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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230219T160000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230219T180000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20230213T174422Z
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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/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230315
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
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/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230212T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230212T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
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:20260425T061103
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/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230202
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230302
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
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/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230129T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230129T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
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:20260425T061103
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/
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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/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230101T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230101T160000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
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/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221218T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221218T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
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/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20221215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230115
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20221217T190909Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221217T194512Z
UID:3481-1671062400-1673740799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  12/15/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Howard Thoresen \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nDecember 15\, 2022 \n  \noften when walking in the streets of lower Manhattan or on the promenade along the Hudson River  \na young father crosses my path chatting gaily with his son or carrying his daughter on his shoulders \npointing to the statue \nor a young woman and a young man stroll beside me \ntheir bodies entwined their eyes shining the involuntary smiles \nand i sigh in the knowledge that i will never be a young father or a young lover \nor i read about some young actor who at 23 has a resume as long as i had at 60 and a better \nthe scientist\, the painter\, the family man\, the social worker\, the deep sea diver\, the marathon runner \nwhen there arises in me a longing to have another life \nto have been a different person \nto live for a thousand years \ni remember the stories of the yogis i read as a young boy—the siddhi of having more than one body and thus of working out innumerable skeins of karma which to them was a terrible task but to me sounds delightful \nthere arises another something that feels like a conviction “i am already doing this. all these bodies are mine\, not just the human but the dogs and cats and cockroaches\, the breakdancer and the ballerina\, the blah blah blah \nthese are my bodies my pasts and my futures\, i am life flowing through a million lives” \nthe guru said he had the power to enter the highest state at will and i think so do i \ni have only to shift my eyes in one direction or another and i am all beings and all being \nbut it isn’t a trance\, i don’t fall down or have to be taken care of by awed disciples \ni can continue to meander and people don’t know that i am them or maybe they do \n  \n—Howard Thoresen \n* \n  \nDec. 17\, 1834 \nThere is in every man a determination of character to a peculiar end\, counteracted often by unfavorable fortune\, but more apparent the more he is at liberty. This is called his genius\, or his nature\, or his turn of mind. The object of Education should be to remove all obstructions & let this natural force have free play & exhibit its peculiar product. It seems to be true that no man in this is deluded. This determination of his character is to something in nature; something real. This object is called his Idea. It is that which rules his most advised actions\, those especially that are most his\, & is most distinctly discerned by him in those days or moments when he derives the sincerest satisfaction from his life. \n  \n—Ralph Waldo Emerson\, from Emerson in His Journals\, selected and edited by Joel Porte\, p. 132 \n* \n  \n#264  Compassionate Listening  \n  \n“Compassionate listening is crucial. We listen with the willingness to relieve the suffering of the other person\, not to judge or argue with her. We listen with all our attention. Even if we hear something that is not true\, we continue to listen deeply so the other person can express her pain and release the tensions within herself. If we reply to her or correct her\, the practice will not bear fruit. If we need to tell the other person that her perception was not correct\, we can do that a few days later privately and calmly.” \n(from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh) \n  \nRecently in a discussion group\, we have been experiencing a certain degree of ‘dialogue imbalance\,’ I’ll call it. One or two well-meaning members have been imposing advice (and veiled judgment) upon others who are sharing their thoughts and feelings. This has caused those ‘counseled’ to withdraw and become reluctant to share. \n  \nWe all need to express shared vulnerability\, not impose answers\, solutions\, corrections or advice. Any and all of these evoke frustration and feelings of being misunderstood (and judged) instead of being heard.  \n  \nThis can be a challenge. People want to help\, and we are a solution-driven\, solution-finding society. We believe that the best way to help is to find/give answers\, when often the most meaningful help is simply…to listen.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \n                    I Know Nothing \n  \nI know nothing about music\, but when the piccolo  \ngot lost in the cave\, and shadows began to weep\,  \nI wished I did. That way\, I could follow the scales  \nbeading a dragon’s neck all the way to the tail\, \nmelody oozing slow as honey from the strings  \nweaving a shroud for the hangman’s daughter \nafter her singing silence robbed my sorry hoard. \nI wish I knew the first few notes violas scribbled \nto reveal how percussion crushed the grass bowing  \ntoward the river where the horns flowed fast. \nAnd when the soloist turned her words to silver  \nshining past my mind\, I wished I could mesh \nthat lingering flame burning the English horn  \nto sear my soul long after the concert ended. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nParts of Me \n  \nPart of me is ready to begin. \nAnother part is already finished. \n  \nOther parts—unknown—keep themselves to themselves. \n  \nPart of me is party to silent movies \nplaying for no one \nat a drive-in theater in the sky. \n  \nWe are all of us part of each other. \n  \nPart of me doesn’t believe that\, though. Part of me stubs its toe \non trashcans in bowling alleys\, chair legs in cemeteries. \n  \nPart of me is gripping its part of me’s head \nlike a housewife testing a melon\, in market. \n  \nPart of me’s frightened of what I just said. \n  \nPart of me wants a lobotomy\, but cries for its mommy \ninstead. Part of me’s still an egg. \n  \nPart of me’s already dead. \n  \nPart of me is the start of me. Part of me’s also the end of me. \nPart of me part of me part of me. \n  \nThe part of me that thinks it is smart of me \nto write about all of the parts of me \nis one of the very worst parts of me—take it from [part of] me. \n  \nPart of me tires of parroting you\, pardoning me\, petering out & catching the flu. \nBut part of me also revels in blue\, resorts to leaving the zoo. \n  \nPart of me finds it hard to write \nwhen part of someone else \nis reading over part of me’s shoulder. \n  \nPart of me never knows how far apart \nthe parts of me are. \n  \nPart of me’s tired of faltering\, and in the end\, \nthe art of me consists of weaving together the far-flung parts of me. \n  \nPart of me parts the curtains and shows you all of me. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nSometimes I sit down to write a poem and sometimes I’m writing in my journal and something I’ve written seems like it could be a little poem. Here are some old and some recent examples: \n  \nWhat the Crow Said \n  \n“Caw\,” said the crow \nI didn’t say anything \nI just wrote down what the crow said \n* \n  \nMy Retirement Plan \n  \nI’m waiting for the elves to arrive \nwith bags of gold \n* \n  \na guy drives by in a blue car \ncovered with cherry blossom petals \n* \n  \ncouple of guys \nunloading mattresses \nfrom a Frito-Lay truck \nwhat the hell is going on? \n* \n  \nlast night I was playing miniature golf in my dream \n* \n  \ncold night \nsitting by the woodstove \nthe happiest man alive \n* \n  \nholy holy holy is the bean plant \ncup of coffee \nthe stuffed animals on the window sill \nthat have been loved unto baldness \nthe song sparrow \nthe sunlight \nand even the man sitting at his laptop \nfailing once again to say the unsayable \n* \n  \nChristmas Prayer \n  \nThank you\, Jesus\, \nfor giving me this day off work. \n* \n  \nthe Buddha’s best sermon \nwas when he gave that guy a flower \n* \n  \nY’know those paperweights \nwith a little house \nand little trees \nand if you turn it upside-down \nand then rightside-up again \nit snows? \nI’m sitting in that little house. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMarcus Aurelius vs. Marie Howe \n  \nI have been in the habit these past weeks of picking up Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and finding a quote to ponder for the day. There was one quote last week that became the center of my conversations with three very different people. \n  \nLook attentively on each particular thing you do\, and ask yourself if death be a terror because it deprives you of this. \n  \nWow. I was immediately struck by how profound this statement is. To me\, this is a reminder to pay close attention and choose wisely how each day is spent. And then I started to feel a little insignificant. Marcus Aurelius\, was\, after all\, an emperor\, and wrote Meditations as a record for himself of self-improvement. Perhaps the idea of looking so closely through the lens of death robbing me of such importance is not for the everyday person. \n  \nI shared this quote with my daughter and we discussed my thoughts as I continued to chew on its meaning and she sat back for a moment and then said\, “Yeah but what about What the Living Do?” \n  \nWhat the Living Do is a poem within a book of the same name written by Marie Howe. Howe wrote the collection of poems about her brother who died of AIDS-related complications in his 20s. The poem simply and eloquently reminds us that the everyday moments – both good\, bad and indifferent – are what make up a human life.  \n  \nWhen I look back at my 48 years lived\, which includes the birth of four children\, a marriage\, a divorce and falling in love again\, these big life events are not what stand out to me. Life is driving through Delaware in July at sunset and seeing people in their Sunday best eating ice cream cones. Life is smelling the perfume my mother wore when she’d get dressed up and go out on the town – the scent taking me back to sitting on her bed as a child\, watching her put her jewelry on. Life is listening to my son tell me casually about his day on the ride home from school\, my heart filling up with his words\, unbeknownst to him. And life is feeling butterflies on a morning walk through my neighborhood in summer as I resonate on the poem from my lover as I swiftly prance down the sidewalk\, smelling every rose I can reach to stick my nose into. \n  \nThe ordinary is the extraordinary. And when I look again at what Marcus Aureilus has to say\, I think he understood this as well. It isn’t about what we do but how we perceive. It is in the looking that we can spot the miracles.  \n  \nWhat the Living Do \n  \nJohnny\, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days\, some \nutensil probably fell down there. \nAnd the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous\, and the \ncrusty dishes have piled up \nwaiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the \neveryday we spoke of. \nIt’s winter again: the sky’s a deep\, headstrong blue\, and the \nsunlight pours through \nthe open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in \nhere and I can’t turn it off. \nFor weeks now\, driving\, or dropping a bag of groceries in the \nstreet\, the bag breaking\, \nI’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday\, \nhurrying along those \nwobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk\, spilling my coffee \ndown my wrist and sleeve\, \nI thought it again\, and again later\, when buying a hairbrush: \nThis is it. \nParking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you \ncalled that yearning. \nWhat you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the \nwinter to pass. We want \nwhoever to call or not call\, a letter\, a kiss—we want more and \nmore and then more of it. \nBut there are moments\, walking\, when I catch a glimpse of \nmyself in the window glass\, \nsay\, the window of the corner video store\, and I’m gripped by a \ncherishing so deep \nfor my own blowing hair\, chapped face\, and unbuttoned coat \nthat I’m speechless: \nI am living. I remember you. \n  \n—poem by Marie Howe \n  \n—Nicole Rush \n* \n  \nNovember 2\, 2022  CALL OF THE HEART \n  \nThe initial bedrock from which speech grows is the voice. \nWhen the voice is born\, before words and prior to sentences\, \none’s desires are already beginning to sprout. \nBeing revealed is the possibility of the turning to another\, of a conversation. \n  \nThe voice precedes words. \nThe way the words of the prayer sound becomes their meaning\, \npaving for them a path to their destination. \nIt’s as if the melody of the prayer \nlifts the words on its wings\, \nwhispers between the pages of the prayerbook\, \namongst the prayer shawls\, \nascends from the place of prayer to the Holy Ark\, \nsoars through the windows\, out to the boundless skies.   \n  \n—from Prepare My Prayer by Rabbi Dov Singer \n  \nThis causes me to think of infants\, to wonder at the sounds. The process of self-discovery\, of self-awareness; hearing the sounds\, giving meaning\, learning speech\, communicating needs and wants. Primal\, unyielding. With age comes inhibitions\, filters\, separating the sounds from the heart connecting to the mind. Struggle begins to communicate what is felt\, using only words. And it fails—miserably. Life then moves on\, striving to reconnect mind and heart. Each strives and finds a way\, in time. Sound and heart rejoin; satisfying communication resumes. Heart and mind join as one. \n  \nThis is the struggle\, to communicate with heart and mind in one voice to convey deepest feelings\, sensations to another. Reaching out with voice to connect\, to be heard\, to be seen. Finding others\, uniting in common cause\, raising voices on high\, drawing close. We reach out\, yearning to connect\, finding our voices\, expressing heart’s desires. Throughout life we continue to use voice and sound\, still striving to communicate as we did when infants\, crying out from the heart to the One who hears. \n  \n—Michel Deforge
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-12-15-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221204T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221204T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20221203T085241Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221203T182319Z
UID:3457-1670166000-1670173200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  12/4/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \nKatie suggested Silence as our topic for Sunday\, December 4th\, at 3 pm (PST). I’m sure we’ll all have lots to say on this subject. \nHere’s the link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there!  \n  \nlove & silence \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-12-4-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20221201
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230105
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20221201T182804Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T132338Z
UID:3442-1669852800-1672876799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  12/1/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nDecember 1\, 2022 \n  \n  \nThis coolness! \nIt is the entrance \nTo Paradise! \n—Issa  (1763-1828) \n  \nHappy Day! There’s a new book of “Letters and Uncollected Writings of R. H. Blyth\,” edited by Norman Waddell\, titled Poetry and Zen. \n  \nReginald Horace Blyth (1898-1964) was instrumental in introducing haiku poetry and Zen Buddhism to the West. He was a student and friend of D. T. Suzuki (1870-1966)\, who wrote many books and essays about Zen. Blyth’s four volumes titled Haiku are probably what he is most well-known for. These books were a big influence on Gary Snyder and Richard Wright\, among many other writers. My favorite book by Blyth is Zen in English Literature and Oriental Culture\, his first book\, which he wrote while he was a prisoner of war in Japan\, and which was published in Japan right after World War II. (Strangely\, after being a prisoner of war\, he was tutor to the Crown Prince for 16 years!) Every time I finish reading the book\, I start reading it again from the beginning. The boldness of his thought reminds me of Emerson and Thoreau. And he’s terrifically funny! \n  \nExcited by getting Poetry and Zen\, I thought Blyth would be a good subject for the next peace\, love\, happiness & understanding. I know a couple of other people for whom Blyth is a blithe companion on their life journey. I asked my friend Howard Thoresen if he would write something. This is what he wrote: \n  \n  \nThe first thing I remember hearing about R.H. Blyth was that he “had given up Zen for haiku.” Over many decades I have sometimes suspected I got it wrong; perhaps it was Lafcadio Hearn or one of the other early western luminaries of the cult of Zen and Haiku. Or maybe I had just imagined it. But in sniffing around the internet I came across this quote from Alan Watts: “R.H. Blyth\, who was a great Zen man\, wrote me once and said ‘How are you these days? As for me\, I have abandoned satori (enlightenment) altogether and I’m trying to become as deeply attached as I can to as many people and things as possible.” \n  \nThis quote doesn’t exactly say that he “had given up Zen for haiku” but perhaps my version is like an early translation of an ancient Japanese poem into modern English. \n  \nBlyth\, as quoted by Watts\, expresses my own attitude; I am an administrative director of a Zen temple\, and I have a lifelong meditation habit\, but I have never taken the precepts; and\, when people ask\, I say\, “My Buddhism is all about attachment.” I am working for the temple because I am attached to people in the community and that attachment is a common thread running through everyone and everything in my life. My attachment to Johnny Stallings is the reason I am writing at this moment.  \n  \nIn my nosing it appears that many modern pundits think Blyth didn’t understand Zen or Haiku; the same charge is leveled at Watts and other famous English language interpreters of Chinese and Japanese literature\, some of whom never even bothered to learn the original languages.  \n  \nHarold Bloom\, in a series of books beginning with The Anxiety of Influence\, developed a theory that all reading is misreading. You can never actually know all the things an author knows\, you can never embody the author’s experience\, so you are necessarily misreading or mistranslating. \n  \n     On a withered branch \nA crow is perched \n     In the autumn evening \n                                  —Bashō \n  \nThis Blyth translation brought to my mind a famous koan:  \n  \nAn old lady supports a monk and builds a meditation hut for him on her property. After 20 years or so\, she decides to test his enlightenment. She instructs a beautiful young woman to embrace the monk and then ask him\, “What now?” The young woman does as she is told and the monk says\, “A withered tree grows on a cold rock in winter. Nowhere is there any warmth.” When the old lady hears this\, she exclaims\, “Twenty years of meditation and no loving kindness? Burn down the hut!” \n  \nA more recent translation of Bashō’s haiku by Andrew Fitzsimons would never have called up that koan: \n  \nOn a leafless bough \n         The perching and pausing of a crow \n                  The end of Autumn \n  \nSomeone else would have to tell me which is the more accurate translation or which is the better poem. \n  \nIn this haiku\, one translator sees the crow perching on a withered branch and the other sees it perching and pausing on a leafless bough. As I write\, I am seeing my own crow\, and as you read\, so are you. Even if we study the history of haiku and the history of Zen and the history of crows and branches\, we will never see what Bashō saw back in the Japan of the 1600s\, although we tell ourselves that we do.  \n  \nDid the word “branch” call up that curious koan in your mind? Probably not. \n  \nI love this theory of misreading\, although\, of course\, I am probably misreading Bloom.  \n  \nMaybe Blyth misread the ancient poets\, but those of us who encountered his many volumes on haiku and Zen in eastern and western culture when we were young (he finds haiku “embedded” in the western classics) are happy that he did. In his charming and glorious misreadings\, he opened a door to a way of seeing\, hearing\, writing and interpreting that wouldn’t have existed without him. As is similarly true of Alan Watts\, it seems probable to me that many of the pundits who sneer at the earlier popularizers of “eastern thought” owe their very interest\, not to mention their careers\, to these “influencers.” \n______________________________________ \n  \nWas R.H. Blyth a major influence in my life? Is he still? I would not have thought so\, but… \n  \nEarlier I said that my own attitude about satori resonates with Blyth as reported by Watts. Is it possible that my hearing or mishearing of this quotation back in the 1960’s—before I had any involvement with Zen and before I had any acquaintance with Blyth’s writings—had a determining affect on the evolution of my thinking? Of my way of life? Certainly it has stayed with me through all these years. \n  \nAnd many haiku\, encountered first in Blyth\, have also been lifelong companions:  \n  \n          O snail \nClimb Mount Fuji \n          But slowly\, slowly! \n  \n           You light the fire; \nI’ll show you something nice— \n           A great ball of snow! \n  \n          For you fleas too \nThe night must be long\, \n           It must be lonely. \n  \n           A red sky \nFor you snail; \n           Are you glad about it? \n  \n…and\, oh\, so many more. \n———————————————————————— \n  \nI confess I never thought much about the man whose writing had such an influence on my thinking. If anyone had asked I probably would have imagined him as a stereotypical Englishman of the early 20th Century\, wearing a bowler hat and a suit and sharing with the Japanese a fondness for proper form and tea. What a superficial and chauvinistic person I am!   \n  \nIn this new book\, Poetry and Zen\, Letters and Uncollected Writings of R.H. Blyth\, edited with an introduction by Norman Waddell\, I encounter a sort of superhuman\, who taught himself European and Asian languages (without the aid of the internet); who played a number of musical instruments as well as repairing and building organs; who worshipped Bach; who practiced serious Zen under a master’s guidance\, wrote books\, taught\, and engaged with scholars\, artists\, and politicians. He was also a vegetarian and a pacifist and as a result was imprisoned during both World Wars. He is one of those intellectuals who seem to know about everything and are able to synthesize their knowledge and share it with wit and grace. He found the insight of Zen and haiku in the western canon\, and was as likely to quote Jesus or Wordsworth as Basho. He had a friendly relationship with D. T. Suzuki\, the foremost interpreter of Buddhism to the west in the first half of the 20th Century. Suzuki praised Blyth’s haiku translations as better than his own. \n  \nBlyth’s Zen teacher was Kayama Taigi Roshi. In a passage I love\, he describes his teacher’s teishos (dharma talks): \n  \nI found them completely different from any Christian sermon I had ever heard. One thing I remember when I took sanzen with him. He told me not to smoke while I was taking a pee. This next teaching is a bit indelicate. He spoke about how you feel when after relieving your bowels your finger breaks through the toilet paper as you’re wiping yourself—and he said that when that happens you must focus with great intensity on that feeling…. I suppose he meant getting intimately in touch with your own essential filth. Having your fingers touching your own shit puts you in touch with the fundamental self. \n  \nI believe that going forward I will always think of that “breakthrough” of finger through toilet paper to shit as the quintessential evocation of Zen insight—insofar as I understand it.  \n  \nRegarding his four volumes of Haiku through the seasons\, the poet Allen Ginsberg “stressed to his class how fundamental those texts had been for the young poets [Snyder\, Whalen\, himself]—a bible\, an encyclopedia\, a primer in direct perception and use of concrete details\, as well as in the mind that was still enough to catch these and the hand that was confident enough to set them down on paper.” \n  \nSince this is a wandering\, formless essay\, I’ll repeat the story here of how I once heard Ginsberg read at Cooper Union. At the back of the hall a commotion broke out and Ginsberg\, from the stage asked what was going on. Someone said\, “There’s a huge cockroach walking around here!” And Ginsberg said\, “Let’s write a haiku about it!” and took suggestions from the audience and reworked and edited it—alas\, I didn’t write it down. \n  \nSo what could I say to summarize my experience\, my life\, with R.H. Blyth? As I think is clear from what I have already said\, he was a wonderful companion and teacher of whom I was mostly unaware. In a Zen center where we had a bulletin board\, I used to post a haiku every season; and my exercise was to read through the volume of the particular season we were in—occasionally straying. These volumes were just there—treasures of wisdom and delight\, I assumed them the way I assumed the support of my parents without considering their human fullness. Now and then I wake up for a moment and gasp\, “Did I thank my parents? Did I actually say the words to them\, ‘Thank you’ ?” But I have so many supporters\, lovers\, parents\, friends\, blades of grass—These haiku\, these tiny glimpses of eternity\, remind me to be aware\, to be grateful for all the treasures that surround me. Thank you\, Dr. Blyth! \n  \nIn Poetry and Zen (pp. 6-7\, Shambhala. Kindle Edition)\, Blyth writes about the aim of life\, so I’ll let that be the last word here:  \n  \nThe aim of life\, its only aim\, is to be free. Free of what? Free to do what? Only to be free\, that is all. Free through ourselves\, free through others; free to be sad\, to be in pain; free to grow old and die. This is what our soul desires\, and this freedom it must have; and shall have. \n  \n–Howard Thoresen
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-1-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221120T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221120T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20221115T221641Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221203T083348Z
UID:3424-1668956400-1668963600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  11/20/22
DESCRIPTION:Joy Harjo \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nAt our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering on November 20th\, Katie Radditz\, Martha Ragland\, Elizabeth Domike and I talked about American Indian Authors and Culture. Martha read two poems by Joy Harjo\, who was the 23rd Poet Laureate of the United States\, from 2019-2022. She is a member of the Mvskoke Nation and belongs to Oce Vpofv (Hickory Ground). Here are the poems: \n  \nThis Morning I Pray for My Enemies \n  \nAnd whom do I call my enemy? \nAn enemy must be worthy of engagement. \nI turn in the direction of the sun and keep walking. \nIt’s the heart that asks the question\, not my furious mind. \nThe heart is the smaller cousin of the sun. \nI sees and knows everything. \nIt hears the gnashing even as it hears the blessing. \nThe door to the mind should only open from the heart. \nAn enemy who gets in\, risks the danger of becoming a friend. \n  \nSuicide Watch \n1.\nI was on a train stopped sporadically at checkpoints.\nWhat tribe are you\, what nation\, what race\, what sex\, what unworthy soul? \n2.\nI could not sleep\, because I could not wake up.\nNo mirror could give me back what I wanted. \n3.\nI was given a drug to help me sleep.\nThen another drug to wake up.\nThen a drug was given to me to make me happy.\nThey all made me sadder. \n4.\nDeath will gamble with anyone.\nThere are many fools down here who believe they will win. \n5.\nYou know\, said my teacher\, you can continue to wallow\, or\nYou can stand up here with me in the sunlight and watch the battle. \n6.\nI sat across from a girl whose illness wanted to jump over to me.\nNo! I said\, but not aloud.\nI would have been taken for crazy. \n7.\nWe will always become those we have ever judged or condemned. \n8.\nThis is not mine. It belongs to the soldiers who raped the young women on the Trail of Tears. It belongs to Andrew Jackson. It belongs to the missionaries. It belongs to the thieves of our language. It belongs to the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It no longer belongs to me. \n9.\nI became fascinated by the dance of dragonflies over the river.\nI found myself first there. \n—Joy Harjo \n* \n  \nKatie and Jude both had high praise for Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom\, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer. Katie recommended that we read The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity by David Graeber and David Wengrow. She found this list of “10 Books by Indigenous Authors You Should Read” on the Literary Hub website: \n  \nLouise Erdrich\, The Round House  \nSherman Alexie\, Blasphemy: New and Selected Stories  \nLeslie Marmon Silko\, Ceremony  \nN. Scott Momaday\, House Made of Dawn  \nJames Welch\, Fools Crow  \nJanet Campbell Hale\, The Jailing of Cecelia Capture  \nLinda Hogan\, Mean Spirit  \nWinona LaDuke\, Last Standing Woman  \nPaula Gunn Allen\, The Woman Who Owned the Shadows \n  \nFor descriptions of the books\, click here: \n  \nhttps://lithub.com/10-books-by-indigenous-authors-you-should-read/   \n  \nDave Duncan couldn’t come for Bibliophiles Unanimous!\, but he sent the first two pages from My Indian Boyhood by Chief Luther Standing Bear\, who was the boy Ota K’te (Plenty Kill). He said reading those two pages gave him a better perspective on the issue of sports teams using Indians and Indian themes as their mascots. \n  \nAfter the Zoom\, Jude sent this: \n  \nHappy Thanksgiving\, everyone. I am thankful for all of you! \n  \nI’d like to add The Sentence\, by Louise Erdrich\, to the list of Indigenous authors. I did just get it from the local bookstore and am about 75 pages into it and know it’s going to be great! But the person who recommended it to me told me to be sure and look in the back for the author’s (totally biased) (as she fully acknowledges) lists of favorite books. She divides the (voluminous) list into categories: Indigenous Lives\, Indigenous Poetry\, Sublime Books\, Books for Banned Love\, Ghost-Managing Book List\, Short Perfect Novels\, Incarceration (“The Sentence” has two meanings here)…etc. etc. It is a wonderful list! \n  \nElizabeth shared this prose poem: \n  \nThe White Paws \n  \nThe fox with broken legs has a gift others do not. He removes his paws and they go walking through the woods at night alone. The paws stop to touch pondwater\, to brush a blade of saltgrass. They tap the backs of passing beetles in the dark. At dawn\, they return to the fox\, whispering of rabbits curled in damp caverns\, of green oak leaves and sand. The fox listens carefully; he gleans secrets of the world this way. He learns of the earth without lifting his nose from his long\, broken limbs. Always\, when the paws return they say we missed you\, always he listens. How young\, how simple they seem beside his face which is mottled and pocked. He gentles the paws like children. He hopes when he dies they live on without him. When his bones rattle and shake in wind\, he hopes the paws walk through autumn leaves\, pad softly through newfallen snow. He dreams they will drift across a black lake dappled with rain; that\, above it\, they’ll rise; they’ll glow like four pale moons. \n  \n—Dara Yen Elerath \n  \nKen Margolis wasn’t able to come to the Zoom get together\, but he sent this to me in an email: \n  \nIt was about fifteen years ago\, I guess\, that the Native Arts and Cultures Foundation was founded. I was asked to help set up their operation\, and worked with them on a part time basis for about a year and a half. Joy was on the board\, and was the board member I got closest to. Joy is so attached to the earth\, that if she jumped up\, the earth would follow her. She’s a poet\, singer\, entertainer who is committed to her culture. I went to one of her shows in a tavern in Albuquerque. She told stories reside poems\, chanted\, and pretty soon a band came up\, and it turned into music\, kind of Indian jazz. My impression of Joy is that her life is a work of art. \n* \n  \nI was in Mexico when we Zoomed. I talked about how\, in my view\, the distinction between “Native Americans” and “Mexicans” is an arbitrary one. Mexico is full of Indians! This is too big a subject to go into here\, but another name for most Mexicans (and for most of the people in Central and South America is “Indians” or “Native Americans”—even though many Native Americans south of the Rio Grande speak and write Spanish and Portuguese\, just as many Native Americans north of the Rio Grande speak and write English. (Over a thousand indigenous languages are spoken by the indigenous peoples of the Americas.) \n  \nAfter the Zoom was over\, some other books by and about Native Americans came to my mind including: \n  \nBlack Elk Speaks by John G. Neihardt \nCoyote Was Going There: Indian Literature of the Oregon Country by Jarold Ramsey \nIndian Tales by Jaime de Angulo \nNaked Against the Rain: The People of the Lower Columbia River 1770-1830 by Rick Rubin \nThe Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge by Carlos Castaneda \nIndian Oratory: Famous Speeches by Noted Indian Chieftains compiled by W. C. Vanderwerth \nThe Storyteller by Mario Vargas Llosa \nBury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West by Dee Brown \nIn the Absence of the Sacred by Jerry Mander \nYuuyaraq: The Way of the Human Being by Harold Napolean \n  \nOn the day after Thanksgiving\, which on my calendar is designated Native American Heritage Day\, I went to the library and found Joe Sacco’s book Paying the Land. I checked it out and read it. It’s great. It’s about the Dene people in the Northwest Territories. YOU MUST READ THIS BOOK! \n  \npeace & love \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-11-20-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20221115
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221215
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20221115T214609Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221116T190448Z
UID:3413-1668470400-1671062399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  11/15/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nAtmopadesha Satakam of Narayana Guru \nVerse 5 \n  \nWorldly people\, having slept\,  \nwake and think many thoughts\, \nEver wakefully witnessing all this shines an unlit lamp\, \nPrecious beyond words\, that never fades; \nEver seeing this\, one should go forward. \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nNovember 15\, 2022 \n  \nJohnny and Nancy are taking a break in their Guanajuato casita\, so I am writing to you today from home in Portland.  I love how your contributions of stories and poems have many creatures trotting  through them.  I have just returned from a drive through the middle of Oregon – walking in the Painted Hills\, looking for the Honey Mushroom\, learning some of our devastating past history and how small towns are redeeming some of it by what they save. People were kind\, helpful\, available all along the way.  We waved and sent best wishes as we stopped on the Columbia banks near Two Rivers on the way home.   \n  \nRose this morning\, to such a gorgeous day\, leaves drifting down in a breeze like dry rain drops.  The trees are trying to turn gold and red\, but most are hanging onto summer greens. Even though it was freezing this morning! On my early morning walk\, the lawns and meadows were bright white with frost.   Still in the magic of it\, I sense a sigh of relief in the air too now that voting is over and we are finding a new path forward.    \n  \nThay would have loved to read our newsletter too! Thank you for sharing your practice. In gratitude\, Katie \n  \nA Brief Comment on This Month’s Cover \nAtmopadesha Satakam\, Verse 5 \n  \n(Atmopadesha Satakam or “One Hundred Verses of Self-Instruction” is a wisdom text composed in the late 19th century by Narayana Guru\, a contemplative master of the Advaita Vedanta tradition.) \n  \nWorldly people\, having slept\, wake and think many thoughts; \nEver wakefully witnessing all this shines an unlit lamp\, \nPrecious beyond words\, that never fades; \nEver seeing this\, one should go forward. \n  \nThis is a verse of practical instruction about the rhythm of psychological transformations that all people undergo on a daily basis. Emerging from a deep slumber\, where there is no thought\, we find ourselves either in a dream state\, with its fantastic contents\, or we wake up and encounter a physical world\, one which triggers a stream of related thoughts\, imaginations and memories. Our thoughts come in an endless\, seemingly irresistible flow\, one after the other\, sometimes through association with other thoughts\, and sometimes just “out of the blue”. Our thoughts are pleasurable or painful or neutral\, and they shape our lives for good or ill\, seemingly often without our consent or control. As the Buddha noticed centuries ago in the Dhammapada: “what we are today comes from our thoughts of yesterday…our life is the creation of our mind.”  We experience our thoughts sequentially\, but if we could somehow step back and visualize an entire day’s worth of thoughts\, they might collectively resemble a cloud of birds or school of fish\, with individual perceptions\, conceptions and imaginations sometimes strongly but often barely related with one another. After a period of busy mental activity\, our energy is spent\, sleep eventually returns and the cloud of thoughts subsides. \n  \nNarayana Guru doesn’t say that we should manage or suppress our thoughts or aim to improve them; instead he makes a simple observation: thoughts are objects of a pre-existing self-founded awareness\, without which they could never arise. Here he paints the metaphoric picture of a lamp\, perhaps the kind of hanging oil lamp with cotton wicks familiar to people in South India. The lamp is unlit\, and “never shall go out again”. Interestingly\, light itself is invisible\, as is awareness. The Guru identifies this light\, this awareness\, as the very basis of thought and our fundamental nature. \n  \nThis basic observation can help us recognize that we contain what the Buddhist meditation teacher Chogyam Trungpa called “a source of tremendous sanity”. “Ever seeing this”\, becoming familiar with this truth and cultivating an identity with this simple awareness\, can place our thoughts\, whatever they may be\, in an entirely new and peaceful context. It’s a powerful mode of practice. \n  \n– Andy Larkin \n  \nThe Moth Vote \n  \nNo more streetlights! (Let them all go dark). \nWe will have the moon. The minnow vote: \nNo more herons! We will glitter free. \nRivers agree: Go around the opposition. \nButterflies in solidarity: Don’t pin us down.  \nSkunk’s campaign slogan: It makes scents. \nThe race for top turtle got off to a slow start:  \nEasy does it. In the possum campaign\, scandal \ngot no traction: We all sleep around. Nail-biter? \nCliff-hanger\, dead-heat\, re-count\, run-off? \nThat’s the law of tooth and claw. But in  \nthe end\, mud won by a landslide. \n  \n– Kim Stafford \n  \nThe World Calls to Us \n  \nAn owl cuts wild ascents and swoops against the dusk \nas plaintive hooting rises out of the surrounding woods— \nnight’s denizens alive on our hillside. \nOne evening with light shadowing the Coast Range \na great horned owl stood at the top of a Douglas Fir\, \ncommanding the view—still\, so still—staring at us. \nNo other sounds\, no other birds on the currents\, simply the one owl\, \nan envoy of import speaking clearly. He rose and left\, stately \nand languidly\, only to come later in the same tree with the same call. \nAnother time we heard wings glide through the air\, \nangle lower\, fly closely overhead\, soft underside \ngleaming white\, and disappear silently into the twilight. \nOwls are Athena’s animal\, symbol of haughty wisdom \nlike the goddess herself\, fierce raptors bringing insight \nand the gift of clarity\, however mysterious. \nThey come to warn of deception or lies\, they come \nto prepare us for death\, the great departure\, they come \nas a call to our quickening pulse\, our bowed heads. \n  \n– Debbie Buchanan \n  \nField Notes on Owls \n  \nWe hear the owl call every night – sometimes the Great Horned sometimes the Barred Owl (I like to think of her as the Bard of our neighborhood.) Their hoots are distinctive and it feels like they call good night to us as well as to the creatures they may be hunting.   Because I don’t have a church nearby or a land line phone\, I don’t have a  bell sounding randomly near by. I now like to think of the Owl as the bell\, reminding me to breathe\, to inter-be with all that is inside and out\, and be present to the wonder of being alive in this cosmos.   \n  \nWe also hear the geese day and night calling to one another\, or calling for us to look up\, as they migrate. It makes me wonder about the owls who seem to stay.  Do they migrate? Do they hibernate? What happens to them during the winter? Amazed that I know so little about my neighbors\, I looked up these questions. So a bit of fascinating science:  Owls basically do neither.  Owls have no need to hibernate. Their bodies are uniquely adapted to survive harsh temperatures\, making it easier for them to deal with the cold and even hunt down prey when there’s snow. For the most part\, owls do not have a need to migrate either. They also don’t have the innate instinct to migrate that several bird species have. However\, some species of owls do engage in movement during the winter. \n  \nWhen owls move\, they are moving due to a lack of food in the area and are hunting for more accessible and abundant prey to catch. This behavior is known as irruption.  A new word to me!  I hope you can hear owls where you are and will stop to listen and breathe and be filled with wonder for being alive. \n  \n– Katie Radditz \n  \nPerceiving the Presence: \n  \nThis may be a practice for me to work on\, being open to become aware of the presence of another. The idea expands to develop awareness of the Source of Life in Nature around me\, a more general awareness\, I suspect. . . . .Why or how could any of us human beings\, or any beings anywhere merit the attention\, let alone the presence of the Source of Life; why should any of us “blips” matter?  Yet\, I hope that I\, we – all of us\, do some how\, that it is possible to stand in the Presence. \n  \n(to Michael\,   question of the ages\, contemplation of the sages.  And yet\,  here we are ALIVE and co-creating together\, conscious and mindful.  Per haps we are experiencing this presence right now. Thank you for the ques tion and for your generous letter from which I could only take a portion for  this week. -Katie) \n  \nUp Against the Wall \n  \nWe all hit walls in our lives. Sometimes they seem to rise out of nowhere\, catching us by surprise. And others we “saw” them coming and still ran flat-faced into another wall.  . . . When we stop running we have time to look up and see how vast the starry sky\, the galaxy\, even the universe. Until we do there’s just forward and back\, lost in the darkness\, running. It’s in the stop where all comes clear. It’s in the stop we connect with NOW. It’s in the stop we pause to breathe. . . Look up! Revel in your place. Smile. Be aware. You’re here NOW. Exactly where you need to be. Be here\, now\, fully your self\, in this moment.   \n  \n– Michel Deforge \n  \nSonoran Desert \n  \nLittle lizard curves left\, \neyes leading as he leans \ninto the air\, \nsmells caught \non flickering tongue\, \ntoes twitching. \nMovement ripples \nthrough the ground\, \nlittle lizard\, \ndenizen of desert and stone\, \nhot sand and red cliffs \nstops a moment\, shudders \nand disappears into the chaparral. \n  \n– Debbie Buchanan \n  \nJohnny Writes: \n  \nWe all use the first person pronoun “I” every day. What does it refer to?  \n  \nThe first answer that comes to mind is: “The guy sitting here typing this: Johnny Stallings.” But who or what is Johnny Stallings? And can the “I” refer to something bigger? Here are two entries from Encyclopædia Jonnica: \n  \nJohnny Stallings. A fictional character. As Shakespeare said: “All the world’s a stage\, and all the men and women merely players.” I spend a certain amount of time pretending to be Johnny Stallings. If I don’t\, who will? A lot of the time\, though\, I feel no such responsibility or obligation. \n  \nStillness. Awake and alert\, when thought and language fall away\, a lovely state of serenity ensues\, to which there is no boundary. Indescribable. \n  \nAdvaita Vedantins speak of a universal Self that is the self of everyone. Buddhists say there is no self. Growing up\, as we learn language and create an identity\, we construct a self. Actors mysteriously become all kinds of people from play to play. How do they do that? Does the “I” of “I had an idea” refer to the same thing as the “I” of “I mowed the lawn”? \n\nWalt Whitman has inspired me to imagine what “I” might mean in more fluid ways. Who or what exactly is the self of his great poem “Song of Myself”? Here are some lines to ponder from his poem: \n  \n“I celebrate myself\, and sing myself\, \nAnd what I assume you shall assume\, \nFor every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. [1] \n  \nI am of old and young\, of the foolish as much as the wise…. \nOf every hue and caste am I\, of every rank and religion\, \nA farmer\, mechanic\, artist\, gentleman\, sailor\, quaker\, \nPrisoner\, fancy-man\, rowdy\, lawyer\, physician\, priest. \nI resist any thing better than my own diversity\,   [16] \n  \nIn all people I see myself\, none more and not one a barley-corn less…. \nI know I am deathless…. \nOne world is aware and by far the largest to me\, and that is myself  [20] \n  \nWalt Whitman\, a kosmos…. \nDivine am I inside and out\, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from… \nThis head more than churches\, bibles\, and all the creeds…. \nEach moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy  [24] \n  \nDazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me\, \nIf I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me…. \nEncompass worlds\, but never try to encompass me  [25] \n  \nAll truths wait in all things…. \nI believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps\,    [30] \n  \nI find I incorporate gneiss\, coal\, long-threaded moss\, fruits\, grains\, esculent roots\, \nAnd am stuccoed with quadrupeds and birds all over…. \nIn vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes     [31] \n  \nOver the white and brown buckwheat\, a hummer and buzzer there with the rest…. \nI am the hounded slave…. \nI do not ask the wounded person how he feels\, I myself become the wounded person…. \nI take part\, I see and hear the whole    [33] \n  \nI….Embody all presences outlaw’d or suffering\, \nSee myself in prison shaped like another man…. \nNot a youngster is taken in larceny but I go up too\, and am tried and sentenced. \nNot a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp   [37] \n  \nBehold\, I do not give lectures or a little charity\, \nWhen I give I give myself.   [40] \n  \nImmense have been the preparations for me…. \nCycles ferried my cradle\, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen\, \nFor room to me stars kept aside in their own rings…. \nMy embryo has never been torpid\, nothing could overlay it. \nFor it the nebula cohered to an orb     [44] \n  \nAnd nothing\, not God\, is greater to one than one’s self is…. \nI hear and behold God in every object\, yet understand God not in the least\, \nNor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. \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   [48] \n  \nThere is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me…. \nI do not know it—it is without name—it is not in any dictionary\, utterance\, symbol.   [50] \n  \nDo I contradict myself? \nVery well then I contradict myself\, \n(I am large\, I contain multitudes.)   [51] \n  \nI depart as air\, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun\, \nI effuse my flesh in eddies\, and drift it in lacy jags. \nI bequeath myself to the dirt\, to grow from the grass I love\, \nIf you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”   [52] \n  \nIf Walt Whitman’s I is so variegated and vast—what about yours and mine? \n  \n-“Johnny Stallings” \n  \nA Lion’s Pride \n  \nThe lion asked the leopard\, “May I have a spot?” But the leopard sneered and scoffed\, “Surely I think not!” \nSo the lion went on his way\, his head held high in pride\, looking for acceptance\, with purpose in his stride. \nThe lion then asked Cheetah\, “may I borrow some of your speed?” But the cheetah sped into the distance and ignored the lion’s need. \nThe lion asked Hyena\, “Will you teach me any tricks?” But the hyena only laughed and giggled while licking at his lips. So the lion went on his way again\, his head held high in pride\, looking for acceptance\, with purpose in his stride. \nThe Lion then came to a pool where the other lions drank; he sat down most unhappy to think upon the bank. \nHe looked around while waiting for his anger to subside\, and saw each and every lion brimming full of pride. \nIt was then that Lion rose in the epiphany of thought\, and sped his way through the other lions at a slow but steady trot. \nHe licked his lips and giggled\, while letting out a roar\, for in his pride he found acceptance and was wanting of no more.   \n  \n– Joshua Barnes \n(I wrote my story of the lion to my baby niece and nephew. My first short story poem. Let me know what you think; I’d love the feedback.) \n  \nThe Order of Interbeing \n  \nThich Nhat Hanh’s largest sangha\, that includes all of us practitioners\, is called the Order of Interbeing.   He would like to include the verb Inter-Be into the dictionary so that we can refer to ourselves as interbeings.  We inter-are with everything that is\, a huge but subtle difference from “we are all connected.” It’s expansive and freeing – like a response to Walt Whitman. When I grasp this\, it opens my heart to the beings around me – the lion\, the owl\, the hummer\, the lizard\, the moth.   It can move me from awareness to compassion\, beyond the I that is doing anything.   The following is my favorite writing by Thay\, especially nice to read when you are holding and looking at a piece of paper.  I am picturing you\, poets all\, now wherever you are reading.  \n  \n –  Katie \n   \n“If you are a poet\, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud\, there will be no rain; without rain\, the trees cannot grow; and without trees\, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here\, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. “Interbeing” is a word that is not in the dictionary yet\, but if we combine the prefix “inter-” with the verb “to be\,” we have a new verb\, inter-be. \n  \nIf we look into this sheet of paper even more deeply\, we can see the sunshine in it. If the sunshine is not there\, the forest cannot grow. In fact\, nothing can grow. Even we cannot grow without sunshine. And so\, we know that the sunshine is also in this sheet of paper. The paper and the sunshine inter-are. And if we continue to look\, we can see the logger who cut the tree and brought it to the mill to be transformed into paper. And we see the wheat. We know the logger cannot exist without his daily bread\, and therefore the wheat that became his bread is also in this sheet of paper. And the logger’s father and mother are in it too. When we look in this way\, we see that without all of these things\, this sheet of paper cannot exist. \n  \nLooking even more deeply\, we can see we are in it too. This is not difficult to see\, because when we look at a sheet of paper\, the sheet of paper is part of our perception. Your mind is in here and mine is also. So we can say that everything is in here with this sheet of paper. You cannot point out one thing that is not here-time\, space\, the earth\, the rain\, the minerals in the soil\, the sunshine\, the cloud\, the river\, the heat. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper. That is why I think the word inter-be should be in the dictionary. “To be” is to inter-be. You cannot just be by yourself alone. You have to inter-be with every other thing. This sheet of paper is\, because everything else is. \n  \nSuppose we try to return one of the elements to its source. Suppose we return the sunshine to the sun. Do you think that this sheet of paper will be possible? No\, without sunshine nothing can be. And if we return the logger to his mother\, then we have no sheet of paper either. The fact is that this sheet of paper is made up only of “non-paper elements.” And if we return these non-paper elements to their sources\, then there can be no paper at all. Without “non-paper elements\,” like mind\, logger\, sunshine and so on\, there will be no paper. As thin as this sheet of paper is\, it contains everything in the universe in it.” \n  \n– Thích Nhất Hạnh \n  \nLook Deeply into Your Perceptions \n  \n#154 Thich Nhat Hanh\, Your True Home \n  \n“In most cases\, our perceptions are inaccurate\, and we suffer because we are too sure of them. Look at your perceptions and smile to them. Breathe\, look deeply into their nature\, and you will see that there are many errors in them. For example\, that person you are thinking about has no desire to harm you\, but you think that he does. It is important not to be a victim of your false perceptions. If you are a victim of your false perceptions\, you will suffer a lot. You have to sit down and look at perceptions very calmly. You have to look into the deepest part of their nature in order to detect what is false about them.” \n  \nI must realize that this is a difficult one for me\, because I see that just one or two months ago I wrote about Learning to Release our own Views. Ummm Hmmm. \n  \nDo I ever ‘sit down and look at perceptions very calmly’? Do I ever ‘look into the deepest part of their nature’? The more accurate question would be ‘Do I Listen to and Look more deeply into my (right wing/conservative) neighbor’s perceptions in order to discover flaws in my own perceptions? HOW CAN I? I ask you\, when his comments are constantly peppered with ‘facts’ about 2000 mules\, and massive voter fraud\, and Democratic pedophilia…what does looking deeply into inaccuracies in my own perceptions accomplish? I’m looking squarely at the ‘inaccuracies’ in his perceptions. Sorry\, but that’s the way I see it\, at least in terms of politics. \n  \nFortunately\, I can leave that on the doorstep and appreciate him for being the friendly\, helpful neighbor that he is. We share vegetables and garden tools and advice; he helps us with our interminable irrigation problems; and\, most importantly\, without our feeble requesting\, he regularly clears our driveway of mounds of snow with his massive snowplowing vehicle. \n  \nSo when I look deeply into my perceptions\, I have to admit that my neighbor is a pretty fine person…and that my perceptions are inaccurate. \n  \n– Jude Russell \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-11-15-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221106T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221106T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20221104T233615Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221105T000038Z
UID:3377-1667746800-1667754000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Neruda\, Mistral\, García Márquez\, et cetera 11/6/22
DESCRIPTION:Gabriel García Márquez \n  \n  \n \nGabriela Mistral \n  \n \nPablo Neruda \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nOn Sunday\, November 6th\, at 3 pm (PST)\, our topic will be: Neruda\, Mistral\, García Márquez\, et cetera. We’ll talk about our favorite Spanish language authors\, including these three Nobel Prize winners\, read poems\, and so on. \n  \nHere’s the link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \nI hope to see you there!  \n  \npaz\, amor y felicidad  \nJuanito en Guanajuato
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-neruda-mistral-garcia-marquez-et-cetera-11-6-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20221015
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221115
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CREATED:20221016T014814Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20221016T020439Z
UID:3346-1665792000-1668470399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  10/15/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nOctober 15\, 2020 \n  \nWhy the Beach? \n  \nHalf the horizon is ancient: no wires\, no roads\, no \ndevelopment. Maybe a boat out there tracing lonesome. \nWaves make a roar\, a whisper\, a heartbeat. People \nare here to be here. They walk barefoot\, like children. \nChildren run wild. Weather rules it all. Something \nbigger is in charge of you. And every night\, she \nreasserts her sovereignty. And every night\, she \ncleans up. Yesterday’s tracks are gone\, even \nthe dance of a dog’s joy. Lots of soaring goes on— \ngulls\, crows\, pelicans\, maybe a kite\, maybe your gaze\, \nyour spirit spiraling the sky. Each day an old man \nwalks to pick up litter. Each day an old woman walks \nto find the perfect stone. You can walk without a plan. \nYou can sing the wind. You can cry in peace. You can \nremember being small. You can be small beside immensity. \nYou can be the simple you. When you said\, “I’m \ngoing to the beach\,” no one said\, “Why?” \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \n#321  Be There For Breakfast \n  \n“”When you eat your breakfast\, even if it is just a small bite early in the morning\, eat in such a way that freedom is possible While eating breakfast\, don’t think of the future\, of what you are going to do. Your practice is to simply eat breakfast. Your breakfast is there for you; you have to be there for your breakfast. You can chew each morsel of food with joy and freedom.”  Thich Nhat Hanh (from Your True Home) \n  \nA few years ago I was hiking with several women friends\, and they were talking about a streamlined new model of a Vitamix blender/food processor. “You can put anything in there to make a breakfast smoothie\,” they said. “Kale\, arugula\, garlic\, blueberries\, yogurt\, zucchini\, ice cream…you name it. All these good -for-you foods blended so you can’t taste a thing except something like a sort of vanilla milkshake flavor. Better yet\, you can just drink it down in a minute and be out the door!” \n  \nI thought about that for a minute\, kind of confused\, and said\, “But I like to CHEW my food!” And it’s true; I love the squish of blueberries and the crunch of an almond and the squeeze of a raisin and the creamy splash of almond milk — well\, you get the picture.  \n  \nPlus it’s about fifteen minutes of time when I don’t have to do anything except eat food. Nor do I do much talking to my husband when I am eating breakfast\, because that can totally suck away my concentration\, my attention to that luscious bowl of cereal and fruit and nuts. \n  \nI might have trouble paying attention to a number of other things in life\, but paying attention to breakfast is not one of them. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nI love Thomas Traherne. I often start my day by reading his poems and meditations. Here are a couple of his meditations: \n  \n48  \nLove is so divine and perfect a thing\, that it is worthy to be the very end and being of the Deity. It is His goodness\, and it is His glory. We therefore so vastly delight in Love\, because all these excellencies and all other whatsoever lie within it. By Loving a Soul does propagate and beget itself. By Loving it does dilate and magnify itself. By Loving it does enlarge and delight itself. By Loving also it delighteth others\, as by Loving it doth honor and enrich itself. But above all by Loving it does attain itself. Love also being the end of Souls\, which are never perfect till they are in act what they are in power. They were made to love\, and are dark and vain and comfortless till they do it. Till they love they are idle\, or mis-employed. Till they love they are desolate; without their objects\, and narrow and little\, and dishonorable: but when they shine by Love upon all objects\, they are accompanied with them and enlightened by them. Till we become therefore all Act as God is\, we can never rest\, nor ever be satisfied.  \n  \n49  \nLove is so noble that it enjoyeth others’ enjoyments\, delighteth in giving all unto its object\, and in seeing all given to its object. So that whosoever loveth all mankind\, he enjoyeth all the goodness of God to the whole world: and endeavoreth the benefit of Kingdoms and Ages\, with all whom He is present by Love\, which is the best manner of presence that is possible.  \n  \n(from Centuries of Meditations\, Second Century) \n  \npeace\, love & happiness to y’all \n—Johnny \n* \n  \nLife is amazing. And then it’s awful. \nAnd then it’s amazing again. And \nin between the amazing and the awful \nit’s ordinary and mundane and routine. \nBreathe in the amazing\, hold on through \nthe awful\, and relax and exhale during \nthe ordinary. That’s just living \nheart-breaking\, soul-healing\, amazing\, \nawful\, ordinary life. And it’s \nbreathtakingly beautiful. \n  \n—LR Knost\, from The Idealist Facebook page\, sent by Jason Beito \n* \n  \nAshes and mist\, \nMemories and smiles\, \nTears. \nUnexpected joy\, \nAcceptance and fate \nFulfilled. \nSo much gained\, \nout of a life lost\, \nUnderstanding. \nGood times echo\, \nBad times too\, \nTogetherness. \nThe love we all \nHave\, \nIs never ending\, \nIt has no boundaries\, \nAnd if there are boundaries\, \nLove breaks them all. \n  \nLove you mom. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nHere are some excerpts from Michel Deforge’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to meditations in Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. \n  \nSeptember 5\, 2022  #353  Why Hurry to the Grave? \n  \nThis is a curious question. I wonder…how many of us are hurrying towards the final conclusion? It’s kind of a cop-out—to run pell mell ahead towards an obvious end. Some cheat and check out early. Some live life at an aggressive pace\, most failing to participate in the few brief precious moments as they fly by. It’s almost as if they are in a hurry to find out what’s next. Which would be great\, except for one thing. No one has reliably and credibly done so and revealed what is the next step after death. So\, why hurry? \n  \nMore importantly: why not slow down and enjoy the moments we have NOW? Is it not in our best interest to not only live a rich\, textured\, deeply rewarding life\, one where it is possible to savor each moment\, instead of scratching our noggins wondering\, “What just happened? Was I there?” It is certainly possible to live robustly and not have clue one what going on\, or why. Many do this\, or hope/believe they do. I propose that the age-old addage “stop and smell the roses” was coined by one who realized life was warping past him and\, somehow\, this was the cause of life’s dissatisfaction. For a moment\, maybe\, he did settle and renewed his energy\, vitality\, spirit\, inner self/being. We too can do this with mindfulness practices—simply focusing on the relaxing act of breathing and allowing awareness to expand and welcome everything. \n  \nSeptember 7\, 2022  #355 Your Suffering Needs You \n  \nThây aks us to think of suffering as a pet\, one needing attention. I like this. Wouldn’t any compassionate being attend to the needs of an animal (pet) which could not attend to its own needs? Of course. Look at all the people up in arms about having pets (and children) unattended in hot summer cars (ovens). I think it’s possible to do better for our own suffering. I’ve seen lately\, having created anxiety for myself over an aversion I developed\, that suffering is self-imposed. No one creates suffering for me. Suffering occurs as part of my response to events\, regardless of who initiated the events. Suffering is merely a state of mind—one way of seeing events unfold\, never as they are. Suffering is self-inflicted\, by choice. (Active or passive\, known or unknown.) We can end it any time with a different choice. \n  \nBut\, Thây here is asking us to “take care of” self. It’s more than your suffering that needs attending. We also have bodies\, minds\, sensations\, emotions: these all will benefit from attention and compassionate treatment. It is so very easy to get tied up chasing life experiences that a time out to care for mind and body are either neglected entirely\, or provided only cursory attention to resolve immediate needs. For example\, a “quick shower\,” a “brief meditation\,” a “hasty meal. I’m not suggesting that we always drop everything (frequently) and take a “spa day.” Yet…what would it hurt to have a regular mindfulness practice of more than 5-15 minutes? Or\, to plan a soothing hot shower\, maybe after a rigorous physical exertion. (We don’t have bathing tubs or I’d suggest a long hot soak!) A mindfulness practice is not just the time spent sitting on a cushion in meditation practice—it’s more than this. I see an opportunity to bring awareness (even if informally) to any thing I do…. \n  \nSeptember 8\, 2022  #356  The Buddha’s Highest Teaching \n  \nThis is an idea for which I have little to say. Maybe that’s good. In the end\, each of us must find our own way. Whatever path (or stage of the same one) we are on\, it is the personal decision that commits to and follows the path. Our only certainty is that\, at some future point\, the road will end for each of us\, or we’ll transition to another “plane” to continue our journey—no one really knows. \n  \nPain\, although unpleasant at the time\, is important. It reminds us to be present NOW. Nothing keeps me focused on the present like pain. If I don’t attend to NOW\, looking ahead or behind too much\, pain will happen and bring me back to this. Pain—temporary discomfort to sharp\, searing\, stabbing fire—is only temporary. The challenge I faced this past operation [for a hip replacement] is to welcome pain as the friend it is\, instead of an enemy to be feared. Pain reminded me to breathe. It was a stream I had to pass (wade) through—one which I could not go around. The only way is through\, with breathing. \n  \nPain is our teacher\, providing experiences of what to do/not do—essentially teaching each of us attentiveness to NOW. Some lessons are unavoidable. They make us more resilient when other pains arrive. Still\, it’s: “Just breathe!” That’s the solution. Pray\, chant mantra\, meditate\, exercise\, move with purpose and extreme focus—be in the “flow”—all of this in preparation for attention to NOW. When I lose my NOW-focus\, pain isn’t far behind to bring me back home. Maybe that’s Thây’s\, or the Buddha’s\, point: we’re never too far away that we can’t get back with a breath or two. \n  \nSeptember 9\, 2022  The Simple Act of Walking \n  \nI’ve oft heard others grouse that “back in the olde days” life was more…(whatever they miss). But what if what we miss is the relaxed pace of life? The solution is simple—become a Luddite! No! Walk! \n  \nAs one who recently was restored to the gift of walking\, relatively pain-free—(my second surgery now looms)—I realize I forgot how wonderful walking can be. Although I am limited to a 1/16 mile concrete track/walkway—(check TRCI out at Google Earth)—being able to walk for any length of time is a treat. Now I can stroll\, or meander\, get some exercise\, or just stand outside and breathe…. \n  \nWalking takes time. As a result\, life operates at a slower pace. Yet we yearn for this pace. \n  \nThe solution is easy: Walk more! Make it a choice\, preferably a happy one. Revel in your ability to stroll\, promenade\, wander\, roam. Breathe. Smile. Be aware of your surroundings. And above all\, enjoy a walk! Do it for me!! \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nOctober 10\, 2022 \n  \nToday is the recognition and celebration of Native Americans\, known now as Indigenous People’s Day. This is only the second year our state has officially designated the second Monday in October for this holiday. It is not only an honoring of Native American’s past but a pause for the present and future generations suffering from loss of lives and language and culture and years of institutional oppression. \n  \nDriving out to Two Rivers has become a meditation for me on the presence of these ancestors and those still here struggling. The Columbia River and the expanse of the Gorge time-worn hills has a way of making my heart and mind expand with spaciousness. Passing through Celilo and Umatilla and further on toward Joseph or Warm Springs we know so many stories and become affected once again by their stories. Their present story is more than casinos or being devastated by past trauma. Oregon has many Indigenous communities across the state; it is home to nine federally recognized tribes\, mostly confederated which include many tribes. Native organizations and communities now partner with their own voices and their own leaders\, with a variety of cultural centers from universities to Arts Councils. \n  \nAs part of our mindfulness community\, we can share a sacred practice in the Buddhist tradition\, called Touching the Earth. Its focus is on spiritual awareness\, recognizing and connecting with our ancestors of our blood family\, our spiritual family\, and our ancestors of this land. \n  \nHere are Thay’s words for touching our ancestors of this place we live. To begin\, you might want to make an altar with something from your blood ancestors or spiritual ancestors\, and something from the earth. Take a few breaths in and out. Feel your feet\, or your whole body lying down—supported by the Earth. Feel the spaciousness of your mind and heart\, as we practice for our own understanding of interbeing and for peace for all beings. \n  \nFrom Thich Nhat Hanh’s book\, Creating True Peace: \n  \n“In gratitude\, I bow to this land and all of the ancestors who made it available.” \n  \n(Sound a bell if you have something at hand\, or maybe hum a deep tune\, then touch the earth.) \n  \n“I see that I am whole\, protected\, and nourished by this land and all of the living beings who have been here and made life easy and possible for me through all their efforts. I see Chief Seattle\, Dorothy Day\, Cesar Chavez\, Martin Luther King\, Jr.\, and all the others known and unknown. I see all those who have made this country a refuge for people of so many origins and colors\, by their talent\, perseverance\, and love—those who have worked hard to build schools\, hospitals\, bridges\, and roads\, to protect human rights\, to develop science and technology\, and to fight for freedom and social justice. I see myself touching my ancestors of Native American origin who have lived on this land for such a long time and known the ways to live in peace and harmony with nature\, protecting the mountains\, forests\, animals\, vegetation\, and minerals of this land. I feel the energy of this land penetrating my body and soul\, supporting and accepting me. I vow to cultivate and maintain this energy and transmit it to future generations. I vow to contribute my part in transforming the violence\, hate\, and delusion that still lie deep in the collective consciousness of this society so that future generations will have more safety\, joy\, and peace. I ask this land for its protection and support.” \n  \nThank you for your practice and may we become more Native to this place as our Mindfulness evolves\, \n  \nwith love\, \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nPrayer For the Great Family \n  \nGratitude to Mother Earth\, sailing through night and day– \n  and to her soil: rich\, rare and sweet \n    in our minds so be it. \n  \nGratitude to Plants\, the sun-facing light-changing leaf \n  and fine root hairs: standing still through wind \n  and rain; their dance is in the flowing spiral grain \n    in our minds so be it. \n  \nGratitude to Air\, bearing the soaring Swift and the silent \n  Owl at dawn. Breath of our song \n  clear spirit breeze \n    in our minds so be it. \n  \nGratitude to Wild Beings\, our brothers\, teaching secrets\, \n  freedoms and ways; who share with us their milk; \n  self- complete\, brave\, and aware \n    in our minds so be it. \n  \nGratitude to Water: clouds\, lakes\, rivers\, glaciers; \n  holding or releasing; streaming through all \n  all bodies salty seas \n    in our minds so be it. \n  \nGratitude to the Sun: blinding pulsing light through \n  trunks of trees\, through mists\, warming caves where \n  bears and snakes sleep–he who wakes us– \n    in our minds so be it. \n  \nGratitude to the Great Sky \n  who holds billions of stars–and goes yet beyond that– \n  beyond all powers\, and thoughts \n  and yet is within us– \n  Grandfather Space \n  The Mind is his Wife. \n    so be it. \n                      \n                         after a Mohawk prayer. \n  \n—Gary Snyder (sent by Jeffrey Sher) \n  \nI have always experienced this poem as a meditation though I do not have a formal practice. The sense of gratitude pervades my life: I look out my kitchen window and witness a hummingbird feeding on the last of the hot lips salvia and am filled with awe and gratitude. Taking a shower and having the luxury of clean hot water and once again I feel a deep sense gratitude. I think of the wonderful friends I have been fortunate to have over the years and am flooded with gratitude. There are so many moments in life that are worthy of a moment’s reflection upon how fortunate most of us are. Gratitude is the response to the gift we have been given. \n  \n—Jeffrey Sher
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-10-15-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221009T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20221009T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220928T164041Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220928T164617Z
UID:3292-1665327600-1665334800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  10/9/22
DESCRIPTION:Emily Dickinson \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nOn Sunday\, October 9th\, at 3 pm\, we will gather together on Zoom once again to enjoy MORE POETRY. Bring some poems that you would like to read. \n  \nHere’s the link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there!  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness   \nJohnny \n  \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-10-9-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20221006
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221103
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20221006T184015Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T131941Z
UID:3312-1665014400-1667433599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  10/6/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nOctober 6\, 2022 \n  \nAmanda Waldroupe gave permission to reprint this article that was published by The Guardian (theguardian.com/us) on September 28\, 2022. \n  \nThe story of one US governor’s historic use of clemency: ‘We are a nation of second chances’ \nAmanda Waldroupe \n  \nLast October\, Kate Brown\, the governor of Oregon\, signed an executive order granting clemency to 73 people who had committed crimes as juveniles\, clearing a path for them to apply for parole. \nThe move marked the high point in a remarkable arc: as Brown approaches the end of her second term in January\, she has granted commutations or pardons to 1\,147 people – more than all of Oregon’s governors from the last 50 years combined. \nThe story of clemency in Oregon is one of major societal developments colliding: the pressure the Covid-19 pandemic put on the prison system and growing momentum for criminal justice reform. \nIt’s also a story of a governor’s personal convictions and how she came to embrace clemency as a tool for criminal justice reform and as an act of grace\, exercising the belief that compassionate mercy and ensuring public safety are not mutually exclusive. \n“If you are confident that you can keep people safe\, you’ve given victims the opportunity to have their voices heard and made sure their concerns are addressed\, and individuals have gone through an extensive amount of rehabilitation and shown accountability\, what is the point of continuing to incarcerate someone\, other than retribution?” Brown said in a June interview. \nNotable clemency acts \nWhen Brown\, a Democrat\, became governor in Oregon in 2015\, she received the power of executive clemency – an umbrella term referring to the ability of American governors and the president to grant mercy to criminal defendants. Clemency includes pardons\, which fully forgive someone who has committed a crime; commutations\, which change prison sentences\, often resulting in early release; reprieves\, which pause punishment; and eliminating court-related fines and fees. \nDuring the early months of the Covid-19 pandemic\, Brown was one of 18 governors across the US who used clemency to quickly reduce prison populations in the hopes of curbing virus transmission. \nShe approved the early release of 963 people who had committed nonviolent crimes and met six additional criteria – not enough\, according to estimates by the state’s department of corrections\, to enable physical distancing\, and far less than California\, which released about 5\,300 people\, and New Jersey\, which released 40% of its prison population. \nBut Brown’s clemency acts stand out in other ways. Brown removed one year from the sentences of 41 prisoners who worked as firefighters during the 2020 wildfire season\, the most destructive in Oregon history. \nShe has pardoned 63 people. Most notably\, she has commuted the sentences of 144 people convicted of crimes as serious as murder\, yet have demonstrated “extraordinary evidence of rehabilitation”. \nDemocratic and Republican governors in North Carolina\, Louisiana\, Missouri\, Kansas and Ohio have granted clemency for similar reasons. Yet Brown’s numbers are among the highest in the US\, and the impact of her decisions are profound: Oregon’s prison population declined for the first time since the passage of the state’s Measure 11 mandatory minimum sentencing law in 1994. \nMeasure 11 codified mandatory sentences for 16 violent crimes\, required juveniles over the age of 15 charged with those crimes to be tried as adults\, and ended earned time. Since its passage\, Oregon’s prison population tripled to nearly 15\,000 people and three new prisons were built. \nBrown also stands out for who she grants clemency to. Forty per cent of Brown’s commutations are Black\, in response to Black Oregonians being incarcerated at a rate five times higher than their share of the state’s population. Nearly two dozen other clemency recipients were convicted as juveniles. Many were sentenced to life without parole and other lengthy sentences. \n‘Eradicating racism and colonialism’ \nBrown’s acts reflect the governor’s values and beliefs. She accepts research in adolescent development showing people are not fully mature until their mid-20s. She was the first Oregon governor to visit the state’s women’s prison. She believes people are not defined by their worst acts and are capable of redemption. “We are a nation of second chances\,” she said. \nA voracious reader\, she cited books such as Just Mercy\, The New Jim Crow\, The Other Wes Moore\, and Picking Cotton as influences. Before holding elected office\, Brown worked as a lawyer representing families and children in the foster care system\, as well as people who violated their parole. She says she has always opposed Measure 11 as “a one-size-fits-all approach” that eliminated a judge’s ability to consider “facts and underlying circumstances of individual cases”. \nGeorge Floyd’s murder in May 2020 further galvanized her in “eradicating racism and colonialism” in Oregon\, she said. (The state’s first constitution made it illegal for Black people to live on or own property in Oregon.) \nBrown’s use of clemency is “well within established tradition”\, said Rachel Barkow\, a professor at NYU School of Law and an expert on clemency. \nThe use of clemency has been virtually non-existent since the “tough on crime” movement began in the 1980s\, coinciding with Willie Horton committing rape while on furlough. \nBut for much of history\, presidents and governors regularly used clemency. Governors cited a prisoner’s “exceptional rehabilitation” or\, in exposing wrongful convictions\, listed witness recantation\, flawed evidence and police misconduct. “For one abuse of the pardon power\,” a 1911 Colorado Board of Pardon report noted\, “there are a thousand abuses of the convicting power.” \nAlexander Hamilton argued in The Federalist Papers that clemency is a necessary check on a justice system capable of leveling excessive punishment. Without clemency\, he argued\, “justice would wear a countenance too sanguinary and cruel”. \nThe push to curb Covid-19 via clemency eclipsed another\, growing movement. In August 2020\, the American Civil Liberties Union launched a campaign urging governors to use clemency as a “corrective tool” to mass incarceration. \n‘We’ve educated her’ \nBrown slowly became emboldened due to the work of a progressive lawyer and the legal clinic she directs. \nAliza Kaplan\, a lawyer and professor of lawyering at Lewis & Clark Law School\, founded the Criminal Justice Reform Clinic in 2015 to provide pro bono legal services to criminal defendants. By then\, Kaplan was well-known in criminal justice circles for co-founding the New England Innocence Project and working as the deputy director of the National Innocence Project. In 2011\, she moved to Oregon to join Lewis & Clark. Within years\, in addition to starting the clinic\, she helped launch an innocence project\, an organization challenging bad forensic evidence\, and another within the public defender’s office assisting people after their incarceration. \n“I don’t want to live in a world where we can’t believe people change and redemption isn’t possible\,” Kaplan said. “That’s too cruel of a world for me.” \nThe clinic launched its clemency project in 2016. Knowing Brown’s legal background\, Kaplan and Venetia Mayhew\, the project’s first staff attorney\, decided that the first applicants would be women\, people convicted as juveniles\, and those convicted of violent crimes and serving long prison sentences – people who\, Kaplan said\, “committed horrible crimes but have transformed”. \nMayhew interviewed clients at Oregon’s prisons\, wrote applications and oversaw clinic students assigned to applications. Clients “understood they had to talk about the crime and what they are most ashamed of”\, Mayhew said. “It was all about building trust. I spent time with them\, got to know them.” At the same time\, Kaplan took members of Brown’s staff to Oregon’s prisons to meet clients and other prisoners. \nThe clinic’s applications are unique. They are narratives\, drawn from interviews\, trial records\, police reports\, and prison records\, telling the story of a client’s life from childhood up to the crime\, their trial\, incarceration and work to change. “It’s not about blaming their history or background\, it’s part of understanding who they are\,” Kaplan said. “The legal system leaves out a lot of the personal stuff.” The applications include photos\, the applicant’s résumé\, and letters from family\, friends\, correction officers\, employers and volunteers. \nThe clinic’s early efforts were hit or miss. During her first three years in office\, Brown granted two pardons and one commutation. “It was heartbreaking\,” Mayhew remembered. “I felt like a snake oil salesman\, peddling hope.” \nIn 2018\, Brown’s numbers ticked up: she granted three commutations to people convicted as juveniles. \nIn 2019\, Kaplan and Mayhew published an article built from Mayhew’s research of every Oregon governor’s clemency acts\, proving clemency was not rare: governors regularly released up to a third of Oregon’s prison population\, recognized rehabilitation and corrected wrongful convictions. \nThat year\, Brown commuted a murder conviction for the first time\, in the case of a woman sentenced to a mandatory minimum of 25 years\, a sentence both the judge and prosecutor thought too harsh. \nAfter that\, Brown’s clemency numbers shot up: in 2020\, she granted 65 pardons and commutations; in 2021\, she granted 36. \nBrown approves approximately 7% of the applications her office receives. The clinic’s success rate is far higher: 45 of 179 applications have been approved (an additional 116 are pending; 18 have been denied). \nEach application tells an individual story. Collectively\, they exposed systemic inequities: of people who were exposed to drugs as children\, endured child abuse\, neglect and sexual abuse\, or became inescapably entrenched in gangs. \n“We’ve educated her\,” Kaplan reflected. “But she already had it in her.” \nMaking the world a better place \nOver time\, Brown and her legal counsel have created a six-month process to winnow out all but the 10% of applications that reach Brown’s desk. \nBrown’s decisions\, she said\, do not result from satisfying a checklist\, but a “totality of circumstances”. Applicants’ expressions of accountability and remorse are critical. “It’s not just ‘I understand\, and I regret\, and I feel remorse’\,” Brown said. “How is that lived? What are the actions to show that?” \nShe values a “lifetime commitment” to community service\, inspired by her mother’s decades of volunteering for the American Cancer Society. It is proof applicants “understand what they have done and are committed to making the world a better place”\, Brown argued. \nBrown also gives a lot of weight to applicants’ plans post-release. \n“They want him to succeed if she grants it\,” Kaplan said. Kaplan spoke via telephone with a clinic alumna\, now working as a public defender\, on an early June afternoon. Brown’s counsel requested a more detailed release plan – a strong sign the application is moving forward. \nThe application was open on Kaplan’s laptop. Beyond her laptop\, taped to a window in her office\, a piece of paper reads “Imagine”. Another\, at her office entrance\, says “Empathy”. \nLeaning forward toward the phone\, Kaplan rattled off potential questions: family he could live with\, jobs he wants to apply for\, exercise. “The more detail\, the more we can show what his life could be like\,” she said. \nA release plan\, submitted in July\, included information about plans to join a gym to work out and play pickup basketball games for stress relief\, living with two relatives\, and applying for jobs at a nearby ferry. \nIf the application makes it to Brown’s desk\, it will receive thorough consideration. She is known to read the applications carefully. “They’re incredibly extensive\,” the governor said. \n“How do you plan to deal with your sobriety?” Brown said at an interview with one of the clinic’s clients in 2020. “What kind of job do you want to get?” \nWhen the interview ended\, Brown granted the client clemency. \nEveryone present began crying\, Kaplan remembered. \nInspiring hope \nBrown says her clemency acts are “part and parcel” of recent criminal justice reforms in Oregon. \nIn 2020\, Brown supported the end of non-unanimous jury decisions in criminal cases when she signed on to a brief\, written by Kaplan\, urging such a move in the US supreme court case Ramos v Louisiana. In doing so\, she opposed her own state justice department. (Oregon and Louisiana were the two states left using such juries\, which convict criminal defendants without a unanimous vote and have racist origins.) \nIn recent years\, the Oregon legislature passed laws redefining aggravated murder and restricting death penalty eligibility\, broadening expungement and allowing district attorneys and defendants to petition to change a prison sentence. \nIn 2019\, legislation gutting Measure 11’s provisions relating to juvenile offenders passed\, in recognition of supreme court rulings\, based on decades of research in adolescent development\, ending harsh sentences for people under 18. \nBrown made that law retroactive when\, last October\, she signed the executive order commuting the sentences of 73 juvenile offenders. They “are capable of tremendous transformation”\, Brown wrote\, citing research in adolescent development. \nIt wasn’t the first time clemency was used to make a law retroactive: in 1974\, the legislature passed a new criminal code\, and the then-governor\, Tom McCall\, commuted the sentences of 48 people to prevent “disparity” and “unequal treatment”. \nBrown’s executive order prompted a firestorm of media coverage. The fiercest response came from Kevin Mannix\, a lawyer\, former Republican state legislator\, and author of Measure 11. Representing two district attorneys and three crime victims\, Mannix sued Brown in January\, attempting to overturn the group commutations related to Covid-19\, the firefighters and the executive order. \n“The governor is not the super legislature\,” Mannix argued in a June interview. He said the “process” dictates the governor not “decide on a broad brush”\, and that “the victim is heard and the district attorney is heard”. \nMannix thinks “there may be individual cases” where prisoners show rehabilitation. “I don’t want to say no one is capable of rehabilitation\,” he said. But those convicted of violent crimes\, he believes\, should be “incapacitated” and “taken off the streets”. \nThe lawsuit and local media coverage galvanized criticism from district attorneys that Brown’s decisions lack transparency and that she is disregarding crime victims. State law requires district attorneys to keep victims apprised of defendants’ appeals\, as well as submit statements to the governor’s office in response to clemency applications. \nBrown has acknowledged victims of violent crime are “traumatized – sometimes violently and irreparably”. Her office recently hired a victim’s advocate to work directly with victims. Her clemency reports also reveal that not all victims oppose clemency: some are neutral\, while others are supportive. Victims opposed to clemency “have been given more attention in the press”\, said Mary Zinkin\, founder and executive director of the Portland-based Center for Trauma Support Services. “They do not represent all crime survivors.” \nDue to the controversy\, Kaplan and Mayhew regularly receive hate mail. Soon afterward\, Kaplan received a thank you card signed by the dozens of inmates at a men’s prison. Kaplan and her colleagues\, one wrote\, “is inspiring a lot of hope inside these walls”. \n‘Prison cleaned me up’ \nBrown’s office has received more than 2\,100 clemency applications since 2020 –100 times more than five years ago. \nIn January\, Kaplan and her students wrote a “step-by-step guide” to clemency that circulates in the prisons. And there are more lawyers than ever telling their stories; clemency is now a major part of pro bono work at four large law firms\, and more than a half-dozen lawyers – graduates of Lewis & Clark or mentored by Mayhew\, now in private practice – represent dozens of clemency cases. \n“People just see that word ‘murderer’\,” said Patty Butterfield. “But did that person [Brown] is letting out change their life in prison? Did they clean up their act?” \nButterfield received clemency in April 2020. Butterfield was 74 years old – one of the oldest people in Oregon’s prison system. She had served 23 years for shooting her abusive boyfriend during a fight\, injuries which later killed him. \nIn prison\, she maintained a spotless disciplinary record and became a mother figure to younger female prisoners. “I changed my life\,” Butterfield said. “Prison cleaned me up\, gave me a sense of worth again.” \nShe began crying as she recalled Mayhew calling to tell her she had been granted clemency. She now lives in central California with friends\, who have given her free rein of the garden. “I love doing yard work here\,” she said. \nIn March\, a county judge upheld Brown’s Covid-19 and firefighter commutations but halted the parole hearings for the juvenile offenders. Brown appealed\, the Oregon court of appeals heard oral argument in June\, and\, in early August\, issued a 44-page opinion entirely rejecting Mannix’s case. Mannix has asked the Oregon supreme court to review the decision. The court has not yet indicated whether it will. \nThe recent controversy does not dissuade Brown\, who leaves office in January\, from continuing to grant clemency. She said: “I have the ability to make these decisions” – just like all governors before her.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-10-6-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220925
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221009
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220923T163859Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220929T203306Z
UID:3261-1664064000-1665273599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: POETRY  9/25/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n \npoem written and engraved by William Blake\, from “Songs of Innocence” \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nOn September 25th we read poems to each other via Zoom. Here are some of the poems we read: \n  \nMartha read this poem  by Andrea Hollander: \n  \nOverture   \n Portland\, Oregon\, February 2012   \n  \nSo I stepped off the streetcar   \nand walked to the bus stop\,   \nmarveling at the city around me\,   \nand at the young woman I could never be   \nstanding as if beautiful   \nwith her tattooed neck   \nand metal studs through her nose and ears\,   \nand actually she was beautiful\,   \nsinging a familiar tune\, its notes of grace   \nfilling the space between the two of us\,   \nand suddenly too a limping man   \nwith his cardboard WILL-WORK-FOR-FOOD sign   \nlike the title of a poem and not his life\,   \nbut who was he then\,   \nbecause he began to hum\, and the woman\,   \nteeth not yellow like his\, smiling at him\,  \n reached into the breast pocket   \nof her denim jacket while she sang\,   \nand fluttered a five-dollar bill toward him   \nlike some butterfly\, which reminded me   \nof my mother\, who sang on the bed of her death   \nas if song could keep her alive\, or maybe   \nit was I who imagined this\, a prayer   \nnot for the dead but from the dying\,   \nmy mother in her purple gown   \nsinging as if Death were not the name   \nof anything\, but part of an overture\,   \nher brown eyes earnest like those   \nof the woman at the bus stop in my new city   \nwhere I did not yet know who I would become   \nbut now it seemed I was at least a singer   \nat a bus stop\, for my own voice joined in   \nwithout my permission and the three of us hovered   \nin the mellifluous air on the darkening sidewalk   \nas the bus came to us and lifted us   \ntogether and away.   \n  \n—Andrea Hollander \n* \n  \nJude read a poem by Vern Rutsala and some Autumn-themed haikus: \n  \nThe Fat Man \n  \nI call everyone  \nshriveled. Dried apples \nfit for cellars\, \nnothing more. \nThey have no folds\, \nNo flesh to touch— \nGangling reminders \nof the grave. \n  \n Existence melts \nin my mouth. \nI relish\, I taste \nthe sweet jams of life; \nI gorge and worship \nthe place of love: \nall kitchens everywhere. \n  \n Diet is sin: \nan effort \nto turn limbs \nto razors that slice \na lover’s hands. \nRight angles \npierce my eye; \nI love the arc \nsoft ovals\, the curve— \nthings molded \nto be touched\, \nthe soothers of sight. \n  \n I feel at least  \nten souls \nswimming in my flesh\,  \nI feed them  \nwith both hands. \nSomeday \nI will become  \na mountain. \nI eat the world. \n  \n–Vern Rutsala \n* \nThe Boddhisattva’s Necklace \n  \nWhen from the moor the autumn mists have fled\, \nA spider’s web holds dew on every thread. \n  \n–Hakuyu \n  \nInspiration  \n  \nThe autumn wind: leaves patterning the air; \nAnd for the poet\, haiku everywhere. \n  \n–Kyoshi \n  \nSacrilege  \n  \nBefore this perfect white inviolate \nChrysanthemum—the scissors hesitate. \n  \n–Buson  \n* \n  \nElizabeth read this poem by Margaret Atwood: \n  \nThe Loneliness of the Military Historian \n  \nConfess: it’s my profession \nthat alarms you. \nThis is why few people ask me to dinner\, \nthough Lord knows I don’t go out of my way to be scary. \nI wear dresses of sensible cut \nand unalarming shades of beige\, \nI smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser’s: \nno prophetess mane of mine\, \ncomplete with snakes\, will frighten the youngsters. \nIf I roll my eyes and mutter\, \nif I clutch at my heart and scream in horror \nlike a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene\, \nI do it in private and nobody sees \nbut the bathroom mirror. \n  \nIn general I might agree with you: \nwomen should not contemplate war\, \nshould not weigh tactics impartially\, \nor evade the word enemy\, \nor view both sides and denounce nothing. \nWomen should march for peace\, \nor hand out white feathers to arouse bravery\, \nspit themselves on bayonets \nto protect their babies\, \nwhose skulls will be split anyway\, \nor\, having been raped repeatedly\, \nhang themselves with their own hair. \nThese are the functions that inspire general comfort. \nThat\, and the knitting of socks for the troops \nand a sort of moral cheerleading. \nAlso: mourning the dead. \nSons\, lovers\, and so forth. \nAll the killed children. \n  \nInstead of this\, I tell \nwhat I hope will pass as truth. \nA blunt thing\, not lovely. \nThe truth is seldom welcome\, \nespecially at dinner\, \nthough I am good at what I do. \nMy trade is courage and atrocities. \nI look at them and do not condemn. \nI write things down the way they happened\, \nas near as can be remembered. \nI don’t ask why\, because it is mostly the same. \nWars happen because the ones who start them \nthink they can win. \n  \nIn my dreams there is glamour. \nThe Vikings leave their fields \neach year for a few months of killing and plunder\, \nmuch as the boys go hunting. \nIn real life they were farmers. \nThey come back loaded with splendour. \nThe Arabs ride against Crusaders \nwith scimitars that could sever \nsilk in the air. \nA swift cut to the horse’s neck \nand a hunk of armour crashes down \nlike a tower. Fire against metal. \nA poet might say: romance against banality. \nWhen awake\, I know better. \n  \nDespite the propaganda\, there are no monsters\, \nor none that can be finally buried. \nFinish one off\, and circumstances \nand the radio create another. \nBelieve me: whole armies have prayed fervently \nto God all night and meant it\, \nand been slaughtered anyway. \nBrutality wins frequently\, \nand large outcomes have turned on the invention \nof a mechanical device\, viz. radar. \nTrue\, valour sometimes counts for something\, \nas at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right— \nthough ultimate virtue\, by agreed tradition\, \nis decided by the winner. \nSometimes men throw themselves on grenades \nand burst like paper bags of guts \nto save their comrades. \nI can admire that. \nBut rats and cholera have won many wars. \nThose\, and potatoes\, \nor the absence of them. \nIt’s no use pinning all those medals \nacross the chests of the dead. \nImpressive\, but I know too much. \nGrand exploits merely depress me. \n  \nIn the interests of research \nI have walked on many battlefields \nthat once were liquid with pulped \nmen’s bodies and spangled with exploded \nshells and splayed bone. \nAll of them have been green again \nby the time I got there. \nEach has inspired a few good quotes in its day. \nSad marble angels brood like hens \nover the grassy nests where nothing hatches. \n(The angels could just as well be described as vulgar \nor pitiless\, depending on camera angle.) \nThe word glory figures a lot on gateways. \nOf course I pick a flower or two \nfrom each\, and press it in the hotel Bible \nfor a souvenir. \nI’m just as human as you. \n  \nBut it’s no use asking me for a final statement. \nAs I say\, I deal in tactics. \nAlso statistics: \nfor every year of peace there have been four hundred \nyears of war. \n  \n–Margaret Atwood\, from  Morning in the Burned House (1995) \n* \n  \nNick read this poem he wrote: \n  \nextreme close-up  \nsleight of hand \nwhen the unique individual life cycle of a plant or animal has run its course \n there’s a significant final event that triggers the return of its physical form \nto an elemental state releasing any remaining life-energy to parts and \ndimensions that can be seen as scientific or metaphysical or both \nmeanwhile the swift dispersal of animating energy and \nthe timely return of the physical form to its essential state \nare familiar steps in the universal process of renewal \na creative procedure so routine \nthat we barely notice \nand seldom \ncelebrate \nits seamless \nefficiency \nas in the larger domain of \nimploding stars and merging galaxies \nwhen the relentless wheel of cosmic creation \nspins the remains of a failing form into a new possibility \nactive energies are released and recombined in chaotic harmony \nwith those fundamental laws of physics we humans have managed to grasp \nas well as laws still drifting beyond the firelight of our understanding \nmicroscopic or galactic \nevery combination or collision or expansion of originating energies \ngenerates a new creative surge in the essential power \nthat keeps our universe expanding and unfurling \nacross potentially endless time and space \nextreme close-up sleight of hand \noccurring everywhere \nalways \nNick Eldredge \n2022 \n* \n  \nDave read Bitter Sweet Symphony by The Verve: \n  \nBittersweet Symphony \n\n\n\n‘Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony\, that’s life\nTryna make ends meet\nYou’re a slave to money then you die\nI’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down\nYou know the one that takes you to the places\nWhere all the veins meet yeahNo change\, I can change\nI can change\, I can change\nBut I’m here in my mold\nI am here in my mold\nBut I’m a million different people\nFrom one day to the next\nI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, no\nHave you ever been down?Well I’ve never prayed\nBut tonight I’m on my knees yeah\nI need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me\, yeah\nI let the melody shine\,\nLet it cleanse my mind\,\nI feel free now\nBut the airwaves are clean and there’s nobody singing to me nowNo change\, I can change\nI can change\, I can change\nBut I’m here in my mold\nI am here in my mold\nAnd I’m a million different people\nFrom one day to the next\nI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, no\nHave you ever been down?\nI can’t change it you know\nI can’t change it‘Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony\, this life\nTryna make ends meet\nTryna find some money then you die\nI’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down\nYou know the one that takes you to the places\nWhere all the veins meet yeahYou know I can change\, I can change\nI can change\, I can change\nBut I’m here in my mold\nI am here in my mold\nAnd I’m a million different people\nFrom one day to the next\nI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, noI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, no\nI can’t change my mold\nNo\, no\, no\, no\, no[Ad-libs:]\nYou’ve gotta change my mold\, no\, no\, no\nIt’s just sex and violence\, melody and silence\nGotta\, can’t change my violence\, melody and silence\nI’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been downBeen down\nEver been down\nEver been down\nEver been down\nEver been down\nHave you ever been down?\nHave you ever been down? \n\n\n\n–Richard Ashcroft \n*\n\nJohnny read this poem by Wordsworth and a couple poems by William Stafford:\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWe Are Seven\n  \n-—A simple Child\, \nThat lightly draws its breath\, \nAnd feels its life in every limb\, \nWhat should it know of death? \n\nI met a little cottage Girl: \nShe was eight years old\, she said; \nHer hair was thick with many a curl \nThat clustered round her head. \n\nShe had a rustic\, woodland air\, \nAnd she was wildly clad: \nHer eyes were fair\, and very fair; \n—Her beauty made me glad. \n\n“Sisters and brothers\, little Maid\, \nHow many may you be?” \n“How many? Seven in all\,” she said\, \nAnd wondering looked at me. \n\n“And where are they? I pray you tell.” \nShe answered\, “Seven are we; \nAnd two of us at Conway dwell\, \nAnd two are gone to sea. \n\n“Two of us in the church-yard lie\, \nMy sister and my brother; \nAnd\, in the church-yard cottage\, I \nDwell near them with my mother.” \n\n“You say that two at Conway dwell\, \nAnd two are gone to sea\, \nYet ye are seven! I pray you tell\, \nSweet Maid\, how this may be.” \n\nThen did the little Maid reply\, \n“Seven boys and girls are we; \nTwo of us in the church-yard lie\, \nBeneath the church-yard tree.” \n\n“You run about\, my little Maid\, \nYour limbs they are alive; \nIf two are in the church-yard laid\, \nThen ye are only five.” \n\n“Their graves are green\, they may be seen\,” \nThe little Maid replied\, \n“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door\, \nAnd they are side by side. \n\n“My stockings there I often knit\, \nMy kerchief there I hem; \nAnd there upon the ground I sit\, \nAnd sing a song to them. \n\n“And often after sun-set\, Sir\, \nWhen it is light and fair\, \nI take my little porringer\, \nAnd eat my supper there. \n\n“The first that died was sister Jane; \nIn bed she moaning lay\, \nTill God released her of her pain; \nAnd then she went away. \n\n“So in the church-yard she was laid; \nAnd\, when the grass was dry\, \nTogether round her grave we played\, \nMy brother John and I. \n\n“And when the ground was white with snow\, \nAnd I could run and slide\, \nMy brother John was forced to go\, \nAnd he lies by her side.” \n\n“How many are you\, then\,” said I\, \n“If they two are in heaven?” \nQuick was the little Maid’s reply\, \n“O Master! we are seven.” \n\n“But they are dead; those two are dead! \nTheir spirits are in heaven!” \n’Twas throwing words away; for still \nThe little Maid would have her will\, \nAnd said\, “Nay\, we are seven!” \n\n\n\n\n\n  \n–William Wordsworth \n* \n  \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAt the Un-National Monument along the Canadian Border \n  \n\n\n\nThis is the field where the battle did not happen\,\nwhere the unknown soldier did not die.\nThis is the field where grass joined hands\,\nwhere no monument stands\,\nand the only heroic thing is the sky.\n\nBirds fly here without any sound\,\nunfolding their wings across the open.\nNo people killed—or were killed—on this ground\nhallowed by neglect and an air so tame\nthat people celebrate it by forgetting its name.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n&\n\nGod snaps your picture–don’t look away–\nthis room right now\, your face tilted\nexactly as it is before you can think\nor control it. Go ahead\, let it betray\nall the secret emergencies and still hold\nthat partial disguise you call your character.\n\nEven your lip\, they say\, the way it curves\nor doesn’t\, or can’t decide\, will deliver\nbales of evidence. The camera\, wide open\,\nstands ready; the exposure is thirty-five years\nor so–after that you have become\nwhatever the veneer is\, all the way through.\n\nNow you want to explain. Your mother\nwas a certain–how to express it?–influence.\nYes. And your father\, whatever he was\,\nyou couldn’t change that. No. And your town\nof course had its limits. Go on\, keep talking–\nHold it. Don’t move. That’s you forever.\n\n–William Stafford\n*\n\nBecause Halloween is coming soon\, Todd read this poem by Robert Frost:\n\n\nThe Witch Of Coos \n  \nI staid the night for shelter at a farm  \nBehind the mountains\, with a mother and son\,  \nTwo old-believers. They did all the talking.  \n  \nMOTHER: Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits  \nShe could call up to pass a winter evening\,  \nBut won’t\, should be burned at the stake or something.  \nSummoning spirits isn’t ‘Button\, button\,  \nWho’s got the button\,’ I would have them know.  \nSON: Mother can make a common table rear  \nAnd kick with two legs like an army mule.  \nMOTHER: And when I’ve done it\, what good have I done?  \nRather than tip a table for you\, let me  \nTell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.  \nHe said the dead had souls\, but when I asked him  \nHow could that be – I thought the dead were souls\,  \nHe broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspicious  \nThat there’s something the dead are keeping back?  \nYes\, there’s something the dead are keeping back.  \nSON: You wouldn’t want to tell him what we have  \nUp attic\, mother?  \nMOTHER: Bones – a skeleton.  \nSON: But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushed  \nAgainst the’ attic door: the door is nailed.  \nIt’s harmless. Mother hears it in the night  \nHalting perplexed behind the barrier  \nOf door and headboard. Where it wants to get  \nIs back into the cellar where it came from.  \nMOTHER: We’ll never let them\, will we\, son! We’ll never !  \nSON: It left the cellar forty years ago  \nAnd carried itself like a pile of dishes  \nUp one flight from the cellar to the kitchen\,  \nAnother from the kitchen to the bedroom\,  \nAnother from the bedroom to the attic\,  \nRight past both father and mother\, and neither stopped it.  \nFather had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.  \nI was a baby: I don’t know where I was.  \nMOTHER: The only fault my husband found with me –  \nI went to sleep before I went to bed\,  \nEspecially in winter when the bed  \nMight just as well be ice and the clothes snow.  \nThe night the bones came up the cellar-stairs  \nToffile had gone to bed alone and left me\,  \nBut left an open door to cool the room off  \nSo as to sort of turn me out of it.  \nI was just coming to myself enough  \nTo wonder where the cold was coming from\,  \nWhen I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom  \nAnd thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.  \nThe board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on  \nWhen there was water in the cellar in spring  \nStruck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone  \nBegan the stairs\, two footsteps for each step\,  \nThe way a man with one leg and a crutch\,  \nOr a little child\, comes up. It wasn’t Toffile:  \nIt wasn’t anyone who could be there.  \nThe bulkhead double-doors were double-locked  \nAnd swollen tight and buried under snow.  \nThe cellar windows were banked up with sawdust  \nAnd swollen tight and buried under snow.  \nIt was the bones. I knew them – and good reason.  \nMy first impulse was to get to the knob  \nAnd hold the door. But the bones didn’t try  \nThe door; they halted helpless on the landing\,  \nWaiting for things to happen in their favour.’  \nThe faintest restless rustling ran all through them.  \nI never could have done the thing I did  \nIf the wish hadn’t been too strong in me  \nTo see how they were mounted for this walk.  \nI had a vision of them put together  \nNot like a man\, but like a chandelier.  \nSo suddenly I flung the door wide on him.  \nA moment he stood balancing with emotion\,  \nAnd all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire  \nFlashed out and licked along his upper teeth.  \nSmoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)  \nThen he came at me with one hand outstretched\,  \nThe way he did in life once; but this time  \nI struck the hand off brittle on the floor\,  \nAnd fell back from him on the floor myself.  \nThe finger-pieces slid in all directions.  \n(Where did I see one of those pieces lately?  \nHand me my button-box- it must be there.)  \n  \nI sat up on the floor and shouted\, ‘Toffile\,  \nIt’s coming up to you.’ It had its choice  \nOf the door to the cellar or the hall.  \nIt took the hall door for the novelty\,  \nAnd set off briskly for so slow a thing\,  \nStill going every which way in the joints\, though\,  \nSo that it looked like lightning or a scribble\,  \nFrom the slap I had just now given its hand.  \nI listened till it almost climbed the stairs  \nFrom the hall to the only finished bedroom\,  \nBefore I got up to do anything;  \nThen ran and shouted\, ‘Shut the bedroom door\,  \nToffile\, for my sake!’ ‘Company?’ he said\,  \n‘Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.’  \nSo lying forward weakly on the handrail  \nI pushed myself upstairs\, and in the light  \n(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own  \nI could see nothing. ‘Toffile\, I don’t see it.  \nIt’s with us in the room though. It’s the bones.’  \n‘What bones?’ ‘The cellar bones- out of the grave.’  \nThat made him throw his bare legs out of bed  \nAnd sit up by me and take hold of me.  \nI wanted to put out the light and see  \nIf I could see it\, or else mow the room\,  \nWith our arms at the level of our knees\,  \nAnd bring the chalk-pile down. ‘I’ll tell you what-  \nIt’s looking for another door to try.  \nThe uncommonly deep snow has made him think  \nOf his old song\, The Wild Colonial Boy\,  \nHe always used to sing along the tote-road.  \nHe’s after an open door to get out-doors.  \nLet’s trap him with an open door up attic.’  \nToffile agreed to that\, and sure enough\,  \nAlmost the moment he was given an opening\,  \nThe steps began to climb the attic stairs.  \nI heard them. Toffile didn’t seem to hear them.  \n‘Quick !’ I slammed to the door and held the knob.  \n‘Toffile\, get nails.’ I made him nail the door shut\,  \nAnd push the headboard of the bed against it.  \nThen we asked was there anything  \nUp attic that we’d ever want again.  \nThe attic was less to us than the cellar.  \nIf the bones liked the attic\, let them have it.  \nLet them stay in the attic. When they sometimes  \nCome down the stairs at night and stand perplexed  \nBehind the door and headboard of the bed\,  \nBrushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers\,  \nWith sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter\,  \nThat’s what I sit up in the dark to say-  \nTo no one any more since Toffile died.  \nLet them stay in the attic since they went there.  \nI promised Toffile to be cruel to them  \nFor helping them be cruel once to him.  \nSON: We think they had a grave down in the cellar.  \nMOTHER: We know they had a grave down in the cellar.  \nSON: We never could find out whose bones they were.  \nMOTHER: Yes\, we could too\, son. Tell the truth for once.  \nThey were a man’s his father killed for me.  \nI mean a man he killed instead of me.  \nThe least I could do was to help dig their grave.  \nWe were about it one night in the cellar.  \nSon knows the story: but ’twas not for him  \nTo tell the truth\, suppose the time had come.  \nSon looks surprised to see me end a lie  \nWe’d kept all these years between ourselves  \nSo as to have it ready for outsiders.  \nBut to-night I don’t care enough to lie-  \nI don’t remember why I ever cared.  \nToffile\, if he were here\, I don’t believe  \nCould tell you why he ever cared himself-  \n  \nShe hadn’t found the finger-bone she wanted  \nAmong the buttons poured out in her lap.  \nI verified the name next morning: Toffile.  \nThe rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway. \n  \n—Robert Frost (1922) \n* \n\n\npeace\, love & happiness  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-poetry-9-25-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220915
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221015
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220915T231129Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220915T231534Z
UID:3250-1663200000-1665791999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  9/15/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Howard Thoresen \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nSeptember 15\, 2022 \n  \nThe corn was orient and immortal wheat\, which never should be reaped\, nor was ever sown. I thought it had stood from everlasting to everlasting. The dust and stones of the street were as precious as gold: the gates were at first the end of the world. The green trees when I saw them first through one of the gates transported and ravished me\, their sweetness and unusual beauty made my heart to leap\, and almost mad with ecstasy\, they were such strange and wonderful things. The Men! O what venerable and reverend creatures did the aged seem! Immortal Cherubims! And young men glittering and sparkling Angels\, and maids strange seraphic pieces of life and beauty! Boys and girls tumbling in the street\, and playing\, were moving jewels. I knew not that they were born or should die; But all things abided eternally as they were in their proper places. Eternity was manifest in the Light of the Day\, and something infinite behind everything appeared: which talked with my expectation and moved my desire. The city seemed to stand in Eden\, or to be built in Heaven. The streets were mine\, the temple was mine\, the people were mine\, their clothes and gold and silver were mine\, as much as their sparkling eyes\, fair skins and ruddy faces. The skies were mine\, and so were the sun and moon and stars\, and all the World was mine; and I the only spectator and enjoyer of it. I knew no churlish proprieties\, nor bounds\, nor divisions: but all proprieties and divisions were mine: all treasures and the possessors of them. So that with much ado I was corrupted\, and made to learn the dirty devices of this world. Which now I unlearn\, and become\, as it were\, a little child again that I may enter into the Kingdom of God. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne (1636-1674)\, writing about his childhood\, from Centuries of Meditations\, Third Century\, Meditation 3 \n* \n  \nSlowness \n  \n Eighteen years ago I was living in a small homesteader’s cabin in Central Oregon. One day I was chopping vegetables\, preparing a meal with great efficiency\, when for some reason\, or no reason\, I suddenly slowed down. Instead of moving rapidly from cutting board to stove\, I walked s-l-o-w-l-y. And something happened. It was quiet. I hadn’t noticed it\, but my mind had been busy with something or other\, while I was busy preparing dinner. Now I wasn’t “preparing dinner.” As I took each step\, my bare feet felt the floor. It felt like a blessing to be walking\, to be alive. The broccoli was beautiful. Everything was perfect. \n  \nI have performed this experiment thousands of times since then. I know that if I slow down I see what I’m looking at. I taste what I’m eating. Every thing is beautiful. Perfect. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nWill We Wake? \n  \nThe main project of life is to wake from the dark— \nto rise up\, to step forth foraging for the good. Do we \nhave it in us now? When the newsreel at the Sunday \nmatinee is a bad dream\, you leave the theater\, right? \nYou decide it’s high time to choose a different story. \nWhy worship lies\, denial\, heartless swagger\, when\, \noutside\, the sun shines on both suffering and true joy? \nAren’t we here to leave the cave of fables\, help \nthe hurt\, and begin to repair the injured Earth? \n  \nAm I preaching to the choir? Yes\, I speak to \nthose already singing. Sing ever more ravishing  \nsongs\, I say\, so sleepers may awake. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \n#292 Every Step a Prayer \n  \n“In the spirit of Buddhism\, anything you do that is accompanied by mindfulness\, concentration\, and insight can be considered a prayer. When you drink your tea in forgetfulness\, you are not truly alive because you’re not there\, you’re not mindful\, and you’re not concentrated. That moment is not a moment of practice. \n    When you hold your cup and drink your tea in mindfulness and concentration\, it’s like you’re performing a sacred ritual\, and that is a prayer. When you walk\, if you enjoy every step\, if every step nourishes and transforms you\, then every step is a prayer. When you sit in solidity and freedom\, when you breathe in and out in mindfulness\, when you touch the wonders of life\, that is meditation and that is also prayer.” \nfrom Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \n    Well\, I love this idea: every step a prayer\, anything done in mindfulness\, concentration and insight can be considered a prayer\, a meditation. \n    Sometimes just the word\, ‘meditation’ can sound daunting and not attainable—or attainable only with difficulty. And the idea of prayer\, the same. Does meditation require a Buddhist temple\, a zafu\, half-closed eyes\, touching fingertips? Does prayer require a church\, prayer book\, kneeling in a pew\, fingers steepled solemnly? Thank goodness—no! \n    It simply requires paying attention to whatever you’re doing\, in that moment\, and always. It may be difficult\, but it isn’t daunting. I can breathe deeply and place each boot on the trail and look up at the mountain in front of me and feel the cool air bathing my arms and listen to the chuckle of the creek beside me… \n    And that is prayer? That is meditation?  Piece of cake! I’m on it! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nAugust 7\, 2022  #328  Anywhere You Go (from Your True Home) \nI like Thây’s point that mindful practice isn’t limited to an ashram\, zendo\, or other “formal” space for practice. First\, I settle in and pay attention to my breath. Then\, I open up my awareness to all that is around me—without any judgement and/or without assigning any “meaning” to the NOW moments as they pass. And\, that’s it. I can participate in the NOW by simply (and only) attending to my breath—grounding in the NOW— and not spinning stories about what is going on around me. I can simply breathe and simply enjoy the experience of NOW. Nothing more is needed. \n  \nAugust 8\, 2022  #329  A New Holiday (from Your True Home) \nI like this one! It reminds me of an aphorism my friend Carl likes to share from time to time—it’s his view of birthdays. In essence he expresses the same ideal. Why wait for a “special” day to celebrate a friend’s life and import in one’s own life? Celebrate every day. Happy un-birthday all! Thây’s idea goes only one small step further: Why not celebrate every day by living NOW?—breathing deeply of each moment\, touching Earth\, seeing sky\, hearing all life as it surrounds\, leave nothing out. \n  \nEmbrace the NOW for all it has to offer. Celebrate life as it is\, NOW. We can let go of how we “want” or “think” life should be and embrace it for what it is NOW. We can celebrate alone or with others\, as much or as little as we choose. Let us enter Today (NOW)\, live fully within\, celebrate through conscious\, deliberate breath and touch NOW. \n  \nAugust 9\, 2022  #330  A Loving Community of Two (from Your True Home) \nThis is simple life guidance. It expresses the ideal of “real” love requires and external object of love; therefore\, love is action\, or requires action to be seen\, felt and known. Love can’t simply be spoken\, or\, worse\, unspoken. (Some operate from there. “Oh\, she knows I love her.” My reply: “Oh really?! How?”) \n  \nI thought\, recently\, that I had finally found one who would draw me out of my shell. One who would challenge my façades and masks. One who would “complete me.” One in whom I could trust and with whom I could\, as Thây suggests today\, practice (learn) being a two-person community of love. Instead…well\, it wasn’t what I hoped for; it was more infatuation with my own ideals embodied in another person—(Was I even on the right track? I don’t know any more.)—than a joining together of mutual love\, respect and admiration. But it gave me hope—hope that someday I will find a person who is a positive match\, and with whom I can build a loving community. \n  \n—from the meditation journal of Michel Deforge
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-9-15-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220911T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220911T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220910T220542Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220910T223928Z
UID:3241-1662908400-1662915600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  9/11/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nOn Sunday\, September 11th\, at 3 pm\, we will gather together on Zoom once again. Todd suggested that we read things that we have written\, so our topic is Read Something You Wrote. If you don’t want to do that\, you have the option for reading something that someone else wrote. \n  \nHere’s the link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there!  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness   \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-9-11-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220901
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20221006
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220901T222217Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220901T232801Z
UID:3219-1661990400-1665014399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  9/1/22
DESCRIPTION:The River of Life by William Blake \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n\nSeptember 1\, 2022 \n  \nWilliam Blake \n  \nI must Create a System or be enslav’d by another Man’s. \n—William Blake \n  \nWilliam Blake might be the most imaginative person who ever lived. Along with Wordsworth\, Coleridge\, Keats and Shelley\, he is considered one of the major English Romantic poets. His paintings\, drawings and etchings are enshrined in museums around the world. He is a Christian\, but his Christianity is unique to him. In the English poetic tradition\, he saw himself as part of a tradition that included Chaucer\, Shakespeare and Milton. As a prophet\, he saw himself as in the tradition of Isaiah\, Ezekiel\, Jesus\, John of Patmos\, Dante and Milton. He created his own mythology. \n  \nIn issue #16 (July 2\, 2020) of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\, I included three poems by Blake: “Infant Joy\,” “Laughing Song\,” and “The School Boy.” These poems illustrated the theme of innocence and experience that I was exploring in that issue—especially how we lose the innocence of our childhood\, and the question of whether we can regain that lost innocence  \n  \n(https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-7-2-20/). \n  \n \n  \nHere are some of my favorite poems\, quotes and writings of William Blake: \n  \nLove to faults is always blind; \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d and unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n* \n  \nArt Degraded\, Imagination Denied\, War Governed the Nations. \n* \n  \nChildren of the future Age \nReading this indignant page\, \nKnow that in a former time \nLove! sweet Love! was thought a crime. \n* \n  \nThe GARDEN of LOVE \n  \nI went to the Garden of Love\, \nAnd saw what I never had seen: \nA Chapel was built in the midst\, \nWhere I used to play on the green. \n  \nAnd the gates of this Chapel were shut\, \nAnd “Thou shalt not” writ over the door; \nSo I turn’d to the Garden of Love \nThat so many sweet flowers bore; \n  \nAnd I saw it was filled with graves\, \nAnd tomb-stones where flowers should be; \nAnd Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds\, \nAnd binding with briars my joys and desires. \n* \n  \n \n  \nTo see a World in a Grain of Sand \nAnd a Heaven in a Wild Flower\, \nHold infinity in the palm of your hand \nAnd Eternity in an hour. \n* \n  \nSome aphorisms from “THE MARRIAGE of HEAVEN and HELL”: \n  \nThe road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. \nHe whose face gives no light\, shall never become a star. \nEternity is in love with the productions of time. \nIf the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise. \nPrisons are built with stones of Law\, Brothels with bricks of Religion. \nOne thought fills immensity. \nThe thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest. \nThe soul of sweet delight can never be defil’d. \nAs the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on\, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys. \nExuberance is Beauty. \n* \n  \n \n  \nFrom the Preface to Blake’s poem “Milton”: \n  \nShakespeare & Milton were both curb’d by the general malady & infection from the silly Greek & Latin slaves of the Sword. \nRouze up\, O Young Men of the New Age! set your foreheads against the ignorant Hirelings! For we have Hirelings in the Camp\, the Court & the University\, who would\, if they could\, for ever depress Mental & prolong Corporeal War. \n* \n  \nThe Little Vagabond \n  \nDear Mother\, dear Mother\, the Church is cold\, \nBut the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm: \nBesides I can tell where I am us’d well\, \nSuch usage in heaven will never do well. \n  \nBut if at the Church they would give us some Ale\, \nAnd a pleasant fire our souls to regale\, \nWe’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day\, \nNor ever once wish from the Church to stray. \n  \nThen the Parson might preach\, & drink\, & sing\, \nAnd we’d be as happy as birds in the spring; \nAnd modest dame Lurch\, who is always at Church\, \nWould not have bandy children\, nor fasting\, nor birch. \n  \nAnd God\, like a father rejoicing to see \nHis children as pleasant and happy as he\, \nWould have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel\, \nBut kiss him\, & give him both drink and apparel. \n* \n  \nFrom “THE MARRIAGE of HEAVEN and HELL”: \n  \nThe ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses\, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods\, rivers\, mountains\, lakes\, cities\, nations\, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.  \nAnd particularly they studied the genius of each city & country\, placing it under its mental deity; \nTill a system was formed\, which some took advantage of\, & enslav’d the vulgar by attempting to realize or abstract the mental deities from their objects: thus began Priesthood; \nChoosing forms of worship from poetic tales. \nAnd at length they pronounc’d that the Gods had order’d such things. \nThus men forgot that All deities reside in the human breast. \n* \n  \nFrom Enion’s lament from “The Four Zoas\, Night the Second”: \n  \n“…What is the price of Experience? do men buy it for a song? \nOr wisdom for a dance in the street? No\, it is bought with the price \nOf all that a man hath\, his house\, his wife\, his children. \nWisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy\, \nAnd in the wither’d field where the farmer plows for bread in vain. \nIt is an easy thing to triumph in the summer’s sun \nAnd in the vintage & to sing on the waggon loaded with corn. \nIt is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted\, \nTo speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer\, \nTo listen to the hungry raven’s cry in wintry season \nWhen the red blood is fill’d with wine & with the marrow of lambs. \nIt is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements\, \nTo hear the dog howl at the wintry door\, the ox in the slaughter house moan; \nTo see a god on every wind & a blessing on every blast; \nTo hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies’ house; \nTo rejoice in the blight that covers his field\, & the sickness that cuts off his children\, \nWhile our olive & vine sing & laugh round our door\, & our children bring fruits & flowers. \nThen the groan & the dolor are quite forgotten\, & the slave grinding at the mill\, \nAnd the captive in chains\, & the poor in the prison\, & the soldier in the field \nWhen the shatter’d bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead. \nIt is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity: \nThus could I sing & thus rejoice: but it is not so with me.” \n* \n  \nTwo passages from “A Vision of the Last Judgment”: \n  \nMen are admitted into Heaven not because they have curbed & govern’d their Passions or have No Passions\, but because they have Cultivated their Understandings. The Treasures of Heaven are not Negations of Passion\, but Realities of Intellect\, from which all the Passions Emanate Uncurbed in their Eternal Glory. The Fool shall not enter into Heaven let him be ever so Holy. Holiness is not The Price of Enterance into Heaven. Those who are cast out are All Those who\, having no Passions of their own because No Intellect\, Have spent their lives in Curbing & Governing other People’s by the Various arts of Poverty & Cruelty of all kinds. Wo\, Wo\, Wo to you Hypocrites. \n  \nand:  \n  \nThe Last Judgment is an Overwhelming of Bad Art & Science. Mental Things are alone Real; what is call’d Corporeal\, Nobody Knows of its Dwelling Place: it is in Fallacy\, & its Existence an Imposture. Where is the Existence Out of Mind or Thought? Where is it but in the Mind of a Fool? Some People flatter themselves that there will be No Last Judgment & that Bad Art will be adopted & mixed with Good Art\, That Error or Experiment will make a Part of Truth\, & they Boast that it is its Foundation; these people flatter themselves: I will not Flatter them. Error is Created. Truth is Eternal. Error\, or Creation\, will be Burned up\, & then\, & not till Then\, Truth or Eternity will appear. It is Burnt up the Moment Men cease to behold it. I assert for My Self that I do not behold the outward Creation & that to me it is hindrance & not Action; it is as the Dirt upon my feet\, No part of Me. “What\,” it will be Question’d\, “When the Sun rises\, do you not see a round disk of fire somewhat like a Guinea?” O no\, no\, I see an Innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying ‘Holy\, Holy\, Holy is the Lord God Almighty.’ I question not my Corporeal or Vegetative Eye any more than I would Question a Window concerning a Sight. I look thro’ it & not with it. \n* \n \n  \nBlake created a mythology that he elaborated in what are known as his “prophetic” poems. Carl Jung spoke of four basic functions: thinking\, feeling\, sensing (sense perception)\, and intuition. Blake had a similar idea. He said: “Four Mighty Ones are in every Man.” These four “zoas” are Los (Imagination)\, Luvah (Love or Emotion)\, Urizen (Reason)\, and Tharmas (the Senses or Body). The biggest difference is that Jung uses the term “intuition\,” while Blake uses the term “imagination.” For Blake\, a healthy person\, or a healthy Humanity\, should have these four things in balance. In his day\, he felt that Reason had usurped the throne\, and everything was tyrannizing over everything else. Imagination\, especially\, was in prison. \n  \nThis is just the tip of the iceberg. If these quotes have piqued your interest\, start by exploring Blake: Complete Writings\, edited by Geoffrey Keynes. Abridged versions of Blake\, leave out all kinds of treasures that he wrote in his notebooks\, et cetera. A good introduction to William Blake is Eternity’s Sunrise by Leo Damrosch. If you want to really get into William Blake\, the best book is Northrop Frye’s Fearful Symmetry. S. Foster Damon’s A Blake Dictionary is a helpful guide to Blake’s mythology. You can find out about Zoas and Enion and Albion and Vala and Nobodaddy and the Eyes of God\, et cetera… \n  \n  \nThe tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing which stands in the way. \n—William Blake (November 28\, 1757-August 12\, 1827)
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-9-1-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220828T190000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220828T203000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220824T182638Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220824T182822Z
UID:3210-1661713200-1661718600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Max Walter performs Spirit of Carl Sandburg
DESCRIPTION:Max Walter will perform his solo show “Spirit of Carl Sandburg” this Sunday\, August 28th\, at 7 pm (PDT). The performance is in Bellingham\, Washington. For those of us who can’t be there\, here is the link to the website from where you can live stream the performance:\n  \nSpirit of Carl Sandburg – Center for Spiritual Living Bellingham (csl-bellingham.org)\n \n  \nI’m really looking forward to this! \n  \n  \npeace & love \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/max-walter-performs-spirit-of-carl-sandburg/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220828T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220828T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220820T002001Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220910T220703Z
UID:3201-1661698800-1661706000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  8/28/22
DESCRIPTION:painting by Mark Andres \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nOn Sunday\, August 28th\, at 3 pm\, we will gather once again on Zoom to talk about books and other things. We will attempt to answer the question: Read Any Good Books Lately?  \n  \nHere’s the link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there!  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness   \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-8-28-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220815
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220915
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220816T040133Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T155620Z
UID:3185-1660521600-1663199999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  8/15/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nAugust 15\, 2022 \n  \nWe are what we think. \nAll that we are arises with our thoughts. \nWith our thoughts we make the world. \n  \n—opening lines from The Dhammapada\, sayings of the Buddha\, translated by Thomas Byrom \n* \n  \nOur goal should be to live life in radical amazement\, [to] get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed. \n  \n—Abraham Joshua Heschel  (thanks to Mark Alter for this) \n* \n  \nThe Patience of Ordinary Things \n  \nIt is a kind of love\, is it not? \nHow the cup holds the tea\, \nHow the chair stands sturdy and foursquare\, \nHow the floor receives the bottoms of shoes \nOr toes. How soles of feet know \nWhere they’re supposed to be. \nI’ve been thinking about the patience \nOf ordinary things\, how clothes \nWait respectfully in closets \nAnd soap dries quietly in the dish\, \nAnd towels drink the wet \nFrom the skin of the back. \nAnd the lovely repetition of stairs. \nAnd what is more generous than a window? \n  \n—Pat Schneider\, shared by Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nYou are enough \n  \nPeace Is This Moment Without Judgment  \n~Dorothy Hunt \n  \nDo you think peace requires an end to war?  \nOr tigers eating only vegetables?  \nDoes peace require an absence from your boss\, your spouse\, yourself? …  \nDo you think peace will come some other place than here?  \nSome other time than Now? In some other heart than yours? \n  \nPeace is this moment without judgment.  \nThat is all. This moment in the Heart-space  \nwhere everything that is is welcome.  \nPeace is this moment without thinking  \nthat it should be some other way\,  \nthat you should feel some other thing\,  \nthat your life should unfold according to your plans. \n  \nPeace is this moment without judgment\,  \nthis moment in the heart-space where  \neverything that is is welcome. \n  \nI’ve been thinking a lot about equanimity in conversation and relationships lately and where that often breaks down. Our choice of words\, tone of voice and sometimes the decision to speak or not speak—all contribute to our ability to cultivate equanimity.  \n  \nIt is difficult enough sometimes when we are alone to create a space for equanimity to enter. It can be much more difficult to create that space when we are inside of an interaction with another person who is having their own experience. They are on their own journey. A journey you have no control over.   \n  \nAn interaction does not have to be a reaction. This is where\, when things get heated in a conversation\, I often break down. My ego says\, “Prove your point!” “Tell her how you are right and she is wrong!” Or “Don’t stop until you win the argument!”  \n  \nThe ego can fool us into believing that we are not enough and can make things appear black and white.  \nIf I’m right\, he’s wrong. \nI either want something or I don’t. \n  \nBut there is a gray area. It begins with awareness.  \nAwareness shows up as an open mind\, flexibility\, lack of bias and positive expectations. \nAwareness is knowing that you are enough.  \n  \nUnderstanding what we carry within us and thoughtfully using our words to express ourselves is a huge practice.  \n  \nPema Chödrön says that when feelings of attraction or aversion arise\, we can “use our biases as stepping-stones for connecting with the confusion of others.” When we become intimate with and accepting of our own feelings\, we see more clearly how everyone gets hooked by their hopes and fears. From this\, “a bigger perspective can emerge.” \n  \nToday\, start with knowing that you are enough.  \n  \nPractice \n  \nI invite you to imagine a calming\, blue circle of light within your throat. The throat being the place of right speech\, the ability to communicate clearly and effectively.  \n  \nWith every inhale\, imagine the blue light gaining more and more clarity. \nWith every exhale\, allowing your light to be shared. \n  \n—Nicole Rush \n* \n  \n#152  The Biggest Obstacle \n  \n“Often it is our own knowledge that is the biggest obstacle to us touching suchness. That is why it’s very important to learn how to release our own views. Knowledge is the obstacle to knowledge. If you are dogmatic in your way of thinking\, it is very difficult to receive new insights\, to conceive of new theories and understandings about the world.”  \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \n“Learning how to release our own views…”  Indeed! This is a big one. \n  \nI must admit that I am sometimes snide\, judgmental and knee-jerk defensive. This I am ashamed to admit. I have to say that it comes from a long ago place—older sister comes to mind\, but my overall nature is one of positivity\, connection\, engagement and desire for understanding. The negative part—might I say ‘sliver?’—comes from a lack of knowledge or understanding on my part. I know that. And I am very aware when it arises in my mind. \n  \nI seek understanding. I seek connection. Almost every Saturday I make the drive out I84 to Umatilla to Two Rivers Correctional Institution. Every week I pass by the small towns of Biggs\, Rufus\, pass the signs to Ione and Heppner\, Irrigon. I understand that in these towns just the word ‘liberal\,’ or ‘liberalism’ in its present day connotation (even though ‘liberal’ comes from the Latin\, liber\, meaning free\, which don’t we all\, conservative or otherwise\, believe in?) can conjure uncertainty\, mistrust\, fear\, often anger in the hearts and minds of many of these residents—across the country. David and I enjoy riding our bikes in the wide open country surrounding these quiet places. When we drive into town\, bikes instead of guns hitched to the back of our car\, wrapped in Spandex instead of Carhartts\, I stifle the urge to ask for a  soy latte and go for black coffee every time. Still\, don’t we just scream ‘liberal yuppies’ to the locals? Yet each time I’m faced with this I try to engage and find commonalities: ‘I see you have peach pie on the menu. Do you bake them all yourself? Yes? I bet it’s the best! I‘ve never quite been able to get the consistency right; can you give me some tips?’  Like that. I’m sincere\, and it usually works. It’s an ice breaker. There are always commonalities. \n  \nMore on releasing our views: When I arrive at TRCI\, I make my way to room 19-27 and meet with our group of 12-20 men. I love them. I love being with them\, listening to their thoughts\, their hopes and fears. I admire them; I believe in them. We do not talk about politics or religion—that is part of the understanding. If we were to talk about politics\, undoubtedly I would find some BIG differences in our views. BUT!!! I would still love them! And because of this\, I would be able to listen to them open-mindedly if we were to talk about politics. I have no doubt.  \n  \nOne more on releasing our own views: After the stunning screening of Midsummer Night’s Dream last Sunday\, I floated out of the theater. There on the sidewalk I saw one of our released men who had been in the theater. He called out\, ‘Hey\, Jude!’ I cried out and gave him a big hug. His head was shaved\, he had earphones slung around his neck\, underneath his tank top he was covered with tatts. Clearly\, if I had seen him on the street and didn’t know him\, I might have clutched my purse closer\, shifted my eyes\, hurried my step\, perhaps even crossed the street. Scary (a little). But I know him. He is a wonderful man! I love him!  \n  \nWhether it’s knowledge about things or people\, being open to differences\, taking the time to learn\, to introduce ourselves\, talk to and understand others not like us is the basis of love. It all leads to love. \n  \n“One’s life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others\, by means of love\, friendship\, indignation\, compassion.”  Simone de Beauvoir   \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nJuly 17\, 2022 \n  \nFirst\, let me say that I believe I am going out tomorrow for surgery on my hip. (One or the other\, don’t know yet which is first.) I am feeling excited\, nervous—all butterfly-tingly with uncertainty because this is all new to me. \n  \nThis is my first major hospital thing; invasive\, life-altering surgery ever….It’s going to take weeks to heal and recover. And\, no one (who is special to me\, or who really cares about me) is going to be there with me. In fact I can’t even call or email anyone\, even though I’m 98% certain it’s tomorrow\, because “If I know then they ‘HAVE TO RESCHEDULE\,’ because I’m not supposed to know. Yet\, I know! \n  \nSo\, it’s also exciting because it’s something new and scary. I’ll have a story to tell—soon. I’m certain all will go well\, everything will be “normal.” BUT\, what if it’s not?! (dramatic voice for effect and heightened suspense…) Oh! So\, what if?  Even death is a great adventure. I’d be wherever the next step lands. No matter what. I’d be where I am. My only death-fear is the process of lingering in a slow\, agonizing sort of death. (I’m just back from theatre and feeling a bit dramatic-excited too.) \n  \nSo\, that’s me. That’s my moment\, right now. That’s where I’m starting…. \n  \nJuly 19\, 2022 \n  \nI thought yesterday was to be my surgery. Turns out it was the final consult to confirm the procedure and answer any remaining concerns. So\, I’ll go soon\, just not yesterday. I\, at first\, was excited/anxious at the thought of getting this done and the recovery adventure started. By the time I was called out at 12 p.m. I was nervous. Then\, when I was told it was only another consult—well\, I was needing to focus on breathing and contemplate what the heck was transpiring….There was lots of energy to funnel or transform through breathing. By the time I saw the doctor I was at ease. \n  \nJuly 25\, 2022 \n  \nTomorrow should\, most likely (I hope) be my first hip replacement. I am very much feeling the excitement of anticipation for the long awaited “good” thing. I would liken this to what I felt on Christmas Eve: going to bed early\, believing all the myths surrounding\, only to wake early (too early! Like 4 or 5 a.m. too early) and anxiously await my parents’ “sleeping in” and late waking before I could selfishly dig in for a “big-haul.” \n  \nJuly 29\, 2022  #322 Concentrated Pleasure (from Your True Home) \n  \nWell\, I’m recovering from hip replacement. While I’m not a “great” practitioner—i.e. meditating frequently—I have managed to survive two challenging nights so far\, through deliberate breathing. It helps. Pain is still a challenge\, but that will fade as healing continues. \n  \nIt’s peculiar how at each turn of my life GOD places just what I need to read or hear right in the midst of my path. Today’s comments from Thây are no different. I am at the phase where I make many small walking journeys. Journeys to the toilet\, eight feet away; or to my door and back\, ten-plus feet; or up and down the long haul of the Infirmary\, 50 or more for the whole trip. Any one\, and each one\, will be a perfect chance to focus 100% of my attention on what I’m doing—i.e. walking fully with both sides. It isn’t as easy as I desire\, but it is a thing I can do…. \n  \n323  \nThe Kingdom of God Is Right Here \n  \nThe Kingdom of God is not a mere notion. It is a reality that can be touched in everyday life. The Kingdom of God is now or never\, and we all have the ability to touch it—not only with our minds\, but with our feet. The energy of mindfulness helps you with this. With one mindful step\, you touch the Kingdom of God.   \n—Thich Nhat Hanh\, from Your True Home \n  \nJuly 31\, 2022  #323  The Kingdom of God Is Right Here \n  \nI am in day 4\, over 100 hours from my hip replacement on Wednesday\, July 27th\, from 7:30 a.m. to about 8:40. It has been an interesting and challenging journey since. \n  \nPain was a piece of the early challenges and it has since faded to a memory of what I once knew as an intensity never before felt pre-surgery. My balance is not back to 100%\, but I am strengthening as I can\, as often as I can. I have been blessed by Creator GOD with a strong healthy body and mind\, and a quick recovery. I anticipate seeing the provider on Monday\, August 1st\, and moving back to my unit shortly thereafter….So\, for all my friends\, well-wishers and benefactors\, I am well on my way to a full and lasting recovery from surgery. \n  \nToday’s reading is accurate. The Kingdom of God is now. Many have taught that it is later. I fear this is due to a refusal or inability to see living in the NOW as part of life as it was created to be. Each of us can experience “Heaven on Earth” in the now\, through mindfulness. I also hope and suspect (believe) that a paradise\, aka heaven\, nirvana\, etc.\, will be awaiting us as this life ends. Thanks to religious syncretism it may be impossible to know for certain\, until we transition to the next stage of life—after death. \n  \nLike Thây\, I think it is possible to perceive\, “taste\,” sample\, get a sense of that life in the NOW through mindfulness…. \n  \nI haven’t written much this month….I wish each one well\, as TRCI has “outbreaks” and further quarantining…I hope your journey into NOW is as life affirming and assisting as I’ve experienced. \n  \n(Yesterday (8/14) I got an email from Michel Deforge. (JS)) \n  \nI’m two weeks\, five days since [hip] surgery and I’m doing great! Today\, I walked for 20 minutes while carrying my walker\, instead of using it for balance. The last 3 minutes were balanced without even taking the walker with me. I was able to do 10 stand ups (reverse squatting – getting up from sitting surface)\, along with some leg raises earlier this morning. So\, yes I’m doing quite well on my recovery! I hope to get the other one done in early September. TBD… \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n      Prophets to Live By \n  \nSuch great days for the prophecy business— \nin news and views it’s hard to choose one voice \nthat rings true\, someone to put your money on\, \nsomeone whose claims might go the distance \n  \nThe best is yet to come! shout redwings teetering \non cattail spires\, while in cedar shadows raven scoffs \nThings will only get worse. Which will you believe \nwhen the crows begin\, It shall come to pass…and list \n  \ntheir raucous tabloid hints\, while from the shadows \nunknown voices whistle\, hoot\, and shriek? How can you \nkeep your own counsel then? How can you take them all \nwith a grain of salt\, but seek your own conclusions when \n  \nthere’s a moment of silence\, a dusky breath held\, then \na song sparrow chants\, Did anyone notice dawn? \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nI enjoy books\, especially books that change the way I see\, experience and understand the world. Many books have helped me on my spiritual journey. Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda got me interested in meditation\, on a quest for samādhi. Many meditators of my generation learned about zazen\, “sitting meditation\,” from Shunryu Suzuki’s book Zen Mind\, Beginner’s Mind. I read a lot of books by J. Krishnamurti\, whose original approach to “freedom from the known” is very stimulating. My favorites among his many books are The Only Revolution and Krishnamurti’s Notebook. Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” expanded my vision in many ways. Many religious traditions make a distinction between “the spirit\,” which is sacred\, and “the flesh\,” which is not. For Walt\, everyone and everything is sacred. People can spend years striving to achieve enlightenment. In Talks With Ramana Maharshi\, the South Indian sage reminds people again and again that there is nothing to strive for since our true self is always already Divine. Similarly\, Bankei (1622-1693) taught that our “unborn Buddha nature” is our true nature. It’s who we are. Norman Wadell’s translation of Bankei’s talks\, The Unborn is excellent. My favorite ancient wisdom text is Tao Te Ching. The translation by Gia-fu Feng and Jane English is my favorite\, along with its gorgeous black and white photographs. A book I like to read and re-read is Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics by R. H. Blyth. The past couple years I’ve been listening to lively audio recordings of talks by Alan Watts\, and reading the poems and meditations of Thomas Traherne\, the Seventeenth Century Christian mystic. Thich Nhat Hanh is one of my favorite guides for living a life soaked in peace\, love and happiness. I long ago lost count of how many people I’ve given his book Your True Home. Well\, that’s a few of my favorites for now. \n  \nMay all people be happy. \nMay we live in peace & love. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-8-15-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220804
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220901
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220807T040044Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220807T040243Z
UID:3167-1659571200-1661990399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  8/4/22
DESCRIPTION:Edith Mirante in Chin State\, Burma \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \nAugust 4\, 2022 \n  \nADVENTURE TALES! \n  \nI asked some friends to send in stories of adventures they had. First to reply was Edith Mirante\, who is a member of the Society of Women Geographers: \n  \nThe Society of Woman Geographers was established in 1925 at a time when women were excluded from membership in most professional organizations\, such as the Explorers Club\, who would not admit women until 1981. It is based in Washington\, D.C.\, and has 500 members. \n  \nThe society was organized by four friends\, Gertrude Emerson Sen\, Marguerite Harrison\, Blair Niles and Gertrude Mathews Shelby\, to bring together women interested in geography\, world exploration\, anthropology and related fields. Membership was restricted to women who had “done distinctive work whereby they have added to the world’s store of knowledge concerning the countries on which they have specialized\, and have published in magazines or in book form a record of their work.”   \n  \n—from Wikipedia \n  \nHere’s what Edith wrote: \n  \nBeing an adventurer is intrinsic to my personality. I’ve always sought the “unsafe path” and accepted the dangers & misadventures that come with that. I try to use those reckless proclivities for good\, investigating human rights issues and environmental crises in remote\, sometimes war torn\, regions — especially the frontiers of Burma (Myanmar). My three books\, Burmese Looking Glass\, Down the Rat Hole and The Wind in the Bamboo are adventure stories as much as political & historical narratives.  \n  \n======= \n  \nIn the Pines\, Burma \n  \nI had gotten used to riding on the back of small motorbikes\, which had only recently replaced study mountain ponies in Chin State\, a rugged\, mostly roadless region of western Burma (Myanmar.) I managed not to upset the balance — or fall off — even on convoluted dirt tracks and rickety bamboo bridges\, as I researched the region’s environmental issues in 2016 with the assistance of some motorbiking local enviro activists. \n  \nMining (nickel and other minerals) was of particular interest to me. I had read in a local news outlet that Valvum\, a village reachable from Tedim town was the site of “ongoing coal mining work managed by a Japanese company.” Low-grade\, highly polluting coal is mined in some areas of Burma and with coal’s disastrous climate-changing effects for the whole world\, the Valvum operation was certainly worth investigating.  \n  \nGunning the bikes up and down narrow\, rock-strewn trails\, we got to Valvum mid-morning. I drank tea with some women who were smoking cheroots in a dark\, smoky house. Burma was enjoying a period of relative freedom for civil society after decades of brutal military dictatorship. But those changes were recent and I was concerned about possible scrutiny of our visit\, whether by government agents or mining company thugs. So I tried to make sure I wouldn’t be getting anyone in trouble by visiting the mine. A village representative reassured us: “It is no problem to go there. They are expecting you there.” \n  \nPast the village the swerve\, wobble and roll of our bikes disturbed the silence of khasi pine and rhododendron forest until a fence appeared and a couple of mine employees waved us through the gate. The owner\, a 70 year old Japanese eccentric married to a local woman\, was away\, they told me. But they were happy to show me the operation: “Here are the four ovens where we make the coal.” So it turned out to be not a coal mine at all. This was a charcoal making project. The words for coal and charcoal are very similar in Burmese\, as in English.  \n  \nAlthough charcoal is used for household cooking throughout Burma\, this product was apparently for export to Japan\, where special charcoals are often used as air freshener\, commanding high prices for small amounts. I was certainly relieved that it was not a coal mine. But I learned that this charcoal business was having its own environmental impact: depleting the area around Valvum of four types of trees\, described in the local language as thal sing\, lim sing\, nai sing and se sing.  \n  \nI mentioned that bamboo\, a plentiful and thoroughly renewable resource\, could be used instead for export quality charcoal. In Japan bamboo charcoal is prized and costly\, for incense or just displayed in a bowl to purify the air. Chin State reminded me of Appalachia in many ways (the rhody forests\, the Christian hymns resounding in mountain churches\, those blue ridges\, hollers and mines.) One place’s pollution or deforestation is another part of the world’s clean breath of air.  \n  \nLeaving Valvum we reached the main road\, where I had to wrap up in scarves like a nomad raider to keep the dust out of my lungs. Six years on\, that entire region has become a horrifying conflict zone. Since the Feb. 1\, 2021 coup in Myanmar\, entire towns and villages have been burned across Chin State by the shock troops of the regime. Civilians fled to neighboring India. The young environmentalists I knew and other activists fight back with guerrilla tactics\, as armed convoys invade their land. The pine forests are now resistance strongholds.  \n  \n—Edith Mirante\, 2022 \nfor more about Chin State: \nhttps://www.projectmaje.org/chin_report_2021.htm \n* \n  \nVW Bug in Mud \n  \nWe had this bright idea to take a short cut on a road that faded from gravel to dirt to mud. “Maybe if we go fast enough we can get through that big puddle.” Nope. We were stalled with wheels spinning\, car body resting in muck. Did I mention we were ten miles from anywhere…my baby sister was with us…it was dusk? Well\, we gathered a heap of flat rocks\, lifted the car high enough to place pavers under each wheel (playing mighty Archimedes with a dead tree we plucked from the ground)\, laud down stones to fill the ruts\, revved it\, and roared onward…arriving home to the frightened family around midnight. A sturdy lesson in foolishness and self-reliance. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \na seagull conversation     \n  \non a chilly autumn afternoon \nwith the barest minimum of experience \nI’m cautiously paddling a kayak  \naround and among a group of small islands  \noff the jagged coast of Connecticut \ngently encouraged and accompanied by \nan athletic younger brother and his mate  \neach in their own kayak  \nmaneuvering with skill far superior to my own \n  \nat the moment  \nI have unintentionally wandered out of their sight   \nsuddenly alone in an unfamiliar domain \nI calm a rising concern with assurances  \nmy partners are almost certainly  \non the far side of the next small island  \nor the island just beyond  \n  \nmeanwhile  \nI contemplate the territorial agreement  \nthe local cormorants and seagulls appear to have made  \noccupying alternate perching rocks  \ntwelve to fifteen feet apart \nthat surround the island I’m slowly moving past \n  \nclenched postures and cold stares make it clear \nagreement has also been reached  \nthat my presence is entirely unwelcome \n  \nas I round the narrow end of the island  \none of the gulls hunkered on a rock just ahead  \nconfronts me with the abrasive\, demanding cry  \nthat seems to express the hardcore seagull personality  \n  \nafter a tense moment\, I try to soften the mood \nwith a modestly accurate but gentler seagull impression \n  \nthe gull’s harsh scream in response  \nis a furious reply to a personal insult  \n  \nmy attempt to back away with a shorter\, less ragged cry \nbrings a jagged challenge to deadly combat \n  \nmy third pass at making peace is cut short \nby a piercing shriek that must be a crippling curse  \n  \nand the gull lifts its wings and rises from its perch  \n  \nI pause and drift for a moment \nresting the double-blade paddle across my lap \nand watch the departing gull fly slowly but deliberately  \nin a remarkably straight line away from the nose of my kayak  \n  \nI’m just beginning to consider the possibility  \nof feeling guilty about disturbing this gull in the first place \nwhen the bird makes a tight turn mid-air \nprecisely reversing its course \nnow heading on a line directly toward my kayak  \n  \nin the time it takes to think: what the hell?  \nI see a slender rope of firm black and white matter  \nalmost two feet long and growing  \ndescending from beneath the bird’s tail  \n  \nswiftly lengthening and steadily on-coming  \nthis two-tone cord of seagull rebuke   \nis truly surreal and completely unnerving  \n  \nas the gull and dangling cord close in     \nI panic and thrust the right side of my paddle into the air  \nhoping to deflect the incoming projectile  \n  \nmy awkward parry is completely mistimed \nand the sudden movement sends the kayak tipping wildly to the left  \nI manage to right the boat but a generous amount of ocean water  \nhas washed into the kayak’s snug seating compartment  \n  \nthe frigid ocean stings as it soaks into my pants \nbut I can’t take my eyes off the approaching nightmare cord  \nwhich the gull suddenly releases  \ndropping it into the water a couple of feet in front of my kayak  \n  \nrelief begins to flood my mind before I realize   \nthis cunning seagull has very nearly \nsent me tumbling into the icy autumn Atlantic \n  \nlater that evening\, in warm dry clothes   \ncomes the bottom line: \nif the intruder’s pants are wet  \nthe seagull’s point is made   \n  \n—Nick Eldredge   2022 \n* \n  \nI’ve had an adventure or two in my day. Most of them a long time ago. I lived in India for a couple years. I was a gold miner in Northern California. I had a job where I was paid for sleeping. Another job was testing beet pulp pellets for hardness\, durability and fine particle content. Once\, when free climbing in the Wallowa Mountains\, I found myself on a rock ledge from where I could not go up and could not go back down. Somehow\, I lived to tell the tale. But that is not the tale I’m going to tell now… \n  \nI was awakened by a phone call in the middle of the night in the Fall of 1998. It was World Class Oddball Ken Campbell calling from London. “Johnny\,” he said. “Would you like to enroll in the School for Phils?” “I don’t know\, Ken. What is the School for Phils?” Ken explained that the little voices inside his head were telling him that it was important to usher in the Millennium by performing The Warp every weekend of 1999\, and that he needed to train up a team of Phils\, because if someone tried to play the part of Philip Masters every weekend for a year\, it would kill them. \n  \n“When does the School for Phils begin?” “One week from today.” “It’s tempting. I’d have to quit my job…” “Are you in?” \n  \nA week later\, I found myself in a smoke-filled basement in Camden Town. There were about six guys\, besides myself. Oliver Senton was giving us a briefing. He had played the part of Philip Masters. According to the Guinness Book of  World Records\, it is the longest part in the longest play in the English language. After a few days\, enrollment in the School for Phils had dwindled to one. Me. \n  \nThe Warp is a play unlike any other. It’s Neil Oram’s autobiography\, from 1959 to 1979\, in roughly the same way that Jack Kerouac’s On the Road is autobiographical. As in Kerouac’s book\, the names have been changed\, but the events recounted actually happened. At least this was Neil’s version of what happened and he was completely sincere when he said he didn’t make anything up. Neil Oram has the most astonishing memory of anyone I have ever met. When he wrote his play in 1979\, he could remember conversations he had fifteen and twenty years earlier. \n  \nRehearsals couldn’t begin until I was “off book.” It took me four months to learn my lines. I started every day at 8 a.m.\, seven days a week\, and worked on my lines till midnight. When I got tested\, it took more than eight hours to say my lines\, with someone giving me just my cues. The other actors all knew their parts. We only rehearsed for five days\, with everyone lining up to do their scenes with me. When we performed the play at the Roundhouse\, the performance began at 8 pm on Saturday and ended at 7 pm the following day. I was onstage the whole time. \n  \nA play that is more than 20 hours long sounds like it might be boring. When Ken directed The Warp there was not a dull moment. He was a comic genius\, the funniest man I have ever known. I don’t know how Neil felt about this\, but Ken directed his earnest account of his life journey for maximum laughs.  \n  \nThe first time I saw the play\, I was playing a small part\, Ralph Beak. He doesn’t come onstage for at least the first twelve hours\, so I got to watch the first half of the play as an audience member\, and it was the most exhilarating theatrical experience of my life. The energy that the actors brought to every scene was incredible! There are dozens of characters and more than 120 scenes. In every scene the actors were trying to outdo the previous scene. After eight hours of this barrage on my nervous system I was in a state of ecstasy. I felt like I had died and gone to Theater Paradise. \n  \nI had a little time off from line-learning\, when our theater company would perform Macbeth in Pidgin English at the Piccadilly Theatre on London’s West End. \n  \nI performed the part of Philip Masters in The Warp three times\, in early 1999\, before returning to The States. At the end of the 23 hour-long performances\, the audience stood up and shouted and cheered for about ten minutes. It’s the only time in my acting career that I got to feel what rock stars must feel when the crowd goes wild. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nReflections On the Art of “The Adventure” \n  \nThe Oxford Dictionary suggests adventure might be a “daring enterprise\,” describes adventurism as a “tendency to take risks\,” and offers up synonyms such as “audacious\, brave\, reckless\, valiant\,” and “risky.” \n  \nDefining adventure seems very subjective and individual to me. Certainly one person’s daring is another person’s ho-hum. I do feel (for myself) it requires “loose ends\,” cannot be over-planned\, must include improvisation and unknowns\, and necessitates I be “in the moment.” Thus I might say our entire life is an adventure as we navigate the surges\, eddies\, and constant strivings that are elements of being alive. \n  \nRather than describe one specific episode of bravado\, I’ve conceived a list of possibilities I hope will touch many: \n  \n—(Here’s the big one) Being with “me”…phew! (Can you relate?) \n—Family reunions (‘nough said) \n—First stroke of brush on canvas \n—The turn of a thought \n—Being member of Johnny’s dialogue group \n—Hiking in bear country \n—Being a part of OHOM circle of friends \n—Making new friends \n—Imagining in new ways \n—Prison \n—Going to the library/book store \n—Writing first word of poem/essay \n—Stepping onstage in front of an audience \n  \nHere’s a few more: \n  \n—Agreeing \n—Listening \n—Changing \n—Loving \n—Smiling \n—Commitment \n—Birth/Death \n  \nAnd as a last thought: \n  \n—This moment! \n  \nConclusion: we all\, at every moment are engaged in the living act of \n“The Adventure” \n  \nPeace and Love To All \n  \n—Abe Green  2022 \n  \n(Note to readers: peace\, love\, happiness & understanding now comes out on the first Thursday of every month\, instead of every other Thursday.)
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-8-4-22/
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UID:3071-1658674800-1658682000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  7/24/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!\n \nWe had so much fun last time with AUTHORS AND WRITINGS THAT MAKE YOU HAPPY! that we’re doing it again on Sunday\, July 24th\, at 3 p.m. (PDT).\n \nNovels\, stories\, poems and plays that make you laugh\, lift your spirits\, give you a feeling of well-being. Which authors are the most reliable for cheering you up?\n \nHere’s the link for the Zoom gathering:\n \n \n\nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n\n\n\n  \nI hope to see you there.\n \nMay all people be happy!\n \n \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-7-24-22/
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UID:2974-1657843200-1660521599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  7/15/22
DESCRIPTION:photograph taken in Iceland by Kim Stafford \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  July 15\, 2022 \n  \nRemember? \n  \nRemember that day \nwhen the war ended \nand you climbed \nfrom your trenches \nand we oozed \nfrom our bunkers \nleaving \ngrenades\, guns \nbullets and bayonets \nbehind? \nRemember how we \nall sang in the streets \ndanced in the fountains \ncrazy with joy? \nRemember how \nclouds lifted \nhearts rose \nhatred\, vengeance \nbitterness and rage \nfell away like \ngrave clothes? \nRemember how \nwe stood \ntall and happy \nin the morning \nlight \neyeing the world \nand one another \nwith new eyes? \nRemember how \nin that ecstasy \nwe forgot \nif ours was \na red state \nor blue \nliberal cause or \nconservative stand? \n  \nRemember \nhow easily \nwe remembered \nwho we were \nfrom whence we had come \nwhere we were going \nwhy we were here \nand what we should do? \n  \nI will never forget \nthat day \nwhen the war ended \nand trust sprouted \nand spread like \na green \nsea of grass \nacross every divide \nover every division \nuniting all \ninto one state \nof grace \nindivisible \nat peace \nunder heaven. \n  \n —Will Hornyak   July 10\, 2022 \n* \n#223  Benefit From The Positive Elements  \n  \n“If the presence of the other is refreshing and healing to you\, keep hold of this presence and nourish yourself with it. If there are negative things around you\, you can always find something that is healthy\, refreshing and healing\, and with your mindfulness you can recognize its presence in your life. \n  \nYou need to recognize that these kinds of positive elements exist and that you can benefit from their refreshing and helpful presence. If you are facing a sunset\, a marvelous spectacle\, give yourself a chance to be in touch with it. Give yourself five minutes\, breathing deeply\, and you will be truly there. Touch the beauty of nature in a deep way. That will do your body and mind a great deal of good.” — Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nWendell Berry’s poem\, “The Peace of Wild Things” is the embodiment of this page from Your True Home\, and I speak it silently to myself each day on entering my time of meditation. \n  \nI can’t deny that I am often agitated and fearful about the world\, particularly about our country\, when I sit down to meditate. And I quietly breathe in\, and out\, and remind myself: \n  \nThe Peace of Wild Things \n  \nWhen despair for the world grows in me\nand I wake in the night at the least sound\nin fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be\,\nI go and lie down where the wood drake\nrests in his beauty on the water\, and the great heron feeds.\nI come into the peace of wild things\nwho do not tax their lives with forethought\nof grief. I come into the presence of still water.\nAnd I feel above me the day-blind stars\nwaiting with their light. For a time\nI rest in the grace of the world\, and am free. \n  \n—Wendell Berry \n  \nI am so fortunate to be surrounded by beauty. I look to the north and see snow-clad Mt. Adams\, and to the south\, fleecy Mt. Hood —my two sentinels. To the east the sun rises over Surveyor’s Ridge and to the west it sets over Mt. Defiance. And above me either the “day-blind stars\, waiting with their light\,” or the visible blaze of stars in the deep and silent night sky. \n  \nWendell Berry and Thich That Hanh know the score. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nI read Thomas Traherne’s poem “Silence” this morning. It begins: \n  \nA quiet silent person may possess \nAll that is great or high in Blessedness. \nThe inward work is the supreme… \nA man who seemeth idle to the view \nOf others\, may the greatest business do. \n  \nLater in the poem\, he describes Adam\, in the Garden\, before the Fall: \n  \nThe first and only work he had to do\, \nWas in himself to feel his bliss\, to view \nHis sacred treasures\, to admire\, rejoice\, \nSing praises with a sweet and heavenly voice\, \nSee\, prize\, give hourly thanks within\, and love\, \nWhich is the high and only work above \nThem all. \n  \nTraherne felt that\, as a child\, he lived in that same Paradise: \n  \nA world of innocence as then was mine\, \nIn which the joys of Paradise did shine: \nAnd while I was not here I was in Heaven\, \nNot resting one\, but every\, day in seven\, \nFor ever minding with a lively sense\, \nThe universe in all its excellence. \nNo other thoughts did intervene\, to cloy\, \nDivert\, extinguish\, or eclipse my joy\, \nNo other customs\, new-found wants\, or dreams \nInvented here polluted my pure streams… \n  \nAs an adult\, by writing poems in which he gives thanks and praises to God\, who created “the universe in all its excellence\,” he could again enter the Garden of Paradise which he knew as a child: \n  \nHe was an ocean of delights from Whom \nThe living springs and golden streams did come: \nMy bosom was an ocean into which \nThey all did run. And me they did enrich. \nA vast and infinite capacity\, \nDid make my bosom like the Deity\, \nIn whose mysterious and celestial mind \nAll ages and all worlds together shin’d\, \nWho tho’ He nothing said did always reign\, \nAnd in Himself Eternity contain. \nThe world was more in me\, than I in it. \nThe King of Glory in my soul did sit\, \nAnd to Himself in me he always gave \nAll that He takes delight to see me have\, \nFor so my spirit was an endless Sphere\, \nLike God Himself\, and Heaven\, and Earth was there. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne  (1636-1674) \n  \nA quiet silent person may possess this Blessedness. It’s our birthright. \n  \n—Johnny \n* \n  \nPoems from Kim are always welcome: \n  \n          Pain & Grace \n  \nFar from here\, pain abounds— \nwar\, storm\, crime\, cruelty. \nNews freights that here to us. \nClose to home\, grace abounds— \nrain\, leaf\, birdsong\, touch. \nPoetry sends this there to them. \nThis disjunction puzzles everyone. \nUnknown beauties must be there. \nAnd here\, we have hurts in plenty. \nSo what is worth the telling? Let me \nbe the journalist of old affections. \nIn the tyrant’s prison\, may there be \n    a song. \n  \n                A Right to Rest \n  \nWhen you’re well\, it’s Up and at ’em!  \nRise and shine! Daylight in the swamp!  \nAnd there you stride into the storm of all  \nthat calls you to be the hero of action and  \naccomplishment. You’ll earn rest when  \nspent at dusk\, stumbling for home. \nBut when you’re under the weather\, it’s  \nTake it easy…Kick back…Doze. At last\, \nyour puritan self will let you be a slacker\,  \nshiftless\, a lazy bum. Now’s the time \nfor frailty\, for faltering\, when sickness  \ntakes pity on your weary soul. \n  \n                 Covid Guest \n  \nFor years you traveled in my country.  \nPeople told stories of your wanderings\,  \ncounted how many you met when they  \ncould take off the mask of reticence.  \nSome shut their doors\, shunned your  \ntouch\, but others took you in\, hosted \nyour companionship\, even grew intimate.  \nHow their breath came fast as you dazzled \nand left them utterly amazed. \nNow you come to my house\, and at last  \nwe meet. “Don’t be a stranger\,” you say\,  \noffering your hand. And I take you in. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nCongratulations to Michel Deforge\, who has now written more than 300 meditations in his journal\, inspired by Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditations in Your True Home. In our Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue what we have shared of Michel’s writings is only the tip of the iceberg. Here are some things from his June journal: \n  \nJune 6\, 2022  #299 Definition of Hell \n  \nI love Thây’s solution—compassion. Any place I go\, I will meet men and women who have created their own hell on earth. All I can do\, and need to do\, to ease their suffering is bring my compassion (from love and understanding) into his or her life—mine too! I don’t have to be the “best” or be all-compassionate.  I merely need to breathe (consciously)\, share some compassion cultivated from understanding the person before me in that moment—no history past\, or future yet to be formed: simply he and me\, in the now. Johnny is our example\, here at TRCI; it’s repeatable. \n  \nJune 23\, 2022  #309  How to Listen to the Dharma \n  \nThis could apply to any time I (and you) are listening to a talk\, a lecture\, a debate\, a sermon\, maybe even a discussion on wise and salient topics. I imagine\, even if it’s silly\, foolish\, wastrel chatter I (and you) can allow the noise to wash over and pass on through. Engaging with intellect risks trapping all sorts of ideas\, notions—pond scum\, if you will. Wholesome talk/listening can also be reviewed later and maybe bear fruit. Listen to wisdom by letting it just soak in\, without any interference or additives. Your life seeds will be better for it in the long run. \n  \nJune 26\, 2022  #310  Here to Love \n  \nThis is a simple one. Breathe\, smile\, be aware\, and love. I wonder how often and easily any of us can get into a mental mess by giving too much thought to Love: What it is/is not\, how it “works.” Maybe\, and I don’t really know from my own experience\, we simply need to breathe\, smile\, be present to the reality of now—including the object of love (self\, other\, or object not self)\, and then choose to contemplate loving thoughts toward our object of love. I think an appropriate love will arise. (Provided the contemplation was appropriate.) Of course\, another option comes to mind: Breathe\, smile and just be. Just breathe and be\, simply\, as if in mindful meditative practice. Allow life to continue\, just to observe\, without judgement\, what happens. \n  \nJune 29\, 2022  #312  None Other Than Enlightenment \n  \nAll these skills and practice come together\, as I continue practicing on my own\, to reveal a freedom from suffering and a life of “nirvana.” It’s no special secret. If I (we) do this work\, we will reap the rewards of enlightenment in all of our efforts and interactions with reality. And it all starts with deliberate breathing. \n  \nOn June 30th\, Michel wrote this: \n  \nJohnny and friends\, \n  \nI don’t know precisely when\, but I am given to believe that I will go to my first hip replacement surgery in July. I’m hoping the week following the 4th\, but I have to wait and see. At the same time\, TRCI is locking back down as infections of Covid rise. (Big sigh!) If I go “dark” you’ll know I went to the infirmary and didn’t have my writing tools to keep journalling. We’ll see. \n  \nI hope everyone is well and I will be back “on track” as soon as I am able. \n  \nTake care\, with much love and gratitude\, \n  \nMichel \n* \n  \nKatie says:  \n  \nWhile I was typing this up I was doing meditation with the Shambhala sanghas in New York and Ukraine\, and one person read Thay’s poem “Please Call Me by My True Names.” \n  \nSo magical this life. \n  \nAda Limón – born 1976 – has just been named the new Poet Laureate of the United States. We need her poems today; so glad to share them.   \n  \n“Right now\, so often we are going numb to grief and numb to tragedy and numb to crisis\,” Limón said. “Poetry is a way back in\, to recognizing that we are feeling human beings. And feeling grief and feeling trauma can actually allow us to feel joy again.” \n  \nHere are a few of my favorites of her poems –  \n  \nA New National Anthem \n  \nThe truth is\, I’ve never cared for the National \nAnthem. If you think about it\, it’s not a good \nsong. Too high for most of us with “the rockets \nred glare” and then there are the bombs. \n(Always\, always\, there is war and bombs.) \nOnce\, I sang it at homecoming and threw \neven the tenacious high school band off key. \nBut the song didn’t mean anything\, just a call \nto the field\, something to get through before \nthe pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas \nwe never sing\, the third that mentions “no refuge \ncould save the hireling and the slave”? Perhaps\, \nthe truth is\, every song of this country \nhas an unsung third stanza\, something brutal \nsnaking underneath us as we blindly sing \nthe high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands \nhoping our team wins. Don’t get me wrong\, I do \nlike the flag\, how it undulates in the wind \nlike water\, elemental\, and best when it’s humbled\, \nbrought to its knees\, clung to by someone who \nhas lost everything\, when it’s not a weapon\, \nwhen it flickers\, when it folds up so perfectly \nyou can keep it until it’s needed\, until you can \nlove it again\, until the song in your mouth feels \nlike sustenance\, a song where the notes are sung \nby even the ageless woods\, the short-grass plains\, \nthe Red River Gorge\, the fistful of land left \nunpoisoned\, that song that’s our birthright\, \nthat’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on\, \nthat sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving \ninto another’s\, that sounds like a match being lit \nin an endless cave\, the song that says my bones \nare your bones\, and your bones are my bones\, \nand isn’t that enough? \n  \nThe Raincoat \n  \nWhen the doctor suggested surgery\nand a brace for all my youngest years\,\nmy parents scrambled to take me\nto massage therapy\, deep tissue work\,\nosteopathy\, and soon my crooked spine\nunspooled a bit\, I could breathe again\,\nand move more in a body unclouded\nby pain. My mom would tell me to sing\nsongs to her the whole forty-five minute\ndrive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-\nfive minutes back from physical therapy.\nShe’d say\, even my voice sounded unfettered\nby my spine afterward. So I sang and sang\,\nbecause I thought she liked it. I never\nasked her what she gave up to drive me\,\nor how her day was before this chore. Today\,\nat her age\, I was driving myself home from yet\nanother spine appointment\, singing along\nto some maudlin but solid song on the radio\,\nand I saw a mom take her raincoat off\nand give it to her young daughter when\na storm took over the afternoon. My god\,\nI thought\, my whole life I’ve been under her\nraincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel\nthat I never got wet. \n  \nBurying Beetle \n  \nI like to imagine even the plants\nwant attention\, so I weed for four\nhours straight\, assuring the tomatoes\nfeel July’s hot breath on the neck\,\nthe Japanese maple can stretch\,\nthe sweet potatoes\, spider plants\,\nthe Asiatic lilies can flourish in this\nplace we’ve dared to say we “own.”\nEach nicked spindle of morning glory\nor kudzu or purslane or yellow rocket\n(Barbarea vulgaris\, for Christ’s sake)\,\nand I find myself missing everyone I know.\nI don’t know why. First come the piles\nof nutsedge and creeper and then an\nache that fills the skin like the Cercospora\nblight that’s killing the blue skyrocket juniper\nslowly from the inside out. Sure\, I know\nwhat it is to be lonely\, but today’s special\nis a physical need to be touched by someone\ndecent\, a pulsing palm to the back. My man\nis in South Africa still\, and people just keep\ndying even when I try to pretend they’re\nnot. The crown vetch and the curly dock\nare almost eliminated as I survey the neatness\nof my work. I don’t feel I deserve this time\,\nor the small plot of earth I get to mold into\nsomeplace livable. I lost God awhile ago.\nAnd I don’t want to pray\, but I can picture\nthe plants deepening right now into the soil\,\nwanting to live\, so I lie down among them\,\nin my ripped pink tank top\, filthy and covered\nin sweat\, among red burying beetles and dirt\nthat’s been turned and turned like a problem\nin the mind. \n—Ada Limón \n  \nCarrying Thay Into the Future  \n  \nThay founded Plum Village Monastery in the French countryside in 1982. His first monastery in the West and his home for many years\, Plum Village has been a refuge and mindfulness center for those displaced and suffering from war\, to those searching for the ease of feeling at home in a peaceful community. Over the next four decades\, Plum Village drew more and more practitioners while Thay went on to found 10 more monasteries and practice centers around the world. \n  \n“I can see very clearly that wherever you are\, you are my continuation\, and in one way or another\, you are carrying me into the future\,” Thay has said of those who follow the Plum Village path of mindfulness. “We\, teacher and student\, will continue to climb the hill of the century\, offering our love\, understanding\, freedom\, and solidity to the world.” \n  \n—Katie Radditz
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-7-15-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220710T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220710T150000
DTSTAMP:20260425T061103
CREATED:20220709T190753Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220709T190824Z
UID:2962-1657465200-1657465200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  7/10/22
DESCRIPTION:Daniel Pinkwater \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nThis Sunday\, July 10th\, at 3 p.m. (PDT)\, our theme will be Authors and Writings That Make You Happy.  \n  \nNovels\, stories\, poems and plays that made you laugh\, lifted your spirits\, gave you a feeling of well-being. Which authors are most reliable for cheering you up?  \n  \nHere’s the link for the Zoom gathering:   \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there!   \n  \npeace\, love & happiness   \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-7-10-22/
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