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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20260901
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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:20261001
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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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