BEGIN:VCALENDAR VERSION:2.0 PRODID:-//The Open Road: a learning community - ECPv6.15.3//NONSGML v1.0//EN CALSCALE:GREGORIAN METHOD:PUBLISH X-WR-CALNAME:The Open Road: a learning community 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:20220313T100000 END:DAYLIGHT BEGIN:STANDARD TZOFFSETFROM:-0700 TZOFFSETTO:-0800 TZNAME:PST DTSTART:20221106T090000 END:STANDARD BEGIN:DAYLIGHT TZOFFSETFROM:-0800 TZOFFSETTO:-0700 TZNAME:PDT DTSTART:20230312T100000 END:DAYLIGHT BEGIN:STANDARD TZOFFSETFROM:-0700 TZOFFSETTO:-0800 TZNAME:PST DTSTART:20231105T090000 END:STANDARD END:VTIMEZONE BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230602T173000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230602T193000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230528T180744Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230528T182237Z UID:3948-1685727000-1685734200@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Roadside Attraction at Friday Night Market 6/2/23 DESCRIPTION:  \nRoadside Attraction\, featuring Morgan Faricy\, is playing at Friday Night Market in Milwaukie\, on June 2nd\, from 5:30 to 7:30. \nThe address is: \nMilwaukie Floral \nSE Lake Road \n  \nThis is a benefit of Open Hearts Open Minds. \n  \nBring your friends! \n  \npeace\, love & music \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/roadside-attraction-at-friday-night-market-6-2-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230601 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230803 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230601T142659Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T135046Z UID:3955-1685577600-1691020799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 6/1/23 DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJune 1\, 2023 \n  \nArt Degraded\, Imagination Denied\, War Governed the Nations. \n—William Blake \n  \nPEACE \n  \nEarly Morning Hours \n  \nFrom the house silence flows \nto the ebony lawn \nglittering like a river. \nA small candle flickers\, \nmirroring the moon \nsliding down night’s curve. \nFir branches stand against the sky\, \nthe hours’ tall sentinels\, \nand the hum inside silence \nfills each shadowed crevice\, \nthe world inundated. \n  \n  \nThe Only Now \n  \nThe stripped body lies burrowed \nin a flower well\, utterly still\, \nand one wonders \nif it has died into the nectar. \nSheltered by night\, \nin the morning the bee resumes \nsipping\, covered in pollen \nbumbling from flower to flower\, \nhis home where he stops\, \nsatiated with sugared gold\, \nhis life and eating and bliss\, \nsleep and journey all one. \n  \n  \nUnexpected \n  \nRampant weeds crowd bee balm and hyssop\, \ndirt clings to roots\, leaves bend \nand in the midst of this fecundity\, \nI am digging\, pulling\, only \nthe sun’s heat on my back. \nMoving through the afternoon quiet \na feathered sound of wings \nis near\, slower and closer\, \nand a light weight comes to rest on my head. \nCould it be? I reach a hand up\, \nthe wings lift\, rise\, and are gone. \n  \n  \nThe Tree in the Universe \n  \nLight glints off cherries in the branches \nswaying slightly in summer breezes. \n  \nI too am swinging\, shimmering\, high \nin the tree\, resting in a dark trunk \n  \nadrift and asleep\, the sky \ndappling the light in the tree\, \n  \nabove the ground air my companion\, birds \nmy companions\, jumping and wondering\, \n  \nall of us in the branches\, in the light\, \ntime a mystery that moves in the tree\, \n  \noff the ground\, as my vision\, \nmy mind unrolls in front of me \n  \ncarrying my heart forward and backward\, \ninward\, time and space a single pulse \n  \nand the cherries shine\, the tree grows \nquietly upward and outward\, carrying me\, \n  \nthe birds\, and all around\, all around\, \nright here in the branches\, in time and in sight\, \n  \nI see that\, yes\, yes\, each particle\, \neach moment turning in the sky\, \n  \nin the tree\, flowing between us\, \nin us\, what I imagined\, what I dreamed \n  \nand dreaded and is now here—all of it divine. \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nA couple months ago my friend Ken Margolis was listening to the news. He heard a report on the war in Ukraine. Both sides were said to be running low on ammunition\, because they were both using 1\,ooo artillery shells per day. Two thousand artillery shells per day! More than one per minute. It was insane. He told his friends\, including me. He wondered: Is there is anything we can do to bring this war to an end? That question prompted me to choose the theme “Peace” for this month’s peace\, love\, happiness & understanding. The word “peace” has two main connotations: the absence of war\, and a calm\, quiet state of mind. When I invited people to contribute to this issue\, I said the topic is “peace\,” but didn’t specify which kind of peace. \n  \nFor me\, the “two kinds of peace” are not unrelated. In the early Eighties I wrote a fairly long essay called “The Ecology of Violence\, the Ecology of Peace: A Lived Revolution—Personally\, Locally\, Globally.” In it\, I explored topics like Authority\, Poverty\, Education\, Cruelty\, the Media\, Meditation\, Economics\, Ideology\, Ecology\, Family\, Culture\, Community\, and many more. One of the primary insights of Ecology is that everything is  inter-related to everything else. The Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh spoke of “interbeing.” It seems to me that our “job” is to help to co-create a culture that nurtures all people\, and to learn or re-learn how humans can live on this planet without destroying it—like all the other animals do. \n  \nMy outlook on life has been shaped by the fact that instead of going to Vietnam to kill people\, I went to India and studied with wise yogis. When I think of war\, instead of thinking about brave soldiers fighting to make the world a better place\, I think of that photograph of Vietnamese children who have been bombed with jellied gasoline. Every day the war goes on in Ukraine\, more children die. More mothers and fathers\, sisters and brothers die. It’s insane. \n  \nHere’s a poem I wrote: \n  \nMy Foolproof Plan for World Peace \n  \nI hereby declare today to be International Love Day. \nAnd a General Armistice. \nAll hostilities must cease on International Love Day. \nHenceforward\, every day is International Love Day. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nAlex sent this poem by Tom Clark: \n  \nBolinas \n  \nMy wife’s recipe for a fairy: \nPut buttercup pollen \nAnd a canary feather \nIn a thimble. At midnight\, \nImmersed in my life’s current \nHowever it may flow \nIn the giant life around it \nThat whispers like a tree \nRocked by evening light\, \nA tide of beams \nBears my dreambound boat. \nThe boughs drop peace\, \nA star wanders toward dawn \nOver the dim wet leaves. \n  \n—Tom Clark \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nTo me lately\, peacefulness is just being a happy person and trying to make others understand happiness in just a few seconds of every moment. If one can achieve this their life will be happy. I found this secret on my journey to the golden path. A friend told me about the golden path years ago. I live there now and the town I live in on the golden path is called simple bliss. \n  \nI also find peace in the sweat of my brow from a job well done. I can’t wait to work hard for the ones I love. Peace is free and it lives inside of us and if you have it in you\, my friends\, give it to those that don’t. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nSiddhartha’s prayer     \n  \nWhen they asked why he left \nhis people and his palace\,  \nthe response rose like fragrance from summer’s garden. \nThere is peace in every breath\, he said\, \nand every heartbeat \nand every footstep \nthat will no longer be forgotten \nor forsaken. \nI wish every thought to be a prayer \nevery word to be a poem \nevery touch an act of love\, \nand all to be  \nas it already is. \n               – amen \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \nSurrounded \nMemorial Day 2023 \n  \nPerhaps there is the sound of water\, \nthe feel of a light breeze\, comfortable \nwarmth\, rustling leaves. \n  \nMaybe the colors make harmonies\, \nsmell of sandalwood\, taste \nof cardamom on the tongue. \n  \nThe temptation of a ladder rung \nto a nest above ruins sharp \nedged with smoke\, mist. \n  \nMissed. We’re here. This list \nof all that’s lost\, endless. Still \nfingers uncurl from a fist. \n  \nIn the end everyone was right. \nAll we wanted was a sense of \nbelonging\, a path\, not a fight. \n  \nInstead\, a respite\, for now. \nForever? The crowd surrounds us\, \nwhether we are aware\, or not. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n                          Peace Tree \n  \nMy calling is to rise. My purpose is to reach. \nWhere buildings fall\, I stand silent in the shouting. \nEven in billowing dust\, I begin the next peace. If  \nyou splinter me\, I will heal. After the battle\, I will  \nsilhouette dawn. I have seen seasons pass\, the rising  \nof anger\, fury of the storm\, return of calm. I’m still \nyearning for the sun\, still delving into dark. Rooted \npatriot of Earth\, I drink the sky to give you breath. \nNeutral in war\, I shade both sides. Send my seeds  \nacross the border\, I will be your diplomat of green. \nIf you plant me beside the graves of soldiers\, I will \nsay to their mothers with my leaves what they  \nmight have said in the wind that stirs. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nPeace Within\, Peace Without \n  \nWho doesn’t want to have peace within him or herself? Who doesn’t want to have world peace? I would say there are very few people in either category—a few\, maybe\, but not many. \n  \nHere is an inside aside: \nCan you have peace without love? \nCan you have peace without joy\, either within yourself or in the ‘world?’ \nIs peace synonymous with love? Is love synonymous with joy? \nAre there other words that define or are requirements for peace? Compassion? Connection? \n  \nWell\, I’m just throwing these out there\, as you can see\, but let’s go back to peace within/peace without. \n  \nHow can you be at peace within yourself and not be concerned about the world? It is overwhelming to think about trying to ‘fix’ the world\, for sure. We all know how that feels. Might as well give up on that and just work on being at peace within yourself\, right? Well\, that is impossible\, my friends. A spirit at peace is one who gnaws away\, tackles\, wrestles with—inch by inch\, foot by foot—-some part of the exterior world that is hurting\, be it other humans\, other creatures\, the world of nature. We do the work often never knowing whether or not we are achieving change\, lessening hurt\, creating love\, creating bond and connection and unity. This is not why we do it; we do the work because the work itself is what grows peace within us. And—-we have to do it.  \n  \nHa ha—but don’t get the idea that it is easy. It can be frightening\, hurtful\, frustrating\, and really hard; but something in us is propelled to keep on. And whatever that ‘something’ is\, brings (paradoxically) an inner peace. \n  \nSo we have to be in the world\, doing our bit\, small as it is; but always\, all of it\, from all of us is growing peace in the world. And just think if each and every one were to do this! World Peace!!! \n  \nWorking on the peace without is essential for the peace within…and vice versa. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nThe trouble with peace seems to be that it isn’t enough for us. Of course\, war is the ultimate step in a power struggle to determine who gets the gold and the throne. So\, in that sense\, battle skills are the most useful of all skills. \n  \nBut there is something more. At the same time we fear war\, we lust after it. We sing of arms and the man. War becomes the context for heroism\, nobility\, and deep companionship. It also destroys the beautiful\, kills the innocent\, and generates hatred in future generations. \n  \nIn spite of Elon Musk and other technological self-deceivers\, most people feel intuitively that life and death form some sort of continuum. To manifest its cycle of renewal\, life needs death. Does peace need war in some mysterious way? \n  \nWhen we think of Heaven\, we think No More War\, green meadows and grandchildren on our knee\, not the whole thing blown to bits by an incoming drone. War has its lobby\, its advocates and advertisers\, its prophets and profiteers. It’s only fair that a few of us take the other\, apparently less popular side\, and advocate for peace. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \n  \n“Peace has been a theme in some of our earlier issues. Take a look at the peace\,love\, happiness & understanding Archive on the Open Road website. Here’s from June 24\, 2021: \n  \nhttps://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-6-24-21/ \n  \nFor July\, send me something about your own vision of Utopia or Paradise. \n  \npeace\,   \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-6-1-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230527T193000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230527T210000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230516T162833Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230516T163203Z UID:3915-1685215800-1685221200@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Johnny Stallings performs Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" 5/27/23 DESCRIPTION:painting of Walt Whitman by Rick Bartow\n\n\n  \n  \n For Walt’s 204th Birthday\, Johnny Stallings will be performing  \n  \nWalt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” \n  \nat PAUSE  \n  \nPAUSE is a meditation studio — 133 SW 2nd Ave.\, Suite 300\, (door code 54445) \n  \nSaturday\, May 27th\, 7:30 p.m. \n  \na benefit for the Open Road Film Fund  \n(for distributing Bushra Azzouz’s film “A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Prison”) \n  \nfor info\, call Johnny: 503-347-6869 URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/johnny-stallings-performs-walt-whitmans-song-of-myself-5-27-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/IMG_0029-2.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230521T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230521T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230517T154102Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230517T160931Z UID:3921-1684681200-1684688400@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! 5/21/23 DESCRIPTION:Nobel Prize-winning author\, Doris Lessing \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!\n \nThe theme for our next Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom dialogue is Favorite Women Authors! Please join us at 3 p.m. (PDT)\, Sunday\, May 21st. \n \n\nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n\n\n\n\n\npeace & love\n\n\n \n\n\nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-5-21-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230519T190000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230519T210000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230419T222910Z LAST-MODIFIED:20240610T231710Z UID:3821-1684522800-1684530000@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Deck Boys Friday Night! DESCRIPTION:Music Lovers!\n \nThis Friday\, May 19th\, from 7 to 9 pm\, Deck Boys (https://www.deckboys.com)–featuring the inimitable Jeffrey Sher!–are gonna rock the Ross Island Grocery & Cafe\, 3502 S. Corbett\, Ave\, in Portland.\n \nWanna have a good time?\n \nThis is the place to be.\n \n \npeace\, love & music\n \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/deck-boys-friday-night/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/DeckBoys.png.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230515 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230615 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230515T224532Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T162120Z UID:3903-1684108800-1686787199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 5/15/23 DESCRIPTION:  \nMay 15\, 2023 \n  \nLet your heart speak to others’ hearts. \n—tag on Yogi Tea bag \n  \n                Gandhi Returns \n  \nAs if he had said enough in life\, he uttered  \nnot a word where we stood in the station  \nin my dream\, only a stillness in the bustle  \nall around us. Instead\, he listened\, turning  \nhis bright young face in welcome to every  \ntraveler as they made speeches of their own.  \nA mother told of her son\, and in Gandhi’s eyes  \nthe boy was hero. I told him how Ali in Tehran \nhad written me that poetry is oxygen\, and in  \nMahatma’s eyes\, this was a truth no gun  \ncould injure. One by one he summoned \nwitness from each pilgrim. Then\, smiling\,  \nin his folds of pale cotton he helped us  \nstruggle with our luggage onto the steaming  \ntrain. And when I turned\, I saw he had none. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nAlex Tretbar sent two translations of a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke—showing what a big difference a translator’s choices make. He prefers the Robert Bly version: \n  \nPALM \n  \nInterior of the hand. Sole that has come to walk \nonly on feelings. That faces upward \nand in its mirror \nreceives heavenly roads\, which travel \nalong themselves. \nThat has learned to walk upon water \nwhen it scoops\, \nthat walks upon wells\, \ntransfiguring every path. \nThat steps into other hands\, \nchanges those that are like it \ninto a landscape: \nwanders and arrives within them\, \nfills them with arrival. \n  \n—translated by Stephen Mitchell \n  \nPALM OF THE HAND \n  \nPalm of the hand. Sole that walks now \nonly on feeling. It turns over\, \nbecomes a mirror\, \nshows sky roads\, which \nthemselves are walking. \nIt has learned to walk on water\, \nwhen it dips down\, \nmoves on springs\, \ncauses all roads to fork. \nComes forward into other palms\, \nthose like itself \nturn into a countryside\, \nthrough them it travels and arrives\, \nfills them with having arrived. \n  \n—translated by Robert Bly \n* \n  \nI saw lots of Jet trails in the blue sky gaily criss-crossing \nand wondered how many of us might be able to see them. \nThen this poem\, that our beloved friend and  Zen teacher  \nBob Schaibly liked\, popped into my mind.   \n  \nLove Note \n  \nLet us hire a hundred planes \nStuff them with hot cotton smoke \nAnd write white poetry on the paper of the sky. \nLet the ant people on the hot summer beaches look up squinting \nRead feathery descriptions of your lips\, \nTraced by the sky writers. \n  \nWe’ll pick a calm noontime\, \nSun pressing wrinkles out of the steamy sea \nSky flat\, receptive. \n“Love\,” I’ll write\, and “mouth\,” and silver words. \n“Cling\,” I’ll write\, and “Stars\,” and oh\, don’t worry. \nThe words will all come easily enough. \nIt’s the idea that matters. \n  \nThen I’ll fly up in the highest plane’ \nAnd jump and parachute right through \nThe O in the word “Love” \nAnd land in your backyard\, \nAnd kiss you – home again. \n  \n—Joseph Siebel \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nAnd a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels… \n—Walt Whitman\, Song of Myself \n  \nThe Miraculousness of Everything \n  \nBecause life is short and each day is precious\, I like to begin each day by entering what I call “the Golden World”—a state of quiet joy. To do this\, I often reflect upon the miraculousness of everything. Puffy white clouds floating by in the sky—how do they do that? Where did these coffee beans come from? The trees I see out my window have brand new bright green leaves. How did that happen? Our neighborhood is full of tulips. The irises and the rhododendrons are just starting to bloom. The daphne and the daffodils have had their glorious days. The laptop computer that I’m typing this on was undreamt of when I was a boy. \n  \nMaybe the most impossible and amazing thing of all is that I am alive and aware. My eyes\, brain and nervous system somehow create the illusion of a three-dimensional world in full color. Scientists might say\, “It’s just photons of light hitting the surface of the eye\, sending an electrical current to your brain\, where the synapses in your visual cortex something something something…” Huh? Photons? Synapses? Brain? What the heck are those? Where did they come from? One of my little poems goes like this: \n  \nthere has never been \nis not now \nand will never be \nanything more perfect \nthan this glass of water \n  \nOops! Here I am again…in the Golden World. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \n#186  The First Noble Truth \n“The Buddha told us to recognize the First Noble Truth\, the truth of suffering\, and to look deeply in order to discover the Second Noble Truth\, the cause of suffering.That is the only way the Fourth Noble Truth\, the path to transform suffering into happiness\, can reveal itself. So we have to emphasize the role of suffering. If we are so afraid of suffering\, we have no chance.” \n—from Your True Home  by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nWhen I was in the midst of deep suffering\, of course I couldn’t comprehend that this was a good thing\, leading to happiness. Sure didn’t feel like that to me. \n  \nThe suffering was thirteen years of marriage to a raging alcoholic—yes\, “raging” is not an exaggeration. Trying to cover a black eye with makeup\, wearing long-sleeved shirts to cover bruised arms\, making humiliating excuses for his passing out on the floor in the presence of company\, sharp\, cutting words more lasting than any physical pain…on and on. I thought if I left\, I would be seen as a failure in my parents’ eyes\, so I stayed and endured and excused for\, yes\, thirteen years. Believe me\, I was not thinking of these years as those leading to happiness. Upon divorce (thank you\, Al Anon)\, I eventually became a new person—or I became who I had been before marriage\, Jump-up Jude! I felt like a helium balloon released into the sky. Happiness and euphoria beyond belief. However\, I lived periods of time (and still do!)\, infused with what I would now call PTSD: Once I clambered over audience-filled seats in a theater in Ashland to escape sitting through a play by Sam Sheppard about an alcoholic husband who goes to bars and trades his car for bags of green peppers\, which he drunkenly spills on the kitchen table as he lurches home to his wife. I can’t watch the movie Elephant Man\, or The Days of Wine and Roses. Much as I wanted to\, I could not even sit and watch the delicious hunk\, Bradley Cooper\, starring in A Star is Born\, as he devolves into violent and abusive alcoholism. And I just can’t be around drunk people. I feel like I’m suffocating. \n  \nSo where does the happiness component come from that??? The happiness and benefit come from my ability to connect and empathize  with others who have been traumatized by life experiences. The kids I mentored\, the Indian woman whose family I helped for 18 years\, and most especially\, the men in prison I have spent time with for seven years; I have not lived their lives\, nor have they lived mine\, but we all have had deep trauma and all can relate to one another’s deep trauma in a blessedly bonding experience.  \n  \nIt truly is sheer happiness when one understands\, and is understood by another\, in experiences of trauma and suffering. I wouldn’t trade it for the world! \n  \n–Jude Russell \n* \n  \nOut Here \n  \nWe come out here to watch the stars \nfade as Orion heads home towards \nthe horizon. Low lying mist obscures his \nturning as waves curl and crash\, foamy flow \nup on newly deposited rocks\, old wood\, \nyellow toes of bald eagles foraging \namong crows\, pink footed gulls. \n  \nLight comes up slowly burning mist \naway. As we are away at the edge of the \nknown world. Beacons of cable laying ships\, \nbarges full of earth slowly appear \nas tide comes in. Now there is color \nas sky settles into her blue cloak\, hovers \nprotectively around the huge remnant \n  \nRock of sister cape worn down\, left \nstanding alone in calling distance of \nshore. Before us feasting on starlight \nthe sword edge crescent moon glints \nover barrier pine hills\, \nsweeps the way clear\, for us to make \nwhat we can of this fresh new day. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nMichel is using a book by Pema Chödrön\, based on the slogans in her teacher Chögyam Trungpa’s book Training the Mind: And Cultivating Loving-Kindness\, as inspiration for his April meditation and mindfulness journal. Here are some excerpts: \n  \nApril 4\, 2023  #35  Don’t try to be the fastest. Don’t compete with others. \nI might offer a step further along: Don’t compare self to others—don’t get judgy\, of anything. I’m finding this is one of the lasting legacies of Jake Merriman and OHOM in my life: the letting go of judgement words. To do this one has to follow Johnny Stallings’ trait—compassion for everyone. I find that letting go of obsessive need to categorize and judge\, or sort out good/bad\, like/dislike\, etc. I will vie less and less against others\, or even self\, for prizes that do not exist. From this less judging space it becomes easier to understand and have compassion for an other\, and eventually even for self. \n  \nApril 20\, 2023  #48  Train without bias in all areas. It is crucial to do this pervasively and wholeheartedly. \nIT’S IMPORTANT TO INCLUDE EVERYONE AND \nEVERYTHING YOU MEET AS PART OF YOUR PRACTICE. \nTHEY BECOME THE MEANS BY WHICH YOU \nCULTIVATE COMPASSION AND WISDOM. \nWho doesn’t want to cultivate compassion and/or wisdom? I certainly have been striving to do this. There are certain beings (things are also included in this teaching—sigh) with whom I have a very challenged relationship. I don’t like them\, they don’t like me\, and neither is open to changing this. Yet\, I’m certain (from all my readings) these others are here for some greater purpose in my life; shouldn’t waste an opportunity to grow\, I may not get another one—then what? Go about with a malformed (uncorrected) ego\, as I do now? No thanks! I guess I better get busy with my work/training. \n  \nApril 21\, 2023  #49 Always meditate on whatever provokes resentment. \nDO TONGLEN PRACTICE WHENEVER YOU FEEL RESENTMENT. \nDO IT WITH SMALL THINGS ALL THE TIME. THEN YOU’LL BE \nPREPARED TO WORK WITH THE BIG ONES WHEN THEY ARISE. \nIt seems wise to work with resolving one’s resentments\, before they grow into “hates” for people\, beings\, or things. I believe all mindfulness practice is like this; sit now\, in silent reverie\, so amidst a fierce stormy barrage calm may prevail. Everything would simply build from there. Just breathe… \n  \nApril 23\, 2023  #49 Don’t be swayed by external circumstances. \nWHATEVER YOUR CIRCUMSTANCES\, PRACTICE  TONGLEN. \nWHATEVER IS WANTED\, SEND THAT OUT; WHATEVER IS \nUNWANTED\, BREATHE IT IN AND EXPERIENCE IT FOR \nYOURSELF AND ALL OTHERS IN THE SAME BOAT. \nThis speaks to equanimity—not allowing the outside storms of life to sway my little stuff. Currently\, I am bracing for the eventual passing of my father\, whom I’ve come to love very much. Alzheimer’s is taking a toll on his mind and personality. I don’t see it yet\, but my mom has to deal with many of the challenges that are arising. There’s nothing I can do for either of them; letting those concerns frazzle me doesn’t help any. All I can do is keep doing as best as I can. I’m not ready to let him go\, and at the same time he is already gone. My father I knew as a child is long gone—the one with whom I had so many conflicts and struggles—and the one I’ve come to know\, love\, and appreciate from prison\, he\, too\, is now gone. What’s left is the husk of of a man I once knew for his strength and resolve. He’s not dead\, nor has his mind gone completely yet. However\, the inevitable reality of time’s ravaging of mind and body are no longer easily ignored. It is time to embrace each moment\, as it may be the last one I get with him. Whether by phone\, or if I get to see him once more face-to-face\, truth is present that we all proceed apace to the same destiny—each on our own path and in our own time. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nDear Mindful Meditators \n  \nOur Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue began on September 15\, 2020. It is mailed to 10 people who are in prison and emailed to about 60 people who aren’t—including 9 men who were in prison in September of 2020 who are now out of prison! Hallelujah! \n  \nWe had our first get-together on Saturday\, May 13th\, at Taborspace in Portland. In attendance were: Charles Erickson\, Nicole Rush\, Sam Muller\, Nancy Scharbach\, Katie Radditz & Johnny Stallings. We talked about how our “life journey” and our “spiritual journey” are the same thing. Everyone shared stories from their life. Abe Green visited us from Montana—via FaceTime. We all had a lovely time together.  \n  \nMay all people be happy. \nMay we live in peace & love. \n  \n—Johnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-5-15-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/0.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230513T140000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230513T160000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230509T183049Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230510T195845Z UID:3875-1683986400-1683993600@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue Gathering 5/13/23 DESCRIPTION: \n \n\n\n\nDear Friends \n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\nYou are invited to join us for our meditation & mindfulness community’s first live get-together\, this Saturday\, May 13\, from 2 to 4 pm\, in the Artspace Room at Taborspace\, 5441 SE Belmont Street\, in Portland.\n \n\nIn September of 2020 we began our Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue–sending it to friends inside and outside of prison walls. Many of the “insiders” have gotten out of prison since then. Currently\, the Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue is mailed to ten men in prison\, and is emailed to about 60 people who aren’t in prison. If you are getting this email\, you are one of the 60 lucky “outsiders.”\n \n\nThis will be a lovely opportunity for everyone to have a dialogue and get to know each other better.\n \nWe hope you can join us!\n \n \npeace\, love & happiness from\n \nJohnny Stallings & Katie Radditz URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-gathering-5-13-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/Bodhi_Ajanta.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230507T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230507T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230503T210001Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230517T154403Z UID:3843-1683471600-1683478800@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! 5/7/23 DESCRIPTION:from Liber Novus (The Red Book) by Carl Jung \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!\n \nThe theme for our next Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom dialogue is Psychology. Read any books on this subject? Got any insights? Please join us at 3 p.m. (PDT)\, Sunday\, May 7th. \n \n\nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n\n\n\n\n\npeace\, love & psychology\n\n\n \n\n\nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-5-7-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230506T200000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230506T213000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230418T215016Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230505T151323Z UID:3812-1683403200-1683408600@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Jon Bennett performs Fire in the Meth Lab at ADX DESCRIPTION:  \nThe Open Road invites you to come and be astonished by Jon Bennett’s brilliant show: Fire In the Meth Lab\, Saturday\, May 6th\, 8 p.m.\, at Art Design Xchange (ADX)\, 417 SE 11th. Doors at 7:30pm. Click here for tickets: \n  \nJon Bennett has crafted a powerful story of addiction and family. When I saw this show\, I laughed and cried as he took me on an unforgettable journey. Not to be missed!!  –Jeffrey Sher \n  \nThis is a benefit for Outside In. Since 1968\, Outside In has transformed thousands of lives by helping to break the cycles of chronic homelessness\, poverty\, and poor health. Our health clinic and young adult programs strive to provide safe\, caring\, affirming spaces for our community to receive judgment-free care and support. MISSION: We help homeless youth and other marginalized people move towards improved health and self-sufficiency. \n  \nThank you to Ronni Lacroute for sponsoring this event. URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/jon-bennett-performs-fire-in-the-meth-lab/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230504T100000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230504T120000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230419T224924Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230427T001427Z UID:3827-1683194400-1683201600@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:War in Ukraine Dialogue 5/4/23 DESCRIPTION:  \nPLEASE JOIN A DISCUSSION ABOUT U.S. INVOLVEMENT \nIN THE WAR IN UKRAINE \nThe Open Road invites you to take part in a dialogue about the War in Ukraine\, and our country’s role in it. \nThursday\, May 4th\, at 10 a.m. \nThe Gallery at Lolo Pass\, 1616 East Burnside\, in Portland \nFor questions or information call Ken: (503) 351-5891 \n“In the councils of government\, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence\, whether sought or unsought\, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous use of misplaced power exists and will persist.” \n—President Dwight D. Eisenhower \nFarewell Address to the Nation\, January 17\, 1961 \nFREE ADMISSION URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/war-in-ukraine-slide-presentation-discussion/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230504 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230601 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230504T212150Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T133118Z UID:3850-1683158400-1685577599@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 5/4/23 DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nBOOKS THAT CHANGED THE WAY YOU SEE THE WORLD \n  \nMay 4\, 2023 \n  \nWhen I first read Christina Stead’s The Man Who Loved Children\, I realized that literature could be even more powerful than I had known. Powerful enough in this novel to make me feel acute embarrassment\, shame\, and humiliation–unsavory\, and unforgettable emotions. It was\, in that sense\, one of the most unpleasant books that I have ever read–but I suffered those ugly emotions because I was in empathic thrall to the characters\, which was thrilling. Christina Stead had such power over me that she could compel me to keep reading even against my own will. Sixty years later\, the book stays with me. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \n  \nThe Skull Mantra by Eliot Pattison \n  \nAs the first book in the Inspector Shan series this book gave me a glimpse into the history and current status of the relationship between Tibet and China. It also gave a different perspective on Tibetan Buddhism\, a more human practical one\, and it opened me to a world of beliefs deeply different from those I had learned about in the West. \n  \nThere are ten books in this series. \n  \nWhen I first met Andrew\, he had an “Endlessly Connected” bumper stick on his car that was flanked by two Meander Knots. A simple design\, the endless knot iconography symbolizes samsara—the endless cycle of suffering of birth\, death\, and rebirth within Tibetan Buddhism. The intertwining of wisdom and compassion. Also\, the Interplay and interaction of the opposing forces in the dualistic world of manifestation\, leading to their union\, and ultimately to harmony in the universe. \n  \nThe books have a starkness to them. As mysteries they are dark and sometimes brutal\, but the characters\, particularly the lamas have stuck around in my head since encountering them. Andrew and I read them at approximately the same time\, sharing tidbits and references and when it came time to name our poetry press\, little magazine and open mic\, Meander Knot was the obvious choice. \n  \nWe even got identical tattoos as both a branding exercise but also an expression of perhaps a deeper connection between us and the possible connection over more than one lifetime. \n  \nAnd then\, when I started teaching yoga\, I called the business “Meander Yoga”. The endless knot is not featured specifically in the books\, (although I suspect it is mentioned. I am planning on re-reading them this year and will find out) it symbolizes to me the deep cultural richness in the books and how that richness has enhanced both my spiritual\, but also my artistic life.   \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nHi Johnny! \n  \nThere are so many books that have changed me and/or inspired me but the one that comes to the top of my mind is Hope for the Flowers. I’ve read this book so many times and have shared it with so many people. It’s such a sweet and simple illustration of transformation but also of embracing who you are right now.  \n  \nOn a totally different note\, I remember reading Johnny Got His Gun for the first time and being in awe. It was the first time I really sat and pondered what it means to be human and what makes life worth living.  \n  \nOh\, and of course\, Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth! \n  \nI’ll stop before I start listing 100 books.  \n  \n—Nicole Rush \n* \n  \nThe Mahabharata retold by William Buck \n  \nI first thought Peter Brooke read this. \nI found it falling apart in a free box or a yard sale. \nI found I couldn’t read it. \nIt sat on the bookshelf for a couple of years. I kept an eye on it. \n  \nOne morning in Parkrose neighborhood\, on a north deck\, watching the planes glide in over the trees and rooftops\, following the river west to PDX\, I saw the sun was shining after endless rain. \nA cup of coffee was there\, and the time had come to open the book of wonder. \n  \n—Charles Erickson \n* \n  \nbeautiful morning\, Johnny. good question! \n  \nI immediately thought about how I felt after reading Green Mansions by William Henry Hudson. I had never had an English teacher in High School assign anything like it to read. I think I was the only one in the class who liked it or even read it. So for one thing it forged a bond with my fascinating lovely teacher. \n  \nMainly it opened up a world of wonder about the wild\, where savage had the meaning of wild/wyld people in a forest wilderness unmitigated by modern civilization. It is about true freedom compared to that of the birds.   \n  \nHudson writes with a clear style that matches his view of beauty and wonder being the essence of life. It is a love story as well as a tragedy of what would come of nature.  \n  \nNow I’ve pulled it out to read once again. I had forgotten the main character’s name is Abel—my first son’s name! I think this story has stayed with me in my deep consciousness.  \n  \nIn the forward\, John Galsworthy wrote in 1918 that Hudson was the most valuable author of his Age. He says of  Hudson\, who was a naturalist as well as an author: “his nomadic records of communing with men (women)\, birds\, beasts\, and Nature\, has a supreme gift of disclosing not only the thing he sees but the spirit of his vision. Without apparent effort he takes you with him into a rare\, free\, natural world\, and always you are refreshed\, stimulated\, enlarged\, by going there.”  \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nAbout ten years ago a good friend of mine urged me to read Nicholas and Alexandra\, by Robert Massie. I was reluctant\, because\, as I told her\, “I don’t do history.” She said\, “Well\, do!” I said that because up until then the only history I’d read had been high school and college textbooks. I’d read\, study\, take a test and then forget everything (hopefully in that order). I read hundreds and hundreds of novels from junior high school on—Stendhal\, Balzac\, Dickens\, Dostoevsky\, etc.—so it wasn’t for a lack of love of reading\, just no desire or aptitude for history. \n  \nBut I read Nicholas and Alexandra and loved it! It’s the story of the last czarist Romanov dynasty and its fall. I’d never known much about Rasputin\, but he figures in powerfully\, with the strange spell he held over Alexandra and her hemophiliac son\, Alexi. It was probably more biography than accounting of events. It led me to Peter the Great and Catherine the Great\, both of which were also biographical\, with dominion\, control\, conquest\, acquisition and rule over dozens of countries in that region threaded into their stories. \n  \nSo perhaps it’s biography rather than history that has opened up a new world of reading for me.  \n  \nIn that vein\, I also read American Prometheus\, the biography of J. Robert Oppenheimer\, “father of the atomic bomb.” Strange reading material\, eh? But he was such a brilliant polymath and was forever conflicted about how his genius was put to use.  \n  \nRight now\, it’s The Orientalist\, by Tom Reiss\, the life of Lev Nussimbaum\, a Jew who transformed himself into a Muslim prince and became a best selling author in Nazi Germany. It looks at the early 20th century and the origins of our ideas of race and religious self-definition\, and the beginning of modern fanaticism and terrorism.  \n  \nSo now it’s geography in addition to biography and history\, and I’m sitting with the big World Atlas and a magnifying glass\, scrutinizing Baku\, the capital of Azerbaijan\, the Caspian Sea\, the Caucasus\, Georgia\, Turkey… \n  \nTo wrap this up\, explorations in readings of geography\, biography\, and history have expanded my vision\, experience\, and understanding of the world in these last ten years\, thanks to my friend\, Nikki! (But I still love novels.) \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nAlice Miller’s book For Your Own Good: Hidden Cruelty in Childhood and the Roots of Violence changed the way I look at individual acts of violence and collective acts of violence—war. The basic thesis is simple: abusing children—physically\, psychologically\, emotionally\, sexually—wounds them. She says that when we grow up\, we unconsciously and compulsively re-enact the violence that was done to us. Randy Newman’s song “I want you to hurt like I do” sums it up. The violence can also be directed against ourselves. There’s more to the story than the idea that we are\, by our nature\, violent apes. We certainly have the potential for violence\, and we also have the potential to be loving and kind. It depends which seeds we water.  \n  \nIt follows from this that to the extent that we can be loving and kind to our children—instead of mean and cruel—the world will be transformed in positive ways. Conscious awareness of what we suffered and how it has affected us can help us to not act out the same things that were done to us. Her book helped me to better understand how “hurt people hurt people.” Instead of judging people for the suffering they’ve caused\, I want to know about the pain they’ve suffered. \n  \nSusan Griffin’s book Woman and Nature brought home to me the relentless way in which men have defined\, dominated and oppressed women over the centuries. Her book is also a visionary call for women’s (and men’s) emancipation from this tyranny. \n  \nAntler’s poem “Factory” changed the way I see the world around me. Having read the poem many years ago\, it still manages to regularly remind me that the paint on the walls\, the windows in the walls\, the lightbulbs\, the refrigerator\, the glasses on my nose\, the computer that I’m typing on—almost everything that surrounds me—was made by men and women working in (ugly\, noisy) factories (which pollute the air\, the water and the soil). \n  \nWalt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself” inspires me to see beauty everywhere\, to love everyone\, to be astonished by the miraculousness of everything I touch\, taste\, see\, or imagine. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nFOR YOUR OWN GOOD \nThanks for the reminder\, Johnny\, \nYou introduced me to that book ages ago\, and I carried it around with me for a long time. \nIt says lots about childhood and being treated as a child by adults who are very busy in their own sphere. \nIt has left a lasting impression on me. \nI’ll see if I can come up with another that has been useful as a life reference. \n  \n—Todd Oleson \n* \n  \nIn the recent Open Road letter you asked about life-changing books—or at least life-influencing ones. Many of the titles you sent me fall in this group. However\, due to space limits\, I’ve sent the most helpful ones home and forgotten the titles. Some others include: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl\, Writing My Wrongs: Life\, Death\, and Redemption in an American Prison by Shaka Senghor\, The Master Plan: My Journey from Life in Prison to a Life of Purpose by Chris Wilson. I’m working through My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies by Resmaa Menakem—a bit “woke\,” but still has relevance. Homecoming: Reclaiming and Championing Your Inner Child by John Bradshaw. Mmm…I’ll have to come back to this. \n  \nThere’s a small-ish list of books I hope to read this next year—after ordering\, of course. Some may trigger comments and feedback for others I’ll need/want to read\, or even avoid: 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene\, How to Talk to Anyone by Leil Lowndes\, something by W.E.B. Du Bois [his two most well-known books are The Souls of Black Folk and Autobiography of W.E.B. Du Bois—ed.]\, Hillbilly Elegy by J. D. Vance\, Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates\, Ordinary Magic: Resilience in Development by Ann S. Masten\, Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving by Pete Walker\, Say What You Mean: A Mindful Approach to Nonviolent Communication by Oren Jay Sofer\, and Nonviolent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg. \n  \nOh\, The Body Keeps Score by Bessel van der Kolk\, on trauma—this was helpful. So many helpful books\, and all the best are at home. This is great for when I get out (15+ years)\, not great for now. Oh\, and I have crossed the halfway on April 9th: 50% done\, 15¾ years left. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nDear Reader \n  \nNext month (June 1st)\, our theme is Peace. \nSend me something. \n  \npeace & love \nJohnny \n  \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-5-4-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230423T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230423T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230413T150146Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230503T210126Z UID:3792-1682262000-1682269200@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Shakespeare Birthday Extravaganza!!! 4/23/23 DESCRIPTION:I know a bank where the wild thyme blows\,\nWhere oxlips and the nodding violet grows\,\nQuite over-canopied with luscious woodbine\,\nWith sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:\nThere sleeps Titania sometime of the night\,\nLull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;\nAnd there the snake throws her enamell’d skin\,\nWeed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: \n\n \n\nBeloved Bibliophiles!\n \nThis year is the 400th Anniversary of the “First Folio” of Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARES COMEDIES\, HISTORIES\, & TRAGEDIES. Shakespeare’s Birthday\, April 23rd\, falls on the day we do our next Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering–at 3 p.m. (PDT). To celebrate\, an all-star lineup of actors is going to read scenes and speeches from Shakespeare’s plays.\n\n\n \n\n\n\nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \n\n\n\n\n\nDON’T MISS THIS!!! \n\n\n \n\n\n\npeace\, love & poetry  \n\n\n \n\n\nJohnny\n\n  \n\nBottom.  There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe that will never please. First\, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself\, which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?\n \nSnout.  By’r lakin\, a parlous fear.\n \nStarveling.  I believe we must leave the killing out\, when all is done.\n \nBottom.  Not a whit. I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue\, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords\, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed. And for the more better assurance\, tell them that I\, Pyramus\, am not Pyramus\, but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear.\n\n\n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-shakespeare-birthday-extravaganza-4-23-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230415 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230515 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230416T194601Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T160933Z UID:3800-1681516800-1684108799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 4/15/23 DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nApril 15\, 2023 \n  \nDear Mindful Meditators \n  \nOur Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue began on September 15\, 2020. Recipients include people inside and outside prison walls. It is currently mailed to 10 men in prison and emailed to about 60 people who aren’t—including 9 men who were in prison in September of 2020 who are now out of prison! Hallelujah! \n  \nWe are going to have our first get-together on Saturday\, May 13th\, from 2 to 4 p.m.\, at Taborspace in Portland: 5441 SE Belmont. \n  \nThis will be an opportunity for people to get to know each other\, and to have a dialogue about our life journey—what it means\, what we love\, what we do to nurture peace\, happiness\, goodness and understanding in our own life and in the lives of others. \n  \nI hope you can come! Bring a friend\, if you like. \n  \nMy friend Rocky Hutchinson\, who is a member of our meditation & mindfulness community\, called me the other day\, and was excited to tell me about an author he had just discovered—Kahlil Gibran! Back in the day\, The Prophet was an essential book in every hippie’s library. Rocky’s enthusiasm inspired me to re-read it (after 50 years). This quote from The Prophet relates to our upcoming gathering: \n  \nYour friend is your needs answered. \nHe is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving…. \nAnd let your best be for your friend. \nIf he must know the ebb of your tide\, let him know its flood also. \nFor what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? \nSeek him always with hours to live. \nFor it is his to fill your need\, but not your emptiness. \nAnd in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughing\, and sharing of pleasures. \nFor in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. \n  \n—Kahlil Gibran \n  \npeace & love\, y’all \nJohnny \n* \n  \n            Dreaming in Detail \n  \nThe casting director for my dreaming \nI can understand—bringing in my parents \nfrom gone\, grown children as infants again\, \nand a parade of strangers\, each with a bit part \nfraught with obscure purpose. The location scout  \nfound familiar places\, made them mythic\, then \nadded an abundance of tunnels\, caves\, cities  \nin ruin\, and a foggy coast. My costume director \nsurrenders to seasonal change—blues in spring \nyielding to summer gray\, and autumn black. But  \nwhy is the director of photography so obsessed  \nwith effects of light both atmospheric and exact?  \nIn one scene we see fine hairs on my father’s arm  \nglitter in low sun\, then a heap of medieval coins\, \nthen that lost button shining on a stone. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nA Fish Describes Water \n  \nThere are prayers best said \nonly at night\, in depths\, water steps \nrubies in the mouth. \n  \nWind ripples across moon grass \nlonging to be released by washed \nstones. The rowboat \n  \nis empty. What remains \nis a song\, a solitary gold-winged \nwarbler\, the pattern of rain. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nWhat do you do to nurture  peace\, love and happiness in your life? \n  \nRecently I had a chance to sit in on a phone call with Johnny and Rocky Hutchinson. Rocky is one of our inmates in the dialogue group\, and he is one of the dearest human beings I’ve ever known. He has been in prison for a long time\, and has had quite a—well—rocky experience. \n  \nI asked him how he was doing\, and what he was doing\, and he told me he had just finished the Master Gardener program\, and he was also training dogs for use with people with disabilities. He loves it\, both the gardening and the dogs.  \n  \nI said\, “Rocky\, you couldn’t have picked two more valuable activities for the soul than gardens and dogs!” And I realized that that is just how I feel: Gardens and dogs fill my heart and soul like nothing else. \n  \nYou all might have heard that digging in dirt\, the smell of dirt\, of the soil\, stimulates endorphins in the brain\, the happiness endorphins. True!  Of course\, I don’t head to the garden thinking\, uh oh\, I think I need some of them endorphins about now! No\, it’s just an instinct\, a drive\, that takes me there. And planting carrots\, chard\, beans; digging watery moats around the tomato plants (the smell of those tomato leaves!); cutting bouquets of coral colored peonies and lavender irises (the smell of irises!); picking green beans with glints of sunlight beaming through the vines—all of this settles in me and brings focus\, joy\, and  quiet peace to my soul. Gardens\, yes!!! \n  \nAnd dogs! Lolo! My love! Some friends took care of Lolo while we were gone and when I asked how she’d been\, they said\, “She had us with one look into her soulful eyes.” So true. She looks into your heart and understands when you’re sad\, she rejoices when you’re happy\, and every emotion is acknowledged with a loving and energetic lick on the face. Ick! you might say. Not at all—it’s the lick of love. Don’t you remember that Dusty Springfield song\, “The Lick of Love..(is in your eyes…?”)  Oh wait—maybe it was “The Look of Love.” Whatever.  \n  \nAnyway\, she’s a soft and fuzzy and uncharacteristically sweet-smelling dog! What more can you ask for? \n  \nSO: gardens and dogs. Rocky\, you’re so right. But I must add that it’s you\, Rocky\, you and all the other men in our dialogue and theater group who bring peace\, love and sheer happiness into my life\, and I am forever grateful. \n  \nAddendum: But how could I have forgotten hiking??? Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams\, my two sentinels. How could I have omitted family\, and dear friends? Music!!!  Riding my bike! Art! Books and reading!!!  \n  \nWhat a topic! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nTo nurture peace\, love and happiness I simply do nothing.   \n  \nEach morning I take my coffee out on the porch and watch the daybreak.  I say my little peace prayer.  Then I do Nothing.  I don’t analyze or plan or meditate or cogitate.  I find myself surrounded by the sky.  Maybe the moon is out\, or the sun comes up.  It’s a moment of peace and harmony\, and I did nothing to get here.  I merely stopped distracting myself.   \n  \nI can’t spend the whole day sitting here.  There’s still clutter in my life or my mind or my house that needs some tending to.  But when the morning starts out this peacefully the rest of the day usually follows suit.  Our natural state is peace and love\, unless we sully it up.  How can this not nurture some happiness?   \n  \nThanks\, and love\,   \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \nIn the chalice of the heart\, \n Lies love’s sweet essence: \nBorn of the seed of truth; \n Watered by the tears of devotion; \nWarmed by the sun of faith\, \n Through the fruit of days\, \nOn the vine of humankind– \n  One and another\, \nAll One Together… \n  \n—sam muller 14 April ’23 \n* \n  \nMichel is currenlty using a book by Pema Chödrön as the inspiration for his meditation journal. (I’m not sure which one\, but it appears to be inspired by Chögyam Trungpa’s Training the Mind.) \n  \nMarch 9\, 2023  #14  Seeing Confusion as the Four Kayas is Unsurpassable Shunyata Protection \n  \nThrough meditation practice you begin to realize: \n\nThoughts just pop up out of nowhere—dharmakaya\nThoughts are never ceasing—sambhogakaya\nThey appear but are not solid—sambhogakaya\nAll together: no birth\, no cessation\, no dwelling—svabhavikakaya\n\nThis understanding gives unsurpassable protection of \nrealizing called shunyata—“complete openness.” \nNothing solid to react to. \nYou’ve made much ado about nothing! \n  \nI can relate to this one. The fancy names mean little\, but the effort of meditation practice for complete openness is valuable—learning to not react to mental formations. Thoughts of mind are like mists or fog; the warm light of reality will dissipate all obstacles to reveal reality as it is. I’ve driven in misty\, snowy\, fog late at night and my vision played tricks on me\, so I had to drive extra cautiously. During a clear day\, the same road was easy to see and navigate. Mind plays the same tricks on me with reality; I need to slow down and pay careful attention—nothing changed except perception. Or did it? Surprises appear faster through foggy delusions. I can’t see them coming. Definitely: foggy\, misty\, delusions require proceeding cautiously until clearer. \n  \nMarch 13\, 2023  #17  Practice the Four Strengths\, the Condensed Heart Instrucions \n  \n\nStrong determination to train in opening heart and mind\nFamiliarization with practices helping you do this\nPositive seed within\, experienced as yearning to practice and wake up\nReproach\, tricky for Western students\, realizing ego-clinging causes suffering\, delight in self-reflection\, honesty\, seeing where you get stuck\nAspiration to help alleviate suffering in this world\, expressing that intention to yourself\n\n  \nI value each of these principles and judge they can be of benefit to any religious practice. I find\, and imagine it is similar for many\, that working with ego issues can be the most challenging of all\, since our culture is all about cultivating a powerful ego. My experience reveals Western egoism is the central source of all our sufferings. It’s from here that we develop attractions (grasping) and aversions (pushing away)\, and this ego makes us blind to our faults and challenges which\, once corrected\, would release—at least diminish—suffering. Yet\, we focus on and build up ego\, wondering at our suffering. The “escape” is to practice breathing. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-4-15-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/IMG_7408-scaled.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230409T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230409T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230330T231512Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230413T150430Z UID:3761-1681052400-1681059600@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! 4/9/23 DESCRIPTION:Beloved Bibliophiles! \n\n\n  \nFor Sunday\, April 9th\, at 3 p.m. (PDT) our theme is: \n  \n“sweet spring is your \ntime is my time is our \ntime for springtime is lovetime \nand viva sweet love” \n\n\n\n\n  \nBring poems to read or recite about Spring! \n  \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace & love  \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-4-9-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/0-3.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230406 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230504 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230406T203104Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230406T203535Z UID:3778-1680739200-1683158399@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 4/6/23 DESCRIPTION:The Rink \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n \n  \nApril 6\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to write something about their favorite films… \nWhen we read a great book\, we want all our friends to read it. When we watch a great movie\, we want all our friends to see it.  \nFor the next issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\, which comes out on April 6th\, write something about movies\, films\, or tv shows that you love. \n* \n  \nPrabu’s film “In the Beginning” reminded me of the old\, scratchy\, haunting film “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge\,” based on a civil war story by Ambrose Bierce. Much darker than what Prabu offered us\, but a similar visual narrative of a man trying to negotiate a mysterious world. \nhttps://vimeo.com/15147706 \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nAt the top of my list is “Ted Lasso.” The improbable premise of this tv show is that the central character is nice. He’s generous to everyone. He has a corny sense of humor. He’s a good man. Whoever thought you could make stories about someone like that? The film that first came to mind is “Wings of Desire” by Wim Wenders. It’s about angels\, who are invisible to most people\, who help us to reduce stress and think positive thoughts by their presence. They are immortal\, but they are missing out on many human pleasures\, like the smell of coffee. Nancy and I love the films of Wes Anderson. Our favorite is “Moonrise Kingdom.” Of Coen brothers’ films\, it’s a toss-up for me between “The Big Lebowski” and “Hail\, Caesar!” I love the Australian film “Bliss” (1985)\, based on the novel by Peter Carey. Another classic is Terry Gilliam’s hilarious dystopian vision “Brazil” (also 1985!). I love the early silent films of Georges Méliès. “The Kingdom of the Fairies” (1903) is especially good. For physical comedy\, Charlie Chaplin’s “The Rink” remains unsurpassed. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nA favorite film of mine is\, ‘The count of Monte Cristo’. \nIt embodies the tireless effort for justice\, and a will to not give in to the deeds of those that seek ones demise. \nThe character\, Edmond Dontez (later\, the Count) is someone I could relate to while in captivity (prison). He spent 16 years seeking a way out\, to avenge the wrongdoings of his peers.  \nHe eventually did\, and along the way\, learned many other lessons about life and forgiveness. \nEssentially for me\, the story/film is an inspiration to never give up or give in. And to never forget where I came from\, for it is fuel for my fire.  \n  \n—Brandon Gillespie \n\n\n\n  \nThanks for the invitation Johnny.  A few ideas:   \n     \nAs for happiness\, along with some heartbreak and comic flair\, it’s hard to beat the book This Is Happiness by the Irish writer Niall Williams.  I felt like I was living in a village in county Kerry the whole time I was reading the book. In the end I felt like I had made new friends\, been wrapped in a prayer blanket\, fed a good meal and sent home along a winding green path with a fiddle tune and a song. It made me hopeful\, appreciative and aware of the happiness lurking in my own backyard.  Superb writing!  \n     \nAs for film\, “The Mission” (Robert Dinero) comes to mind not because of peace or happiness but because of understanding and the meaning of redemption and forgiveness.  The music is sublime and the scenery stunningly beautiful.  A sad reminder as well of what  artistic and cultural creations might have been had peace\, love\, understanding and imagination prevailed over avarice and greed.   \n      \nOpening day of baseball season always makes me happy.  Here’s a poem I wrote about it.  Love and Play Ball!!! Will   \n  \nWhy Baseball Matters \n  \nBecause in a world obsessed with time\, baseball is a past-time. \nBecause any game could theoretically last into eternity. \nBecause baseball is played on a diamond.  \nBecause in a world obsessed by success even the best hitters fail two-thirds of the time. \nBecause\, as George Carlin reminded us\, football is about “ground and aerial attacks”\, and “marching down the field” while baseball is about “staying safe and coming home.” \nBecause what other game has characters named “Goose\, the Big Hurt\, the Left Hand of God\, the Splendid Splinter\, The Say Hey Kid\, the Sultan of Swat\, Catfish\, Hammerin’ Hank\, Cool Papa\, the Bird\, Big Papi\, The Man of Steal\, Satchel\, the Big Unit and the Iron Horse?” \nBecause the crowd takes a stretch and sings together at the ballpark. \nBecause despite all efforts to improve the game\, baseball remains blessedly slow\, wonderfully conversational\, deceptively complex and enjoyably simple. \nBecause outside of going to the park\, baseball is best experienced on a radio broadcast where gifted storytellers usher us daily into a theatre of imagination.  \nBecause pitchers deliberately baffle\, confuse and confound with “curves\, sliders\, splitters\, sinkers\, screwballs\, knuckleballs\, fastballs and change-ups.”   \nBecause almost every day from April through October millions of boys and girls\, women and men play a game made in America before the Civil War and now beloved from Japan and Korea to Cuba\, Australia\, Venezuela and beyond. \nBecause as Leo Durocher said: “Baseball is like church. Many attend\, few understand.”  Yet\, I would add: all can be uplifted and enjoy. \nBecause as a Boston fan once said: “Baseball is not about life and death. But\, the Red Sox are!”  \nBecause these days it just feels good to shout: “Play ball!”  \n      \n—Will Hornyak  \n* \n  \nFor me\, THE RULES OF THE GAME\, by Jean Renoir\, is a great humanist document that happens to be a movie rather than a novel or play….It is a luminous farce that depicts a weekend at a country estate. The classes\, represented on the one hand by the owner and his guests\, and on the other by members of the staff\, especially a maid and a gamekeeper\, are assiduously separated: one serves\, the other receives. But at the same time\, they all meet and merge as equals in games of love and deception. Renoir misses nothing\, and forgives everything. \nA more recent movie that moves me is THE RIDER\, by Chloe Zhao\, an almost-documentary that tells the story of some Pine Ridge “Indian cowboys”\, who make brief and destructive livings as rodeo riders. The characters play themselves. I’ve watched this three times\, and will watch it a fourth. \nOh\, and also about RULES OF THE GAME; it’s funny as hell. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \nWhat is it about peace that its story is not enduring? \n  \nWings of Desire\, a 1987 film directed by Wim Wenders \n  \nThe aerial shots of Berlin so long before drones. The use of space both physically and visually. The plants in the library. The stand-up desks in the library. The angels in the library. The soft leather seats in the sports car in the showroom where the angels meet to compare notes. The desire for that car from the people looking in. The miracle of being able to watch this movie again in the kitchen 36 years later. The world of humans is in color. A friend and student expressing aversion to angels when I read a poem to a recent class that had a passing reference to them. The discussion that followed over days and walks about this dislike of angels she didn’t even know she had. The drawing on the wall at the circus behind the elephant. The robe on backwards to protect Marion’s chicken feather wings. Nick Cave on the portable phonograph. Looking for the right hat. The trapeze artist in a tuxedo cat suit with a long white tail. But the story of the grass\, the sun\, the leaping\, and the shouting that is still going on as well. Sometimes beauty is the only thing that matters. Chest armor falling from the sky. The revelation and joy in color in a gray gray city. The mural of a ruined building on an intact one. The pile of sawdust the circus left behind. No one saw the carney go. The shared wine glass filled almost to the brim.    \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nThis is a fun idea\, Johnny.   \nI particularly like movies based on books. Even if I loved the book\, I like watching how it was made into film. From the many Jane Austen’s to “Bridget Jone’s Diary\,” in which Salmon Rushdie plays himself in a tiny part. The renditions of “A Room with a View” to  “Little Dorrit.”  \nMy favorite film\, that stands up over 50 years\, is “Heaven Knows\, Mr. Allison\,” directed by John Huston. Robert Mitchum and Deborah Kerr\, a marine and a nun\, are stranded on a Japanese-invaded island during WWII. \nBill likes old and new foreign films—Iranian\, Japanese\, French\, Irish\, Indian\, the farther flung the better. Our favorite series ever is “Heimat”–that begins at the end of WWI with a family living above their cow in a small village\, up through that family’s  youngest living amongst his creative fellow artists in the city in the 50’s. Rotten tomato reviewer writes about it: “Edgar Reitz’s Heimat is not just a brilliant film about Germany. It is a brilliant film about our time\, anywhere—perhaps about any time anywhere. \nI’m excited to see everyone’s reviews! \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nI want movies to move me.  \nTwo films\, totally opposite from one another on the surface\, would be my faves of all time. The Crying Game and The Lives of Others are both about love\, courage and compassion. \nMy short take on The Crying Game is that Love Conquers all; love remains love\, in spite of its being turned on its head in a very unexpected way.  \nThe Lives of Others\, a German film\, takes place in 1984\, 5 years before the fall of the Berlin Wall. The Stasi\, the German version of the Nazi SS\, is in operation\, and Captain Gerd Wiesler is assigned the job of spying on a couple suspected of national dissident activity. The Captain is dry\, hardened\, methodical and dispassionate in his work (as he has been his whole life). However\, as time goes on\, he begins to care for his subjects (to his own puzzlement and fear). \nUltimately\, love and compassion conquer\, and he does the right thing\, makes the difficult\, moral choice\, to his own great peril. I love this.  \nOthers have different viewpoints of both these movies; this is what makes them both compelling\, and grand. \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nA Smile in Abjection \nnotes on the opening credits of Withnail and I \n  \nMy favorite frame in cinema is this one: Paul McGann as Marwood\, the “I” in Withnail and I\, just one minute into the film. We have drawn closer and closer to him as he smokes a cigarette that clearly brings no pleasure\, his eyes shifting and shifting and finding no solace. And as the saxophone of King Curtis carries us gently through a live cut of “A Whiter Shade of Pale\,” Marwood appears to reach some far limit within himself\, and his torment suddenly eases\, or it pauses to breathe\, or Marwood simply parts it like a blackout curtain. He lifts his eyes\, and we perceive a smile that is almost not even there. Perhaps we have just imagined it. Perhaps Marwood himself has imagined it. \n  \n \n  \nCan you see it? I can. It is the mark of a wild\, mad hope. I am certain it is there\, the smile\, because I have been there\, and I have smiled it. It is an abject smile\, a desolate smile\, a smile with sweat on its forehead. Undramatically\, I tell you that it is no less than the smile you face death with. I have been hunted by forces within me and without\, cornered and shivering in a sweater\, smoking far beyond any desire to continue smoking. And yet I would also\, in those midnights\, hallucinate some star\, some aberration of logic in which I could discern a reason to hope. Marwood is looking upon that star\, smiling upon it\, and I\, too\, have seen it. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nAndrei Rublev: \nAndrei Rublev is a biographical film about a medieval Russian iconic painter.  In the movie you can hardly see Rublev touching the brush. It is a movie about the formation of Rublev as an artist\, especially an artist living under an oppressive regime. It effectively shows that an artist is society’s conscience.  \n  \nTree of Life: \nTerrance Malicks poetic masterpiece that attempts to capture all of existence through the lens of a boy growing up in the American midlands.  As per the great film critic Roger Ebert “the only other film with this boldness of vision is Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey\, and it lacked Malick’s fierce evocation of human feeling.” \n  \n—Prabu Muruganantham \n* \n  \nDear Reader \nFor next month (May 4th)\, send me something about books that changed the way you see\, experience\, or understand the world. \n  \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n—Johnny \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/MV5BNTFkYWRmZjYtN2I3ZS00YTdiLTg5NGYtOTViZWE5MjFjNjJhXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTI3MDk3MzQ@-1._V1_.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230326T140000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230326T160000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230323T161446Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230323T161910Z UID:3746-1679839200-1679846400@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:World Premiere of "In the Beginning": a film by Prabu Muruganantham DESCRIPTION: \n\n“In the Beginning” is a 24 minute narrative short fiction that tells the story of a young man of color–newly released from prison–who returns to society with the hope of beginning a new life. He discovers on his solitary journey that the world sees him only as his crime.\n\n \n\nPremiere Details:\n\n\nWhen: March 26\, 2023 at 2PM\nWhere: The Hollywood Theatre\nTickets and Trailer: Click here\n\n\n\n\n\n \nThe topic of the film is close to our hearts—some of the actors in this film have experienced incarceration in Oregon prisons themselves. The film screening will be followed by an artist-audience panel Q&A on the film and the challenges of post-prison life.\n\n\n\n\n \n\n\nProceeds will go to Open Hearts Open Minds\, an Oregon-based non-profit organization that supports individuals serving prison sentences through arts and dialogue.\n\n\n\n \n\nLooking forward to seeing you at the screening!\n\n\n \n\n~Prabu  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/world-premiere-of-in-the-beginning-a-film-by-prabu-muruganantham/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230315 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230416 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230314T174157Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230314T174413Z UID:3727-1678838400-1681603199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 3/15/23 DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nMarch 15\, 2023 \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods. \n  \n—from Ulysses by James Joyce\, p. 340 \n* \n  \nAll truths wait in all things. \n  \n—from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman \n* \n  \n#344  To Cherish Your Beloved  \n                                                  \n“When we know that the person we love is impermanent\, we will cherish our beloved all the more. Impermanence teaches us to respect and value every moment and all the precious things around us. When we practice mindfulness of impermanence\, we become fresher and more loving.” \n–from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nIt can be mighty hard to be constantly aware of our beloved’s impermanence—or of our own impermanence\, and to be endlessly fresher and more loving. That can be exhausting\, to be honest. \n  \nAnother way to be reminded of cherishing your loved one is to have someone close to you die swiftly and unexpectedly. This is happening right now\, in this moment. Kim is my dear friend\, and her husband\, who is/was my dear friend\, too\, just died two days ago. He collapsed at home while Kim and I were walking on the waterfront and having coffee in Hood River\, as we do once a week or more. She returned home\, intending to run errands with John and found him on the floor\, unresponsive\, unconscious. 911\, Skyline Hospital\, Emanuel Hospital in Portland\, where doctors found a blood clot which had traveled to his brain from the left ventricle\, causing multiple\, massive strokes. And John is gone. How does one express shock and disbelief and utter grief…  So here it is: Impermanence at work. \n  \nMy heart and soul are with her right now. I love her and want to hold her close. But the one I also really want to hold close is my husband. I am instantly drawn to cherish him and all we have together\, all we have had for 39 years together. He is in Arizona right now\, and I will fly down next week. I call him and tell him I love him dearly\, and thank him for the life we have together. I tell him I miss him and can’t wait to hold him and be held.  \n  \nI am aware that this is how I always want to be with him\, this expressive and caring and loving\, and maybe\, just maybe\, I will be able to cherish my beloved due to the impermanence (and sacrifice) of another.  \n  \n—Jude Russell  \n* \n  \nSmall Offering \n  \nThis evening I would be the emperor of delay \nif I could order the small bird with bluish \nplumage to drop his fish and look up \nto see violet angels weave a tapestry \nof dreams with the four evening elements. \n  \nHere at Sunset Point\, the overlook \nis high enough that mist hovers \nin patches. Sunlight sweeps from above \nhighlighting the solid wall of mountains. \nThe bird dives again\, silver flash in his beak. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nDHARMA \n  \nSix months after I turned seventy I moved into an ashram where I would reside for the next 9 1⁄2 years (2012-2021) of my life. I’d been assisting in the care of my mother for two years\, and when she passed on\, one week after her 96th birthday\, I was in a state of ambivalence as to why I had no feeling of grief\, or even the slightest indication of sadness. How could this be? I was her only son\, and had dutifully been there for Her in these past years– cooking for her\, reading to her\, rubbing her swollen legs\, heavy with edema; escorting her on shopping trips and pleasant drives through the golden wheat fields of her childhood in North Central Oregon. Was I experiencing a kind of release from a period of time that had kept me so preoccupied that my own needs for self-examination and intellectual stimulation were suffocating? \n  \nI had spent two years in England (1983-85) studying the metaphysical philosophy of Rudolf Steiner\, but had not yet arrived at that internal place of a disciplined practice in study and meditation—of simplifying the material circumstances of my daily life; of coming to grasp the ego-transcendent state of the Eternal Self. And so when I was offered a room in the Portland ashram of the Sarada Ramakrishna Vivekananda order at the behest of the guru\, Robert Kindler\, I decided that a quiet and spiritually dedicated environment might inspire and deepen self-reflection. I might add that I had had the benefit of seven years of coming to know and respect the depth of the guru’s knowledge of the sacred texts of ancient India—the Upanishads\, Bhagavad Gita\, and the Puranas\, as well as the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna (most recent avatar of West Bengal (b. 1836-’86)—through frequent classes and retreats. And I was further inspired by his remarkable facility in speaking the ancient Sanskrit slokas (passages from scripture)\, as well as his gift of musicianship\, having been a professional orchestral cellist with abilities to compose and perform hymns of praise offered to the deities of the Hindu spiritual tradition. \n  \nI took a small 12’ x 12’ room\, and began an exploration of ashram regimen—sharing a simple and contemplative daily schedule of 6am/10pm meditation\, vegetarian diet\, weekly classes of scriptural study\, and shared maintenance and cooking chores amongst the four of us—two men and two women—co-habitants upon the dharmic path. The intent was to “still” the restless mind to enable a depth of self-perception whereby the ephemerality/impermanence of day-to-day “reality” (regarded as Maya—the veil covering the eternal truths of aparanama (free of change) and ajativada (birthless/deathless))\, could be grasped\, and the elevated state of consciousness attained by the sages\, seers\, siddhis\, yogis and saviors could be glimpsed. \n  \nMy 9 1⁄2 years\, grounded in a consistent daily meditation practice\, and an inquisitive research into the philosophical richness of the sacred texts of India\, as well as the offering of my service/work in maintaining the grounds and shrines\, and serving as “the Abbot of the Ashram\, has deepened my self- perception and brought me to a place of self-trust and contentment at a depth that I have never before experienced. And I am inspired to proffer this brief koan-like offering from my experiential Realizations (aparokshanubhuti) \n  \nTHE YOGI SITS IN THE CAVE OF THE HEART\, \nONE EYE OPEN                                                                           \n  \n—Sam A. Muller \n* \n  \nGod Praying \n  \nSometimes we are discouraged from praying\, \nwe lose faith in the possibility of prayer\, \neverything seems blocked. \nWe have no trust in words\, \nin ourselves\, \nwe feel exiled\, distant. \nThere is no one to awaken compassion for us. \nFrom within our despair \nwe can reveal a new opening\, \na surprising one\, \nand ask God to pray for us\, \nto give words to our inner scream\, \nto have compassion on us in our exile. \n  \n—Rabbi Singer \n  \nThis idea melts my mind. I thought it was to God I’ve been praying\, and now Rabbi Singer (and others) suggest I now ask God to pray for me—to whom\, though? To ask the Self-Existent One to peer into my deepest recesses\, where I’m oft too scared to look\, and express\, for me\, my deepest heart’s desires. It seems both ludicrous and sensible all at the same time. Can I just sit here with my self—all inclusive—and allow those hidden away hopes\, dreams\, feelings\, memories\, etc.\, to just percolate up for Divine consideration or attention. Truth is\, God should already “know” these things—all knowing and all—which means I need only sit with and accept these pesky demons (self-made?) as part of my experience. \n  \n—Michel Deforge\, February 4\, 2023 \n* \n  \nAlex Tretbar sent this poem by Jessica Jacobs: \n  \nGodwrestling \n  \nThe river has tasted the salt of your skin\, has lapped\nat your calves with its current. The river has swallowed \n  \nthe press of your steps. There is no record of your crossing.\nThe river is between you and everything you call your life. \n  \nSo you step into a stranger’s arms. Your shoulder fits\ntheirs like a bone in its socket. Your jaw notches theirs. \n  \nAll around you\, a profusion of oleanders beams\nback the moonlight\, offering a carpet of fallen petals. \n  \nIn your arms\, all the promises you’ve yet to keep\, all\nyou’ve done that shames you. But what is wrestling \n  \nif not an embrace? It’s too dark to know\nyou have the same face and only like this\, cheek to cheek\, \n  \neach looking over the other’s shoulder\, can you see\nthe world whole. Close\, at first\, as a slow dance\, \n  \nyou spin and spin\, your tracks a tight coin; matched\,\nyou step out\, making a spear tip of your bodies; matched\, \n  \nyou step further\, levered like rafters\, needing the other\nto stay aloft—your tracks trace widening circles\, ringing \n  \nout through the fallen blossoms. Names are required\nonly when not alone. This stranger \n  \ndoes not give you a new name\, just dippers up\nthe true one you tender in your chest. The day is breaking \n  \nthe night’s hold. The far bank is calling.\nOn one side\, you. On the other\, your life. Join them.  \n  \n—Jessica Jacobs \n* \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods. \n  \n–from Ulysses by James Joyce\, p. 340 \n  \nHere’s what Joseph Campbell has to say about this passage from Ulysses: \n  \n“I mentioned this basic theme before with respect to the esthetic experience: Any object can open back to the mystery of the universe. You can take any object whatsoever—a stick or stone\, a dog or a child—draw a ring around it so that it is seen as separate from everything else\, and thus contemplate it in its mystery aspect—the aspect of the mystery of its being\, which is the mystery of all being—and it will have there and then become a proper object of worshipful regard. So\, any object can become an adequate base for meditation\, since the whole mystery of man and of nature and of everything else is in any object that you want to regard. This idea\, the anagogical inspiration of Joyce’s art\, is what we are getting in this little moment.” \n  \n—from Mythic Worlds\, Modern Words: On the Art of James Joyce by Joseph Campbell\, p. 130 \n  \nHere’s one of my small poems that seems à propos: \n  \na bowl of oatmeal \nand a cup of coffee \ndid you think heaven was up in the sky somewhere? \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMore of my thoughts on LovingKindness meditation: \n  \nBefore beginning Loving Kindness meditation practice each Monday\, I center myself remembering my friend and teacher Bob Schaibly. His teaching mantra was\, “What the World Needs from Us is our Non-Anxious Presence.” Reciting and listening to the Loving Kindness phrases these past couple of years\, I have come to understand that this is what we are training ourselves to do. To find equanimity and to be able in the midst of changes—good or bad—to  find stability in equanimity. This doesn’t mean being passive or uncaring\, but to have courage\, to not let our emotions make us frantic\, to not react immediately with judgement. In this way we can stay present to whatever might arise. We can observe and check our fears and anger and deep sadness without causing harm to ourselves and others\, without blocking our feelings.  \n  \nCompassion in Sanskrit means being present—with yourself or with another. I have two stories that came to my mind about acts of kindness on a small scale that are examples of compassion in action. When I had a bookstore in downtown Portland\, one day two people I hardly knew\, came in and presented me with a rose. Just to say thank you for having the bookstore where they always felt happy to browse and meet up. I was stunned. They said they liked to go places that make them feel happy and take a flower or two. I also heard a story last week about a woman who wished she could do something for her sick uncle who lived far away. She sent him a bouquet of flowers. He called her and said that in his long life\, no one had ever sent him flowers and he was so thankful. \n  \n Thich Nhat Hanh says it takes mindfulness training with loving kindness to bring compassion. He writes: \n  \n“Loving kindness should be practiced every day. Suppose you have a transistor radio. To tune into the radio station you like\, you need a battery. In order to get linked to the power of loving kindness of bodhisattvas\, buddhas\, and other great beings\, you need to tune in to the “station” of loving kindness that is being sent from the ten directions. Then you only need to sit on the grass and practice breathing and enjoying.  \n  \nBut many of us are not capable of doing that because the feeling of loneliness\, of being cut off from the world\, is so severe we cannot reach out. We do not realize that if we are moved by the imminent death of an insect\, if we see an insect suffering and we do something to help\, already this energy of loving kindness is in us. If we take a small stick and help the insect out of the water\, we can also reach out to the cosmos. The energy of loving kindness in us becomes real\, and we derive a lot of joy from it.  \n  \nThe Fourth Precept of the Order of Interbeing tells us to be aware of suffering in the world\, not to close our eyes before suffering. Touching those who suffer is one way to generate the energy of compassion in us\, and compassion will bring joy and peace to ourselves and others. The more we generate the energy of loving kindness in ourselves\, the more we are able to receive the joy\, peace\, and love of the buddhas and bodhisattvas throughout the cosmos.”  \n  \nLast Sunday\, I heard a story about an acrobat flying from one trapeze bar to the next. It was a story about letting go of how things have been in the past in order to break free and into some new engagement. Even though we might not know what that will be. In Buddhism\, the term for this refreshing process is “renunciation.” Rather than giving up things it is about what we practice in LovingKindness: becoming aware of where we might feel an aversion—a fear\, a grudge\, anxiety\, resentment—by recognizing it\, then softening our hearts\, we can let these negative emotions have less power over us. Through that we find more equanimity and ability to act with compassion\, with ourselves and for others. With that  foremost in our minds\, we can become unstuck and as Bob encouraged us\, to participate fully in the midst of life’s difficulties with a non-anxious presence.    \n  \nin love and peace\,    \n  \n—Katie Radditz URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-3-15-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/335096478_196480466405244_3036572348289864593_n.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230312T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230312T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230304T200304Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230330T231606Z UID:3708-1678633200-1678640400@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Memorize a Poem! DESCRIPTION:Beloved Bibliophiles! \n\n\nFor Sunday\, March 12th\, at 3 p.m. (PST): MEMORIZE A POEM! Do you know any poems by heart? Did you used to know some poems that have gotten rusty? Is there a poem that you would like to learn and be able to recite? This is your chance! \nBring a poem or poems that you would like to share. (Extra points if you know the poem by heart.) \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace & love  \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/3708/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/pupils-reciting-poetry-in-a-one-room-school-1800s-hand-colored-woodcut-ADWBP2.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230302 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230406 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230304T173740Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230304T175357Z UID:3679-1677715200-1680739199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 3/2/23 DESCRIPTION:photograph by Kim Stafford \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nMarch 2\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to… \n…please send me one of your favorite poems and say a little bit about why you like it. Here’s what people sent: \n  \nVernal Sentiment \n  \nThough the crocuses poke up their heads in the usual places\,\nThe frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green\,\nAnd boys moon at girls with last year’s fatuous faces\,\nI never am bored\, however familiar the scene. \n  \nWhen from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter\,—\nTwo yellow and black\, and one that looks in between\,—\nThough it all happened before\, I cannot grow bitter:\nI rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nI think why I am so fond of this poem and tend to read it every spring\, often many times\, is that it captures perfectly my delight and joy as the subtle and sometimes not so subtle signs of spring emerge. And yes\, “I (truly) rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been.” This short poem seems almost perfect to me and brings me joy just as witnessing the first signs of the pussy willows\, the first call of the returning robins\, the glorious scent of daphne wafting over the damp air\, enlivens me and gets my pulse slightly elevated. Roethke masterfully captures the delight that is so available in the ordinary!!. I believe that we all need to pay more attention to these ordinary miracles that reveal themselves if we pay attention. \n  \nCheers my friend! \n  \n—Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nAfter an Illness\, Walking the Dog \n  \nWet things smell stronger\,\nand I suppose his main regret is that\nhe can sniff just one at a time.\nIn a frenzy of delight\nhe runs way up the sandy road—\nscored by freshets after five days\nof rain. Every pebble gleams\, every leaf. \n  \nWhen I whistle he halts abruptly\nand steps in a circle\,\nswings his extravagant tail.\nThe he rolls and rubs his muzzle\nin a particular place\, while the drizzle\nfalls without cease\, and Queen Anne’s lace \nand Goldenrod bend low. \n  \nThe top of the logging road stands open\nand light. Another day\, before\nhunting starts\, we’ll see how far it goes\,\nleaving word first at home.\nThe footing is ambiguous. \n  \nSoaked and muddy\, the dog drops\,\npanting\, and looks up with what amounts\nto a grin. It’s so good to be uphill with him\,\nnicely winded\, and looking down on the pond. \n  \nA sound commences in my left ear\nlike the sound of the sea in a shell;\na downward\, vertiginous drag comes with it.\nTime to head home. I wait\nuntil we’re nearly out to the main road\nto put him back on the leash\, and he\n—the designated optimist— \n  \nimagines to the end that he is free. \n  \n—Jane Kenyon \n  \nI like the designated optimist and think of him or her often. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nMy favorite poems….of the moment! \nAnd I’m cheating a bit as I am sending in two short ones\, from two extremely different writers and I list the books they are from as the books are quite spectacular. \n  \nFirst: \nUntitled. From Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings by Joy Harjo. Really the entire book is an intact work but here is a current favorite small poem. Harjo is Creek/Muskogee\, writes intimately from within a native community\, is a former US Poet Laureate and a jazz saxophonist. \n  \nI thought of all the doors that had opened and closed. \nI thought of how so many I loved were no longer on \nThis earth. I thought of all my mother’s songs looking \nFor a place to live. I thought of all the Saturdays in the  \nWorld. I started with G and rounded the bend at B-flat. \nI followed my soul. \n  \n—Joy Harjo \n  \nSecond: \n“A Meadow” from Facing the River by Czeslaw Milosz. Again the book is really a unit\, written after returning to his native village after being in exile for fifty years. He grew up in then-Lithuania\, now Poland\, survived the Nazi invasion\, the Soviet invasion and then Occupation. He first served with the Communist government but soon left. He won the Nobel prize for Literature. \n  \nIt was a riverside meadow\, lush\, from before the hay harvest\, \nOn an immaculate day in the sun of June. \nI searched for it\, found it\, recognized it. \nGrasses and flowers grew there familiar in my childhood. \nWith half-closed eyelids I absorbed luminescence. \nAnd the scent garnered me\, all knowing ceased. \nSuddenly I felt I was disappearing and weeping with joy.  \n  \n—Czeslaw Milosz \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nThe Waking \n  \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI feel my fate in what I cannot fear. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nWe think by feeling. What is there to know? \nI hear my being dance from ear to ear. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \n  \nOf those so close beside me\, which are you? \nGod bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there\, \nAnd learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nLight takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? \nThe lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow.  \n  \nThis shaking keeps me steady. I should know.  \nWhat falls away is always. And is near. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nHands down my favorite poem. Every morning when I wake up\, I try to not be in a rush\, or have a plan\, but let life take me slowly into the day\, and learn from where it takes me. \n  \n—Dave Duncan \n* \n  \nHere’s my submission to your beautiful request\, and I will say it might not be my “favorite” poem but it is an artifact in my younger life when I somehow imparted the power of poetry to my two now grown daughters. \n  \nEaster\, 1916 \n  \nI have met them at close of day    \nComing with vivid faces \nFrom counter or desk among grey    \nEighteenth-century houses. \nI have passed with a nod of the head    \nOr polite meaningless words\,    \nOr have lingered awhile and said    \nPolite meaningless words\, \nAnd thought before I had done    \nOf a mocking tale or a gibe    \nTo please a companion \nAround the fire at the club\,    \nBeing certain that they and I    \nBut lived where motley is worn:    \nAll changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nThat woman’s days were spent    \nIn ignorant good-will\, \nHer nights in argument \nUntil her voice grew shrill. \nWhat voice more sweet than hers    \nWhen\, young and beautiful\,    \nShe rode to harriers? \nThis man had kept a school    \nAnd rode our wingèd horse;    \nThis other his helper and friend    \nWas coming into his force; \nHe might have won fame in the end\,    \nSo sensitive his nature seemed\,    \nSo daring and sweet his thought. \nThis other man I had dreamed \nA drunken\, vainglorious lout. \nHe had done most bitter wrong \nTo some who are near my heart\,    \nYet I number him in the song; \nHe\, too\, has resigned his part \nIn the casual comedy; \nHe\, too\, has been changed in his turn\,    \nTransformed utterly: \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nHearts with one purpose alone    \nThrough summer and winter seem    \nEnchanted to a stone \nTo trouble the living stream. \nThe horse that comes from the road\,    \nThe rider\, the birds that range    \nFrom cloud to tumbling cloud\,    \nMinute by minute they change;    \nA shadow of cloud on the stream    \nChanges minute by minute;    \nA horse-hoof slides on the brim\,    \nAnd a horse plashes within it;    \nThe long-legged moor-hens dive\,    \nAnd hens to moor-cocks call;    \nMinute by minute they live:    \nThe stone’s in the midst of all. \n  \nToo long a sacrifice \nCan make a stone of the heart.    \nO when may it suffice? \nThat is Heaven’s part\, our part    \nTo murmur name upon name\,    \nAs a mother names her child    \nWhen sleep at last has come    \nOn limbs that had run wild.    \nWhat is it but nightfall? \nNo\, no\, not night but death;    \nWas it needless death after all? \nFor England may keep faith    \nFor all that is done and said.    \nWe know their dream; enough \nTo know they dreamed and are dead;    \nAnd what if excess of love    \nBewildered them till they died?    \nI write it out in a verse— \nMacDonagh and MacBride    \nAnd Connolly and Pearse \nNow and in time to be\, \nWherever green is worn\, \nAre changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats \n  \n—Mark Danley \n* \n  \nMy favorite poem has often been one by T’ao Ch’ien (365-427 A.D. )\, translated by David Hinton. Here is this one: \n  \nTogether\, We all go out Under the Cypress Trees in the Chou Family Burial-Grounds \n  \nToday’s skies are perfect for a clear  \nflute and singing koto. And touched  \nthis deeply by those laid under these \ncypress trees\, how could we neglect joy? \nClear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine \nstarts pious faces smiling. No knowing \nwhat tomorrow brings\, it’s exquisite  \nexhausting whatever i feel here and now. \n  \n—T’ao Ch’ien \n  \nI feel T’ao Ch’ien as present as my Great Aunt Emma\, who knew much deprivation but was so joyful that we would arrive for a visit to the Farm. We would sit out in the grass looking for four leaf clovers for hours\, and she would bake us blackberry pies. \n  \nI like to write back to T’ao Ch’ien—over many years now. He has inspired me to stop\, be in the wild\, appreciate the moment as beauty at the same time\, feeling all that’s been lost and is gone. And he led me to the Buddhist sutras!!  \n  \nI also love to find another poet respond to him\, like Billy Collins does\, below. Though it may not be for T’ao Ch’ien himself\,  it’s across time and distance\, enchanted still in the twentieth century by what they wrote in the the fifth.     \n  \nReading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty\, I pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of their Titles \n  \nIt seems these poets have nothing \nup their ample sleeves \nthey turn over so many cards so early\, \ntelling us before the first line \nwhether it is wet or dry\, \nnight or day\, the season the man is standing in\, \neven how much he has had to drink. \n  \nMaybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow. \nMaybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name. \n  \n“Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune \non a Cloudy Afternoon” is one of Sun Tung Po’s. \n“Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea” \nis another one\, or just \n“On a Boat\, Awake at Night.” \n  \nAnd Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with \n“In a Boat on a Summer Evening \nI Heard the Cry of a Waterbird. \nIt Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying \nMy Woman Is Cruel—Moved\, I Wrote This Poem.” \n  \nThere is no iron turnstile to push against here \nas with headings like “Vortex on a String\,” \n“The Horn of Neurosis\,” or whatever. \nNo confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over. \n  \nInstead\, “I Walk Out on a Summer Morning \nto the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall” \nis a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders. \n  \nAnd “Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors” \nis a servant who shows me into the room \nwhere a poet with a thin beard \nis sitting on a mat with a jug of wine \nwhispering something about clouds and cold wind\, \nabout sickness and the loss of friends. \n  \nHow easy he has made it for me to enter here\, \nto sit down in a corner\, \ncross my legs like his\, and listen. \n  \n—Billy Collins \n  \n —Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nMay I never be complete \nMay I never be content \nMay I never be perfect \n  \nFrom Fight Club! I remember reading that over 10 years ago and being inspired by the hidden beauty of a concept like willing ones self to never want completeness… I’m going to always be learning growing struggling to figure out what the hell I am on this Giant beautiful rock… It’s not easy to accept flaws… growing… Being content as in settled in\, not striving to learn… it’s a beautiful sentiment… That’s my fav poem… That I’ll prolly get tattooed someday. \n  \n—Jeff Kuehner \n* \n  \nMax Ritvo is one of my favorite poets\, and “Afternoon” is my favorite poem by him. He died young\, of cancer\, and he produced a great deal of work during his final years\, while he was very sick. I find much to admire in this poem\, but perhaps what stays with me the most\, and will always stay with me\, is the fountain. I won’t spoil it. Just read the poem and see for yourself. \n  \nAfternoon \n  \nWhen I was about to die \nmy body lit up \nlike when I leave my house \nwithout my wallet. \n  \nWhat am I missing? I ask \npatting my chest \npocket. \nand I am missing everything living \nthat won’t come with me \ninto this sunny afternoon \n  \n—my body lights up for life \nlike all the wishes being granted in a fountain \nat the same instant— \nall the coins burning the fountain dry— \n  \nand I give my breath \nto a small bird-shaped pipe. \n  \nIn the distance\, behind several voices \nhaggling\, I hear a sound like heads \nclicking together. Like a game of pool\, \n  \nplayed with people by machines. \n  \n—Max Ritvo \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nValentine \n  \nOn the eve of the apocalypse\,\nthe wild turkeys are tuning up for their dance\, flared\nstately stepping upon the new fallen snow\nI continue to ponder \n  \nRuby Crowned Kinglet.\nHe is fixed in my mind because\nunknown to him\,\nset upon a background of olive green feathers\nembering with gold and\nfloating above his brain there glows\na fire ruby jewel. \n  \nLike the mandalas radiating from ancient bodhisattvas\,\nthe feathered crown of hunter gatherer peoples\, branched trees on\nthe halos of saints\, the heads of shamans\nthat they say all together\,\nlook how I see you.\nSee how you look through my open heart. \n  \n—Ken Hunt \n  \nKen Hunt is an artist\, saddle-maker\, horse-trainer living in a remote canyon in NE Oregon\, and he has a vibrant sense of his place and the creatures there. He lives close to all kinds of wild beings\, and in this poem brings them close to us\, so close they can see through our eyes and hearts. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nDeb thought another poem would not go amiss\, so she invited me to join your party this once. \n  \nAmong lots of favorite poems\, Frost’s “Mending Wall” has grown in depth to me for my whole life. Frost’s simple example demonstrates how we sabotage unity by drawing thick lines between groups and positions\, and then fighting over them. The poem details how we carefully resurrect these divisions\, where they aren’t needed. The conflict is merely hinted at. \n  \nOnce\, after I had written about the poem in my weekly blog\, a friend told me that the PM of Israel\, don’t recall which\, had recently cited the poem to justify their apartheid: “good fences make good neighbors.” Of course\, this is the antithesis of the poem\, but how many tumultuous patriots would have known this? On behalf of Frost’s dignity and immense compassion\, I humbly offer perhaps his greatest poem\, though it does have competitors in his oeuvre. \n  \nMending Wall \n  \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat sends the frozen-ground-swell under it\, \nAnd spills the upper boulders in the sun; \nAnd makes gaps even two can pass abreast. \nThe work of hunters is another thing: \nI have come after them and made repair \nWhere they have left not one stone on a stone\, \nBut they would have the rabbit out of hiding\, \nTo please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean\, \nNo one has seen them made or heard them made\, \nBut at spring mending-time we find them there. \nI let my neighbor know beyond the hill; \nAnd on a day we meet to walk the line \nAnd set the wall between us once again. \nWe keep the wall between us as we go. \nTo each the boulders that have fallen to each. \nAnd some are loaves and some so nearly balls \nWe have to use a spell to make them balance: \n‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’ \nWe wear our fingers rough with handling them. \nOh\, just another kind of out-door game\, \nOne on a side. It comes to little more: \nThere where it is we do not need the wall: \nHe is all pine and I am apple orchard. \nMy apple trees will never get across \nAnd eat the cones under his pines\, I tell him. \nHe only says\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \nSpring is the mischief in me\, and I wonder \nIf I could put a notion in his head: \n‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it \nWhere there are cows? But here there are no cows. \nBefore I built a wall I’d ask to know \nWhat I was walling in or walling out\, \nAnd to whom I was like to give offense. \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him\, \nBut it’s not elves exactly\, and I’d rather \nHe said it for himself. I see him there \nBringing a stone grasped firmly by the top \nIn each hand\, like an old-stone savage armed. \nHe moves in darkness as it seems to me\, \nNot of woods only and the shade of trees. \nHe will not go behind his father’s saying\, \nAnd he likes having thought of it so well \nHe says again\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \n  \n—Robert Frost \n  \n—Scott Teitsworth \n* \n  \nThat Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” is my all-time favorite poem is a well-known fact (among my friends)\, but I have many favorite poems. In the not-too-distant past (five years ago\, maybe?) I had the great good fortune to come upon the writings of Thomas Traherne (1637-1674). His poems and meditations were first published in 1903\, ten years after they were rediscovered in manuscript—229 years after his death. I often start the day by reading a poem and/or a meditation by him. His wild delight is contagious. He helps me to get the day off to a glorious start. The first four poems in The Collected Works of Thomas Traherne are all sublime: “The Salutation\,” “Wonder\,” “Eden\,” and “Innocence.” Here’s the first: \n  \nThe Salutation \n  \n         These little limbs\, \n    These eyes and hands which here I find\, \nThese rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins\, \n    Where have ye been? behind \nWhat curtain were ye from me hid so long? \nWhere was\, in what abyss\, my speaking tongue? \n  \n         When silent I    \n    So many thousand\, thousand years \nBeneath the dust did in a chaos lie\, \n    How could I smiles or tears\, \nOr lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? \nWelcome ye treasures which I now receive. \n  \n         I that so long \n    Was nothing from eternity\, \nDid little think such joys as ear or tongue \n    To celebrate or see: \nSuch sounds to hear\, such hands to feel\, such feet\, \nBeneath the skies on such a ground to meet. \n  \n         New burnished joys\, \n    Which yellow gold and pearls excel! \nSuch sacred treasures are the limbs in boys\, \n    In which a soul doth dwell; \nTheir organised joints and azure veins \nMore wealth include than all the world contains. \n  \n         From dust I rise\, \n    And out of nothing now awake; \nThese brighter regions which salute mine eyes\, \n    A gift from God I take. \nThe earth\, the seas\, the light\, the day\, the skies\, \nThe sun and stars are mine\, if those I prize. \n  \n         Long time before \n    I in my mother’s womb was born\, \nA God preparing did this glorious store \n    The world for me adorn. \nInto this Eden so divine and fair\, \nSo wide and bright\, I come His son and heir. \n  \n         A stranger here \n    Strange things doth meet\, strange glories see; \nStrange treasures lodged in this fair world appear\, \n    Strange all and new to me; \nBut that they mine should be\, who nothing was\, \nThat strangest is of all\, yet brought to pass. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI Corinthians\, Chapter 13\, which ends: \n  \nLove never faileth: but whether there be prophecies\, they shall fail; whether there be tonguers\, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge\, it shall vanish away. \nFor we know in part\, and we prophesy in part. \nBut when that which is perfect is come\, then that which is in part shall be done away. \nWhen I was a child\, I spake as a child\, I understood as a child\, thought as a child: but when I became a man\, I put away childish things. \nFor 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. \nAnd now abideth faith\, hope\, and love\, these three; but the greatest of these is love. \n  \n—Ken Margolis URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-2-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/334043912_527290722854244_1063857897720978662_n.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230226T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230226T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230304T193005Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230304T195348Z UID:3702-1677423600-1677430800@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! Snowed In! DESCRIPTION:Beloved Bibliophiles! \n\n\nOn Sunday\, January 26th\, at 3 p.m. (PST) our theme will be: SNOWED IN! What are you reading? What’s a good book to read when you’ve got a lot of time on your hands? When you’re snowed in? What are your favorite (fat?) books of all time? \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \npeace & love  \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-snowed-in/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/istockphoto-508490690-612x612-1.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230219T160000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230219T180000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230213T174422Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230213T174422Z UID:3643-1676822400-1676829600@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:A Midsummer Night's Dream in Prison Goes to Santa Fe! DESCRIPTION:GREAT NEWS!!! \nA Midsummer Night’s Dream in Prison will be shown at the  Santa Fe Film Festival on February 19th\, at 4 p.m. The festival runs from February 17-26\, 2023. You can get tickets from the festival website: http://santafefilmfestival.com/index/festivals/2023-santa-fe-film-festival/  \nActors William Foote and Allen Mills will be in attendance\, along with the play’s director\, Johnny Stallings. \n\n\n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/a-midsummer-nights-dream-in-prison-goes-to-santa-fe/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/01/324726327_902870767816345_522500158234735808_n-1.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230215 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230315 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230216T000619Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230216T001638Z UID:3648-1676419200-1678838399@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 2/15/23 DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2023 \n  \nJason Beito sent this poem: \n  \nCloud \n  \nBefore you became a cloud\, you were an ocean\, roiled and\nmurmuring like a mouth. You were the shadow of a cloud\ncrossing over a field of tulips. You were the tears of a\nman who cried into a plaid handkerchief. You were a sky\nwithout a hat. Your heart puffed and flowered like sheets\ndrying on a line. \n  \nAnd when you were a tree\, you listened to trees and the tree\nthings trees told you. You were the wind in the wheels of a\nred bicycle. You were the spidery Maria tattooed on the\nhairless arm of a boy in downtown Houston. You were the\nrain rolling off the waxy leaves of a magnolia tree. A lock\nof straw-colored hair wedged between the mottled pages of a\nVictor Hugo novel. A crescent of soap. A spider the color\nof a finger nail. The black nets beneath the sea of olive\ntrees. A skein of blue wool. A tea saucer wrapped in\nnewspaper. An empty cracker tin. A bowl of blueberries in\nheavy cream. White wine in a green-stemmed glass. \n  \nAnd when you opened your wings to wind\, across the\npunched-tin sky above a prison courtyard\, those condemned to\ndeath and those condemned to life watched how smooth and\nsweet a white cloud glides. \n  \n—Sandra Cisneros \n* \n  \n                      Jinx \n  \nTrees spread their arms\, birds open  \ntheir wings\, rain falls on everyone\, \nand the wind brings breath to all. \n  \nWhen I’m lucky\, do I mother my luck\,  \nknowing how fragile fortune can be? \nAm I generous and kind\, letting luck  \nbrim and flow\, spill and splash to wash \neverything I touch\, everyone lucky enough  \nto stumble into this circle of light? \n  \nOr might I forget how happiness shuns \na place of no love\, where luck leaks  \nfrom a fist clenched to keep it?  \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nNow I close my eyes\, \nand somewhere a butterfly \ncontemplates cocoon. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nIt’s Valentine’s Day. Love Day. I don’t know what love is\, or where it comes from. It’s a Mystery! Wouldn’t it be lovely if everyone lived in love—if we all loved each other\, and loved all the animals and plants and rivers and clouds and stones? Let’s try it and see what happens!  \n  \nWilliam Blake says: \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \nHappy Valentine’s Day! \nLoving Kindness Meditation goes hand in hand with Mindfulness says Thich Nhat Hanh.  \nHere is a link to Thay giving a rare Metta meditation for LovingKindness.  \n  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5luvQp–B8U \n Is there a difference between being nice and being kind?  After practicing LovingKindness meditation I’ve been feeling a pull to agree\, to say yes\, to be more present\,..  Kindness itself is a practice that can make us become and feel more engaged – with others\, in causes\, and in our own true self as well.  This feels like what it means to have meaning in our life.   \n“Just being nice will not be enough to save civility in today’s world. It will take the patience and focus of true and loving-kindness.”  writes Donna Cameron.  She has a book about her year of consciously Living Kindly.  She continues: \n“Kindness is how you see the world\, and you be kind because it needs to be done. On the other hand\,  . . . You can remain distant and still be nice\, but that’s not the case with kindness.  \nKindness doesn’t mean becoming saintly!  \nNo\, we all are humans\, and all of us tend to falter now and then. Just because you get angry and upset doesn’t mean you cannot or should not practice being kind.   \nHealth benefits of kindness  \nKindness has a major effect on our emotional\, mental\, and physical health. Studies have shown that kindness raises serotonin and oxytocin levels in our bodies\, and these chemicals make us happier. This surge isn’t permanent\, hence you have to keep practicing kind acts to keep the level up. These chemicals also help in reducing blood pressure and inflammation.   \nNot only that\, kindness eases our relationships therefore drastically reducing our stress levels. Interestingly\, witnessing a kind act also has the same impact on our body as performing a kind act does. Each act of kindness establishes neural pathways\, therefore it becomes easier and more natural over time.” \nInvitation:  Think of a time you received a kindness\, something small that may have changed you\, or that you often think of even though you may have been young.   \nOr join a Monday night LovingKindness meditation with me and others.   Here’s a link if you would like to sign in.  It is free\, every Monday 8-8:30 p.m. Drop in. \nhttps://www.firstunitarianportland.org/events/lovingkindnessmeditation/ \nA metta practice for you:  Thich Nhat Hanh says there is value in practicing Metta even 5 minutes a day. \n  \nMay I be at peace.  \nMay my heart remain open.  \nMay I awaken to the light of my own true nature. \nMay I be healed.  \nMay I be a source of healing for all beings.  \n  \nContinue with loved ones  – You\, We\, then one you may have a conflict with\, then with the whole world.  \nMay we know Peace.   May we know love. \n  \n“Only your compassion and your loving kindness are invincible\, and without limit.” “Smile\, breathe and go slowly.”  – Thay \n  \n— Katie Radditz \n  \nKatie also sent this poem by Juan Felipe Herrera: \n  \nSong Out Here \n  \nif i could sing \ni’d say everything         you know \nfrom here on the street can you turn around \njust for once i am                     here \nright behind you \nwhat is that flag what is it made of \nmaybe it’s too late i have \ntoo many questions where did it all come from \nwhat colors is it all made of everything \neverything here in the subways \nthere are so many things and voices \nwe are going somewhere but i just don’t know \nsomewhere \nbut i just don’t know \n          somewhere \ndo you know where that is i want to sing \nso you can hear me and maybe you can tell me \nwhere to go so you can hear me and just maybe \nyou can tell me where to go \nall those hands and legs and faces going places \nif i could sing \nyou would hear me and i would tell you \nit’s gonna be alright \nit’s gonna be alright \nit’s gonna be alright it would be something like that \ncan you turn around so i can look into your eyes \njust for once your eyes \nmaybe like hers can you see her \nand his can you see them i want you to see them \nall of us we could be together \nif i could sing we would go there \nwe would run there together \nwe would live there for a while in that tilted \ntiny house by the ocean rising up inside of us \ni am on the curb next to a curled up cat \nsmoking i know its bad for you but \nyou know how it is just for once can you turn around \na straight line falling behind you it’s me i want to sing \ninvincible                                             bleeding out with love \n  \njust for you \n  \n— Juan Felipe Herrera \n* \n  \nI keep what is sacred to me \nsafe in the heart of the sun. \nThe path is a maze of stairs \nmade for the ones I love. \nAll are welcome & if you’re \nable all can come. \nJust being yourself as \nyou were always meant to be. \nEveryone is welcomed and \nall are accepted by me. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nThe Pause \n  \nWhen I read a poem in the mornings \nto the people in boxes on the screen\, \ndear people\, beloved all\, \nthey settle\, they listen \nand when I am done \nthey don’t look at each other\, \nor at me. \n  \nThey look up. \n  \nMany times\, depending of course \non the poem\, there will be a half smile. \n  \nThe threads the words weave \nare a nest for us to rest in together \nto ponder\, wonder\, absorb. \n  \nThere is a pause. \n  \nWe chat then briefly\, \nsometimes seriously\, \nsometimes frivolously\, \nabout an image\, \na confusion\, \nor something else entirely. \n  \nWe learn about each other. \n  \nThen we disperse out into the day\, \nseparate\, yet connected by the resonant \nimprint of a shared moment of apprehending \nsomething we hadn’t thought of ourselves. \n  \n —Elizabeth Domike URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-2-15-23-2/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/0-3.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230212T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230212T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230206T194850Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230206T202456Z UID:3607-1676214000-1676221200@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! 2/12/23 DESCRIPTION:Abelard and Heloise Surprised by the Abbot Fulbert by Jean Vignaud (1819) \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \nOn Sunday\, January 12th\, at 3 p.m. (PST) for our Valentine’s Day Special the theme will be: “What have you learned about love from books and plays and poems?” \nBring favorite love poems to read. \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \npeace\, love & poetry   \nJohnny \n  \nLink to the 2021 Valentines issue of “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding”: \n  \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding 2/18/21 \n \nLink to poems from the 2021 Bibliophiles Unanimous Valentine’s Day Special: \n  \nBibliophiles Unanimous! Valentine’s Day Special: LOVE POEMS \n \n  \n  \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-2-12-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230206T180000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230206T200000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230201T165752Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230201T165830Z UID:3587-1675706400-1675713600@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Screening of A Midsummer Night's Dream in Prison on February 6th! DESCRIPTION:  \nThere will be a screening of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Prison at the Mittleman Jewish Community Center on Monday\, February 6th\, at 6 p.m. The address is: 6651 SW Capitol Highway\, Portland\, OR 97219. For people in the Portland area who haven’t seen the film yet (or who would like to see it again)\, this is a great opportunity! \nActors from the play will be there for a conversation afterwards–Josh Underhill\, Allen Mills\, William Foote & Aaron O’Hara. \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/screening-of-a-midsummer-nights-dream-in-prison-on-february-6th/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/circle_chase-web.1000x600.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230202 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230302 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230203T184134Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230304T182330Z UID:3593-1675296000-1677715199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 2/2/23 DESCRIPTION:poster by Rick Bartow \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 2\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to… \n…send me a short work in prose or poetry about an experience\, a person\, a conversation\, a book\, or an inspiration that changed the way you see\, experience or understand yourself and/or the world. Here’s what people sent: \n  \n  \nIn Memory of \nMy Literary Godmother \n  \nHer name was \n Miriam Soomil \n Of Russian-Jewish descent \nAnd the editor of \nThe Belmont Courier-Bulletin \nA small-town \nWeekly newspaper \nWhere I interned \nOne summer. \n  \nShe smoked \nPall Malls \nDrank black coffee \nDevoured the \nSan Francisco Chronicle \nLoved politics \nHad opinions \nQuoted Keats \nKnew history \nAdored anything \nWell-written. \n  \nI’d never \nMet anyone \nLike her. \nShe was  \nGritty\, smart \nFunny\, flawed \nBig-hearted \nAnd tough \nLike a \nThick slice \nOf dark rye    \nIn my \nWhite bread \nOzzie and Harriet \nWorld. \n  \nWe shared \nAn office \nPounded out \nNews stories \nOn massive \nUnderwood typewriters \nEdited copy \n With pencils \nCut and pasted \nWith scissors \nAnd glue pots \nBeat deadlines \nLogged \nLate nights \nAt the printer.   \n  \nShe didn’t \nSo much \nTeach me \nAs infect me \nWith language \nThe names \nOf poets \nWriters\, books \nIdeas \nAnd \nA care \nUncompromising \nFor words. \n  \nWe became friends \nAnd remained so \nFor years after. \nI visited her \nIn the cabin \nWhere she lived \nIn a grove \nOf Oak trees \nBehind Stanford University \n(Erased by bulldozers \nDecades ago.) \nHer walls \nLined with books \nHer home patrolled \nBy an enormous \nSiamese cat \nHer garden \nThick with basil \nTomatoes\, rosemary. \nWhen I became \nA working reporter \nI sent her clippings. \n  \nSometimes \nI drink \nRed jug wine \nLike I used to \nWith Miriam \nAnd raise \nA toast \nTo her \nA Mensch \nOf this world \nGenerous \nBeyond measure \nIndelibly imprinted \nUpon \nMy own \nSoul’s page. \n  \nIn whatever \nLanguage you \nNow speak \nDear friend \nMay you know \nThe eloquence \nAnd intelligence \nYou bestowed \nUpon us all. \n  \n—Will Hornyak   January 2023 \n* \n  \n                   Coincidence \n  \nFor years I tried right place\, wrong time\, \nthen right time\, but I was somewhere else \nplodding a dark street wondering where \nmy luck had gone. What are the odds \nfor happiness? Could I help chance\, \nassist coincidence\, gamble with verve? \n  \nThe first bird of dawn began to sing \nand I woke to see life on Earth as one \nbig coincidence\, this swirl of stone\, water\, \ncell\, sun\, and in good time all the rest— \nand suddenly\, there you were \ntelling me your name. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nA long time ago when I was visiting Johnny in Portland\, he got a phone call from our friend Sam. \nHe was dying of cancer—finally—after ten years or more of fighting it\, and he invited us down to Houston to attend his passing. \nIn those days it was easy to travel by air. We just went to the airport\, bought tickets\, and flew down to Houston. \nIn his last years\, after an adventurous checkered business career\, Sam had reinvented himself as an academic. \nAfter a few years\, he left Berkeley and got a job in a Texas border town\, teaching social science in a small community college. The students were all Latin American—second generation children of Mexican immigrants—newly citizened Americans hoping to realize the American Dream. \nSam was a man of the world. He gave his students\, not the usual politically correct canned curriculum\, but his best practical wisdom—like an uncle—speaking what usually remains unsaid about what it takes to get by\, to get ahead\, to simply survive\, in racist America. \nHis students adored him. \nSam met Johnny and me in the waiting room of the cancer ward\, and made us feel at home. \nIt was a Friday evening. The head hospice nurse was a friend of Sam’s.  \nShe said she was taking the weekend off to deal with family. \n“This is goodbye\, Sam. We won’t be seeing each other again.” \nSo they parted. \nSam said goodbye to Johnny and me. \nThe nurses took him away. \nVisitors were not allowed\, usually. \nBut they allowed one of his students\, a young woman with whom he was deeply bonded\, to be with him. \nShe cradled his head and gazed into his eyes as he died. \nJohnny and I were reading in the waiting room. The attendants pushed the remains of Sam on a gurney past us through the waiting room and out into the corridor\, heading for parts unknown. \nWe could see that Sam wasn’t there anymore. \n  \n—Charles Erickson \n* \n  \nLooking back on my life\, the text that changed\, and continues to change\, the way I see\, experience and understand myself in the world and as the world is Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself.” Among many other things\, he says: “All truths wait in all things.” And: “a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.” And: \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… \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI have had many dark spots in my life & have always pulled through. There are 3 people in my life that have been my guiding lights for many years. Due to my incarceration I can not do the things for them like I want to or that they deserve. Things like paint the house or fix their car or be there when they need me. To cook them dinner to just show them how much I love them\, with a hug and a smile. Or to bring them my appreciation\, my love\, my joy. The joy they showed me that lives in me. \n  \nOne of them was with me full when I was in a very dark place in life. Yes\, darker than prison. A prison within a prison. I was forced to face my demons\, there would be no running this time and I had never felt so close to death. I was able to completely divulge my life and all its damage. Not judged\, not disciplined\, just accepted and loved and made to feel like all should feel. HUMAN. We are all so beautiful and amazing and shattered and broken just right. \n  \nWe are the beautifully broken. In my life I have people that mean more to me than life itself. And lately being away from them is suffering in itself. They are my family\, family I choose to be family. I wish to be able to show you all how much I love you by Being there in life with you. Like a son should be. \n  \nJohnny\, Nancy\, Howard! You always and forever will be not in my heart but a big piece of my heart\, mind and soul. Love Rocky. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nFive Tanka Written Upon Spending the Night in a New Apartment \n  \n1. \nI mop the floor with \napple cider vinegar\, \nnote the orange leaves \nthat are somehow still hanging \nin January. \n  \n2. \nCan you hear me up \nhere? Sorry I’m so noisy! \nMy boots\, my loud soul… \nI’m setting up my new bed. \nI’ve slept on too many floors. \n  \n3. \nO lovely cooking \naromas wafting through wood! \nMy unpacked dishes… \nA sharp red curry down there \ncalls to my empty white bowl. \n  \n4. \nAround ten p.m. \nI begin to unravel \nmy crisp new mattress. \nAlone\, I read directions: \nThis requires two people. \n  \n5. \nIt is a good thing \nthat I moved in yesterday. \nVery cold today\, \nand brother turned his ankle. \nOn my own again. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nLeftover Rainwater \n  \nOver the years I have been having a series of surgeries to correct a not ideal situation I was born with in my mouth. I found a good surgeon\, a practicing Sikh\, who periodically fixes something and the other day I was getting some stitches out and his assistant said\, “Oh yeah\, the doctor is a leftie”. And I had this little shock. \n  \nAll these years and I never noticed he was working on me primarily with his left hand. \n  \nNot that it matters. \n  \nExcept that I never noticed. I was a rebellious kid and my father used to regularly admonish me to pay attention. \n  \nOff in my own world I would think\, fine\, sure\, I’ll get right on that. Not. My own world was much more interesting\, intoxicating even\, the collage I was making taking up the whole bedroom wall\, the easy chairs with a tail and wings I was drawing everywhere\, all the stories I was reading. I was busy. \n  \nLater as a teenager out in the world with only loose tethers to authority\, I had to learn to pay attention. At least in a certain\, hyper-vigilant\, oh man this place is dangerous way. Is that car following me\, are those gunshots\, might there be drugs in that drink you just offered to share with me. \n  \nAnd then in my work life. Numbers. Nice safe numbers that need to be in certain places at certain times.  Very important to pay attention then. \n  \nThen one day a girlfriend of a work colleague asked me to go to a yoga class with her. It was at a gym. The teacher was an older man\, I had heard somewhere\, I think he told us\, he had been teaching Kung Fu and then there was an accident and he had to figure out how to make his body functional again. \n  \nWhy him? Why then?  He was weird. I often have an affinity for weird people\, at least his kind. One class we would focus on our feet\, one on our necks\, and the girlfriend never came back but I did. He taught us this one posture that made us look like turtles that I still practice today. He only taught for 4 months or so\, but somewhere in there I learned how to truly pay attention. \n  \nThen one day he was gone\, retired they said. \n  \nAnother teacher took his place\, and she became my teacher. I followed her around from gym to studio to rented spaces to finally her own studio. By then I was paying a lot of attention to a wide range of things. And learned to teach the practices to others.   \n  \nAlways though with a memory of the slightly amused look my original teacher would get on his face…this how did I find myself here with the weights clanging and the grunting in the background with all these relatively normal people? \n  \nThe other day\, working with my own students and encouraging them to notice this or be aware of that or to bring their attention somewhere or to let it go\, I could hear my father’s voice. \n  \nThe irony of me now gently admonishing others to be in the moment\, feel what they are feeling and notice things… \n  \nAnd the work I still have left to do. Every day there are so many new things to notice. \n  \nPerhaps a wild chickadee is taking a bath in leftover rainwater out back. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nDear Reader \n  \nFor the March issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding (3/2/23) you are invited to send me a short writing in prose or poetry about something or someone you love. \n  \n—Johnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2-2-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/0.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230129T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230129T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230116T232949Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230125T161343Z UID:3555-1675004400-1675011600@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! 1/29/23 DESCRIPTION:T. S. Eliot \n  \n \nKeith Scales \n  \n  \nOn Sunday\, January 29th\, Keith Scales will read T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. \nThe reading starts at 3 p.m. (PST). Here’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nDON’T MISS THIS!!! \n  \npeace\, love & poetry   \nJohnny \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-1-29-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230115 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230215 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230116T225714Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T160031Z UID:3542-1673740800-1676419199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 1/15/23 DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nJanuary 15\, 2022 \n  \nRoshi \n  \nI never really understood \nwhat he said \nbut every now and then \nI find myself \nbarking with the dog \nor bending with the irises \nor helping out \nin other little ways \n  \n—Leonard Cohen \n* \n  \nThis song\, written by Leonard Cohen and Sharon Robinson\, feels like a meditation song to me: \nLove Itself \n  \nThe light came through the window\, \nStraight from the sun above\, \nAnd so inside my little room \nThere plunged the rays of Love. \n  \nIn streams of light I clearly saw \nThe dust you seldom see\, \nOut of which the Nameless makes \nA Name for one like me. \n  \nI’ll try to say a little more: \nLove went on and on \nUntil it reached an open door— \nThen Love Itself \nLove Itself was gone. \n  \nAll busy in the sunlight \nThe flecks did float and dance\, \nAnd I was tumbled up with them \nIn formless circumstance. \n  \nI’ll try to say a little more: \nLove went on and on \nUntil it reached an open door— \nThen Love Itself \nLove Itself was gone. \n  \nThen I came back from where I’d been. \nMy room\, it looked the same— \nBut there was nothing left between \nThe Nameless and the Name. \n  \nAll busy in the sunlight \nThe flecks did float and dance\, \nAnd I was tumbled up with them \nIn formless circumstance. \n  \nI’ll try to say a little more: \nLove went on and on \nUntil it reached an open door— \nThen Love Itself \nLove Itself was gone. \nLove Itself was gone. \n  \n—Leonard Cohen & Sharon Robinson \n* \nAlex Tretbar sent this poem by Jim Gauer: \n  \nWill This Thought Do? \n  \nSo I don’t think I’ll work today. Today it seems best \nTo let this bench hold my end up. Today \nOf what my part was\, brooding \nOver the sum of things\, there remains \nOnly the sum of things\, and that part \nSeems best. Yes this morning\, whatever is \nWill do nicely in my absence: this sunlight \nLooks fine\, it seems to be holding \nIts own without me; the crowded sidewalk \nIs fully employed\, it appears its task \nHas come to be child’s play; even the trees \nAre doing well\, they seem to be working \nAs well as trees can\, as trees \nThese truly work\, and the things they do \nAre all nicely done. What a relief \nTo be wide awake\, knowing my wakefulness \nDoesn’t need me\, sure that my bench exists. \nNever doubting its existence beneath me\, knowing \nFor sure that it is truly beneath me \nTo sit on a bench that I doubt exists. \nHow sweet to be fully alive\, for just this morning \nTo have nothing to live for\, to think well of my thought\, \nThe way a child thinks of his childhood\, the way that a tree \nMakes do with its boughs\, the way this moment lives \nOn what it’s seized in its hands\, because this morning \nWhat the moment has seized in its hands \nIs sweet and alive\, and this thought will do. \nWill this thought do? It seems it’s already done so. \nWill this thought do? Today there could be no doubt. \nWill this thought do? Today beyond the shadow \nOf a doubt my thought is done with \nAll the light I doubted\, and now \nIts shadow believes it too. \nAt last I know I’m the genius that no one needs to listen to. \nOntologist of a morning that turned out better than he thought. \nThe thinker there on a park bench\, resting his chin \nIn a hand I gave him\, a hand I traded \nFor a day of rest\, for a moment’s peace \nI could have had no hand in\, for an instant \nUnder just this sky that out of the clear blue \nHas come to me\, as silent as I am\, \nFull of birds I did not think up. \nNo I don’t think I’ll work today. Today it sounds best \nTo let the silence work its ends out. Today \nOf what my words were\, sounds \nForming the heart of things\, there remains \nOnly the heart of things\, and this heart \nRings true. \n  \n—Jim Gauer \n* \n  \nFrom an early age I was Mr. Know-It-All. I was a big expert on every topic\, especially the ones of which I was completely ignorant. The older I get\, the less I know. I don’t know who I am or what’s going on here. The world is bigger than my descriptions\, opinions and explanations of the world. I’ve met a few of the 8 billion people on the planet\, but the inner lives of even my closest friends are hidden from me. Every night my dreams teach me that my inner world is full of mysterious people and places and events that I can’t remember when I wake up. I don’t know why we humans create so many problems for ourselves and for each other. Why can’t we be kind to ourselves and nice to each other? I don’t have solutions for our problems. I don’t have answers for anyone’s questions. Sitting quietly with a cup of coffee in the morning\, everything I see is beautiful\, miraculous\, impossible\, including the “cup” of “coffee” and whoever it is who is typing this. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n\n\n\n  \nHere is Michel’s meditation on a contemplation from For Someone Else by Chana Friedmol Uhlman: \n  \nDecember 3\, 2022 \n  \nPraying As One \n  \nIn communal prayer we come together to stand before God. \nFacing our lives\, facing our existence \nin communal prayer\, I am not alone\, \nI don’t need to hold everything by myself. \nI have partners. A sacred community. \nWe are like a philharmonic orchestra:… \nEach person playing their own part… \nThere are many roles… \nWe are like a single body… \nNot everything rests on my shoulders. \nHere and now\, I am not alone. \nMy existence began before me \nand my friends are here surrounding me \nplaying together \nfocusing together \npraying together \nto the Master of the World. \n  \nCommunity is where everyone thrives\, even hermits. (I think they’re in denial.) When I allow myself to connect with others—and allow others to connect to me—we develop a unity\, a symbiosis\, an interconnected reality where the whole is more\,…everything\, than the sum of its parts. As cliché as this may be\, it’s no less true. Think about your communities; is there health and vibrant vitality\, growth and expansion? Or\, is there dis-ease\, sickness of mind and contention? Or\, like my living community: flu\, cold\, Covid\, RSV\, or other respiratory affliction in ⅓ or more; in addition to all of the above. I particularly like the idea of a healthy community\, as in today’s contemplation. I like this because I don’t need to carry the community on my own; we can all play together as one. Any differences\, and I hope they are myriad and plethoric\, are what make a symphonic event out of a chaotic cacophony—be it life\, love\, music\, prayer\, or meditation. Together we\, all of us\, are more. I am dissatisfied with situations pushing us to be less. Let us come together and be symphonic. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n                               The Box \n  \nWhen I was a young poet\, I went into schoolrooms  \nto ask children\, “What if you had a treasure box  \nto fill now\, and open when you’re old? \nWhat would you put in it?” \n  \nOh\, they listed their first shoes\, a tree\, a best friend\,  \na crown\, a dog\, “all my stuff I love so much.” \n  \nI made books of their wishes. But now that I’m  \nold myself—what’s in my box? Waking in the night\, \nevery night\, I watch the parade of all I have lost\,  \nbut not lost\, stumble from the dream house \n  \nand become a blessing before the morning’s light. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nThis Altar of Earth and Sky \n  \nBefore he died \nThe old farmer \nTold his lazy son: \n“I buried \na chest of gold \nIn the field. \nPlow deep \nAnd far \nAnd wide \nAnd you’re \nSure to find it.” \nThe son plowed \nFor a day \nA week \nA month \nA year \nAnd found \nNo gold \nBut the fields \nWell-plowed \nYielded \nA Bountiful \nHarvest \nAnd on his \nAmbits \nHe noticed \nFences \nThat wanted \nMending \nA coop\, a stall \nIn need of repair \nHerds and flocks \nTo water and feed. \nIn time \nA treasure \nAccrued \nFrom his \nDevotion \nTo land \nAnd labor. \n  \nWith my penchant \nFor idleness \nI call to mind \nThat lazy son \nAnd \nPutter \nEndlessly \nIn my \nFront yard \nAnd back \nAmbling from \nGarden \nTo garage \nWorkbench \nTo toolshed \nA path \nWell worn \nOver 18 years \nThrough rituals \nOf planting \nPruning \nConstruction \nAnd repair. \n  \nIn time \nAny practice \nCan become \nA spiritual practice \nAny object \nSacred: \nThis wheelbarrow \nHauling compost \nThat hammer \nSetting a nail. \nIn time \nThe druid \nDoffs his robes \nAnd \nDons overalls \nThe monk \nSets down \nHis holy book \nAnd lifts up \nThe common spade \nEven \nThe high priest \nRetires \nFrom the temple \nAnd returns \nTo this altar \nOf earth and sky. \n  \n—Will Hornyak   December 2022 \n* \n  \n#65 Don’t Underestimate Yourself  \n  \n“Don’t underestimate yourself. You have the ability to wake up. You have the ability to be compassionate. You just need a little bit of practice to be able to touch the best that is in you. Enlightenment\, mindfulness\, understanding\, and compassion are in you. Very simple practices—such as meditative walking\, mindful breathing\, or washing dishes mindfully—make it possible for you to leave hell and touch the positive seeds that are within you.” \n–from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \n“Don’t underestimate yourself. You have the ability to wake up.” Believe me\, if this happened to me it can happen to you. I “woke up” back in March of 1994\, and it came as a bolt out of the blue. I wasn’t expecting it\, or hoping or praying for it. Indeed\, I was not the praying sort at all—more agnostic\, or…simply indifferent to any kind of religion. My father proudly pronounced that he was agnostic on even days and atheist on odd days.  I was like that\, only even less vocal about it.  \n  \nWhat happened? One afternoon I was talking on the phone to an aspiring artist\, helping her with contacts in architecture firms\, encouraging her to call and show her work. I’d been helping her and a dozen other ‘emerging artists\,’ as we called them\, for 6 months or so. Believe me\, it had not been in my nature to be so helpful—I’d sort of been roped into it. I’d been on tv in a segment on artists’ careers\, and the anchorman had done a great job—I was expecting lots of commissions for more work! Instead\, I was deluged with requests for help. Shoot! Not what I had in mind\, but I offered a workshop\, and another\, with a couple dozen artists. I gave handouts\, articles I’d used\, helpful tips on how to present your work\, etc. No sense in making others go through all the junk I had gone through. And I followed up with all of them every few weeks\, just to see how they were doing\, if maybe they were discouraged and thinking of giving up.  \n  \nAnd then this afternoon of March 20\, 1994\, when talking to this one woman\, she asked\, “I don’t get it. Why are you doing this? You have a successful career\, you’re very busy with your own work. What’s in it for you? What do you want from us???” And I said\, “All I ask from you is that you do the same for somebody else some day. Isn’t that what it’s all about?” I don’t think that it was I who said those words. They just came out. And then I started crying\, and crying. Something—everything—just opened up. I simply…understood…everything. The world\, the universe\, God—no\, beyond God\, not limited to God. I understood\, and everything was complete\, whole\, filled with joy\, with light\, overwhelmed with love. These words can’t even express it adequately. I’m crying into the phone. This poor woman asks\, “Are you alright?” I said\, “Oh\, you have no idea how alright I am!! Thank you!” \n  \nAnd that was it. My life changed from that instant. I knew I had to help others\, to keep this alive\, to continue to be imbued with joy. And I had to scramble to understand others\, those not like me\, since I’d had this moment of total understanding. I had to read\, read\, read to find out what this was all about. And I had to be quiet\, and listen\, to feel that beauty\, that light\, that joy. \n  \nThe word that comes to mind is propelled. I was propelled to live my life differently than ever before. It is difficult\, it can be frightening (but I am not afraid). It can be hard work (but I can’t live otherwise). If I’d had this moment of pure understanding\, then I had to follow up with concrete understanding\, of making connections with all those who I didn’t know\, with all those who were not like me.  \n  \nI must understand others. I have dragged my husband to five different states to work with Habitat for Humanity: Meridian\, Mississippi; John’s Island\, South Carolina; Bartlesville\, Oklahoma; Charleston\, West Virginia\, etc.… I have mentored at-risk teenagers (still\, and now in their forties); worked in homeless shelters; supported a Native American woman and her family for 18 years; tutored dyslexic teenagers and adults; tutored Hispanic adults; given art workshops to homeless teens…and\, of course\, the most wonderful and joyful (and stressful) of all\, being a friend and supporter to inmates at Two Rivers Correctional Institution for the last six years.  \n  \nWorking my way to understanding (and loving!) others. After all of this litany\, my point is that this just happened to me; I didn’t work to make it happen. And if I experienced this\, so can we all. We can awaken. It is a life of joy. It is also sadness and grief and work\, but that is all part of the beauty and the joy. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \n\n It’s still the beginning of a new year and there is a practice from the Buddhas’s time called “Beginning Anew.” It is a practice for keeping the community healthy with kindness and openness. \n\n  \nThay writes\, “Beginning Anew is not to ask for forgiveness. Beginning Anew is to change your mind and heart\, to transform the ignorance that brought about wrong actions of body\, speech\, and mind\, and to help you cultivate your mind of love. Your shame and guilt will disappear\, and you will begin to experience the joy of being alive. All wrongdoings arise in the mind. It is through the mind that wrongdoings can disappear.” \n  \nAt Plum Village\, they practice the ceremony of Beginning Anew every week. Everyone sits in a circle with a vase of fresh flowers in the center. The ceremony has three parts: flower watering\, expressing regrets\, and expressing hurts and difficulties. This practice can prevent feelings of hurt from building up over the weeks and helps make the situation safe for everyone in the community. \n  \nThey begin with flower watering. They take the vase of flowers in their hands to reflect the freshness and beauty of the flower. During flower watering\, each person acknowledges the wholesome\, wonderful qualities of the others. It is not flattery; it is to speak the truth. Everyone has some strong points that can be seen with awareness.  \n  \nAt my Thursday night sangha\, one woman told us that she does this practice with and for herself at home. Although it is meant for a group or a family\, she sees how valuable it is for herself living alone. One way she found to do it is to write herself a love letter. Inspired by how Thich Nhat Hanh would write love letters to world leaders that he disagreed with.    \n  \nSo this is an INVITATION!:  \n  \n WRITE a love letter to yourself. You might acknowledge whatever you feel good about that you did this past year to nurture yourself or another\, or how you may have helped someone\, or how you learned something. How was your practice and your communication with others? How did you keep your heart open and yourself well? You may have regrets that you have dwelled on; acknowledge them but let them go with compassion for yourself. Maybe end with compassion for another that has done you a wrong. This is a practice like others – be a good listener to yourself\, speak/write from the heart\, and bear witness for deep understanding.   \n  \nThe second INVITATION!!  \n  \nWRITE a love letter to Thay.  Dear Thay! Thank him for what he has taught you this past year. Was there a special meditation you read and responded to from Your True Home?Is there a difference in the way you breathe or walk? Do you take more time to listen and notice what you are noticing?   \n  \nDebbie Buchanan passed on an Ode written by Joe Lamb—a veteran\, a writer\, a meditator\, an arborist—published in Nostos\, a magazine of Poerty and Art.  It is titled :   “A Letter to Thich Nhat Hanh.”  Here’s a little  excerpt: \n  \nDear Thich Nhat Hanh\,  \n  \nThank you for teaching me walking meditation. Walking exceptionally slowly through forests\, feeling the earth with each step\, slowing down to notice the shapes of leaves\, the smell of bark\, the sound of my own breath.  \n  \nThank you for the reminder that microaggressions build up in the unconscious where they can radiate out into the world. More importantly\, I want to thank you\, for the many reminders that micro kindnesses also build up and radiate out into the world\, that micro acts of compassion can heal and nourish people we may never even meet…. \n  \nIt’s misleading to say you taught me. We were never introduced. (He knows him from “a couple of lectures” and from a writing workshop with a two of  Thay’s other students\, Maxine and Therese.) \n  \nWas it you who taught our sangha to walk slowly\,  counting our breaths\, feeling our presence on the earth? Or was it Maxine and Therese? Where does the self stop and the other begin? Where does the teacher stop and the student begin? You complicated this confusion when you said that you are not only the man we see wearing a monk’s robe\, you are also a cloud\, a river\, a forest. \n  \nYou said this was not religion or philosophy\, but rather just an observation about biology\, about the earth itself.  Thank you for that marvelous confusion…. \n  \nYes\, of course\, we are water…. \n  \nYes of course I am forest…. \n  \nSo thank you for that great gift of reminding my anxious brain – always fussing with imaginary futures\, always trying to heal the wounded past – that right here\, right now\, I am in the world\, an astoundingly beautiful world\, and the world is in me. \n  \n—from Joe Lamb’s “Letter to Thich Nhat Hanh” \n  \nThe letter reminds me how lucky we have been to have a great wisdom teacher alive while we are here too. And how Thay and the monks and nuns would say to us\, “We are here because you are here.”   \n  \nThank you all for your reading\, responding\, and your practice. Feel free to share your letters.   \n  \nHappy New Year!   \n  \n–Katie Radditz URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-1-15-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/01/IMG_7569-scaled.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230105 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230202 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20230105T232853Z LAST-MODIFIED:20230912T165813Z UID:3520-1672876800-1675295999@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 1/5/23 DESCRIPTION:Gertrude Stein (by Picasso) \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJanuary 5\, 2023 \n  \nSo now to come to the real question of punctuation\, periods\, commas\, colons\, semi-colons and capitals and small letters. I have had a long and complicated life with all these. \n—Gertrude Stein\, Lectures in America\, 1935 \n  \nA Carafe in Bb Major \nby Alex Tretbar (Guest Editor) \n  \n“The difference is spreading.” \n  \nLast night I sat down to read the final pages of Gertrude Stein’s small\, strange book Tender Buttons. I don’t use bookmarks\, as I’m usually able to quickly identify where I left off. I remembered reading the section titled “Cups” on page 49 of my edition\, but I saw nothing familiar in the following subsection\, “Rhubarb\,” which consists of a single sentence: “Rhubarb is susan not susan not seat in bunch toys not wild and laughable not in little places not in neglect and vegetable not in fold coal age not please.” So I read “Rhubarb” and moved on. \n  \nThe book is divided into three parts: “Objects\,” “Food\,” and “Rooms.” On page 60 I read “A Center in a Table\,” the final section of “Food\,” then turned the page and began “Rooms\,” which begins as follows: \n  \nAct so that there is no use in a center. A wide action is not a width. A preparation is given to the ones preparing. They do not eat who mention silver and sweet. There was an occupation. \n  \nThat initial imperative —“Act so that there is no use in a center”—rang through me in such a way that I knew I wasn’t reading or hearing it for the first time\, and the heavy declarative statement that concludes the paragraph—“There was an occupation”—struck me with the ghostly certainty of déjà vu (“already seen”)\, or\, more accurately\, déjà lu (“already read”). \n  \nI read eleven pages of Tender Buttons on the evening of December 21st\, then read the same eleven pages again on the evening of December 22nd\, remembering none of them until reaching “Rooms.” How could I read so many pages before stumbling across a certain phrasing or arrangement of words that would seem to indicate I had read them before\, and recently? The answer is not that Tender Buttons is forgettable. The answer is that Tender Buttons is slippery. As Juliana Spahr writes\, it is “a book always in the process of being read over and over.” It acts as if there is no use in a center. \n  \n“Lying in a conundrum…” \n  \nI served 64 months in the Oregon prison system\, and was released on July 22nd\, 2022. I spent the final ten days of my sentence in quarantine\, in the hole\, and I had made grand literary plans for those ten days. In my luggage of plastic trash bags\, alongside a half jar of coffee and other essentials\, I had stowed a stack of poetry collections\, anthologies\, and magazines\, and I was looking forward to the 240 hours of unfettered reading. I didn’t bring any fiction\, save for the handful of short stories sprinkled throughout the magazines\, and I came to regret that decision. \n  \nNow\, it wasn’t ten days of traditional segregation: I had all of my canteen luxuries\, I was granted time each day for phone calls and microwaving\, and the general vibe was not punitive. Plus\, after all\, my prison sentence was about to end. But the pressure cooker of the cell came to seem like the anteroom between hell and heaven\, despite my knowing that prison isn’t (necessarily) hell\, and liberty isn’t (necessarily) heaven. I continued waking up at 5\, drinking cold tap water coffee\, and reading and writing\, but the onslaught of poetry’s nonstop ellipsis\, misdirection and elusion/allusion began to erode my ability to pass the hours calmly. I thought of Ezra Pound slowly losing it\, writing his lonely Cantos in the oblivion of St. Elizabeths. I craved narrative: A then B\, so C. I wanted fiction. Characters doing things\, and things happening to characters. Undreamlike causation. \n  \nOne of the books I brought with me was an issue of Fonograf Editions\, and on its cover was a pink and purple abstraction “indebted to [the Russian painter Kasimir] Malevich’s Suprematist artistic vision\, one that believed that ‘the appropriate means of representation is always the one which gives fullest possible expression to feeling as such and which ignores the familiar appearance of objects.’” But in that ten-day moment before release\, I was sick of the avant-garde\, sick of abstraction\, and sick of poetry. I wanted objects—like a milk carton passed through a hole in a metal door—to appear familiar. Tender Buttons may have been a torturous book to possess at that time. \n  \nImages brand our spirits\, and the twin sigils of the final cell I lived in were: \n  \n \n  \n \nYes\, a ridiculous pairing\, but I believe that there is no highbrow\, no lowbrow. There is only brow\, and beneath it the all-seeing eye through which we witness our lives. \n  \n“Nickel\, what is nickel…” \n  \nStein renders the familiar unfamiliar. Her prose poems (if you can call them that\, if you can call them anything at all) approach “A Table” or “A Shawl” from unexpected angles\, with grammatically impenetrable constructions\, and for this reason her work is often cited as bearing the Cubist torch into literature. Here is the first and most famous piece from Tender Buttons\, titled “A Carafe\, that is a Blind Glass”: \n  \nA kind in glass and a cousin\, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary\, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading. \n  \nWhat are we to make of this? Tender Buttons has engendered much academic handwringing and dissection over the past century\, and you are not alone if\, in reading the above excerpt\, you find yourself shaking your head or scoffing. Perhaps the most agreed-upon facet of Tender Buttons is that we can agree upon nothing when regarding it. It is an object “simultaneously considered to be a masterpiece of verbal Cubism\, a modernist triumph\, a spectacular failure\, a collection of confusing gibberish\, and an intentional hoax.” Like Joyce’s Ulysses or Proust’s In Search of Lost Time\, the book “is perhaps more often written about than actually read” (Poets.org). \n  \nAnd yet I recommend that everyone read it. Unlike the behemoth works of Joyce or Proust\, it can be read in a single evening or two\, and there is no constellation of characters and motives and histories to keep straight. There are few\, if any\, people in Tender Buttons (personal pronouns are haunting in their rare surfacing)\, and nothing really happens. But there is music\, and undeniable passion—even be it bridled or obscured by syntax. Just look at those first seven words of the book: “A kind in glass and a cousin.” Never mind what it “meant” to Stein\, or what it “means” to me. It is just a beautiful arrangement of\, as Coleridge defined poetry\, “the best words in the best order.” The poet Charles Bernstein has provided some of the best advice for readers of Tender Buttons\, and it is worth quoting him at length: \n  \nThe sections of the work are not “about” subjects that are discussed but are their own discrete word objects (verbal constellations). Meaning in these works is not something to be extracted or deciphered but rather to be responded to\, so that the reader’s associations create a cascading perceptual experience\, guided by the uncanny arrangement of the words. The more readers can associate with the multiple vectors of each word or phrase meanings\, the more fully they can feast on the unfolding semantic banquet of the work. The key is not to puzzle it out but to let the figurative plenitude of each work play out; for\, indeed\, this work is not invested in a predetermining structure or in precluding or abstracting meaning. Tender Buttons does not resist figuration but entices it. And the work is rife with linguistic and philosophical investigation as well as an uncannily acute self-awareness of its own processes. \n  \n“A letter was nicely sent.” \n  \nI was exhibiting an uncannily acute self-awareness of my own processes. (Have you ever felt clairvoyant in the knowledge that you know what you are about to do? Is it not strange that\, before we go to pick up the plastic mug of cold predawn coffee\, we know that we are about to pick up the plastic mug of cold predawn coffee? And even if we decide\, in auto-rebellion\, not to pick up the mug\, we construct a new future the knowledge of which is instantaneously and irrevocably ours—until we change our minds again. I used to take drugs\, I think\, for a simple reason: I didn’t want to know what happened next. I wanted to be surprised.) \n  \nAlas\, in a single afternoon of quarantine I devoured the handful of short stories available to me\, and once again I was left with poetry\, the desolation of my processes\, my circuits and orbits and feedback loops. For five years I had been invested in a predetermined structure\, and that structure was beginning to dissolve. Reading poems—whether they were straightforwardly narrative or relentlessly experimental—repulsed me\, and so did writing them. \n  \nThe last letter I sent from prison contained the last poem I wrote in prison. Ironically or perhaps not\, it was a letter to someone living in the same building as me\, another prisoner. Distance is often nonphysical. Here’s the poem:  \n  \nSpecial Features \n  \nthere isn’t a thing to say \nso close to the relinquished \nlight of a star \n                         what really comprises the common dust \n                         of living rooms & cells \n                                                                 panting \n                                                                 panting \n                                    the television is panting \n                                 is \n               underwater \n                 with grief \nI look what I think is west \nis west it’s hard to tell \n      amid so many competing surfaces \n      amid \n      amid \namid absent flowers & oxidized materials \nyou can oversanitize to the point where everything becomes \n                                                                         is permanently \n                                                                         clean \n                         & the action movie soundtrack \n                         convinces me of climax \n                         a nonexistent curtain falls \n           the show is \n              the story is over   /   I am asleep \n                in the deleted scenes of my life \n  \nTo me—the writer of this poem who had forgotten its contents until now\, digging through my notebooks\, reading it now with the privilege of distance—the poem reeks of wordsickness. But it’s okay to be sick of words. Even the sun can make us sneeze. \n  \n“Book was there\, it was there.” \n  \nA pink is not of vitamin\, is it. Smaller \nand smalling. What recedes fortifies \nand running now\, a mauve. Crossing \na street requiring friends in need of. \nWe are not a wobble. We nosy. Let us \nconsider longing now the ultimate form. \n  \nOr\, as my friend Irene Cooper puts it: \n  \nno commas \n~for GS & ABT \n  \npop buttons pop projections of rimming. collect the close & closings tendered against the winded heart. red petals the threaded plain & some cleavage is rising. plastics are crashing are the rain sugaring the cavity are a red tempest in a chest. in closure some button slips its absence & is too much is intolerable is undone & so open. open.  \n  \nOr\, as my friend Laura Winberry puts it: \n  \nthe buttons are as tender as we make them \n  \n[essayistic interpretations of cubism in non-prosaic form\, in conversation with Miss Stein] \n  \na trach tube is or isn’t a direct pathway to living \n(well or at all). so is a catheter\, a pic line\, a drip \nlike a bright sweep through the body every eight \nhours or so. \n  \nit doesn’t all have to be so tragic. we see \nthings and beings through to some kind of end \nthen start again. so many moments are synonymous \nwith continue. \n  \nwhen mom asides about the new nurse I think \nhe’s born-again Christian as if he were \nalso diseased he’s too neat—I laugh. \n  \nafter a night in his tender she admits to being wrong— \nhe’s lovely and my buddy let me tell you his life story. \n  \nthe subject seen from a multitude of viewpoints \ncrescendos into a tenderness of context. what was once \nangular\, disjointed\, rearranged \nbecomes whole. \n  \nI think what I mean to say is multi \n-dimensional\, -faceted\, -plying as in \nnothing is ever what it seems. \n  \nI don’t yet know how to call this tender\, \nbut something in my body \ntells me I will. \n  \nOr\, as the late Trish Keenan of the band Broadcast puts it\, in the song “Tender Buttons”: \n  \nThe cortex \nThe comb \nThe codeine \nThe comma \nThe context \n  \nSuch is Stein’s influence. And the funny thing is that when I first came across that unlikely pair of words—“tender” and “buttons”—it wasn’t in the form of Stein’s book. It was the Broadcast song\, a complicatedly hopeful acoustic-electric drone in the key of B-flat major. \n  \nThe website Last.fm allows users to log the songs they listen to on their computers and mobile devices\, and this evening I performed a search of my account\, which I created in 2006. I searched for “Tender Buttons\,” and found that I listened to the song for the first time at 12:38 p.m. on October 22\, 2009\, 14 days after my 20th birthday. According to Wunderground.com\, it was 54 degrees Fahrenheit in Lawrence\, Kansas\, at that very moment\, the sky was cloudy\, and the wind was blowing around 15 miles per hour from the north-northwest. I was probably stoned on that 295th day of the Gregorian calendar\, a Thursday\, skipping class and lazing on the green couch of a flophouse attic. \n  \nIf I remember correctly\, I was heartbroken at that time\, and I would spend many hours by the attic window\, watching the leaves of a great tree tremble in the wind. It was years before I knew who Gertrude Stein was\, a time when my addiction was still like a kitten: small and manageable\, asleep and purring\, contained within my palm. \n  \nThe codeine\, the comma\, the context. \n  \nStein’s Enigmas \nby Kim Stafford \n  \nTender Buttons has been called the stuff of genius\, and of intentional obfuscation. Nothing but an utterly original mind could produce such a range of response. Gertrude Stein once said of Paris\, it’s not so much what it gives you—it’s what it doesn’t take away. Paris clearly didn’t take away Stein’s almost childish instinct for feral experimentation\, and readers have been struggling and reveling ever since in what her pen splashed forth. \n  \n     For a reader\, Tender Buttons offers a challenge\, a series of jokes\, secrets\, a scatter of debris\, a net of clues\, hints\, hunches\, all with a rich dose of affection for true freedom of speech. \n  \n     For a writer\, the lessons are many\, and a bit different. First off\, the lines in her book seem to say\, apart from what they are saying\, or not saying: Go your own weird way. The lines are presenting evidence that language belongs to each of us\, and all of us\, and none of us. Language\, by Stein’s witness\, is a freakish\, frisky\, irreverent rush of possibility\, not to be imprisoned by any grammarian’s so-called rules. Yes\, such freedom by a writer may lose some readers\, but may also gain the fierce loyalty of some others.  \n  \n     A printer friend was meeting with a poet to talk about designing a broadside for a poem. Said the printer\, “Wouldn’t it be easier to read if you arranged the lines this way\, instead of what you have?” \n    “I’m a poet\,” was the reply. “Is my goal to make things easy?” \n    “Ah\,” said the printer. “You taught me something there.” \n  \n    And Stein’s book\, over a century old\, is still teaching us something\, perhaps a different set of lessons for each reader who makes it through the book. What the book seems to want to teach me is to question my practice\, when I’m in danger of making too much sense and too little music. To question my goal when I’m trying to persuade instead of sing. To question my purpose on earth when I’m relying on the rational instead of birdsong. \n  \n     I can’t do what Stein has done—or can I? Is it just that I haven’t tried? What’s to stop me from breaking the rules I’ve followed so obediently for so many years\, to stop me from achieving escape velocity from the firmament of the clear\, the cogent\, and the utterly tamed? \n  \n   Some years ago at a conference for artists\, the Indigenous old-time folk singer Buffy St. Marie was to give a talk\, and I thought\, foolishly\, that she would coast along on her former fame\, maybe play a few classics\, and be done. Instead\, she sang ideas at us with fierceness that stunned me. Among many calls to trust our own way as artists\, she used a word I had only associated with the fight for Indigenous rights. She told us an artist must maintain complete sovereignty over what we do and how we do it\, saying\, this is my poem\, song\, painting…this is my language\, my tune\, my colors…and the way I do what I do belongs to me. \n  \n   Last summer\, I met a pine tree in Scotland\, alone on a hill\, its trunk crooked\, its branches quirky\, lopsided\, eccentric in the extreme. It was more ruin in wood than civilized for the lumber trade. Perhaps it had been left alone when they cut the others\, simply because it managed to be strange.  \n  \n     In the tree’s presence\, I found myself jamming words together with maybe 5% of the freedom of a Gertrude Stein\, but still more in keeping with the tree before me than what I might have written without my encounter with Tender Buttons. For what if polite forms of language are lying\, really\, about the true\, knotted complexity of the world\, and what Stein does in Tender Buttons hews more closely to the rugged real? \n  \n        Lone Pine in Scotland  \n  \nOne flung green gown on one hung \nshade skirt growing outward\, glowing  \ninward\, light-hungry\, root-thirsty\, long  \nwind-limber\, limb-laddered\, ever loyal \nto the nation of its kind\, but hermit here\,  \nmonkish nun hospitable to wasp and crow\,  \nrain-wet silhouette of old trunk with young  \ntwigs\, buds\, needles\, cones glistening for  \ndawn above by dusk below\, earth-offered\,  \nring-hearted\, bark-guarded\, pitch-scented\,  \npollen-dusted citizen\, sentinel\, sovereign.  \n  \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-5-23/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/01/portrait_of_gertrude_stein_1906-41118.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230101T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230101T160000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20221221T005658Z LAST-MODIFIED:20221231T005731Z UID:3496-1672585200-1672588800@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! 1/1/23 DESCRIPTION:Start the New Year right with Bibliophiles Unanimous! \n  \nWe had a great time with our annual group reading of A Christmas Carol on December 18th. \n On Sunday\, January 1st\, at 3 p.m. (PST) our theme will be SONG LYRICS. Bring your favorites! \nHere’s the Zoom link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nThis is gonna be fun! (You get extra points if you sing the songs.) \n  \npeace\, love & music   \nJohnny \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-1-1-23/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221218T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221218T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T085913 CREATED:20221216T163958Z LAST-MODIFIED:20221221T005802Z UID:3469-1671375600-1671382800@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Annual Group Reading of A Christmas Carol DESCRIPTION:illustration by Arthur Rackham \n  \nHappy Holidays\, Everyone! \n  \nOn Sunday\, December 18\, at 3 p.m. (PST)\, we will have our annual group reading of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. \n  \nTodd Oleson of Walla Walla\, Washington\, and Keith Scales of Eureka Springs\, Arkansas will be among the stellar cast. Gather round the warm light of your computer screen and enjoy this wonderful tale of love and transformation. \n  \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nBring the kids & grandkids! \n  \n  \nAs Tiny Tim says: \nGod Bless Us\, Every One! \n  \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-annual-group-reading-of-a-christmas-carol/ END:VEVENT END:VCALENDAR