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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230507T150000
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DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
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SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  5/7/23
DESCRIPTION:from Liber Novus (The Red Book) by Carl Jung \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!\n \nThe theme for our next Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom dialogue is Psychology. Read any books on this subject? Got any insights? Please join us at 3 p.m. (PDT)\, Sunday\, May 7th. \n \n\nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n\n\n\n\n\npeace\, love & psychology\n\n\n \n\n\nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-5-7-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230506T200000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230506T213000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230418T215016Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230505T151323Z
UID:3812-1683403200-1683408600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Jon Bennett performs Fire in the Meth Lab at ADX
DESCRIPTION:  \nThe Open Road invites you to come and be astonished by Jon Bennett’s brilliant show: Fire In the Meth Lab\, Saturday\, May 6th\, 8 p.m.\, at Art Design Xchange (ADX)\, 417 SE 11th. Doors at 7:30pm. Click here for tickets: \n  \nJon Bennett has crafted a powerful story of addiction and family. When I saw this show\, I laughed and cried as he took me on an unforgettable journey. Not to be missed!!  –Jeffrey Sher \n  \nThis is a benefit for Outside In. Since 1968\, Outside In has transformed thousands of lives by helping to break the cycles of chronic homelessness\, poverty\, and poor health. Our health clinic and young adult programs strive to provide safe\, caring\, affirming spaces for our community to receive judgment-free care and support. MISSION: We help homeless youth and other marginalized people move towards improved health and self-sufficiency. \n  \nThank you to Ronni Lacroute for sponsoring this event.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/jon-bennett-performs-fire-in-the-meth-lab/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230504T100000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230504T120000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230419T224924Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230427T001427Z
UID:3827-1683194400-1683201600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:War in Ukraine Dialogue  5/4/23
DESCRIPTION:  \nPLEASE JOIN A DISCUSSION ABOUT U.S. INVOLVEMENT \nIN THE WAR IN UKRAINE \nThe Open Road invites you to take part in a dialogue about the War in Ukraine\, and our country’s role in it.  \nThursday\, May 4th\, at 10 a.m. \nThe Gallery at Lolo Pass\, 1616 East Burnside\, in Portland \nFor questions or information call Ken: (503) 351-5891 \n“In the councils of government\, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence\, whether sought or unsought\, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous use of misplaced power exists and will persist.” \n—President Dwight D. Eisenhower \nFarewell Address to the Nation\, January 17\, 1961 \nFREE ADMISSION
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/war-in-ukraine-slide-presentation-discussion/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230504
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230601
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230504T212150Z
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  5/4/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nBOOKS THAT CHANGED THE WAY YOU SEE THE WORLD \n  \nMay 4\, 2023 \n  \nWhen I first read Christina Stead’s The Man Who Loved Children\, I realized that literature could be even more powerful than I had known. Powerful enough in this novel to make me feel acute embarrassment\, shame\, and humiliation–unsavory\, and unforgettable emotions. It was\, in that sense\, one of the most unpleasant books that I have ever read–but I suffered those ugly emotions because I was in empathic thrall to the characters\, which was thrilling. Christina Stead had such power over me that she could compel me to keep reading even against my own will. Sixty years later\, the book stays with me. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \n  \nThe Skull Mantra by Eliot Pattison \n  \nAs the first book in the Inspector Shan series this book gave me a glimpse into the history and current status of the relationship between Tibet and China. It also gave a different perspective on Tibetan Buddhism\, a more human practical one\, and it opened me to a world of beliefs deeply different from those I had learned about in the West. \n  \nThere are ten books in this series. \n  \nWhen I first met Andrew\, he had an “Endlessly Connected” bumper stick on his car that was flanked by two Meander Knots. A simple design\, the endless knot iconography symbolizes samsara—the endless cycle of suffering of birth\, death\, and rebirth within Tibetan Buddhism. The intertwining of wisdom and compassion. Also\, the Interplay and interaction of the opposing forces in the dualistic world of manifestation\, leading to their union\, and ultimately to harmony in the universe. \n  \nThe books have a starkness to them. As mysteries they are dark and sometimes brutal\, but the characters\, particularly the lamas have stuck around in my head since encountering them. Andrew and I read them at approximately the same time\, sharing tidbits and references and when it came time to name our poetry press\, little magazine and open mic\, Meander Knot was the obvious choice. \n  \nWe even got identical tattoos as both a branding exercise but also an expression of perhaps a deeper connection between us and the possible connection over more than one lifetime. \n  \nAnd then\, when I started teaching yoga\, I called the business “Meander Yoga”. The endless knot is not featured specifically in the books\, (although I suspect it is mentioned. I am planning on re-reading them this year and will find out) it symbolizes to me the deep cultural richness in the books and how that richness has enhanced both my spiritual\, but also my artistic life.   \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nHi Johnny! \n  \nThere are so many books that have changed me and/or inspired me but the one that comes to the top of my mind is Hope for the Flowers. I’ve read this book so many times and have shared it with so many people. It’s such a sweet and simple illustration of transformation but also of embracing who you are right now.  \n  \nOn a totally different note\, I remember reading Johnny Got His Gun for the first time and being in awe. It was the first time I really sat and pondered what it means to be human and what makes life worth living.  \n  \nOh\, and of course\, Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth! \n  \nI’ll stop before I start listing 100 books.  \n  \n—Nicole Rush \n* \n  \nThe Mahabharata retold by William Buck \n  \nI first thought Peter Brooke read this. \nI found it falling apart in a free box or a yard sale. \nI found I couldn’t read it. \nIt sat on the bookshelf for a couple of years. I kept an eye on it. \n  \nOne morning in Parkrose neighborhood\, on a north deck\, watching the planes glide in over the trees and rooftops\, following the river west to PDX\, I saw the sun was shining after endless rain. \nA cup of coffee was there\, and the time had come to open the book of wonder. \n  \n—Charles Erickson \n* \n  \nbeautiful morning\, Johnny. good question! \n  \nI immediately thought about how I felt after reading Green Mansions by William Henry Hudson. I had never had an English teacher in High School assign anything like it to read. I think I was the only one in the class who liked it or even read it. So for one thing it forged a bond with my fascinating lovely teacher. \n  \nMainly it opened up a world of wonder about the wild\, where savage had the meaning of wild/wyld people in a forest wilderness unmitigated by modern civilization. It is about true freedom compared to that of the birds.   \n  \nHudson writes with a clear style that matches his view of beauty and wonder being the essence of life. It is a love story as well as a tragedy of what would come of nature.  \n  \nNow I’ve pulled it out to read once again. I had forgotten the main character’s name is Abel—my first son’s name! I think this story has stayed with me in my deep consciousness.  \n  \nIn the forward\, John Galsworthy wrote in 1918 that Hudson was the most valuable author of his Age. He says of  Hudson\, who was a naturalist as well as an author: “his nomadic records of communing with men (women)\, birds\, beasts\, and Nature\, has a supreme gift of disclosing not only the thing he sees but the spirit of his vision. Without apparent effort he takes you with him into a rare\, free\, natural world\, and always you are refreshed\, stimulated\, enlarged\, by going there.”  \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nAbout ten years ago a good friend of mine urged me to read Nicholas and Alexandra\, by Robert Massie. I was reluctant\, because\, as I told her\, “I don’t do history.” She said\, “Well\, do!” I said that because up until then the only history I’d read had been high school and college textbooks. I’d read\, study\, take a test and then forget everything (hopefully in that order). I read hundreds and hundreds of novels from junior high school on—Stendhal\, Balzac\, Dickens\, Dostoevsky\, etc.—so it wasn’t for a lack of love of reading\, just no desire or aptitude for history. \n  \nBut I read Nicholas and Alexandra and loved it! It’s the story of the last czarist Romanov dynasty and its fall. I’d never known much about Rasputin\, but he figures in powerfully\, with the strange spell he held over Alexandra and her hemophiliac son\, Alexi. It was probably more biography than accounting of events. It led me to Peter the Great and Catherine the Great\, both of which were also biographical\, with dominion\, control\, conquest\, acquisition and rule over dozens of countries in that region threaded into their stories. \n  \nSo perhaps it’s biography rather than history that has opened up a new world of reading for me.  \n  \nIn that vein\, I also read American Prometheus\, the biography of J. Robert Oppenheimer\, “father of the atomic bomb.” Strange reading material\, eh? But he was such a brilliant polymath and was forever conflicted about how his genius was put to use.  \n  \nRight now\, it’s The Orientalist\, by Tom Reiss\, the life of Lev Nussimbaum\, a Jew who transformed himself into a Muslim prince and became a best selling author in Nazi Germany. It looks at the early 20th century and the origins of our ideas of race and religious self-definition\, and the beginning of modern fanaticism and terrorism.  \n  \nSo now it’s geography in addition to biography and history\, and I’m sitting with the big World Atlas and a magnifying glass\, scrutinizing Baku\, the capital of Azerbaijan\, the Caspian Sea\, the Caucasus\, Georgia\, Turkey… \n  \nTo wrap this up\, explorations in readings of geography\, biography\, and history have expanded my vision\, experience\, and understanding of the world in these last ten years\, thanks to my friend\, Nikki! (But I still love novels.) \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nAlice Miller’s book For Your Own Good: Hidden Cruelty in Childhood and the Roots of Violence changed the way I look at individual acts of violence and collective acts of violence—war. The basic thesis is simple: abusing children—physically\, psychologically\, emotionally\, sexually—wounds them. She says that when we grow up\, we unconsciously and compulsively re-enact the violence that was done to us. Randy Newman’s song “I want you to hurt like I do” sums it up. The violence can also be directed against ourselves. There’s more to the story than the idea that we are\, by our nature\, violent apes. We certainly have the potential for violence\, and we also have the potential to be loving and kind. It depends which seeds we water.  \n  \nIt follows from this that to the extent that we can be loving and kind to our children—instead of mean and cruel—the world will be transformed in positive ways. Conscious awareness of what we suffered and how it has affected us can help us to not act out the same things that were done to us. Her book helped me to better understand how “hurt people hurt people.” Instead of judging people for the suffering they’ve caused\, I want to know about the pain they’ve suffered. \n  \nSusan Griffin’s book Woman and Nature brought home to me the relentless way in which men have defined\, dominated and oppressed women over the centuries. Her book is also a visionary call for women’s (and men’s) emancipation from this tyranny. \n  \nAntler’s poem “Factory” changed the way I see the world around me. Having read the poem many years ago\, it still manages to regularly remind me that the paint on the walls\, the windows in the walls\, the lightbulbs\, the refrigerator\, the glasses on my nose\, the computer that I’m typing on—almost everything that surrounds me—was made by men and women working in (ugly\, noisy) factories (which pollute the air\, the water and the soil). \n  \nWalt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself” inspires me to see beauty everywhere\, to love everyone\, to be astonished by the miraculousness of everything I touch\, taste\, see\, or imagine. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nFOR YOUR OWN GOOD \nThanks for the reminder\, Johnny\, \nYou introduced me to that book ages ago\, and I carried it around with me for a long time. \nIt says lots about childhood and being treated as a child by adults who are very busy in their own sphere. \nIt has left a lasting impression on me. \nI’ll see if I can come up with another that has been useful as a life reference. \n  \n—Todd Oleson \n* \n  \nIn the recent Open Road letter you asked about life-changing books—or at least life-influencing ones. Many of the titles you sent me fall in this group. However\, due to space limits\, I’ve sent the most helpful ones home and forgotten the titles. Some others include: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl\, Writing My Wrongs: Life\, Death\, and Redemption in an American Prison by Shaka Senghor\, The Master Plan: My Journey from Life in Prison to a Life of Purpose by Chris Wilson. I’m working through My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies by Resmaa Menakem—a bit “woke\,” but still has relevance. Homecoming: Reclaiming and Championing Your Inner Child by John Bradshaw. Mmm…I’ll have to come back to this. \n  \nThere’s a small-ish list of books I hope to read this next year—after ordering\, of course. Some may trigger comments and feedback for others I’ll need/want to read\, or even avoid: 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene\, How to Talk to Anyone by Leil Lowndes\, something by W.E.B. Du Bois [his two most well-known books are The Souls of Black Folk and Autobiography of W.E.B. Du Bois—ed.]\, Hillbilly Elegy by J. D. Vance\, Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates\, Ordinary Magic: Resilience in Development by Ann S. Masten\, Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving by Pete Walker\, Say What You Mean: A Mindful Approach to Nonviolent Communication by Oren Jay Sofer\, and Nonviolent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg. \n  \nOh\, The Body Keeps Score by Bessel van der Kolk\, on trauma—this was helpful. So many helpful books\, and all the best are at home. This is great for when I get out (15+ years)\, not great for now. Oh\, and I have crossed the halfway on April 9th: 50% done\, 15¾ years left. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nDear Reader \n  \nNext month (June 1st)\, our theme is Peace. \nSend me something. \n  \npeace & love \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-5-4-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230423T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230423T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230413T150146Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230503T210126Z
UID:3792-1682262000-1682269200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Shakespeare Birthday Extravaganza!!!  4/23/23
DESCRIPTION:I know a bank where the wild thyme blows\,\nWhere oxlips and the nodding violet grows\,\nQuite over-canopied with luscious woodbine\,\nWith sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:\nThere sleeps Titania sometime of the night\,\nLull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;\nAnd there the snake throws her enamell’d skin\,\nWeed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: \n\n \n\nBeloved Bibliophiles!\n \nThis year is the 400th Anniversary of the “First Folio” of Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARES COMEDIES\, HISTORIES\, & TRAGEDIES. Shakespeare’s Birthday\, April 23rd\, falls on the day we do our next Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering–at 3 p.m. (PDT). To celebrate\, an all-star lineup of actors is going to read scenes and speeches from Shakespeare’s plays.\n\n\n \n\n\n\nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \n\n\n\n\n\nDON’T MISS THIS!!! \n\n\n \n\n\n\npeace\, love & poetry  \n\n\n \n\n\nJohnny\n\n  \n\nBottom.  There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe that will never please. First\, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself\, which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?\n \nSnout.  By’r lakin\, a parlous fear.\n \nStarveling.  I believe we must leave the killing out\, when all is done.\n \nBottom.  Not a whit. I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue\, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords\, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed. And for the more better assurance\, tell them that I\, Pyramus\, am not Pyramus\, but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear.\n\n\n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-shakespeare-birthday-extravaganza-4-23-23/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230415
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230515
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230416T194601Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T160933Z
UID:3800-1681516800-1684108799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  4/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nApril 15\, 2023 \n  \nDear Mindful Meditators \n  \nOur Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue began on September 15\, 2020. Recipients include people inside and outside prison walls. It is currently mailed to 10 men in prison and emailed to about 60 people who aren’t—including 9 men who were in prison in September of 2020 who are now out of prison! Hallelujah! \n  \nWe are going to have our first get-together on Saturday\, May 13th\, from 2 to 4 p.m.\, at Taborspace in Portland: 5441 SE Belmont. \n  \nThis will be an opportunity for people to get to know each other\, and to have a dialogue about our life journey—what it means\, what we love\, what we do to nurture peace\, happiness\, goodness and understanding in our own life and in the lives of others. \n  \nI hope you can come! Bring a friend\, if you like. \n  \nMy friend Rocky Hutchinson\, who is a member of our meditation & mindfulness community\, called me the other day\, and was excited to tell me about an author he had just discovered—Kahlil Gibran! Back in the day\, The Prophet was an essential book in every hippie’s library. Rocky’s enthusiasm inspired me to re-read it (after 50 years). This quote from The Prophet relates to our upcoming gathering: \n  \nYour friend is your needs answered. \nHe is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving…. \nAnd let your best be for your friend. \nIf he must know the ebb of your tide\, let him know its flood also. \nFor what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? \nSeek him always with hours to live. \nFor it is his to fill your need\, but not your emptiness. \nAnd in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughing\, and sharing of pleasures. \nFor in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. \n  \n—Kahlil Gibran \n  \npeace & love\, y’all \nJohnny \n* \n  \n            Dreaming in Detail \n  \nThe casting director for my dreaming \nI can understand—bringing in my parents \nfrom gone\, grown children as infants again\, \nand a parade of strangers\, each with a bit part \nfraught with obscure purpose. The location scout  \nfound familiar places\, made them mythic\, then \nadded an abundance of tunnels\, caves\, cities  \nin ruin\, and a foggy coast. My costume director \nsurrenders to seasonal change—blues in spring \nyielding to summer gray\, and autumn black. But  \nwhy is the director of photography so obsessed  \nwith effects of light both atmospheric and exact?  \nIn one scene we see fine hairs on my father’s arm  \nglitter in low sun\, then a heap of medieval coins\, \nthen that lost button shining on a stone. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nA Fish Describes Water \n  \nThere are prayers best said \nonly at night\, in depths\, water steps \nrubies in the mouth. \n  \nWind ripples across moon grass \nlonging to be released by washed \nstones. The rowboat \n  \nis empty. What remains \nis a song\, a solitary gold-winged \nwarbler\, the pattern of rain. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nWhat do you do to nurture  peace\, love and happiness in your life? \n  \nRecently I had a chance to sit in on a phone call with Johnny and Rocky Hutchinson. Rocky is one of our inmates in the dialogue group\, and he is one of the dearest human beings I’ve ever known. He has been in prison for a long time\, and has had quite a—well—rocky experience. \n  \nI asked him how he was doing\, and what he was doing\, and he told me he had just finished the Master Gardener program\, and he was also training dogs for use with people with disabilities. He loves it\, both the gardening and the dogs.  \n  \nI said\, “Rocky\, you couldn’t have picked two more valuable activities for the soul than gardens and dogs!” And I realized that that is just how I feel: Gardens and dogs fill my heart and soul like nothing else. \n  \nYou all might have heard that digging in dirt\, the smell of dirt\, of the soil\, stimulates endorphins in the brain\, the happiness endorphins. True!  Of course\, I don’t head to the garden thinking\, uh oh\, I think I need some of them endorphins about now! No\, it’s just an instinct\, a drive\, that takes me there. And planting carrots\, chard\, beans; digging watery moats around the tomato plants (the smell of those tomato leaves!); cutting bouquets of coral colored peonies and lavender irises (the smell of irises!); picking green beans with glints of sunlight beaming through the vines—all of this settles in me and brings focus\, joy\, and  quiet peace to my soul. Gardens\, yes!!! \n  \nAnd dogs! Lolo! My love! Some friends took care of Lolo while we were gone and when I asked how she’d been\, they said\, “She had us with one look into her soulful eyes.” So true. She looks into your heart and understands when you’re sad\, she rejoices when you’re happy\, and every emotion is acknowledged with a loving and energetic lick on the face. Ick! you might say. Not at all—it’s the lick of love. Don’t you remember that Dusty Springfield song\, “The Lick of Love..(is in your eyes…?”)  Oh wait—maybe it was “The Look of Love.” Whatever.  \n  \nAnyway\, she’s a soft and fuzzy and uncharacteristically sweet-smelling dog! What more can you ask for? \n  \nSO: gardens and dogs. Rocky\, you’re so right. But I must add that it’s you\, Rocky\, you and all the other men in our dialogue and theater group who bring peace\, love and sheer happiness into my life\, and I am forever grateful. \n  \nAddendum: But how could I have forgotten hiking??? Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams\, my two sentinels. How could I have omitted family\, and dear friends? Music!!!  Riding my bike! Art! Books and reading!!!  \n  \nWhat a topic! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nTo nurture peace\, love and happiness I simply do nothing.   \n  \nEach morning I take my coffee out on the porch and watch the daybreak.  I say my little peace prayer.  Then I do Nothing.  I don’t analyze or plan or meditate or cogitate.  I find myself surrounded by the sky.  Maybe the moon is out\, or the sun comes up.  It’s a moment of peace and harmony\, and I did nothing to get here.  I merely stopped distracting myself.   \n  \nI can’t spend the whole day sitting here.  There’s still clutter in my life or my mind or my house that needs some tending to.  But when the morning starts out this peacefully the rest of the day usually follows suit.  Our natural state is peace and love\, unless we sully it up.  How can this not nurture some happiness?   \n  \nThanks\, and love\,   \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \nIn the chalice of the heart\, \n Lies love’s sweet essence: \nBorn of the seed of truth; \n Watered by the tears of devotion; \nWarmed by the sun of faith\, \n Through the fruit of days\, \nOn the vine of humankind– \n  One and another\, \nAll One Together… \n  \n—sam muller 14 April ’23 \n* \n  \nMichel is currenlty using a book by Pema Chödrön as the inspiration for his meditation journal. (I’m not sure which one\, but it appears to be inspired by Chögyam Trungpa’s Training the Mind.) \n  \nMarch 9\, 2023  #14  Seeing Confusion as the Four Kayas is Unsurpassable Shunyata Protection \n  \nThrough meditation practice you begin to realize: \n\nThoughts just pop up out of nowhere—dharmakaya\nThoughts are never ceasing—sambhogakaya\nThey appear but are not solid—sambhogakaya\nAll together: no birth\, no cessation\, no dwelling—svabhavikakaya\n\nThis understanding gives unsurpassable protection of \nrealizing called shunyata—“complete openness.” \nNothing solid to react to. \nYou’ve made much ado about nothing! \n  \nI can relate to this one. The fancy names mean little\, but the effort of meditation practice for complete openness is valuable—learning to not react to mental formations. Thoughts of mind are like mists or fog; the warm light of reality will dissipate all obstacles to reveal reality as it is. I’ve driven in misty\, snowy\, fog late at night and my vision played tricks on me\, so I had to drive extra cautiously. During a clear day\, the same road was easy to see and navigate. Mind plays the same tricks on me with reality; I need to slow down and pay careful attention—nothing changed except perception. Or did it? Surprises appear faster through foggy delusions. I can’t see them coming. Definitely: foggy\, misty\, delusions require proceeding cautiously until clearer. \n  \nMarch 13\, 2023  #17  Practice the Four Strengths\, the Condensed Heart Instrucions \n  \n\nStrong determination to train in opening heart and mind\nFamiliarization with practices helping you do this\nPositive seed within\, experienced as yearning to practice and wake up\nReproach\, tricky for Western students\, realizing ego-clinging causes suffering\, delight in self-reflection\, honesty\, seeing where you get stuck\nAspiration to help alleviate suffering in this world\, expressing that intention to yourself\n\n  \nI value each of these principles and judge they can be of benefit to any religious practice. I find\, and imagine it is similar for many\, that working with ego issues can be the most challenging of all\, since our culture is all about cultivating a powerful ego. My experience reveals Western egoism is the central source of all our sufferings. It’s from here that we develop attractions (grasping) and aversions (pushing away)\, and this ego makes us blind to our faults and challenges which\, once corrected\, would release—at least diminish—suffering. Yet\, we focus on and build up ego\, wondering at our suffering. The “escape” is to practice breathing. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-4-15-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230409T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230409T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230330T231512Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230413T150430Z
UID:3761-1681052400-1681059600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  4/9/23
DESCRIPTION:Beloved Bibliophiles! \n\n\n  \nFor Sunday\, April 9th\, at 3 p.m. (PDT) our theme is: \n  \n“sweet spring is your  \ntime is my time is our  \ntime for springtime is lovetime  \nand viva sweet love” \n\n\n\n\n  \nBring poems to read or recite about Spring! \n  \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace & love  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-4-9-23/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/0-3.jpeg
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230406
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230504
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230406T203104Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230406T203535Z
UID:3778-1680739200-1683158399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  4/6/23
DESCRIPTION:The Rink \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n \n  \nApril 6\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to write something about their favorite films… \nWhen we read a great book\, we want all our friends to read it. When we watch a great movie\, we want all our friends to see it.  \nFor the next issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\, which comes out on April 6th\, write something about movies\, films\, or tv shows that you love. \n* \n  \nPrabu’s film “In the Beginning” reminded me of the old\, scratchy\, haunting film “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge\,” based on a civil war story by Ambrose Bierce. Much darker than what Prabu offered us\, but a similar visual narrative of a man trying to negotiate a mysterious world. \nhttps://vimeo.com/15147706 \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nAt the top of my list is “Ted Lasso.” The improbable premise of this tv show is that the central character is nice. He’s generous to everyone. He has a corny sense of humor. He’s a good man. Whoever thought you could make stories about someone like that? The film that first came to mind is “Wings of Desire” by Wim Wenders. It’s about angels\, who are invisible to most people\, who help us to reduce stress and think positive thoughts by their presence. They are immortal\, but they are missing out on many human pleasures\, like the smell of coffee. Nancy and I love the films of Wes Anderson. Our favorite is “Moonrise Kingdom.” Of Coen brothers’ films\, it’s a toss-up for me between “The Big Lebowski” and “Hail\, Caesar!” I love the Australian film “Bliss” (1985)\, based on the novel by Peter Carey. Another classic is Terry Gilliam’s hilarious dystopian vision “Brazil” (also 1985!). I love the early silent films of Georges Méliès. “The Kingdom of the Fairies” (1903) is especially good. For physical comedy\, Charlie Chaplin’s “The Rink” remains unsurpassed. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nA favorite film of mine is\, ‘The count of Monte Cristo’. \nIt embodies the tireless effort for justice\, and a will to not give in to the deeds of those that seek ones demise. \nThe character\, Edmond Dontez (later\, the Count) is someone I could relate to while in captivity (prison). He spent 16 years seeking a way out\, to avenge the wrongdoings of his peers.  \nHe eventually did\, and along the way\, learned many other lessons about life and forgiveness. \nEssentially for me\, the story/film is an inspiration to never give up or give in. And to never forget where I came from\, for it is fuel for my fire.  \n  \n—Brandon Gillespie \n\n\n\n  \nThanks for the invitation Johnny.  A few ideas:   \n     \nAs for happiness\, along with some heartbreak and comic flair\, it’s hard to beat the book This Is Happiness by the Irish writer Niall Williams.  I felt like I was living in a village in county Kerry the whole time I was reading the book. In the end I felt like I had made new friends\, been wrapped in a prayer blanket\, fed a good meal and sent home along a winding green path with a fiddle tune and a song. It made me hopeful\, appreciative and aware of the happiness lurking in my own backyard.  Superb writing!  \n     \nAs for film\, “The Mission” (Robert Dinero) comes to mind not because of peace or happiness but because of understanding and the meaning of redemption and forgiveness.  The music is sublime and the scenery stunningly beautiful.  A sad reminder as well of what  artistic and cultural creations might have been had peace\, love\, understanding and imagination prevailed over avarice and greed.   \n      \nOpening day of baseball season always makes me happy.  Here’s a poem I wrote about it.  Love and Play Ball!!! Will   \n  \nWhy Baseball Matters \n  \nBecause in a world obsessed with time\, baseball is a past-time. \nBecause any game could theoretically last into eternity. \nBecause baseball is played on a diamond.  \nBecause in a world obsessed by success even the best hitters fail two-thirds of the time. \nBecause\, as George Carlin reminded us\, football is about “ground and aerial attacks”\, and “marching down the field” while baseball is about “staying safe and coming home.” \nBecause what other game has characters named “Goose\, the Big Hurt\, the Left Hand of God\, the Splendid Splinter\, The Say Hey Kid\, the Sultan of Swat\, Catfish\, Hammerin’ Hank\, Cool Papa\, the Bird\, Big Papi\, The Man of Steal\, Satchel\, the Big Unit and the Iron Horse?” \nBecause the crowd takes a stretch and sings together at the ballpark. \nBecause despite all efforts to improve the game\, baseball remains blessedly slow\, wonderfully conversational\, deceptively complex and enjoyably simple. \nBecause outside of going to the park\, baseball is best experienced on a radio broadcast where gifted storytellers usher us daily into a theatre of imagination.  \nBecause pitchers deliberately baffle\, confuse and confound with “curves\, sliders\, splitters\, sinkers\, screwballs\, knuckleballs\, fastballs and change-ups.”   \nBecause almost every day from April through October millions of boys and girls\, women and men play a game made in America before the Civil War and now beloved from Japan and Korea to Cuba\, Australia\, Venezuela and beyond. \nBecause as Leo Durocher said: “Baseball is like church. Many attend\, few understand.”  Yet\, I would add: all can be uplifted and enjoy. \nBecause as a Boston fan once said: “Baseball is not about life and death. But\, the Red Sox are!”  \nBecause these days it just feels good to shout: “Play ball!”  \n      \n—Will Hornyak  \n* \n  \nFor me\, THE RULES OF THE GAME\, by Jean Renoir\, is a great humanist document that happens to be a movie rather than a novel or play….It is a luminous farce that depicts a weekend at a country estate. The classes\, represented on the one hand by the owner and his guests\, and on the other by members of the staff\, especially a maid and a gamekeeper\, are assiduously separated: one serves\, the other receives. But at the same time\, they all meet and merge as equals in games of love and deception. Renoir misses nothing\, and forgives everything. \nA more recent movie that moves me is THE RIDER\, by Chloe Zhao\, an almost-documentary that tells the story of some Pine Ridge “Indian cowboys”\, who make brief and destructive livings as rodeo riders. The characters play themselves. I’ve watched this three times\, and will watch it a fourth. \nOh\, and also about RULES OF THE GAME; it’s funny as hell. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \nWhat is it about peace that its story is not enduring? \n  \nWings of Desire\, a 1987 film directed by Wim Wenders \n  \nThe aerial shots of Berlin so long before drones. The use of space both physically and visually. The plants in the library. The stand-up desks in the library. The angels in the library. The soft leather seats in the sports car in the showroom where the angels meet to compare notes. The desire for that car from the people looking in. The miracle of being able to watch this movie again in the kitchen 36 years later. The world of humans is in color. A friend and student expressing aversion to angels when I read a poem to a recent class that had a passing reference to them. The discussion that followed over days and walks about this dislike of angels she didn’t even know she had. The drawing on the wall at the circus behind the elephant. The robe on backwards to protect Marion’s chicken feather wings. Nick Cave on the portable phonograph. Looking for the right hat. The trapeze artist in a tuxedo cat suit with a long white tail. But the story of the grass\, the sun\, the leaping\, and the shouting that is still going on as well. Sometimes beauty is the only thing that matters. Chest armor falling from the sky. The revelation and joy in color in a gray gray city. The mural of a ruined building on an intact one. The pile of sawdust the circus left behind. No one saw the carney go. The shared wine glass filled almost to the brim.    \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nThis is a fun idea\, Johnny.   \nI particularly like movies based on books. Even if I loved the book\, I like watching how it was made into film. From the many Jane Austen’s to “Bridget Jone’s Diary\,” in which Salmon Rushdie plays himself in a tiny part. The renditions of “A Room with a View” to  “Little Dorrit.”  \nMy favorite film\, that stands up over 50 years\, is “Heaven Knows\, Mr. Allison\,” directed by John Huston. Robert Mitchum and Deborah Kerr\, a marine and a nun\, are stranded on a Japanese-invaded island during WWII. \nBill likes old and new foreign films—Iranian\, Japanese\, French\, Irish\, Indian\, the farther flung the better. Our favorite series ever is “Heimat”–that begins at the end of WWI with a family living above their cow in a small village\, up through that family’s  youngest living amongst his creative fellow artists in the city in the 50’s. Rotten tomato reviewer writes about it: “Edgar Reitz’s Heimat is not just a brilliant film about Germany. It is a brilliant film about our time\, anywhere—perhaps about any time anywhere. \nI’m excited to see everyone’s reviews! \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nI want movies to move me.  \nTwo films\, totally opposite from one another on the surface\, would be my faves of all time. The Crying Game and The Lives of Others are both about love\, courage and compassion. \nMy short take on The Crying Game is that Love Conquers all; love remains love\, in spite of its being turned on its head in a very unexpected way.  \nThe Lives of Others\, a German film\, takes place in 1984\, 5 years before the fall of the Berlin Wall. The Stasi\, the German version of the Nazi SS\, is in operation\, and Captain Gerd Wiesler is assigned the job of spying on a couple suspected of national dissident activity. The Captain is dry\, hardened\, methodical and dispassionate in his work (as he has been his whole life). However\, as time goes on\, he begins to care for his subjects (to his own puzzlement and fear). \nUltimately\, love and compassion conquer\, and he does the right thing\, makes the difficult\, moral choice\, to his own great peril. I love this.  \nOthers have different viewpoints of both these movies; this is what makes them both compelling\, and grand. \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nA Smile in Abjection \nnotes on the opening credits of Withnail and I \n  \nMy favorite frame in cinema is this one: Paul McGann as Marwood\, the “I” in Withnail and I\, just one minute into the film. We have drawn closer and closer to him as he smokes a cigarette that clearly brings no pleasure\, his eyes shifting and shifting and finding no solace. And as the saxophone of King Curtis carries us gently through a live cut of “A Whiter Shade of Pale\,” Marwood appears to reach some far limit within himself\, and his torment suddenly eases\, or it pauses to breathe\, or Marwood simply parts it like a blackout curtain. He lifts his eyes\, and we perceive a smile that is almost not even there. Perhaps we have just imagined it. Perhaps Marwood himself has imagined it. \n  \n \n  \nCan you see it? I can. It is the mark of a wild\, mad hope. I am certain it is there\, the smile\, because I have been there\, and I have smiled it. It is an abject smile\, a desolate smile\, a smile with sweat on its forehead. Undramatically\, I tell you that it is no less than the smile you face death with. I have been hunted by forces within me and without\, cornered and shivering in a sweater\, smoking far beyond any desire to continue smoking. And yet I would also\, in those midnights\, hallucinate some star\, some aberration of logic in which I could discern a reason to hope. Marwood is looking upon that star\, smiling upon it\, and I\, too\, have seen it. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nAndrei Rublev: \nAndrei Rublev is a biographical film about a medieval Russian iconic painter.  In the movie you can hardly see Rublev touching the brush. It is a movie about the formation of Rublev as an artist\, especially an artist living under an oppressive regime. It effectively shows that an artist is society’s conscience.  \n  \nTree of Life: \nTerrance Malicks poetic masterpiece that attempts to capture all of existence through the lens of a boy growing up in the American midlands.  As per the great film critic Roger Ebert “the only other film with this boldness of vision is Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey\, and it lacked Malick’s fierce evocation of human feeling.” \n  \n—Prabu Muruganantham \n* \n  \nDear Reader \nFor next month (May 4th)\, send me something about books that changed the way you see\, experience\, or understand the world. \n  \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n—Johnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230326T140000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230326T160000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230323T161446Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230323T161910Z
UID:3746-1679839200-1679846400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:World Premiere of "In the Beginning": a film by Prabu Muruganantham
DESCRIPTION: \n\n“In the Beginning” is a 24 minute narrative short fiction that tells the story of a young man of color–newly released from prison–who returns to society with the hope of beginning a new life. He discovers on his solitary journey that the world sees him only as his crime.\n\n \n\nPremiere Details:\n\n\nWhen: March 26\, 2023 at 2PM\nWhere: The Hollywood Theatre\nTickets and Trailer: Click here\n\n\n\n\n\n \nThe topic of the film is close to our hearts—some of the actors in this film have experienced incarceration in Oregon prisons themselves. The film screening will be followed by an artist-audience panel Q&A on the film and the challenges of post-prison life.\n\n\n\n\n \n\n\nProceeds will go to Open Hearts Open Minds\, an Oregon-based non-profit organization that supports individuals serving prison sentences through arts and dialogue.\n\n\n\n \n\nLooking forward to seeing you at the screening!\n\n\n \n\n~Prabu 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/world-premiere-of-in-the-beginning-a-film-by-prabu-muruganantham/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230315
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230416
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230314T174157Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230314T174413Z
UID:3727-1678838400-1681603199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  3/15/23
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nMarch 15\, 2023 \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods. \n  \n—from Ulysses by James Joyce\, p. 340 \n* \n  \nAll truths wait in all things. \n  \n—from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman \n* \n  \n#344  To Cherish Your Beloved   \n                                                  \n“When we know that the person we love is impermanent\, we will cherish our beloved all the more. Impermanence teaches us to respect and value every moment and all the precious things around us. When we practice mindfulness of impermanence\, we become fresher and more loving.” \n–from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nIt can be mighty hard to be constantly aware of our beloved’s impermanence—or of our own impermanence\, and to be endlessly fresher and more loving. That can be exhausting\, to be honest. \n  \nAnother way to be reminded of cherishing your loved one is to have someone close to you die swiftly and unexpectedly. This is happening right now\, in this moment. Kim is my dear friend\, and her husband\, who is/was my dear friend\, too\, just died two days ago. He collapsed at home while Kim and I were walking on the waterfront and having coffee in Hood River\, as we do once a week or more. She returned home\, intending to run errands with John and found him on the floor\, unresponsive\, unconscious. 911\, Skyline Hospital\, Emanuel Hospital in Portland\, where doctors found a blood clot which had traveled to his brain from the left ventricle\, causing multiple\, massive strokes. And John is gone. How does one express shock and disbelief and utter grief…  So here it is: Impermanence at work. \n  \nMy heart and soul are with her right now. I love her and want to hold her close. But the one I also really want to hold close is my husband. I am instantly drawn to cherish him and all we have together\, all we have had for 39 years together. He is in Arizona right now\, and I will fly down next week. I call him and tell him I love him dearly\, and thank him for the life we have together. I tell him I miss him and can’t wait to hold him and be held.  \n  \nI am aware that this is how I always want to be with him\, this expressive and caring and loving\, and maybe\, just maybe\, I will be able to cherish my beloved due to the impermanence (and sacrifice) of another.  \n  \n—Jude Russell  \n* \n  \nSmall Offering \n  \nThis evening I would be the emperor of delay \nif I could order the small bird with bluish \nplumage to drop his fish and look up \nto see violet angels weave a tapestry \nof dreams with the four evening elements. \n  \nHere at Sunset Point\, the overlook \nis high enough that mist hovers \nin patches. Sunlight sweeps from above \nhighlighting the solid wall of mountains. \nThe bird dives again\, silver flash in his beak. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nDHARMA \n  \nSix months after I turned seventy I moved into an ashram where I would reside for the next 9 1⁄2 years (2012-2021) of my life. I’d been assisting in the care of my mother for two years\, and when she passed on\, one week after her 96th birthday\, I was in a state of ambivalence as to why I had no feeling of grief\, or even the slightest indication of sadness. How could this be? I was her only son\, and had dutifully been there for Her in these past years– cooking for her\, reading to her\, rubbing her swollen legs\, heavy with edema; escorting her on shopping trips and pleasant drives through the golden wheat fields of her childhood in North Central Oregon. Was I experiencing a kind of release from a period of time that had kept me so preoccupied that my own needs for self-examination and intellectual stimulation were suffocating? \n  \nI had spent two years in England (1983-85) studying the metaphysical philosophy of Rudolf Steiner\, but had not yet arrived at that internal place of a disciplined practice in study and meditation—of simplifying the material circumstances of my daily life; of coming to grasp the ego-transcendent state of the Eternal Self. And so when I was offered a room in the Portland ashram of the Sarada Ramakrishna Vivekananda order at the behest of the guru\, Robert Kindler\, I decided that a quiet and spiritually dedicated environment might inspire and deepen self-reflection. I might add that I had had the benefit of seven years of coming to know and respect the depth of the guru’s knowledge of the sacred texts of ancient India—the Upanishads\, Bhagavad Gita\, and the Puranas\, as well as the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna (most recent avatar of West Bengal (b. 1836-’86)—through frequent classes and retreats. And I was further inspired by his remarkable facility in speaking the ancient Sanskrit slokas (passages from scripture)\, as well as his gift of musicianship\, having been a professional orchestral cellist with abilities to compose and perform hymns of praise offered to the deities of the Hindu spiritual tradition. \n  \nI took a small 12’ x 12’ room\, and began an exploration of ashram regimen—sharing a simple and contemplative daily schedule of 6am/10pm meditation\, vegetarian diet\, weekly classes of scriptural study\, and shared maintenance and cooking chores amongst the four of us—two men and two women—co-habitants upon the dharmic path. The intent was to “still” the restless mind to enable a depth of self-perception whereby the ephemerality/impermanence of day-to-day “reality” (regarded as Maya—the veil covering the eternal truths of aparanama (free of change) and ajativada (birthless/deathless))\, could be grasped\, and the elevated state of consciousness attained by the sages\, seers\, siddhis\, yogis and saviors could be glimpsed. \n  \nMy 9 1⁄2 years\, grounded in a consistent daily meditation practice\, and an inquisitive research into the philosophical richness of the sacred texts of India\, as well as the offering of my service/work in maintaining the grounds and shrines\, and serving as “the Abbot of the Ashram\, has deepened my self- perception and brought me to a place of self-trust and contentment at a depth that I have never before experienced. And I am inspired to proffer this brief koan-like offering from my experiential Realizations (aparokshanubhuti) \n  \nTHE YOGI SITS IN THE CAVE OF THE HEART\, \nONE EYE OPEN                                                                           \n  \n—Sam A. Muller \n* \n  \nGod Praying \n  \nSometimes we are discouraged from praying\, \nwe lose faith in the possibility of prayer\, \neverything seems blocked. \nWe have no trust in words\, \nin ourselves\, \nwe feel exiled\, distant. \nThere is no one to awaken compassion for us. \nFrom within our despair \nwe can reveal a new opening\, \na surprising one\, \nand ask God to pray for us\, \nto give words to our inner scream\, \nto have compassion on us in our exile. \n  \n—Rabbi Singer \n  \nThis idea melts my mind. I thought it was to God I’ve been praying\, and now Rabbi Singer (and others) suggest I now ask God to pray for me—to whom\, though? To ask the Self-Existent One to peer into my deepest recesses\, where I’m oft too scared to look\, and express\, for me\, my deepest heart’s desires. It seems both ludicrous and sensible all at the same time. Can I just sit here with my self—all inclusive—and allow those hidden away hopes\, dreams\, feelings\, memories\, etc.\, to just percolate up for Divine consideration or attention. Truth is\, God should already “know” these things—all knowing and all—which means I need only sit with and accept these pesky demons (self-made?) as part of my experience. \n  \n—Michel Deforge\, February 4\, 2023 \n* \n  \nAlex Tretbar sent this poem by Jessica Jacobs: \n  \nGodwrestling \n  \nThe river has tasted the salt of your skin\, has lapped\nat your calves with its current. The river has swallowed \n  \nthe press of your steps. There is no record of your crossing.\nThe river is between you and everything you call your life. \n  \nSo you step into a stranger’s arms. Your shoulder fits\ntheirs like a bone in its socket. Your jaw notches theirs. \n  \nAll around you\, a profusion of oleanders beams\nback the moonlight\, offering a carpet of fallen petals. \n  \nIn your arms\, all the promises you’ve yet to keep\, all\nyou’ve done that shames you. But what is wrestling \n  \nif not an embrace? It’s too dark to know\nyou have the same face and only like this\, cheek to cheek\, \n  \neach looking over the other’s shoulder\, can you see\nthe world whole. Close\, at first\, as a slow dance\, \n  \nyou spin and spin\, your tracks a tight coin; matched\,\nyou step out\, making a spear tip of your bodies; matched\, \n  \nyou step further\, levered like rafters\, needing the other\nto stay aloft—your tracks trace widening circles\, ringing \n  \nout through the fallen blossoms. Names are required\nonly when not alone. This stranger \n  \ndoes not give you a new name\, just dippers up\nthe true one you tender in your chest. The day is breaking \n  \nthe night’s hold. The far bank is calling.\nOn one side\, you. On the other\, your life. Join them.  \n  \n—Jessica Jacobs \n* \n  \nAny object\, intensely regarded\, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.  \n  \n–from Ulysses by James Joyce\, p. 340 \n  \nHere’s what Joseph Campbell has to say about this passage from Ulysses: \n  \n“I mentioned this basic theme before with respect to the esthetic experience: Any object can open back to the mystery of the universe. You can take any object whatsoever—a stick or stone\, a dog or a child—draw a ring around it so that it is seen as separate from everything else\, and thus contemplate it in its mystery aspect—the aspect of the mystery of its being\, which is the mystery of all being—and it will have there and then become a proper object of worshipful regard. So\, any object can become an adequate base for meditation\, since the whole mystery of man and of nature and of everything else is in any object that you want to regard. This idea\, the anagogical inspiration of Joyce’s art\, is what we are getting in this little moment.” \n  \n—from Mythic Worlds\, Modern Words: On the Art of James Joyce by Joseph Campbell\, p. 130 \n  \nHere’s one of my small poems that seems à propos: \n  \na bowl of oatmeal \nand a cup of coffee \ndid you think heaven was up in the sky somewhere? \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMore of my thoughts on LovingKindness meditation: \n  \nBefore beginning Loving Kindness meditation practice each Monday\, I center myself remembering my friend and teacher Bob Schaibly. His teaching mantra was\, “What the World Needs from Us is our Non-Anxious Presence.” Reciting and listening to the Loving Kindness phrases these past couple of years\, I have come to understand that this is what we are training ourselves to do. To find equanimity and to be able in the midst of changes—good or bad—to  find stability in equanimity. This doesn’t mean being passive or uncaring\, but to have courage\, to not let our emotions make us frantic\, to not react immediately with judgement. In this way we can stay present to whatever might arise. We can observe and check our fears and anger and deep sadness without causing harm to ourselves and others\, without blocking our feelings.  \n  \nCompassion in Sanskrit means being present—with yourself or with another. I have two stories that came to my mind about acts of kindness on a small scale that are examples of compassion in action. When I had a bookstore in downtown Portland\, one day two people I hardly knew\, came in and presented me with a rose. Just to say thank you for having the bookstore where they always felt happy to browse and meet up. I was stunned. They said they liked to go places that make them feel happy and take a flower or two. I also heard a story last week about a woman who wished she could do something for her sick uncle who lived far away. She sent him a bouquet of flowers. He called her and said that in his long life\, no one had ever sent him flowers and he was so thankful. \n  \n Thich Nhat Hanh says it takes mindfulness training with loving kindness to bring compassion. He writes: \n  \n“Loving kindness should be practiced every day. Suppose you have a transistor radio. To tune into the radio station you like\, you need a battery. In order to get linked to the power of loving kindness of bodhisattvas\, buddhas\, and other great beings\, you need to tune in to the “station” of loving kindness that is being sent from the ten directions. Then you only need to sit on the grass and practice breathing and enjoying.  \n  \nBut many of us are not capable of doing that because the feeling of loneliness\, of being cut off from the world\, is so severe we cannot reach out. We do not realize that if we are moved by the imminent death of an insect\, if we see an insect suffering and we do something to help\, already this energy of loving kindness is in us. If we take a small stick and help the insect out of the water\, we can also reach out to the cosmos. The energy of loving kindness in us becomes real\, and we derive a lot of joy from it.  \n  \nThe Fourth Precept of the Order of Interbeing tells us to be aware of suffering in the world\, not to close our eyes before suffering. Touching those who suffer is one way to generate the energy of compassion in us\, and compassion will bring joy and peace to ourselves and others. The more we generate the energy of loving kindness in ourselves\, the more we are able to receive the joy\, peace\, and love of the buddhas and bodhisattvas throughout the cosmos.”  \n  \nLast Sunday\, I heard a story about an acrobat flying from one trapeze bar to the next. It was a story about letting go of how things have been in the past in order to break free and into some new engagement. Even though we might not know what that will be. In Buddhism\, the term for this refreshing process is “renunciation.” Rather than giving up things it is about what we practice in LovingKindness: becoming aware of where we might feel an aversion—a fear\, a grudge\, anxiety\, resentment—by recognizing it\, then softening our hearts\, we can let these negative emotions have less power over us. Through that we find more equanimity and ability to act with compassion\, with ourselves and for others. With that  foremost in our minds\, we can become unstuck and as Bob encouraged us\, to participate fully in the midst of life’s difficulties with a non-anxious presence.    \n  \nin love and peace\,    \n  \n—Katie Radditz
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-3-15-23/
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DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230312T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230304T200304Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230330T231606Z
UID:3708-1678633200-1678640400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Memorize a Poem!
DESCRIPTION:Beloved Bibliophiles! \n\n\nFor Sunday\, March 12th\, at 3 p.m. (PST): MEMORIZE A POEM! Do you know any poems by heart? Did you used to know some poems that have gotten rusty? Is there a poem that you would like to learn and be able to recite? This is your chance!  \nBring a poem or poems that you would like to share. (Extra points if you know the poem by heart.) \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace & love  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/3708/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230302
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230406
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230304T173740Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230304T175357Z
UID:3679-1677715200-1680739199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/2/23
DESCRIPTION:photograph by Kim Stafford \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nMarch 2\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to… \n…please send me one of your favorite poems and say a little bit about why you like it. Here’s what people sent: \n  \nVernal Sentiment \n  \nThough the crocuses poke up their heads in the usual places\,\nThe frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green\,\nAnd boys moon at girls with last year’s fatuous faces\,\nI never am bored\, however familiar the scene. \n  \nWhen from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter\,—\nTwo yellow and black\, and one that looks in between\,—\nThough it all happened before\, I cannot grow bitter:\nI rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nI think why I am so fond of this poem and tend to read it every spring\, often many times\, is that it captures perfectly my delight and joy as the subtle and sometimes not so subtle signs of spring emerge. And yes\, “I (truly) rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been.” This short poem seems almost perfect to me and brings me joy just as witnessing the first signs of the pussy willows\, the first call of the returning robins\, the glorious scent of daphne wafting over the damp air\, enlivens me and gets my pulse slightly elevated. Roethke masterfully captures the delight that is so available in the ordinary!!. I believe that we all need to pay more attention to these ordinary miracles that reveal themselves if we pay attention. \n  \nCheers my friend! \n  \n—Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nAfter an Illness\, Walking the Dog \n  \nWet things smell stronger\,\nand I suppose his main regret is that\nhe can sniff just one at a time.\nIn a frenzy of delight\nhe runs way up the sandy road—\nscored by freshets after five days\nof rain. Every pebble gleams\, every leaf. \n  \nWhen I whistle he halts abruptly\nand steps in a circle\,\nswings his extravagant tail.\nThe he rolls and rubs his muzzle\nin a particular place\, while the drizzle\nfalls without cease\, and Queen Anne’s lace \nand Goldenrod bend low. \n  \nThe top of the logging road stands open\nand light. Another day\, before\nhunting starts\, we’ll see how far it goes\,\nleaving word first at home.\nThe footing is ambiguous. \n  \nSoaked and muddy\, the dog drops\,\npanting\, and looks up with what amounts\nto a grin. It’s so good to be uphill with him\,\nnicely winded\, and looking down on the pond. \n  \nA sound commences in my left ear\nlike the sound of the sea in a shell;\na downward\, vertiginous drag comes with it.\nTime to head home. I wait\nuntil we’re nearly out to the main road\nto put him back on the leash\, and he\n—the designated optimist— \n  \nimagines to the end that he is free. \n  \n—Jane Kenyon \n  \nI like the designated optimist and think of him or her often. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nMy favorite poems….of the moment! \nAnd I’m cheating a bit as I am sending in two short ones\, from two extremely different writers and I list the books they are from as the books are quite spectacular. \n  \nFirst: \nUntitled. From Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings by Joy Harjo. Really the entire book is an intact work but here is a current favorite small poem. Harjo is Creek/Muskogee\, writes intimately from within a native community\, is a former US Poet Laureate and a jazz saxophonist. \n  \nI thought of all the doors that had opened and closed. \nI thought of how so many I loved were no longer on \nThis earth. I thought of all my mother’s songs looking \nFor a place to live. I thought of all the Saturdays in the  \nWorld. I started with G and rounded the bend at B-flat. \nI followed my soul. \n  \n—Joy Harjo \n  \nSecond: \n“A Meadow” from Facing the River by Czeslaw Milosz. Again the book is really a unit\, written after returning to his native village after being in exile for fifty years. He grew up in then-Lithuania\, now Poland\, survived the Nazi invasion\, the Soviet invasion and then Occupation. He first served with the Communist government but soon left. He won the Nobel prize for Literature. \n  \nIt was a riverside meadow\, lush\, from before the hay harvest\, \nOn an immaculate day in the sun of June. \nI searched for it\, found it\, recognized it. \nGrasses and flowers grew there familiar in my childhood. \nWith half-closed eyelids I absorbed luminescence. \nAnd the scent garnered me\, all knowing ceased. \nSuddenly I felt I was disappearing and weeping with joy.  \n  \n—Czeslaw Milosz \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nThe Waking \n  \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI feel my fate in what I cannot fear. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nWe think by feeling. What is there to know? \nI hear my being dance from ear to ear. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \n  \nOf those so close beside me\, which are you? \nGod bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there\, \nAnd learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nLight takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? \nThe lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow.  \n  \nThis shaking keeps me steady. I should know.  \nWhat falls away is always. And is near. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nHands down my favorite poem. Every morning when I wake up\, I try to not be in a rush\, or have a plan\, but let life take me slowly into the day\, and learn from where it takes me. \n  \n—Dave Duncan \n* \n  \nHere’s my submission to your beautiful request\, and I will say it might not be my “favorite” poem but it is an artifact in my younger life when I somehow imparted the power of poetry to my two now grown daughters. \n  \nEaster\, 1916 \n  \nI have met them at close of day    \nComing with vivid faces \nFrom counter or desk among grey    \nEighteenth-century houses. \nI have passed with a nod of the head    \nOr polite meaningless words\,    \nOr have lingered awhile and said    \nPolite meaningless words\, \nAnd thought before I had done    \nOf a mocking tale or a gibe    \nTo please a companion \nAround the fire at the club\,    \nBeing certain that they and I    \nBut lived where motley is worn:    \nAll changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nThat woman’s days were spent    \nIn ignorant good-will\, \nHer nights in argument \nUntil her voice grew shrill. \nWhat voice more sweet than hers    \nWhen\, young and beautiful\,    \nShe rode to harriers? \nThis man had kept a school    \nAnd rode our wingèd horse;    \nThis other his helper and friend    \nWas coming into his force; \nHe might have won fame in the end\,    \nSo sensitive his nature seemed\,    \nSo daring and sweet his thought. \nThis other man I had dreamed \nA drunken\, vainglorious lout. \nHe had done most bitter wrong \nTo some who are near my heart\,    \nYet I number him in the song; \nHe\, too\, has resigned his part \nIn the casual comedy; \nHe\, too\, has been changed in his turn\,    \nTransformed utterly: \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nHearts with one purpose alone    \nThrough summer and winter seem    \nEnchanted to a stone \nTo trouble the living stream. \nThe horse that comes from the road\,    \nThe rider\, the birds that range    \nFrom cloud to tumbling cloud\,    \nMinute by minute they change;    \nA shadow of cloud on the stream    \nChanges minute by minute;    \nA horse-hoof slides on the brim\,    \nAnd a horse plashes within it;    \nThe long-legged moor-hens dive\,    \nAnd hens to moor-cocks call;    \nMinute by minute they live:    \nThe stone’s in the midst of all. \n  \nToo long a sacrifice \nCan make a stone of the heart.    \nO when may it suffice? \nThat is Heaven’s part\, our part    \nTo murmur name upon name\,    \nAs a mother names her child    \nWhen sleep at last has come    \nOn limbs that had run wild.    \nWhat is it but nightfall? \nNo\, no\, not night but death;    \nWas it needless death after all? \nFor England may keep faith    \nFor all that is done and said.    \nWe know their dream; enough \nTo know they dreamed and are dead;    \nAnd what if excess of love    \nBewildered them till they died?    \nI write it out in a verse— \nMacDonagh and MacBride    \nAnd Connolly and Pearse \nNow and in time to be\, \nWherever green is worn\, \nAre changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats \n  \n—Mark Danley \n* \n  \nMy favorite poem has often been one by T’ao Ch’ien (365-427 A.D. )\, translated by David Hinton. Here is this one: \n  \nTogether\, We all go out Under the Cypress Trees in the Chou Family Burial-Grounds \n  \nToday’s skies are perfect for a clear  \nflute and singing koto. And touched  \nthis deeply by those laid under these \ncypress trees\, how could we neglect joy? \nClear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine \nstarts pious faces smiling. No knowing \nwhat tomorrow brings\, it’s exquisite  \nexhausting whatever i feel here and now. \n  \n—T’ao Ch’ien \n  \nI feel T’ao Ch’ien as present as my Great Aunt Emma\, who knew much deprivation but was so joyful that we would arrive for a visit to the Farm. We would sit out in the grass looking for four leaf clovers for hours\, and she would bake us blackberry pies. \n  \nI like to write back to T’ao Ch’ien—over many years now. He has inspired me to stop\, be in the wild\, appreciate the moment as beauty at the same time\, feeling all that’s been lost and is gone. And he led me to the Buddhist sutras!!  \n  \nI also love to find another poet respond to him\, like Billy Collins does\, below. Though it may not be for T’ao Ch’ien himself\,  it’s across time and distance\, enchanted still in the twentieth century by what they wrote in the the fifth.     \n  \nReading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty\, I pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of their Titles \n  \nIt seems these poets have nothing \nup their ample sleeves \nthey turn over so many cards so early\, \ntelling us before the first line \nwhether it is wet or dry\, \nnight or day\, the season the man is standing in\, \neven how much he has had to drink. \n  \nMaybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow. \nMaybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name. \n  \n“Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune \non a Cloudy Afternoon” is one of Sun Tung Po’s. \n“Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea” \nis another one\, or just \n“On a Boat\, Awake at Night.” \n  \nAnd Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with \n“In a Boat on a Summer Evening \nI Heard the Cry of a Waterbird. \nIt Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying \nMy Woman Is Cruel—Moved\, I Wrote This Poem.” \n  \nThere is no iron turnstile to push against here \nas with headings like “Vortex on a String\,” \n“The Horn of Neurosis\,” or whatever. \nNo confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over. \n  \nInstead\, “I Walk Out on a Summer Morning \nto the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall” \nis a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders. \n  \nAnd “Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors” \nis a servant who shows me into the room \nwhere a poet with a thin beard \nis sitting on a mat with a jug of wine \nwhispering something about clouds and cold wind\, \nabout sickness and the loss of friends. \n  \nHow easy he has made it for me to enter here\, \nto sit down in a corner\, \ncross my legs like his\, and listen. \n  \n—Billy Collins \n  \n —Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nMay I never be complete \nMay I never be content \nMay I never be perfect \n  \nFrom Fight Club! I remember reading that over 10 years ago and being inspired by the hidden beauty of a concept like willing ones self to never want completeness… I’m going to always be learning growing struggling to figure out what the hell I am on this Giant beautiful rock… It’s not easy to accept flaws… growing… Being content as in settled in\, not striving to learn… it’s a beautiful sentiment… That’s my fav poem… That I’ll prolly get tattooed someday. \n  \n—Jeff Kuehner \n* \n  \nMax Ritvo is one of my favorite poets\, and “Afternoon” is my favorite poem by him. He died young\, of cancer\, and he produced a great deal of work during his final years\, while he was very sick. I find much to admire in this poem\, but perhaps what stays with me the most\, and will always stay with me\, is the fountain. I won’t spoil it. Just read the poem and see for yourself. \n  \nAfternoon \n  \nWhen I was about to die \nmy body lit up \nlike when I leave my house \nwithout my wallet. \n  \nWhat am I missing? I ask \npatting my chest \npocket. \nand I am missing everything living \nthat won’t come with me \ninto this sunny afternoon \n  \n—my body lights up for life \nlike all the wishes being granted in a fountain \nat the same instant— \nall the coins burning the fountain dry— \n  \nand I give my breath \nto a small bird-shaped pipe. \n  \nIn the distance\, behind several voices \nhaggling\, I hear a sound like heads \nclicking together. Like a game of pool\, \n  \nplayed with people by machines. \n  \n—Max Ritvo \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nValentine \n  \nOn the eve of the apocalypse\,\nthe wild turkeys are tuning up for their dance\, flared\nstately stepping upon the new fallen snow\nI continue to ponder \n  \nRuby Crowned Kinglet.\nHe is fixed in my mind because\nunknown to him\,\nset upon a background of olive green feathers\nembering with gold and\nfloating above his brain there glows\na fire ruby jewel. \n  \nLike the mandalas radiating from ancient bodhisattvas\,\nthe feathered crown of hunter gatherer peoples\, branched trees on\nthe halos of saints\, the heads of shamans\nthat they say all together\,\nlook how I see you.\nSee how you look through my open heart. \n  \n—Ken Hunt \n  \nKen Hunt is an artist\, saddle-maker\, horse-trainer living in a remote canyon in NE Oregon\, and he has a vibrant sense of his place and the creatures there. He lives close to all kinds of wild beings\, and in this poem brings them close to us\, so close they can see through our eyes and hearts. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nDeb thought another poem would not go amiss\, so she invited me to join your party this once. \n  \nAmong lots of favorite poems\, Frost’s “Mending Wall” has grown in depth to me for my whole life. Frost’s simple example demonstrates how we sabotage unity by drawing thick lines between groups and positions\, and then fighting over them. The poem details how we carefully resurrect these divisions\, where they aren’t needed. The conflict is merely hinted at. \n  \nOnce\, after I had written about the poem in my weekly blog\, a friend told me that the PM of Israel\, don’t recall which\, had recently cited the poem to justify their apartheid: “good fences make good neighbors.” Of course\, this is the antithesis of the poem\, but how many tumultuous patriots would have known this? On behalf of Frost’s dignity and immense compassion\, I humbly offer perhaps his greatest poem\, though it does have competitors in his oeuvre. \n  \nMending Wall \n  \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat sends the frozen-ground-swell under it\, \nAnd spills the upper boulders in the sun; \nAnd makes gaps even two can pass abreast. \nThe work of hunters is another thing: \nI have come after them and made repair \nWhere they have left not one stone on a stone\, \nBut they would have the rabbit out of hiding\, \nTo please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean\, \nNo one has seen them made or heard them made\, \nBut at spring mending-time we find them there. \nI let my neighbor know beyond the hill; \nAnd on a day we meet to walk the line \nAnd set the wall between us once again. \nWe keep the wall between us as we go. \nTo each the boulders that have fallen to each. \nAnd some are loaves and some so nearly balls \nWe have to use a spell to make them balance: \n‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’ \nWe wear our fingers rough with handling them. \nOh\, just another kind of out-door game\, \nOne on a side. It comes to little more: \nThere where it is we do not need the wall: \nHe is all pine and I am apple orchard. \nMy apple trees will never get across \nAnd eat the cones under his pines\, I tell him. \nHe only says\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \nSpring is the mischief in me\, and I wonder \nIf I could put a notion in his head: \n‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it \nWhere there are cows? But here there are no cows. \nBefore I built a wall I’d ask to know \nWhat I was walling in or walling out\, \nAnd to whom I was like to give offense. \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him\, \nBut it’s not elves exactly\, and I’d rather \nHe said it for himself. I see him there \nBringing a stone grasped firmly by the top \nIn each hand\, like an old-stone savage armed. \nHe moves in darkness as it seems to me\, \nNot of woods only and the shade of trees. \nHe will not go behind his father’s saying\, \nAnd he likes having thought of it so well \nHe says again\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \n  \n—Robert Frost \n  \n—Scott Teitsworth \n* \n  \nThat Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” is my all-time favorite poem is a well-known fact (among my friends)\, but I have many favorite poems. In the not-too-distant past (five years ago\, maybe?) I had the great good fortune to come upon the writings of Thomas Traherne (1637-1674). His poems and meditations were first published in 1903\, ten years after they were rediscovered in manuscript—229 years after his death. I often start the day by reading a poem and/or a meditation by him. His wild delight is contagious. He helps me to get the day off to a glorious start. The first four poems in The Collected Works of Thomas Traherne are all sublime: “The Salutation\,” “Wonder\,” “Eden\,” and “Innocence.” Here’s the first: \n  \nThe Salutation \n  \n         These little limbs\, \n    These eyes and hands which here I find\, \nThese rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins\, \n    Where have ye been? behind \nWhat curtain were ye from me hid so long? \nWhere was\, in what abyss\, my speaking tongue? \n  \n         When silent I    \n    So many thousand\, thousand years \nBeneath the dust did in a chaos lie\, \n    How could I smiles or tears\, \nOr lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? \nWelcome ye treasures which I now receive. \n  \n         I that so long \n    Was nothing from eternity\, \nDid little think such joys as ear or tongue \n    To celebrate or see: \nSuch sounds to hear\, such hands to feel\, such feet\, \nBeneath the skies on such a ground to meet. \n  \n         New burnished joys\, \n    Which yellow gold and pearls excel! \nSuch sacred treasures are the limbs in boys\, \n    In which a soul doth dwell; \nTheir organised joints and azure veins \nMore wealth include than all the world contains. \n  \n         From dust I rise\, \n    And out of nothing now awake; \nThese brighter regions which salute mine eyes\, \n    A gift from God I take. \nThe earth\, the seas\, the light\, the day\, the skies\, \nThe sun and stars are mine\, if those I prize. \n  \n         Long time before \n    I in my mother’s womb was born\, \nA God preparing did this glorious store \n    The world for me adorn. \nInto this Eden so divine and fair\, \nSo wide and bright\, I come His son and heir. \n  \n         A stranger here \n    Strange things doth meet\, strange glories see; \nStrange treasures lodged in this fair world appear\, \n    Strange all and new to me; \nBut that they mine should be\, who nothing was\, \nThat strangest is of all\, yet brought to pass. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI Corinthians\, Chapter 13\, which ends: \n  \nLove never faileth: but whether there be prophecies\, they shall fail; whether there be tonguers\, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge\, it shall vanish away. \nFor we know in part\, and we prophesy in part. \nBut when that which is perfect is come\, then that which is in part shall be done away. \nWhen I was a child\, I spake as a child\, I understood as a child\, thought as a child: but when I became a man\, I put away childish things. \nFor now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part: but then shall I know even as also I am known. \nAnd now abideth faith\, hope\, and love\, these three; but the greatest of these is love. \n  \n—Ken Margolis
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-2-23/
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DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230226T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230304T193005Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230304T195348Z
UID:3702-1677423600-1677430800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! Snowed In!
DESCRIPTION:Beloved Bibliophiles! \n\n\nOn Sunday\, January 26th\, at 3 p.m. (PST) our theme will be: SNOWED IN! What are you reading? What’s a good book to read when you’ve got a lot of time on your hands? When you’re snowed in? What are your favorite (fat?) books of all time? \nHere’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \npeace & love  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-snowed-in/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230219T160000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230219T180000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230213T174422Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230213T174422Z
UID:3643-1676822400-1676829600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:A Midsummer Night's Dream in Prison Goes to Santa Fe!
DESCRIPTION:GREAT NEWS!!! \nA Midsummer Night’s Dream in Prison will be shown at the  Santa Fe Film Festival on February 19th\, at 4 p.m. The festival runs from February 17-26\, 2023. You can get tickets from the festival website: http://santafefilmfestival.com/index/festivals/2023-santa-fe-film-festival/  \nActors William Foote and Allen Mills will be in attendance\, along with the play’s director\, Johnny Stallings. \n\n\n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/a-midsummer-nights-dream-in-prison-goes-to-santa-fe/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230315
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
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:20260425T055500
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/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230206T180000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230206T200000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
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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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230202
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230302
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
CREATED:20230203T184134Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20230304T182330Z
UID:3593-1675296000-1677715199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  2/2/23
DESCRIPTION:poster by Rick Bartow \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 2\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to… \n…send me a short work in prose or poetry about an experience\, a person\, a conversation\, a book\, or an inspiration that changed the way you see\, experience or understand yourself and/or the world. Here’s what people sent: \n  \n  \nIn Memory of \nMy Literary Godmother \n  \nHer name was \n Miriam Soomil \n Of Russian-Jewish descent \nAnd the editor of \nThe Belmont Courier-Bulletin \nA small-town \nWeekly newspaper \nWhere I interned \nOne summer. \n  \nShe smoked \nPall Malls \nDrank black coffee \nDevoured the \nSan Francisco Chronicle \nLoved politics \nHad opinions \nQuoted Keats \nKnew history \nAdored anything \nWell-written. \n  \nI’d never \nMet anyone \nLike her. \nShe was  \nGritty\, smart \nFunny\, flawed \nBig-hearted \nAnd tough \nLike a \nThick slice \nOf dark rye    \nIn my \nWhite bread \nOzzie and Harriet \nWorld. \n  \nWe shared \nAn office \nPounded out \nNews stories \nOn massive \nUnderwood typewriters \nEdited copy \n With pencils \nCut and pasted \nWith scissors \nAnd glue pots \nBeat deadlines \nLogged \nLate nights \nAt the printer.   \n  \nShe didn’t \nSo much \nTeach me \nAs infect me \nWith language \nThe names \nOf poets \nWriters\, books \nIdeas \nAnd \nA care \nUncompromising \nFor words. \n  \nWe became friends \nAnd remained so \nFor years after. \nI visited her \nIn the cabin \nWhere she lived \nIn a grove \nOf Oak trees \nBehind Stanford University \n(Erased by bulldozers \nDecades ago.) \nHer walls \nLined with books \nHer home patrolled \nBy an enormous \nSiamese cat \nHer garden \nThick with basil \nTomatoes\, rosemary. \nWhen I became \nA working reporter \nI sent her clippings. \n  \nSometimes \nI drink \nRed jug wine \nLike I used to \nWith Miriam \nAnd raise \nA toast \nTo her \nA Mensch \nOf this world \nGenerous \nBeyond measure \nIndelibly imprinted \nUpon \nMy own \nSoul’s page. \n  \nIn whatever \nLanguage you \nNow speak \nDear friend \nMay you know \nThe eloquence \nAnd intelligence \nYou bestowed \nUpon us all. \n  \n—Will Hornyak   January 2023 \n* \n  \n                   Coincidence \n  \nFor years I tried right place\, wrong time\, \nthen right time\, but I was somewhere else \nplodding a dark street wondering where \nmy luck had gone. What are the odds \nfor happiness? Could I help chance\, \nassist coincidence\, gamble with verve? \n  \nThe first bird of dawn began to sing \nand I woke to see life on Earth as one \nbig coincidence\, this swirl of stone\, water\, \ncell\, sun\, and in good time all the rest— \nand suddenly\, there you were \ntelling me your name. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nA long time ago when I was visiting Johnny in Portland\, he got a phone call from our friend Sam. \nHe was dying of cancer—finally—after ten years or more of fighting it\, and he invited us down to Houston to attend his passing. \nIn those days it was easy to travel by air. We just went to the airport\, bought tickets\, and flew down to Houston. \nIn his last years\, after an adventurous checkered business career\, Sam had reinvented himself as an academic. \nAfter a few years\, he left Berkeley and got a job in a Texas border town\, teaching social science in a small community college. The students were all Latin American—second generation children of Mexican immigrants—newly citizened Americans hoping to realize the American Dream. \nSam was a man of the world. He gave his students\, not the usual politically correct canned curriculum\, but his best practical wisdom—like an uncle—speaking what usually remains unsaid about what it takes to get by\, to get ahead\, to simply survive\, in racist America. \nHis students adored him. \nSam met Johnny and me in the waiting room of the cancer ward\, and made us feel at home. \nIt was a Friday evening. The head hospice nurse was a friend of Sam’s.  \nShe said she was taking the weekend off to deal with family. \n“This is goodbye\, Sam. We won’t be seeing each other again.” \nSo they parted. \nSam said goodbye to Johnny and me. \nThe nurses took him away. \nVisitors were not allowed\, usually. \nBut they allowed one of his students\, a young woman with whom he was deeply bonded\, to be with him. \nShe cradled his head and gazed into his eyes as he died. \nJohnny and I were reading in the waiting room. The attendants pushed the remains of Sam on a gurney past us through the waiting room and out into the corridor\, heading for parts unknown. \nWe could see that Sam wasn’t there anymore. \n  \n—Charles Erickson \n* \n  \nLooking back on my life\, the text that changed\, and continues to change\, the way I see\, experience and understand myself in the world and as the world is Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself.” Among many other things\, he says: “All truths wait in all things.” And: “a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.” And: \n  \nWhy should I wish to see God better than this day? \nI see something of God each hour of the twenty-four\, and each moment then\, \nIn the faces of men and women I see God\, and in my own face in the glass… \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI have had many dark spots in my life & have always pulled through. There are 3 people in my life that have been my guiding lights for many years. Due to my incarceration I can not do the things for them like I want to or that they deserve. Things like paint the house or fix their car or be there when they need me. To cook them dinner to just show them how much I love them\, with a hug and a smile. Or to bring them my appreciation\, my love\, my joy. The joy they showed me that lives in me. \n  \nOne of them was with me full when I was in a very dark place in life. Yes\, darker than prison. A prison within a prison. I was forced to face my demons\, there would be no running this time and I had never felt so close to death. I was able to completely divulge my life and all its damage. Not judged\, not disciplined\, just accepted and loved and made to feel like all should feel. HUMAN. We are all so beautiful and amazing and shattered and broken just right. \n  \nWe are the beautifully broken. In my life I have people that mean more to me than life itself. And lately being away from them is suffering in itself. They are my family\, family I choose to be family. I wish to be able to show you all how much I love you by Being there in life with you. Like a son should be. \n  \nJohnny\, Nancy\, Howard! You always and forever will be not in my heart but a big piece of my heart\, mind and soul. Love Rocky. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nFive Tanka Written Upon Spending the Night in a New Apartment \n  \n1. \nI mop the floor with \napple cider vinegar\, \nnote the orange leaves \nthat are somehow still hanging \nin January. \n  \n2. \nCan you hear me up \nhere? Sorry I’m so noisy! \nMy boots\, my loud soul… \nI’m setting up my new bed. \nI’ve slept on too many floors. \n  \n3. \nO lovely cooking \naromas wafting through wood! \nMy unpacked dishes… \nA sharp red curry down there \ncalls to my empty white bowl. \n  \n4. \nAround ten p.m. \nI begin to unravel \nmy crisp new mattress. \nAlone\, I read directions: \nThis requires two people. \n  \n5. \nIt is a good thing \nthat I moved in yesterday. \nVery cold today\, \nand brother turned his ankle. \nOn my own again. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nLeftover Rainwater \n  \nOver the years I have been having a series of surgeries to correct a not ideal situation I was born with in my mouth. I found a good surgeon\, a practicing Sikh\, who periodically fixes something and the other day I was getting some stitches out and his assistant said\, “Oh yeah\, the doctor is a leftie”. And I had this little shock. \n  \nAll these years and I never noticed he was working on me primarily with his left hand. \n  \nNot that it matters. \n  \nExcept that I never noticed. I was a rebellious kid and my father used to regularly admonish me to pay attention. \n  \nOff in my own world I would think\, fine\, sure\, I’ll get right on that. Not. My own world was much more interesting\, intoxicating even\, the collage I was making taking up the whole bedroom wall\, the easy chairs with a tail and wings I was drawing everywhere\, all the stories I was reading. I was busy. \n  \nLater as a teenager out in the world with only loose tethers to authority\, I had to learn to pay attention. At least in a certain\, hyper-vigilant\, oh man this place is dangerous way. Is that car following me\, are those gunshots\, might there be drugs in that drink you just offered to share with me. \n  \nAnd then in my work life. Numbers. Nice safe numbers that need to be in certain places at certain times.  Very important to pay attention then. \n  \nThen one day a girlfriend of a work colleague asked me to go to a yoga class with her. It was at a gym. The teacher was an older man\, I had heard somewhere\, I think he told us\, he had been teaching Kung Fu and then there was an accident and he had to figure out how to make his body functional again. \n  \nWhy him? Why then?  He was weird. I often have an affinity for weird people\, at least his kind. One class we would focus on our feet\, one on our necks\, and the girlfriend never came back but I did. He taught us this one posture that made us look like turtles that I still practice today. He only taught for 4 months or so\, but somewhere in there I learned how to truly pay attention. \n  \nThen one day he was gone\, retired they said. \n  \nAnother teacher took his place\, and she became my teacher. I followed her around from gym to studio to rented spaces to finally her own studio. By then I was paying a lot of attention to a wide range of things. And learned to teach the practices to others.   \n  \nAlways though with a memory of the slightly amused look my original teacher would get on his face…this how did I find myself here with the weights clanging and the grunting in the background with all these relatively normal people? \n  \nThe other day\, working with my own students and encouraging them to notice this or be aware of that or to bring their attention somewhere or to let it go\, I could hear my father’s voice. \n  \nThe irony of me now gently admonishing others to be in the moment\, feel what they are feeling and notice things… \n  \nAnd the work I still have left to do. Every day there are so many new things to notice. \n  \nPerhaps a wild chickadee is taking a bath in leftover rainwater out back. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nDear Reader \n  \nFor the March issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding (3/2/23) you are invited to send me a short writing in prose or poetry about something or someone you love. \n  \n—Johnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2-2-23/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/0.jpeg
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230129T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230129T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
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/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230115
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230215
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
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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END:VEVENT
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20230105
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20230202
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
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UID:3520-1672876800-1675295999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  1/5/23
DESCRIPTION:Gertrude Stein (by Picasso) \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJanuary 5\, 2023 \n  \nSo now to come to the real question of punctuation\, periods\, commas\, colons\, semi-colons and capitals and small letters. I have had a long and complicated life with all these. \n—Gertrude Stein\, Lectures in America\, 1935 \n  \nA Carafe in Bb Major \nby Alex Tretbar (Guest Editor) \n  \n“The difference is spreading.” \n  \nLast night I sat down to read the final pages of Gertrude Stein’s small\, strange book Tender Buttons. I don’t use bookmarks\, as I’m usually able to quickly identify where I left off. I remembered reading the section titled “Cups” on page 49 of my edition\, but I saw nothing familiar in the following subsection\, “Rhubarb\,” which consists of a single sentence: “Rhubarb is susan not susan not seat in bunch toys not wild and laughable not in little places not in neglect and vegetable not in fold coal age not please.” So I read “Rhubarb” and moved on. \n  \nThe book is divided into three parts: “Objects\,” “Food\,” and “Rooms.” On page 60 I read “A Center in a Table\,” the final section of “Food\,” then turned the page and began “Rooms\,” which begins as follows: \n  \nAct so that there is no use in a center. A wide action is not a width. A preparation is given to the ones preparing. They do not eat who mention silver and sweet. There was an occupation. \n  \nThat initial imperative —“Act so that there is no use in a center”—rang through me in such a way that I knew I wasn’t reading or hearing it for the first time\, and the heavy declarative statement that concludes the paragraph—“There was an occupation”—struck me with the ghostly certainty of déjà vu (“already seen”)\, or\, more accurately\, déjà lu (“already read”). \n  \nI read eleven pages of Tender Buttons on the evening of December 21st\, then read the same eleven pages again on the evening of December 22nd\, remembering none of them until reaching “Rooms.” How could I read so many pages before stumbling across a certain phrasing or arrangement of words that would seem to indicate I had read them before\, and recently? The answer is not that Tender Buttons is forgettable. The answer is that Tender Buttons is slippery. As Juliana Spahr writes\, it is “a book always in the process of being read over and over.” It acts as if there is no use in a center. \n  \n“Lying in a conundrum…” \n  \nI served 64 months in the Oregon prison system\, and was released on July 22nd\, 2022. I spent the final ten days of my sentence in quarantine\, in the hole\, and I had made grand literary plans for those ten days. In my luggage of plastic trash bags\, alongside a half jar of coffee and other essentials\, I had stowed a stack of poetry collections\, anthologies\, and magazines\, and I was looking forward to the 240 hours of unfettered reading. I didn’t bring any fiction\, save for the handful of short stories sprinkled throughout the magazines\, and I came to regret that decision. \n  \nNow\, it wasn’t ten days of traditional segregation: I had all of my canteen luxuries\, I was granted time each day for phone calls and microwaving\, and the general vibe was not punitive. Plus\, after all\, my prison sentence was about to end. But the pressure cooker of the cell came to seem like the anteroom between hell and heaven\, despite my knowing that prison isn’t (necessarily) hell\, and liberty isn’t (necessarily) heaven. I continued waking up at 5\, drinking cold tap water coffee\, and reading and writing\, but the onslaught of poetry’s nonstop ellipsis\, misdirection and elusion/allusion began to erode my ability to pass the hours calmly. I thought of Ezra Pound slowly losing it\, writing his lonely Cantos in the oblivion of St. Elizabeths. I craved narrative: A then B\, so C. I wanted fiction. Characters doing things\, and things happening to characters. Undreamlike causation. \n  \nOne of the books I brought with me was an issue of Fonograf Editions\, and on its cover was a pink and purple abstraction “indebted to [the Russian painter Kasimir] Malevich’s Suprematist artistic vision\, one that believed that ‘the appropriate means of representation is always the one which gives fullest possible expression to feeling as such and which ignores the familiar appearance of objects.’” But in that ten-day moment before release\, I was sick of the avant-garde\, sick of abstraction\, and sick of poetry. I wanted objects—like a milk carton passed through a hole in a metal door—to appear familiar. Tender Buttons may have been a torturous book to possess at that time. \n  \nImages brand our spirits\, and the twin sigils of the final cell I lived in were: \n  \n \n  \n \nYes\, a ridiculous pairing\, but I believe that there is no highbrow\, no lowbrow. There is only brow\, and beneath it the all-seeing eye through which we witness our lives. \n  \n“Nickel\, what is nickel…” \n  \nStein renders the familiar unfamiliar. Her prose poems (if you can call them that\, if you can call them anything at all) approach “A Table” or “A Shawl” from unexpected angles\, with grammatically impenetrable constructions\, and for this reason her work is often cited as bearing the Cubist torch into literature. Here is the first and most famous piece from Tender Buttons\, titled “A Carafe\, that is a Blind Glass”: \n  \nA kind in glass and a cousin\, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary\, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading. \n  \nWhat are we to make of this? Tender Buttons has engendered much academic handwringing and dissection over the past century\, and you are not alone if\, in reading the above excerpt\, you find yourself shaking your head or scoffing. Perhaps the most agreed-upon facet of Tender Buttons is that we can agree upon nothing when regarding it. It is an object “simultaneously considered to be a masterpiece of verbal Cubism\, a modernist triumph\, a spectacular failure\, a collection of confusing gibberish\, and an intentional hoax.” Like Joyce’s Ulysses or Proust’s In Search of Lost Time\, the book “is perhaps more often written about than actually read” (Poets.org). \n  \nAnd yet I recommend that everyone read it. Unlike the behemoth works of Joyce or Proust\, it can be read in a single evening or two\, and there is no constellation of characters and motives and histories to keep straight. There are few\, if any\, people in Tender Buttons (personal pronouns are haunting in their rare surfacing)\, and nothing really happens. But there is music\, and undeniable passion—even be it bridled or obscured by syntax. Just look at those first seven words of the book: “A kind in glass and a cousin.” Never mind what it “meant” to Stein\, or what it “means” to me. It is just a beautiful arrangement of\, as Coleridge defined poetry\, “the best words in the best order.” The poet Charles Bernstein has provided some of the best advice for readers of Tender Buttons\, and it is worth quoting him at length: \n  \nThe sections of the work are not “about” subjects that are discussed but are their own discrete word objects (verbal constellations). Meaning in these works is not something to be extracted or deciphered but rather to be responded to\, so that the reader’s associations create a cascading perceptual experience\, guided by the uncanny arrangement of the words. The more readers can associate with the multiple vectors of each word or phrase meanings\, the more fully they can feast on the unfolding semantic banquet of the work. The key is not to puzzle it out but to let the figurative plenitude of each work play out; for\, indeed\, this work is not invested in a predetermining structure or in precluding or abstracting meaning. Tender Buttons does not resist figuration but entices it. And the work is rife with linguistic and philosophical investigation as well as an uncannily acute self-awareness of its own processes. \n  \n“A letter was nicely sent.” \n  \nI was exhibiting an uncannily acute self-awareness of my own processes. (Have you ever felt clairvoyant in the knowledge that you know what you are about to do? Is it not strange that\, before we go to pick up the plastic mug of cold predawn coffee\, we know that we are about to pick up the plastic mug of cold predawn coffee? And even if we decide\, in auto-rebellion\, not to pick up the mug\, we construct a new future the knowledge of which is instantaneously and irrevocably ours—until we change our minds again. I used to take drugs\, I think\, for a simple reason: I didn’t want to know what happened next. I wanted to be surprised.) \n  \nAlas\, in a single afternoon of quarantine I devoured the handful of short stories available to me\, and once again I was left with poetry\, the desolation of my processes\, my circuits and orbits and feedback loops. For five years I had been invested in a predetermined structure\, and that structure was beginning to dissolve. Reading poems—whether they were straightforwardly narrative or relentlessly experimental—repulsed me\, and so did writing them. \n  \nThe last letter I sent from prison contained the last poem I wrote in prison. Ironically or perhaps not\, it was a letter to someone living in the same building as me\, another prisoner. Distance is often nonphysical. Here’s the poem:  \n  \nSpecial Features \n  \nthere isn’t a thing to say \nso close to the relinquished \nlight of a star \n                         what really comprises the common dust \n                         of living rooms & cells \n                                                                 panting \n                                                                 panting \n                                    the television is panting \n                                 is \n               underwater \n                 with grief \nI look what I think is west \nis west it’s hard to tell \n      amid so many competing surfaces \n      amid \n      amid \namid absent flowers & oxidized materials \nyou can oversanitize to the point where everything becomes \n                                                                         is permanently \n                                                                         clean \n                         & the action movie soundtrack \n                         convinces me of climax \n                         a nonexistent curtain falls \n           the show is \n              the story is over   /   I am asleep \n                in the deleted scenes of my life \n  \nTo me—the writer of this poem who had forgotten its contents until now\, digging through my notebooks\, reading it now with the privilege of distance—the poem reeks of wordsickness. But it’s okay to be sick of words. Even the sun can make us sneeze. \n  \n“Book was there\, it was there.” \n  \nA pink is not of vitamin\, is it. Smaller \nand smalling. What recedes fortifies \nand running now\, a mauve. Crossing \na street requiring friends in need of. \nWe are not a wobble. We nosy. Let us \nconsider longing now the ultimate form. \n  \nOr\, as my friend Irene Cooper puts it: \n  \nno commas \n~for GS & ABT \n  \npop buttons pop projections of rimming. collect the close & closings tendered against the winded heart. red petals the threaded plain & some cleavage is rising. plastics are crashing are the rain sugaring the cavity are a red tempest in a chest. in closure some button slips its absence & is too much is intolerable is undone & so open. open.  \n  \nOr\, as my friend Laura Winberry puts it: \n  \nthe buttons are as tender as we make them \n  \n[essayistic interpretations of cubism in non-prosaic form\, in conversation with Miss Stein] \n  \na trach tube is or isn’t a direct pathway to living \n(well or at all). so is a catheter\, a pic line\, a drip \nlike a bright sweep through the body every eight \nhours or so. \n  \nit doesn’t all have to be so tragic. we see \nthings and beings through to some kind of end \nthen start again. so many moments are synonymous \nwith continue. \n  \nwhen mom asides about the new nurse I think \nhe’s born-again Christian as if he were \nalso diseased he’s too neat—I laugh. \n  \nafter a night in his tender she admits to being wrong— \nhe’s lovely and my buddy let me tell you his life story. \n  \nthe subject seen from a multitude of viewpoints \ncrescendos into a tenderness of context. what was once \nangular\, disjointed\, rearranged \nbecomes whole. \n  \nI think what I mean to say is multi \n-dimensional\, -faceted\, -plying as in \nnothing is ever what it seems. \n  \nI don’t yet know how to call this tender\, \nbut something in my body \ntells me I will. \n  \nOr\, as the late Trish Keenan of the band Broadcast puts it\, in the song “Tender Buttons”: \n  \nThe cortex \nThe comb \nThe codeine \nThe comma \nThe context \n  \nSuch is Stein’s influence. And the funny thing is that when I first came across that unlikely pair of words—“tender” and “buttons”—it wasn’t in the form of Stein’s book. It was the Broadcast song\, a complicatedly hopeful acoustic-electric drone in the key of B-flat major. \n  \nThe website Last.fm allows users to log the songs they listen to on their computers and mobile devices\, and this evening I performed a search of my account\, which I created in 2006. I searched for “Tender Buttons\,” and found that I listened to the song for the first time at 12:38 p.m. on October 22\, 2009\, 14 days after my 20th birthday. According to Wunderground.com\, it was 54 degrees Fahrenheit in Lawrence\, Kansas\, at that very moment\, the sky was cloudy\, and the wind was blowing around 15 miles per hour from the north-northwest. I was probably stoned on that 295th day of the Gregorian calendar\, a Thursday\, skipping class and lazing on the green couch of a flophouse attic. \n  \nIf I remember correctly\, I was heartbroken at that time\, and I would spend many hours by the attic window\, watching the leaves of a great tree tremble in the wind. It was years before I knew who Gertrude Stein was\, a time when my addiction was still like a kitten: small and manageable\, asleep and purring\, contained within my palm. \n  \nThe codeine\, the comma\, the context. \n  \nStein’s Enigmas \nby Kim Stafford \n  \nTender Buttons has been called the stuff of genius\, and of intentional obfuscation. Nothing but an utterly original mind could produce such a range of response. Gertrude Stein once said of Paris\, it’s not so much what it gives you—it’s what it doesn’t take away. Paris clearly didn’t take away Stein’s almost childish instinct for feral experimentation\, and readers have been struggling and reveling ever since in what her pen splashed forth. \n  \n     For a reader\, Tender Buttons offers a challenge\, a series of jokes\, secrets\, a scatter of debris\, a net of clues\, hints\, hunches\, all with a rich dose of affection for true freedom of speech. \n  \n     For a writer\, the lessons are many\, and a bit different. First off\, the lines in her book seem to say\, apart from what they are saying\, or not saying: Go your own weird way. The lines are presenting evidence that language belongs to each of us\, and all of us\, and none of us. Language\, by Stein’s witness\, is a freakish\, frisky\, irreverent rush of possibility\, not to be imprisoned by any grammarian’s so-called rules. Yes\, such freedom by a writer may lose some readers\, but may also gain the fierce loyalty of some others.  \n  \n     A printer friend was meeting with a poet to talk about designing a broadside for a poem. Said the printer\, “Wouldn’t it be easier to read if you arranged the lines this way\, instead of what you have?” \n    “I’m a poet\,” was the reply. “Is my goal to make things easy?” \n    “Ah\,” said the printer. “You taught me something there.” \n  \n    And Stein’s book\, over a century old\, is still teaching us something\, perhaps a different set of lessons for each reader who makes it through the book. What the book seems to want to teach me is to question my practice\, when I’m in danger of making too much sense and too little music. To question my goal when I’m trying to persuade instead of sing. To question my purpose on earth when I’m relying on the rational instead of birdsong. \n  \n     I can’t do what Stein has done—or can I? Is it just that I haven’t tried? What’s to stop me from breaking the rules I’ve followed so obediently for so many years\, to stop me from achieving escape velocity from the firmament of the clear\, the cogent\, and the utterly tamed? \n  \n   Some years ago at a conference for artists\, the Indigenous old-time folk singer Buffy St. Marie was to give a talk\, and I thought\, foolishly\, that she would coast along on her former fame\, maybe play a few classics\, and be done. Instead\, she sang ideas at us with fierceness that stunned me. Among many calls to trust our own way as artists\, she used a word I had only associated with the fight for Indigenous rights. She told us an artist must maintain complete sovereignty over what we do and how we do it\, saying\, this is my poem\, song\, painting…this is my language\, my tune\, my colors…and the way I do what I do belongs to me. \n  \n   Last summer\, I met a pine tree in Scotland\, alone on a hill\, its trunk crooked\, its branches quirky\, lopsided\, eccentric in the extreme. It was more ruin in wood than civilized for the lumber trade. Perhaps it had been left alone when they cut the others\, simply because it managed to be strange.  \n  \n     In the tree’s presence\, I found myself jamming words together with maybe 5% of the freedom of a Gertrude Stein\, but still more in keeping with the tree before me than what I might have written without my encounter with Tender Buttons. For what if polite forms of language are lying\, really\, about the true\, knotted complexity of the world\, and what Stein does in Tender Buttons hews more closely to the rugged real? \n  \n        Lone Pine in Scotland  \n  \nOne flung green gown on one hung \nshade skirt growing outward\, glowing  \ninward\, light-hungry\, root-thirsty\, long  \nwind-limber\, limb-laddered\, ever loyal \nto the nation of its kind\, but hermit here\,  \nmonkish nun hospitable to wasp and crow\,  \nrain-wet silhouette of old trunk with young  \ntwigs\, buds\, needles\, cones glistening for  \ndawn above by dusk below\, earth-offered\,  \nring-hearted\, bark-guarded\, pitch-scented\,  \npollen-dusted citizen\, sentinel\, sovereign.  \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-5-23/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230101T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20230101T160000
DTSTAMP:20260425T055500
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:20260425T055500
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:20260425T055500
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:20260425T055500
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:20260425T055500
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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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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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
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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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