleridge\, from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” \n* \n  \nReading recommendations… \n  \n…the whole poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” \n…two novels by Niall Williams: This Is Happiness and Time of the Child \n* \n  \n20 \nLove with all your heart—and be happy. This world is then a jewel. It is Paradise. Everything is here for your delight. Love all that is good and enjoy what you love. Love is our nature. When we love everyone and are loved by everyone we are happy. \n  \n67  \nHow could I desire to be other than what I am? I am infinitely prone to love and am infinitely lovely. What could be more glorious? O unspeakable Joy! What more could I wish for? \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 friendliest 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  \n73 \nOur nature requires that we love everyone and be grateful for all the gifts we have been given. Everyone is naturally amiable\, and so all need to love and be loved and to take delight in it. This is our desire and our birthright. Our nature urges us to love. For without loving we are desolate and by loving we are filled with joy. By loving we expand and enlarge ourselves\, and the more we love the more glorious we become. \n  \n80 \nWe are born for love—to love each other as naturally as the sun shines. \n  \n87 \nAs the sun warms us and quickens us with life\, may boundless love for everyone enlighten us\, cause us to see the greatness of our nature\, give us the joy of Paradise\, comfort and enflame us. Let us look so deeply into the world\, into ourselves and into each other that we feel the oneness of everyone and everything. Let us shine like the sun and allow Love to make its home in our hearts—joyfully enjoying all the gifts we have been given. \n  \n88 \nWe are beguiled by what we see with our eyes. May we cherish the invisible gifts of understanding and of love. May our love shine brighter than the sun. \n  \n90 \nWe must let our goodness shine by loving everyone. Where suffering is greatest\, love is most needed. Let us make this world a paradise by caring for each other. \n  \n91 \nLet our love be as strong as death\, and so deep that no waters may be able to drown it. O let it be ever endless and invincible! Let the length and breadth and height of our love for each other be without limit. Let undrainable fountains and immeasurable abysses be hidden in it. Let it be more vehement than flame\, more abundant than the sea. The sun has shone from the beginning of the world to this very day; shall our love be intermittent? Let our love be a perpetual fire on the altar of our hearts. \n  \n—versions of some of Thomas Traherne’s meditations by Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nA human being is part of the whole called by us “universe\,” a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself\, his thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest—a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. \n  \nThis delusion is a kind of prison for us\, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. \n  \nOur task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. \n  \n—Albert Einstein \n* \n  \n13 Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels\, but have not love\, I am become as sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. 2 And though I have the gift of prophecy\, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge\, and though I have all faith\, so that I could remove mountains\, but have not love\, I am nothing. 3 And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor\, and though I give my body to be burned\, but have not love\, it profits me nothing. \n4 Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself\, is not puffed up; 5 does not behave rudely\, does not seek its own\, is not provoked\, thinks no evil; 6 does not rejoice in iniquity\, but rejoices in the truth; 7 bears all things\, believes all things\, hopes all things\, endures all things. \n8 Love never fails. But whether there are prophecies\, they will fail; whether there are tongues\, they will cease; whether there is knowledge\, it will vanish away. 9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part. 10 But when that which is perfect has come\, then that which is in part will be done away. \n11 When I was a child\, I spoke as a child\, I understood as a child\, I thought as a child; but when I became a man\, I put away childish things. 12 For now we see through a glass\, darkly; but then face to face. Now I know in part\, but then shall I know even as also I am known. \n13 And now abide faith\, hope\, love\, these three; but the greatest of these is love. \n  \n1 Corinthians: 13 \n* \n  \nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea\, \nMy love as deep; the more I give to thee\, \nThe more I have\, for both are infinite. \n  \n—Juliet\, from William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet\, Act 2\, Scene 2 \n* \n  \nLet me not to the marriage of true minds \nAdmit impediments; love is not love \nWhich alters when it alteration finds\, \nOr bends with the remover to remove. \nO no\, it is an ever-fixèd mark \nThat looks on tempests and is never shaken; \nIt is the star to every wand’ring bark \nWhose worth’s unknown\, although his height be taken. \nLove’s not time’s fool\, though rosy lips and cheeks \nWithin his bending sickle’s compass come. \nLove alters not with his brief hours and weeks\, \nBut bears it out even to the edge of doom: \nIf this be error and upon me proved\, \nI never writ\, nor no man ever loved. \n  \n—William Shakespeare\, Sonnet 116 \n* \n  \n…Love\, first learnèd in a lady’s eyes\, \nLives not alone immurèd in the brain\, \nBut with the motion of all elements \nCourses as swift as thought in every power\, \nAnd gives to every power a double power\, \nAbove their functions and their offices. \nIt adds a precious seeing to the eye. \nA lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind. \nA lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound\, \nWhen the suspicious head of theft is stopped. \nLove’s feeling is more soft and sensible \nThan are the tender horns of cockled snails. \nLove’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste. \nFor valor\, is not love a Hercules\, \nStill climbing trees in the Hesperides? \nSubtle as Sphinx\, as sweet and musical \nAs bright Apollo’s lute strung with his hair. \nAnd when love speaks\, the voice of all the gods \nMake heaven drowsy with the harmony. \nNever durst poet touch a pen to write \nUntil his ink were tempered with love’s sighs. \nO\, then his lines would ravish savage ears \nAnd plant in tyrants mild humility. \nFrom women’s eyes this doctrine I derive. \nThey sparkle still the right Promethean fire. \nThey are the books\, the arts\, the academes \nThat show\, contain\, and nourish all the world. \nElse none at all in ought proves excellent. \nThen fools you were these women to forswear\, \nOr\, keeping what is sworn\, you will prove fools. \nFor wisdom’s sake\, a word that all men love\, \nOr for love’s sake\, a word that loves all men\, \nOr for men’s sake\, the authors of these women\, \nOr women’s sake\, by whom we men are men\, \nLet us once lose our oaths to find ourselves\, \nOr else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths. \nIt is religion to be thus forsworn\, \nFor charity itself fulfills the law\, \nAnd who can sever love from charity? \n  \n—Berowne\, from Shakespeare’s Love’s Labors Lost\, Act 4\, Scene 3 \n* \n  \nMay all beings be happy. \nMay we live in peace and love. \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-11-5-26/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20261108T130000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20261108T150000
DTSTAMP:20261113T150208
CREATED:20261026T192154Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20261026T192154Z
UID:6504-1794142800-1794150000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Sending Out Love Vibes  11/8/26
DESCRIPTION:
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/sending-out-love-vibes-11-8-26/
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