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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220529T150000
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SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Annual Group Reading of "Song of Myself"  5/29/22
DESCRIPTION:painting of Walt Whitman by Rick Bartow \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nOn Sunday\, May 29th\, we celebrated Walt Whitman’s 203rd Birthday with our Annual Group Reading of “Song of Myself”!  \n  \nReaders included: Alan Benditt\, Steve Cackley\, Nick Eldredge\, Brent Gregston\, Perrin Kerns\, Andy Larkin\, Ken Margolis\, Todd Oleson\, Katie Radditz\, Jude Russell\, Kristen Sagan\, Toby Scales\, Nancy Scharbach\, Jeffrey Sher\, Kim Stafford\, Johnny Stallings\, Howard Thoresen and Max Walter. \n  \nAs always\, reading this poem together brings readers and listeners alike into a state of Delirious Happiness and Cosmic Consciousness!  \n  \nAfter the reading\, Kim suggested that we share recommendations for books\, articles\, videos\, et cetera\, relating to Walt Whitman. So\, on this website\, I’m going to create a page called “Friends of Walt\,” where people can share their thoughts and poems and inspirations and bibliographies. Here’s the link: \n  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-annual-group-reading-of-song-of-myself-5-29-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220529
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220530
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220530T175959Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20240616T191444Z
UID:2831-1653782400-1653868799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Friends of Walt: An Archive
DESCRIPTION:painting of Walt Whitman by Rick Bartow \n  \n  \nTo celebrate Walt’s 205th Birthday\, Johnny Stallings performed “Song of Myself” on May 31st\, in Muir Hall at Taborspace\, in Portland.We read from and talked about “Song of Myself” for ¡Bibliophiles Unanimous! on Sunday\,June 2nd. Here’s what Robert G. Ingersoll said at Walt Whitman’s funeral: \n  \nRobert Ingersoll’s Tribute to Walt Whitman \n  \nMY FRIENDS: Again we\, in the mystery of Life\, are brought face to face with the mystery of Death. A great man\, a great American\, the most eminent citizen of this Republic\, lies dead before us\, and we have met to pay a tribute to his greatness and his worth. \nI know he needs no words of mine. His fame is secure. He laid the foundations of it deep in the human heart and brain. \nHe was\, above all I have known\, the poet of humanity\, of sympathy. He was so great that he rose above the greatest that he met without arrogance\, and so great that he stooped to the lowest without conscious condescension. He never claimed to be lower or greater than any of the sons of men. \nHe came into our generation a free\, untrammeled spirit\, with sympathy for all. His arm was beneath the form of the sick. He sympathized with the imprisoned and despised\, and even on the brow of crime he was great enough to place the kiss of human sympathy. \nOne of the greatest lines in our literature is his\, and the line is great enough to do honor to the greatest genius that has ever lived. He said\, speaking of an outcast: “Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you.” \nHis charity was as wide as the sky\, and wherever there was human suffering\, human misfortune\, the sympathy of Whitman bent above it as the firmament bends above the earth. \nHe was built on a broad and splendid plan—ample\, without appearing to have limitations—passing easily for a brother of mountains and seas and constellations; caring nothing for the little maps and charts with which timid pilots hug the shore\, but giving himself freely with recklessness of genius to winds and waves and tides; caring for nothing as long as the stars were above him. \nHe walked among men\, among writers\, among verbal varnishers and veneerers\, among literary milliners and tailors\, with the unconscious majesty of an antique god. \nHe was the poet of that divine democracy which gives equal rights to all the sons and daughters of men. He uttered the great American voice; uttered a song worthy of the great Republic. No man ever said more for the rights of humanity\, more in favor of real democracy\, of real justice. \nHe neither scorned nor cringed\, was neither tyrant nor slave. He asked only to stand the equal of his fellows beneath the great flag of nature\, the blue and stars. \nHe was the poet of Life. It was a joy simply to breathe. He loved the clouds; he enjoyed the breath of morning\, the twilight\, the wind\, the winding streams. He loved to look at the sea when the waves burst into the whitecaps of joy. He loved the fields\, the hills; he was acquainted with the trees\, with birds\, with all the beautiful objects of the earth. He not only saw these objects\, but understood their meaning\, and he used them that he might exhibit his heart to his fellow-men. \nHe was the poet of Love. He was not ashamed of that divine passion that has built every home in the world; that divine passion that has painted every picture and given us every real work of art; that divine passion that has made the world worth living in and has given some value to human life. \nHe was the poet of the natural\, and taught men not to be ashamed of that which is natural. He was not only the poet of democracy\, not only the poet of the great Republic\, but he was the Poet of the human race. He was not confined to the limits of this country\, but his sympathy went out over the seas to all the nations of the earth. \nHe stretched out his hand and felt himself the equal of all kings and of all princes\, and the brother of all men\, no matter how high\, no matter how low. \nHe has uttered more supreme words than any writer of our century\, possibly of almost any other. He was\, above all things\, a man\, and above genius\, above all the snow-capped peaks of intelligence\, above all art\, rises the true man\, Greater than all is the true man\, and he walked among his fellow-men as such. \nHe was the poet of Death. He accepted all life and all death\, and he justified all. He had the courage to meet all\, and was great enough and splendid enough to harmonize all and to accept all there is of life as a divine melody. \nYou know better than I what his life has been\, but let me say one thing. Knowing\, as he did\, what others can know and what they cannot\, he accepted and absorbed all theories\, all creeds\, all religions\, and believed in none. \nHis philosophy was a sky that embraced all clouds and accounted for all clouds. He had a philosophy and a religion of his own\, broader\, as he believed—and as I believe—than others. He accepted all\, he understood all\, and he was above all. \nHe was absolutely true to himself. He had frankness and courage\, and he was as candid as light. He was willing that all the sons of men should be absolutely acquainted with his heart and brain. He had nothing to conceal. \nFrank\, candid\, pure\, serene\, noble\, and yet for years he was maligned and slandered\, simply because he had the candor of nature. He will be understood yet\, and that for which he was condemned—his frankness\, his candor—will add to the glory and greatness of his fame. \nHe wrote a liturgy for mankind; he wrote a great and splendid psalm of life\, and he gave to us the gospel of humanity—the greatest gospel that can be preached. \nHe was not afraid to live\, not afraid to die. For many years he and death were near neighbors. He was always willing and ready to meet and greet this king called death\, and for many months he sat in the deepening twilight waiting for the night\, waiting for the light. \nHe never lost his hope. When the mists filled the valleys\, he looked upon the mountaintops\, and when the mountains in darkness disappeared\, he fixed his gaze upon the stars. \nIn his brain were the blessed memories of the day\, and in his heart were mingled the dawn and dusk of life. \nHe was not afraid; he was cheerful every moment. The laughing nymphs of day did not desert him. They remained that they might clasp the hands and greet with smiles the veiled and silent sisters of the night. And when they did come\, Walt Whitman stretched his hand to them. On one side were the nymphs of the day\, and on the other the silent sisters of the night\, and so\, hand in hand\, between smiles and tears\, he reached his journey’s end. \nFrom the frontier of life\, from the western wave-kissed shore\, he sent us messages of content and hope\, and these messages seem now like strains of music blown by the “Mystic Trumpeter” from Death’s pale realm. \nToday we give back to Mother Nature\, to her clasp and kiss\, one of the bravest\, sweetest souls that ever lived in human clay. \nCharitable as the air and generous as Nature\, he was negligent of all except to do and say what he believed he should do and should say. \nAnd I today thank him\, not only for you but for myself—for all the brave words he has uttered. I thank him for all the great and splendid words he has said in favor of liberty\, in favor of man and woman\, in favor of motherhood\, in favor of fathers\, in favor of children\, and I thank him for the brave words that he has said of death. \nHe has lived\, he has died\, and death is less terrible than it was before. Thousands and millions will walk down into the “dark valley of the shadow” holding Walt Whitman by the hand. Long after we are dead the brave words he has spoken will sound like trumpets to the dying. \nAnd so I lay this little wreath upon this great man’s tomb. I loved him living\, and I love him still. \n  \n—Camden\, New Jersey\, March 30\, 1892 \n  \n  \nThe origin of Friends of Walt comes from an email that Kim Stafford sent me  after our annual reading of “Song of Myself” to celebrate Walt Whitman’s Birthday on May 29th\, 2022. Here’s what he wrote: \n  \nFollowing our shining session today\, would you like to invite the group to send you citations for Whitmania\, to be compiled and shared with everyone: title and author of biographies\, the URL for the Billy Collins talk on YouTube\, Will’s source of quotation for how Emily Dickinson appreciated Whitman\, and anything else. A sort of reading list for us to peruse before the next annual reading? \n  \nJust a thought…and if you reply “Good idea–why don’t you do it?” … we can collaborate. (Perrin’s looking up citations now.) \n  \nHave I ever told you the story about how my father was saved from being lynched in Arkansas in the winter of 1942 because he was reading Whitman when the mob came? We could put that in the bibliography\, too. \n  \n–Kim \n*\n \n\n Okay\, so here we go!\n \n \nStarting with a poem Kim wrote today (5/30/22) about how Walt Whitman saved his dad’s life:\n\n \n \nThe story about Whitman saving my dad…which is told in the first chapter of Down in My Heart…and which Keith Scales made into a little play to perform one time at the Portland Poetry Festival for my dad\, after his last reading\, early August 1993.\n\n  \n\n\n  \n         Memorial Day: How Walt Whitman \n            Saved My Farther from the Mob \n  \nOne Sunday afternoon in 1942\, three peace warriors \nwalked into a little town in Arkansas to loaf by the station \nand take their ease. They were strangers there\, so locals \ngathered\, curious. “What’s that you’re writing?” said one\, \ngrabbing the page. “Why sir\, it’s a poem.” “That aint poetry— \nit don’t rhyme. It’s code. And you! What’s that you’re drawing?” \n“Just a sketch.” “That aint no sketch\, bub—it’s a map for Hitler.” \n“Get a rope!” someone cried out\, and time got bright and fast.  \n“And you!” the hothead shouted at my father\, “What’s that book?”  \nand snatched it\, slapped it open\, and began to read aloud to prove  \npoetry had to rhyme. But lynching’s logic faltered as his fury  \ntrailed off in a run of wild words\, and time slowed down again.  \n“Call the sheriff!” someone shouted\, as the crowd hummed \nand muttered like a hive until the sheriff came\, blustered  \nmy father and his friends into his car\, slammed the door\,  \nturned and said\, “Let’s get you boys out of town.” \n  \nFailing to catch me at first keep encouraged\,  \nMissing me one place search another\,  \nI stop somewhere waiting for you.  \n\n  \n–Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nPerrin Kerns turned me on to some gorgeous videos by Jennifer Crandall. The URL address is \n  \nwhitmanalabama.com.  \n\n \nAlan Benditt sent this link to a video of Charlie Rose talking with Allen Ginsberg\, Sharon Olds and Galway Kinnell about Walt Whitman:\n \n \nhttps://charlierose.com/videos/20510\n\n\n\n \nThis is our little homemade archive. Jeffrey Sher and Kim Stafford sent a link to the University of Nebraska’s vast online Whitman Archive. You can find all kinds of treasures here:\n \n \nhttps://whitmanarchive.org\n \n \nKim said:\n \n \nToday [5/30/22] I’ve been spending some time at this Grand Central Station of Walt Whitman sources\, reading his fiction and journalism\, some so pedestrian it makes Leaves of Grass even more miraculous.\n \n \nToday\, May 31\, 2022\, is Walt Whitman’s 203rd birthday. Happy Birthday\, Walt!!! Howard Thoresen sent a link to the wax cylinder recording that Thomas Edison made of Walt Whitman\, in his old age\, reading or reciting his poem “America.” Here’s what Howard said:\n \n \nThis one has a lot of noise on it but I find it easier to hear than the cleaned up version (maybe because the text is on the screen):\n \n \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBX2L_Re5Cc\n \n \nKim’s response to Howard (5/31/22):\n \n \nThank you\, Howard. If we only we had Walt at 37 reading with full verve. But all the same\, amazing to hear this voice.\n\n\n\n\n \n Johnny\, we might include for the page this mysterious ad from Volvo\, where lines from “Song of the Open Road” are used without attribution:\n \n \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42ZMi0DnMtE\n\n\n\n \n \nWalt selling freedom\, Volvo selling cars…and a little love story folded in where the writer is scruffy hero with expensive wheels. Maybe there’s a Kerouac vibe implied as well.\n \n \n–Kim\n*\n\n\n\n \n \nTo celebrate Walt’s birthday today (5/31/22) I want to share one of my favorite short poems of his:\n \n \nBEGINNING MY STUDIES\n \n \nBeginning my studies the first step pleas’d me so much\, \nThe mere fact consciousness\, these forms\, the power of motion\, \nThe least insect or animal\, the senses\, eyesight\, love\, \nThe first step I say awed me and pleas’d me so much\, \nI have hardly gone and hardly wish’d to go any farther\, \nBut stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs. \n\n\n \n \n–Walt Whitman \n*\n \n \nWill Hornyak recommended a talk that Billy Collins gave on Whitman. Here’s the link:\n\n\n\n\n  \n\n\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VYnkdcDQZA\n\n\n\n\n\n  \n  \n Here’s an interview I did about “Song of Myself” on Marfa Public Radio in 2017: \n  \n  \n \n\n\n \n \nKim sent this:\n \n \nNeed we look further for where Whitman got his cadence than Emerson…perhaps from the essay you mentioned\, “The Poet\,” which Emerson must have composed\, or perhaps revised\, aloud\, in preparation to deliver it as a lecture\, oration\, or operatic performance. Think of the young Whitman\, after toiling on some journalistic task\, encountering music like this last paragraph of Emerson’s essay:\n \n \n     O poet! a new nobility is conferred in groves and pastures\, and not in castles\, or by the sword-blade\, any longer. The conditions are hard\, but equal. Thou shalt leave the world\, and know the muse only. Thou shalt not know any longer the times\, customs\, graces\, politics\, or opinions of men\, but shalt take all from the muse. For the time of towns is tolled from the world by funereal chimes\, but in nature the universal hours are counted by succeeding tribes of animals and plants\, and by growth of joy on joy. God wills also that thou abdicate a manifold and duplex life\, and that thou be content that others speak for thee. Others shall be thy gentlemen\, and shall represent all courtesy and worldly life for thee; others shall do the great and resounding actions also. Thou shalt lie close hid with nature\, and canst not be afforded to the Capitol or the Exchange. The world is full of renunciations and apprenticeships\, and this is thine: thou must pass for a fool and a churl for a long season. This is the screen and sheath in which Pan has protected his well-beloved flower\, and thou shalt be known only to thine own\, and they shall console thee with tenderest love. And thou shalt not be able to rehearse the names of thy friends in thy verse\, for an old shame before the holy ideal. And this is the reward: that the ideal shall be real to thee\, and the impressions of the actual world shall fall like summer rain\, copious\, but not troublesome\, to thy invulnerable essence. Thou shalt have the whole land for thy park and manor\, the sea for thy bath and navigation\, without tax and without envy; the woods and the rivers thou shalt own; and thou shalt possess that wherein others are only tenants and boarders. Thou true land-lord! sea-lord! air-lord! Wherever snow falls\, or water flows\, or birds fly\, wherever day and night meet in twilight\, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds\, or sown with stars\, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries\, wherever are outlets into celestial space\, wherever is danger\, and awe\, and love\, there is Beauty\, plenteous as rain\, shed for thee\, and though thou shouldest walk the world over\, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble.\n \n \n–from the essay “The Poet” by Ralph Waldo Emerson\n\n\n\n\n \n \nWalt Whitman self-published his first book of poems\, Leaves of Grass\, in 1855\, when he was 36 years old. It contained 12 poems\, including the poem now titled “Song of Myself.” (In the original edition\, the poems did not have titles.) He sent a copy of the poem to Ralph Waldo Emerson\, who then sent Whitman this letter:\n \n \nCONCORD\, MASSACHUSETTS\, 21 July\, 1855\n \n \nDEAR SIR–\n \n \nI am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of “LEAVES OF GRASS.” I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed. I am very happy in reading it\, as great power makes us happy. It meets the demand I am always making of what seemed the sterile and stingy nature\, as if too much handiwork\, or too much lymph in the temperament\, were making our western wits fat and mean.\n \n \nI give you joy of your free and brave thought. I have great joy in it. I find incomparable things said incomparably well\, as they must be. I find the courage of treatment which so delights us\, and which large perceptions can inspire.\n \n \nI greet you at the beginning of a great career\, which yet must have had a long foreground somewhere\, for such a start. I rubbed my eyes a little\, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is a sober certainty. It has the best merits\, namely\, of fortifying and encouraging.\n \n \nI did not know until I last night saw the book advertised in a newspaper that I could trust the name as real and available for a post-office. I wish to see my benefactor\, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you my respects.\n \n \nR. W. EMERSON\n*\n \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/friends-of-walt-an-archive/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220520
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220530
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20210413T153328Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220530T175510Z
UID:2057-1653004800-1653868799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Take a tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
DESCRIPTION:Mask of the Punu people of southern Gabon (19th-20th Century) \n  \nBrowse through the 375\,000 high-resolution images of public domain works from the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art! Here’s a link: \n  \nhttps://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection \n  \nYou can read more about this mask here: \n  \nhttps://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/318667 \n  \nPeace\, Love & Beauty \n  \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/take-a-tour-of-the-metropolitan-museum-of-art/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220519
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220602
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220520T234448Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T131329Z
UID:2799-1652918400-1654127999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  5/19/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nMay 19\, 2022 \n  \n  \nThe Infinite a sudden Guest \nHas been assumed to be— \nBut how can that stupendous come \nWhich never went away? \n  \n* \n  \nA Light exists in Spring \nNot present on the Year \nAt any other period — \nWhen March is scarcely here \n  \nA Color stands abroad \nOn Solitary Fields \nThat Science cannot overtake \nBut Human Nature feels. \n  \nIt waits upon the Lawn\, \nIt shows the furthest Tree \nUpon the furthest Slope you know \nIt almost speaks to you. \n  \nThen as Horizons step \nOr Noons report away \nWithout the Formula of sound \nIt passes and we stay — \n  \nA quality of loss \nAffecting our Content \nAs Trade has suddenly encroached \nUpon a Sacrament. \n  \n—Emily Dickinson \n* \n  \nO Taste and See \n  \nThe world is  \nnot with us enough \nO taste and see \n  \nthe subway Bible poster said\, \nmeaning The Lord\, meaning \nif anything all that lives \nto the imagination’s tongue\, \n  \ngrief\, mercy\, language\, \ntangerine\, weather\, to \nbreathe them\, bite\, \nsavor\, chew\, swallow\, transform \n  \ninto our flesh our \ndeaths\, crossing the street\, plum quince\, \nliving in the orchard and being \n  \nhungry\, and plucking \nthe fruit. \n  \nDenise Levertov  (1923-1997) \n* \n  \nfrom My Wisdom \n  \nWhen people have a lot \nthey want more \n  \nWhen people have nothing \nthey will happily share it \n  \n* \n  \nSilence waits \nfor truth to break it \n  \n* \n  \nCalendars can weep too \nThey want us to have better days \n  \n* \n  \nWelcome to every minute \nFeel lucky you’re still in it \n  \n* \n  \nNo bird builds a wall \n  \n* \n  \nWon’t give up \nour hopes \n            for anything! \n  \n* \n  \nNot your fault \nYou didn’t make the world \n  \n* \n  \nRefuse to give \n   mistakes \n      too much power \n  \n* \n  \nBabies want to help us \nThey laugh \nfor no reason \n  \n* \n  \n Pay close attention to \na drop of water \non the kitchen table \n  \n–Naomi Shihab Nye  \n* \n  \nHappiness \n  \nThere’s just no accounting for happiness\, \nor the way it turns up like a prodigal \nwho comes back to the dust at your feet \nhaving squandered a fortune far away. \n  \nAnd how can you not forgive? \nYou make a feast in honor of what \nwas lost\, and take from its place the finest \ngarment\, which you saved for an occasion \nyou could not imagine\, and you weep night and day \nto know that you were not abandoned\, \nthat happiness saved its most extreme form \nfor you alone. \n  \nNo\, happiness is the uncle you never \nknew about\, who flies a single-engine plane \nonto the grassy landing strip\, hitchhikes \ninto town\, and inquires at every door \nuntil he finds you asleep midafternoon \nas you so often are during the unmerciful \nhours of your despair. \n  \nIt comes to the monk in his cell. \nIt comes to the woman sweeping the street \nwith a birch broom\, to the child \nwhose mother has passed out from drink. \nIt comes to the lover\, to the dog chewing \na sock\, to the pusher\, to the basketmaker\, \nand to the clerk stacking cans of carrots \nin the night. \n                     It even comes to the boulder \nin the perpetual shade of pine barrens\, \nto rain falling on the open sea\, \nto the wineglass\, weary of holding wine. \n  \n–Jane Kenyon  (1947-1995) \n* \n  \nfrom Reconciliation: A Prayer \n  \nII. \nOh sun\, moon\, stars\, our other relatives peering at us from the inside of god’s house walk with us as we climb into the next century naked but for the stories we have of each other. Keep us from giving up in this land of nightmares which is also the land of miracles. \n  \nWe sing our song which we’ve been promised has no beginning or end. \n  \nIII. \nAll acts of kindness are lights in the war for justice. \n  \nIV. \nWe gather up these strands broken from the web of life. They shiver with our love\, as we call them the names of our relatives and carry them to our home made of the four directions and sing: \n  \nOf the south\, where we feasted and were given new clothes. \n  \nOf the west\, where we gave up the best of us to the stars as food for the battle. \n  \nOf the north\, where we cried because we were forsaken by our dreams. \n  \nOf the east because returned to us is the spirit of all we love. \n  \n–Joy Harjo  (1951- ) (Currently Poet Laureate of the United States) \n* \n  \nAt Blackwater Pond \n  \nAt Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled \nafter a night of rain. \nI dip my cupped hands. I drink \na long time. It tastes \nlike stone\, leaves\, fire. It falls cold \ninto my body\, waking the bones. I hear them \ndeep inside me\, whispering \noh what is that beautiful thing \nthat just happened? \n  \n–Mary Oliver  (1935-2019) \n* \n  \nMiracle Fair \n  \nCommonplace miracle: \nthat so many commonplace miracles happen. \n  \nAn ordinary miracle: \nin the dead of night \nthe barking of invisible dogs. \n  \nOne miracle out of many: \na small\, airy cloud \nyet it can block a large and heavy moon. \n  \nSeveral miracles in one: \nan alder tree reflected in the water\, \nand that it’s backwards left to right \nand that it grows there\, crown down \nand never reaches the bottom\, \neven though the water is shallow. \n  \nAn everyday miracle: \nwinds weak to moderate \nturning gusty in storms. \n  \nFirst among equal miracles: \ncows are cows. \n  \nSecond to none: \njust this orchard \nfrom just that seed. \n  \nA miracle without a cape and top hat: \nscattering white doves. \n  \nA miracle\, for what else could you call it: \ntoday the sun rose at three-fourteen \nand will set at eight-o-one. \n  \nA miracle\, less surprising than it should be: \neven though the hand has fewer than six fingers\, \nit still has more than four. \n  \nA miracle\, just take a look around: \nthe world is everywhere. \n  \nAn additional miracle\, as everything is additional: \nthe unthinkable \nis thinkable. \n  \n  \n–Wisława Szymborska  (1923-2012) \n* \n  \nThe Award \n  \nThough not \nA contest \nLife \nIs \nThe award \n& we \nHave \nWon. \n* \n  \nDespite the Hunger \n  \nDespite \nthe hunger \nwe cannot \npossess \nmore \nthan \nthis: \nPeace \nin a garden \nof \nour own. \n  \n\n–Alice Walker  (1944- ) \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-5-19-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220515
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220615
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220516T234659Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T155235Z
UID:2792-1652572800-1655251199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  5/15/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n   \nMay 15\, 2022 \n  \nA child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; \nHow could I answer the child?  I do not know what it is any more than he…. \n  \nThe smallest sprout shows there is really no death…. \n  \nAll truths wait in all things…. \n  \nI believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars… \nAnd a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. \n  \n—from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman \n* \n  \nAlbrecht Dürer’s painting reminds me of Walt Whitman’s poem. Both were born in May—Dürer on May 21st\, 1471\, Walt on May 31st\, 1819. At the end of May\, I like to get together with friends and read Song of Myself. \n  \nMeditation and mindfulness are important to me on my life journey. They help me to see and appreciate the miraculous nature of our human life on Earth. Walt’s poem has also been a great help to me. I’ve carried it with me since I was 18. It reminds me that my self is as big as the world\, without beginning or end. It is the wisest and most exuberant utterance to come out of America. Maybe the world. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nTimely Thoughts \n  \nPeople talk of time\, \nSpeak of time with wonder— \nBut what is time\, \nWhy all the thunder? \n  \nWhere’s the lightning \nThe brilliant flash of proof? \nTangible time\, \nIntangible truth! \n  \nThis talk creates storms\, \nAnd brings nightmares to life; \nNightmares I say\, \nAnd terrible strife. \n  \nWe do not need time\, \nIt is time that needs us. \nWait\, what is time— \nAnd why all the fuss? \n  \n—Joshua Barnes © 2022 \n* \n  \nJude and Michel both wrote in response to Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditation “Long Live Impermanence.” (JS) \n  \n#273 Long Live Impermanence! \n  \n“If you suffer\, it’s not because things are impermanent. It’s because you believe things are permanent. When a flower dies\, you don’t suffer much\, because you understand that flowers are impermanent. But you cannot accept the impermanence of your beloved one\, and you suffer deeply when she passes away. If you look deeply into impermanence\, you will do your best to make her happy right now. Aware of impermanence\, you become positive\, loving\, and wise. \n  \nImpermanence is good news. Without impermanence\, nothing would be possible. With impermanence\, every door is open for change. Instead of complaining\, we should say\, ‘Long live impermanence!’ Impermanence is an instrument for our liberation.”  \n  \n—from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nMy dad had a conflicted relationship with impermanence/permanence. Here are two stories that show that conflict: \n  \nHe was a doctor and had witnessed many deaths in his medical career. His many patients loved him\, and he always showed care and great concern for them. When it came to his own life and death\, he was very clear—adamant\, even: “If found unconscious\, do not resuscitate!” To people visiting him in his late 80s\, he had a small plate with slips of paper with the note printed on it. He would offer the plate to friends as if offering a plate of Oreos. “Here\, take one\,” he’d say\, as they walked in the door.  \n  \nHe wrote his own obituary\, professing no big deal that he’d died. Closing statement: “He’s dead. There’s no more Ed!”  You get the picture. \n  \nWe three daughters knew his wishes\, so when his health was failing and he’d experienced a few hospital stays\, we were in accord as to what to do. On his return from one hospital bout\, in his very weakened condition\, my sisters assigned me to talk to him about his choices. I knelt beside him\, tears streaming down my cheeks\, held his hand and explained\, “Dad\, we know your wishes\, and we’ll honor that. You can choose to refuse to eat\, if you believe it’s time. We can’t withhold food from you\, but you can choose not to eat. Or you can choose not to drink water\, but we’ve been told that that is a very painful way to do this. So you can do this\, refuse to eat\, if you want to—we won’t force you\, you know that.” He looked at me a little sweetly puzzled and bewildered\, and said\, “But I like to eat.”  At which we all burst out laughing\, and I said\, “Well\, then let’s make you a bacon sandwich!” \n  \nThe second story is more in keeping with his credo of impermanence. \n  \nA couple years after our mom died\, Dad reignited a long-lost love story with a high school sweetie\, Ginnie. Ginnie’s husband had died also\, and she and Dad started exchanging flurries of letters between Vancouver\, Wa. and Loudonville\, Ohio. He told us he wanted Ginnie to come to Washington so they could get married. All he could talk about was Ginnie and her sweet brown eyes and soft brown hair. (We reminded him that she might look a little different at 90 yrs old than at 17.)  To test the waters\, we all made a trip to Ohio and reunited the two of them for a sweet\, five day visit. We returned to the Pacific Northwest and they kept up the flurry of lovey letter writing.  \n  \nWe noticed at some point that Ginnie hadn’t been writing anymore. No letters for several months\, so I called her caregiver in Loudonville\, and she told me\, chagrined that she’d forgotten to let us know\, that Ginnie had died! Oh no! How are we going to break the news to Dad?!?! So again\, I knelt down beside his reading chair and said\, “Dad\, I have some very sad news to tell you. I’m so sorry…but we just learned that Ginnie—your Ginnie has died.” Dad let the news sink in\, then cocked his head and said\, “Well… she was old.” \n  \nImpermanence acknowledged. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nApril 26\, 2022 \n  \nWisdom rests here. How we face\, accept and adapt to impermanence will play out in our suffering. Allow me to explain. (Read Thây’s writing first!) When I set up an ideal (not reality\, but an interpretation of how I expect reality to be) and reality doesn’t fulfill my “ideal\,” then I suffer—get upset or anxious\, etc. When I can just exist in this moment as it is with no expectations\, then I can be present\, loving\, compassionate and open to all the opportunities the now presents. I have freedom to flow with the reality as it is\, instead of fighting with it for what I want it to be\, but can’t have. Doing this I become a petulant selfish child demanding my way\, attempting to force reality to fit in my box. \n  \nSadly\, it never works like this. We’ve all tried. I have never gotten this to resolve positively; only as more suffering in now\, and later on too! Impermanence is the hero of my story of suffering. All I need to do for the thing I dislike\, or wish were different\, is wait. I don’t have to attach\, judge\, work to change anything; all I need is to accept what is. Shortly all will shift\, and over time things will change. It may not always be my idea of better\, but it will be different. If I accept\, I avoid suffering. (Acceptance does not include grasping or holding on tightly—hold with open hands.) If I attempt to control\, grasp\, hold\, define\, judge\, change—then I get suffering. Long live impermanence! \n  \nHere’s another passage from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh\, and Michel’s meditation on it. (JS) \n  \n#267  How Strange \n  \n“At the moment of his awakening at the foot of the Bodhi tree\, the Buddha declared\, ‘How strange! All beings possess the capacity to be awakened\, to understand\, to love\, to be free\, yet they allow themselves to be carried away on the ocean of suffering.’ He saw that\, day and night\, we’re seeking what is already there within us.” \n  \nApril 14\, 2022 \n  \nHow strange\, indeed! That we should spend (waste even) an entire lifetime in search of that which is already within us. We have only to awaken to what already is. Somehow that is the challenge/trial of our individual quests; to come to an end of self and a realization that what we seek is and has always been within us all along. Instead\, many run around aimlessly for years and decades and lifetimes (multiples for some)\, looking to find our relief in something/someone external. Some seek money\, fame\, beauty\, youth\, knowledge\, possessions\, status\, mates (trophies?)\, glory\, progeny\, legacy\, food\, alcohol\, drugs\, sex\, anything to excess. \n  \nCan I (you-we) stop this endless running for just a moment\, please? Look at the man/woman in the mirror. Is anything external satisfying the “itch” for which we quest to resolve? No?! Face the man/woman in the mirror; get to know him/her; learn to love\, accept\, and express compassion for him/her. And if I’m wrong (I doubt it on this one occasion) what has been lost? Nothing! You’ve only spent some time learning to come home to your true home—your true self. And if I’m right (since I’m only restating wisdom of wiser folks) you’ve started to heal and come home. Welcome home! \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n     Desert Song School \n  \nIn this tattered paradise we left them—these \nacres of muddy reed where the maze of ditch \nand dike lets every wing and cry be sovereign— \nwhen dawn starts the chant by sweet cacophony \nof bittern\, heron\, crane and teal through mist \nin harmony oblique\, a mozart fledgling nested \nin thistledown must mutter her first yearning \nproclamation\, her aria profundo\, shrill or secret \nto split silence be she egret\, avocet\, stilt or tern\, \nibis\, shoveler\, shearling\, pelican or snipe \nto dwell inside a symphony\, to try her tune \nbefore she learns to fly or feed or seek a mate\, \nher one and only way with song\, brief life cry \nwhere waters glitter for the rising sun. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nSmall Kindnesses \n  \nLast week I thought about my mother on Mother’s Day and on her birthday\, Friday\, May 13. Sometimes these anniversaries fall on the same day. I have always liked the pause of remembering my mother and being mindful of how much of her very cells I carry with me. She died from kidney failure when I was in my early 20’s\, so this year I realized I have had 50 years of looking back on my mother’s kindness and my short time with her. I hope you all enjoyed thinking of your mom and loving-kindness.  \n  \nMother’s Day began as a holiday to mark and value peace and kindness toward all persons. Julia Ward Howe made a plea for no more sending our sons to wars. Mother’s Day had a lot of that meaning for us this year.    \n  \nKindness is something we all value. But sometimes we take it for granted. Especially small kindnesses. A couple of weeks ago\, I was taking care of my grandsons. Sylvan\, who is nine years old\, is homeschooling. He had a zoom class on African history and culture that he attended that day. There was a story about the most wealthy King in Africa\, pre-colonization. The King was especially known and loved for his generosity and kindness. The class teacher asked the kids if they could tell about someone who had been generous and kind to them recently. Or could they tell about something they had done for someone else out of kindness? The children\, who had had all kinds of things to say earlier in class\, made no comments. None of the kids had a response! The teacher even told of some small kindness done for her to prompt them\, but nooo. I talked with Sylvan afterward and I realized as a youngster he takes things for granted that adults do for him\, when he’s hungry he gets fed or helps fix the food\, or if he needs a ride his parents take him. And when he is nice to someone there’s always a good reason for working things out. It made me realize that kindness is a concept. Children are naturally living in the moment. And it’s our consciousness that helps us be kind in our actions and aware of kindness done toward us. This consciousness helps open our hearts with mindfulness. \n  \nMy friend Jennifer\, referring to the bumper sticker “Practice random acts of kindness\,” said that it’s a gift when we intentionally do something for a person to make life easier.  \n  \nHere is a poem to prompt us to be aware of kindness and how it makes us feel:    \n  \nSmall Kindnesses \n  \nI’ve been thinking about the way\, when you walk\ndown a crowded aisle\, people pull in their legs\nto let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”\nwhen someone sneezes\, a leftover\nfrom the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die\,” we are saying.\nAnd sometimes\, when you spill lemons\nfrom your grocery bag\, someone else will help you\npick them up. Mostly\, we don’t want to harm each other.\nWe want to be handed our cup of coffee hot\,\nand to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile\nat them and for them to smile back. For the waitress\nto call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder\,\nand for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.\nWe have so little of each other\, now. So far\nfrom tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.\nWhat if they are the true dwelling of the holy\, these\nfleeting temples we make together when we say\, “Here\,\nhave my seat\,” “Go ahead—you first\,” “I like your hat.”  \n  \n—Danusha Lameris\, from Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection \n  \nHealing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection is an anthology that includes poems by Ross Gay\, Marie Howe\, Naomi Shihab Nye and many others. The poems urge us in these polarized times to “move past the negativity that often fills the airwaves\, and to embrace the ordinary moments of kindness and connection that fill our days.”     \n  \nWishing you and the world\, Peace and Kindness     \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-5-15-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220508T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220508T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220506T222600Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220506T224511Z
UID:2782-1652022000-1652029200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  5/8/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! This Sunday\, May 8th\, at 3 pm (PDT)\, our theme is What Shaped Your Worldview (Including Books)?  \n  \nHow do you experience and understand the world? Your world? What’s important to you?What do you love? What’s going on here? What made you you? Which books changed the way you see? \n  \nHere’s the link for the Zoom gathering: \n  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-5-8-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220505
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220519
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220506T221452Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220506T222241Z
UID:2775-1651708800-1652918399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  5/5/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nMay 5\, 2022 \n  \nEvery two weeks\, I put together another issue of “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding.” Sometimes\, a day or two in advance\, I have no idea what will be in it. Sometimes I find out by making a beginning.  \n  \nJoshua Barnes\, Alex Tretbar and Nick Eldredge recently sent me some things they have written\, so we’ll start there. Going forward\, I’d like to invite all our friends\, inside prison and out\, to send poems and short prose and essays you’ve written\, or favorite writings by others (famous or obscure) which you feel might uplift\, inspire or give delight. \n  \nOkay\, here we go!: \n  \nA Question \n  \nA question to the listener of songs; \n“Have you ever heard a blackbird sing?” \nFor surely there’s the finest of bards \nOf those on feet & those on wing. \n  \nFlitting to and fro they speak \nIn musical tongues that seldom are heard\, \nTeaching to any with the patience to listen \nTo creatures as simple as warbling birds. \n  \nSurely you know of the birds I speak of\, \nFor their songs are known far & wide \n& are talked about in the oldest of circles \nCrossing over each boundary’s side. \n  \nOh\, how I’ve learned from their forgotten ways\, \nBeing under their wings & watchful eyes. \nI wish my edification wasn’t so lonely\, \nThat others were keen to learn from the wise. \n  \nI’d like to ask from where your tutelage came\, \n(not meaning to insult with my circling jests)\, \nAnd where you learned of the songs you sing\, \nIf not from out of a blackbird’s chest. \n  \nMaybe listeners\, you can teach me a song \nOf forgotten peals & tinkling bells\, \nFor I’ve come to feel we both have drunk \nFrom a similar source but different wells. \n  \n—© Joshua Barnes\, 2022 \n  \nSome unfinished thoughts I had: \n  \nFlickering \n  \nThe flickering flame brings many questions to mind. Do we live in a world of darkness and shadows\, watching the light flicker in from the outside? Or do we live in a world of light\, where the darkness is a thing that intrudes. \n  \nMaybe there’s a happy medium\, or maybe the answer is neither & is something altogether different… Maybe there is no answer. \n  \nEach thought in my head flickers like a flame\, dancing around\, eluding me at every juncture. It’s ironic\, the flames hide in the shadows of my mind\, & although they shine I am left in darkness. \n  \nEven so\, it could be I’m not meant to spy the campfires of life\, but from a distance. Maybe the only way of knowing is knowing… Maybe we don’t need to know at all. \n  \nI once asked someone these questions & found only another shadow & a mere flickering from them. \n  \nThe questions are only stepping stones across the river\, if seen as such… They can be either the path\, or the obstruction disrupting the stream. They can be anything. To me\, the darkness serves to cloak & veil & make you grow. \n  \n& though it leaves you stumbling after the light in unhappy circles\, wondering if everything is an illusion\, it still leaves you wondering. \n  \nThe wonder of wonders leaves me wondering still. \n  \n—Joshua Barnes \n* \n  \nAkrasia (the Greek word for “incontinence”) is the condition in which while knowing what it would be best to do\, one does something else. How can such a state exist? It’s tempting to say that foolishness is inherently human\, but sometimes even simpler-minded animals choose wrongly when they know better. \n  \nThe salient question is why\, and the answer is that conscious\, knowing missteps are unavoidable—and often beautiful. I could plant a flower in the dark soil of my garden\, or I could do so in the barren dust of a desert\, where its blue petals will die sooner but glow brighter. \n  \nA blue little flower is nodding\, standing under \nmy understanding of the wind. Like a dream\, \ndeath always means more than it means. Fact: \nif you scream loud enough into my hearing \naid\, the drum will begin to itch. How to scratch \nwhat’s out of reach\, like a bone\, soul or sky? \nI\, too\, have seen peace in the eyes \nof a canary staring into the sun \nforever\, the film of its blind pupils \ndeveloping like a backwards Polaroid. \nI think of all the disincarnations \nwar begets\, how I have looked into the eddies \nat the base of folly’s wall & found there \nthe white surf of desperation\, mine. \nPrima ballerina\, seamstress\, comedienne— \nI have died for you as many times \nas there are orange street lights in this world\, \nand no matter how few suffixes survive \nthe coming punctuations\, the pall… \nI’ll look down the terrible length of the wall \nand choose neither left nor right. \nKnee-high is sky-high. Listen: \nthe blue little flower is screaming \nso loudly my dream begins to itch\, \nand death alone survives the fall \nthrough feathers. \n  \n(for Manon) \n  \n—Alex Tretbar\, from Free Spirit\, No. 14\, April 2022 \n* \n  \nthe rumor \n  \nthere’s a curious rumor out there  \nabout an ocean of living energy \nan ocean that is endlessly expanding  \nexploring every possibility  \nevolving into a fuller \nmore complex  \nmore realized expression  \nof its infinitely curious universal self  \n  \nthe rumor suggests this ocean  \nis somehow the source and the substance \nof every single thing and all of us  \n  \nthat every aspect of our universe  \nwhat we know or believe we know  \nor cannot yet imagine  \neven the unfolding mystery \nof who we are and may become \nrises from this very ocean  \nlike fog  \nlike mist  \nlike the wind-blown spray  \nthat crowns a breaking wave \n  \nand\, further\, that every single thing and all of us \nwill\, in our time\, return to this ocean  \nlike rain  \nlike rivers  \nlike gently melting snow \n  \nand finally  \nthat the currents and tides of this ocean  \nare a weave of perpetual change and permanent balance  \ncurrents and tides that carry us all   \ndeeper and deeper  \ninto the mystery this ocean remains  \nthe possibilities this ocean contains \ninto the expanding consciousness and simple serenity  \nthis ocean will always maintain  \n  \nso far this evolving universal ocean  \nthat is every thing and all of us \nis only a rumor \nbut on a casual walk   \nif you happen to catch a flower  \nfrom just the right angle  \nglowing in the electric embrace of the sun  \nin that blink of a moment  \nthe rumor can feel  \ncompletely real       \n  \n—Nick Eldredge \n\n                   \n\n  \nHow to Be an Old Man of Some Scant Worth \n  \nMistrust your certainties. Interrogate the obvious. \nWhen you think you have the answer\, be still. \nCount your regrets\, and let them teach you. \nListen to women\, especially what they don’t say. \nSacrifice achievement to be fresh in thought. \nBe the curious fool\, the one who bows low \nwhile attending to minor treasures in time. \nRead the sky\, and study neglected things \nfor clues to what you have missed by being \nbusy with the lordly agenda of a man. \nShow children it’s possible: old and happy. \nCherish the fragile\, the brief\, the beautiful. \nGive all you have to be ready to be gone. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nearth the door Orpheus goes through \n  \ninto the twining tree roots sent down for water \njoined by hypha searching moisture and minerals \nin the underground night with myzhorrium that link \ntree and nematode anchoring the cacophony of underworld life \nfeeding giant trunks reaching upward to branches where \nin cresting light chlorophyll sparks its own green drive \n  \nGhost River \n  \nRed patterns run \nthrough sand and rock \nthin lines etch a once fluid life\,  \nopening as a flower\,  \ntendrils flow outward\, \nbranching\, reaching \nunder cacti  \nthese tracings \nso fragile \nbecome smaller\,  \ndissipate into desert dust. \n  \nSand trickles  \nas stream\, \nwaves move in rock\,  \nthe sound \nof water fills our mind\, \ncalls out\,  \nfirst as living river \nnow as image\, \nits meanderings  \nevoking \na vanished delta. \n  \nA rose appears in the desert\, \npetals cover the ground. \n  \nMemory and being \nbraided into a shimmering presence\, \nremember the water\, \nthe water\, remember. \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nUkraine  \n     \nIt’s 2022\, and I’m frightened.  \nThe bottom has fallen out of our agreement with God. \nThere is no bottom. We’ve pulled the plug. \n  \nFrom deep within\, some remember the code. \nBefore thought\, before prayer. It comes with the first cry. \n  \n—Mark Alter \n* \n  \nmy sangha \nall people\, plants\, animals\, \nclouds\, stones\, rivers\, \nimaginings \n  \n  \namateur dilettante \n  \nan amateur is a lover \na dilettante takes delight in things \ni plead guilty \n  \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-5-5-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220424T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220424T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220417T175801Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220423T001001Z
UID:2722-1650812400-1650819600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  4/24/22
DESCRIPTION:Keith Scales \n  \n  \nSunday\, April 24th\, Bibliophiles Unanimous! will be a SPECIAL EVENT!  \n  \nWe will celebrate William Shakespeare’s Birthday with legendary actor\, director\, writer & scholar Keith Scales giving a reading: OF STRANGE SHADOWS: THE MYSTERIES OF SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS. The Zoom gathering starts at 3 pm (PDT). Here’s the link: \n\n \n\nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n\n\n\n\nDON’T MISS THIS!\n\n \npeace & love\n\nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-4-24-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220421
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220505
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220422T234527Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220730T011307Z
UID:2754-1650499200-1651708799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  4/21/22
DESCRIPTION:Aaron O’Hara as Bottom & James Stewart (Jasmine Marie Rose) as Titania \nDonkey head by Nancy Scharbach. \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 7\, 2022 \n  \nA MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM IN PRISON \n  \nThe Open Road also has some VERY EXCITING NEWS!!! “A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Prison\,” a film by Bushra Azzouz\, will have its World Premiere on Sunday\, August 7th\, at 6 p.m.\, at the Cinema 21 movie theater in Portland\, Oregon. Click on this link to watch the trailer and buy your tickets!: \n  \nhttps://www.cinema21.com/movie/a-midsummer-nights-dream-in-prison \n  \nApril is of course National Poetry Month (https://poets.org/national-poetry-month)\, and around the 23rd of the month the Open Road likes to celebrate WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S BIRTHDAY \n  \n  \n (https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-4-23-4-29/).  \n  \n(WARNING!: this BARD’S BIRTHDAY ISSUE of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding is chock full o’ links! Endless hours of fun for the whole family!) \n  \nOn April 24th\, for our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering\, legendary actor-director-writer-scholar KEITH SCALES gave a reading:  OF STRANGE SHADOWS: THE MYSTERIES OF SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS. A lively discussion ensued.  \n  \nIn July of 2006\, I started a weekly Dialogue Group at Two Rivers prison\, in Umatilla\, Oregon—“The Stories We Tell Ourselves: How Our Thinking Shapes Our Lives.” I would leave the prison feeling exhilarated\, with a sense that what we were doing together was profound\, even sacred. After two years\, one of the men who was serving a life sentence asked me if I would do a play with them. In 2008\, we did “Hamlet.” It was the first time that inmates in an Oregon prison had performed a play by Shakespeare. \n  \nTwo years later\, we did “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Nancy Scharbach borrowed costumes from Portland Opera\, and made the props\, including a magnificent ass head for Bottom. Our dear friend Bushra Azzouz had the idea of making a documentary film about the project. She was given permission to bring a film crew to the prison eight times. She filmed interviews with each of the actors\, group dialogues on subjects like “Love” and “Dreams\,” as well as rehearsals and public performances. \n  \nSadly\, Bushra passed away three years ago\, on June 13\, 2019. Before she died\, she assembled a team of people to make sure the film would get finished\, including Enie Vaisburd\, who is the Supervising Editor. The editing of the film is now finished. After getting sound and color correction\, it will be ready to be released. \n  \nMany people contributed financially and in other ways to the film. A special thank you goes to Ronni Lacroute\, who gave us a very generous donation\, which has allowed us to finish the film. And\, as always\, a big big thank you to Jerry\, Donna\, Marsha\, Chris and Jordon Smith\, without whom none of the prison dialogues or plays would have ever happened. \n  \nThe Portland Premiere of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Prison” will be a glorious event! Lovers of Bushra will be there in abundance—her husband Andy Larkin\, members of her extended family from all over the globe\, her close friends\, her film students\, members of the Portland film community\, people who came to see the play\, and of course actors who were in the play and who are in the film\, along with their loved ones. We will enjoy two great works of Art—one by William Shakespeare and one by Bushra Azzouz. Not to be missed! \n  \nFor Nancy and me\, doing the Shakespeare plays in prison has been one of the richest experiences in our lives. We did “Hamlet” in 2008\, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in 2010\, followed by “Twelfth Night\,” “Twelve Angry Men” (not by Shakespeare)\, “King Lear” and “A Winter’s Tale.” We did all this under the aegis of our nonprofit organization\, Open Hearts Open Minds (http://openheartsopenminds.net). \n  \nIn 2015\, I decided that I would just be going out to the Umatilla prison once a month\, instead of once a week. (It’s a six-hour drive\, round trip.) I thought that would be the end of the theater projects at Two Rivers prison. To my surprise\, my decision caused Open Hearts Open Minds to grow. Friends stepped forward to become prison volunteers and to keep the Dialogue Group going on a weekly basis. Deborah Buchanan\, Bill Faricy\, Jude Russell\, Dick Willis\, Kristen Sagan\, Nancy Scharbach\, Katie Radditz and Bushra Azzouz kept that program going. Carla Grant and Don Kern started a theater program at the women’s prison in Wilsonville\, Coffee Creek. We started an Arts Program and a Music Program at Columbia River Prison in Portland. In 2015\, I co-directed a production of “Hamlet” with Anna Crandall\, Patrick Walsh\, Victoria Spencer and Todd Oleson. Anna\, Patrick and Victoria went on to direct “Metamorphoses” by Mary Zimmerman and “The Tempest” by Shakespeare. Todd Oleson directed “A Christmas Carol.” Jake Merriman is now in charge of the Theatre Program at Two Rivers prison. He has\, with some collaborators\, directed “Macbeth” and “Julius Caesar.” \n  \nIn July of 2019\, I stepped down as Executive Director of Open Hearts Open Minds. Carla Grant took the helm. In September of 2019\, The Open Road (https://openroadpdx.com) adventure began. \n  \nYou might be surprised to learn that there is such a thing as a Shakespeare in Prisons Conference. The Bard himself might be astonished by this\, by the number of books that have been written about him and the frequency with which his plays are performed all over the world—400 years after his death. Plays are transitory things. Evidence suggests that he hoped for immortality as a poet\, but the idea of  being a famous playwright could have seemed as far-fetched as becoming a famous wheelwright or shipwright. \n  \nNikos Kazantakis\, author of Zorba the Greek\, travelled to England and wrote a book about his impressions. In the long chapter on Shakespeare\, he says: \n  \nAn infinite spirit\, from the depths of hell to the summit of Paradise. If the whole of humanity was to send a single representative to speak for its rights before God\, it would send him. He is also the only one who could represent our planet at some giant interplanetary conference. No one ever used human speech with such power and at the same time such sweetness as Shakespeare\, with such harshness and at the same time such melody and so magical an aura. \n  \n–from England: A travel journal by Nikos Kazantzakis\, p. 261 \n  \nWhen I directed my first play in prison\, I knew of one other person who had done that—Curt Tofteland. Curt was Artistic Director of Kentucky Shakespeare. I knew of him from the film “Shakespeare Behind Bars” (https://www.kanopy.com/en/multcolib/video/268952)\, a documentary film about a production of “The Tempest” that he directed at Luther Luckett prison in Kentucky. I had gone out to see his production of “Measure for Measure\,” and later Nancy and I had the good fortune to see the last performance of “Julius Caesar”—the last play he directed there. After the show\, in the prison\, there was a giant Love-In. I was an emotional wreck at the end of that. It was clear that all the actors loved him SO MUCH\, and that he loved them. \n  \nCurt lives in Michigan now\, and is as busy as ever with his nonprofit organization\, Shakespeare Behind Bars (https://shakespearebehindbars.org). Curt co-founded the Shakespeare in Prisons Conferences and the Shakespeare in Prisons Network in 20012\, along with Scott Jackson and Dr. Peter Holland of the University of Notre Dame (https://shakespeare.nd.edu/service/shakespeare-in-prisons/). Here’s a link to one of Curt’s powerful TEDx talks:  \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBMcB6kboLA&t=207s \n  \nBy doing programs in Oregon prisons\, I’ve met many wonderful people who live\, or used to live in prison\, and made many friends for life. Over these past fifteen years\, I’ve also met a lot of beautiful people who\, like Curt Tofteland\, have spent a lot of time doing programs with women and men in prison\, here and around the world—including everyone who has volunteered with Open Hearts Open Minds\, and Lavon Starr-Meyers\, who supervised our programs at Two Rivers prison. I’d like to introduce you to a few far flung members of my prison family: Zeina Daccache\, Ashley Lucas\, Lesley Currier\, Alokananda Roy and Stratis Panourios. (There are more\, but this is probably enough for now.) \n  \nIn 2012\, when we were rehearsing “Twelve Angry Men” at Two Rivers prison\, Bushra said she had heard about a film called “12 Angry Lebanese.” I ordered a DVD of the film from CATHARSIS—Lebanese Center for Drama Therapy (http://www.catharsislcdt.org & https://www.facebook.com/search/top) and watched it. Zeina Daccache had directed a production of “12 Angry Men” at Roumieh prison\, and made a fantastic documentary film about it. I invited her to come see our production in Oregon. She did. We became great friends. She’s made more films since then. To learn more about this amazing woman and the work she has done\, here is a link to a TED talk she gave: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tf5akVvHhx4 \n  \nI met Ashley Lucas at the first Shakespeare in Prisons Conference\, at the University of Notre Dame. She was Director of Prison Creative Arts Project (PCAP)\, affiliated with the University of Michigan—the largest Prison Arts organization on Planet Earth. When she was doing research for her book Prison Theatre and the Global Crisis of Incarceration\, she came to see our production of “The Winter’s Tale\,” and interviewed the actors on the day after the final performance. In the first chapter of her book\, she wrote at length about the love which was so much in evidence on the closing night of the play. In a previous issue of “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding” I wrote about Ashley and her book \n  \n  \n (https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-9-3-20/). \n  \nI was on a panel with Lesley Currier at the first Shakespeare in Prisons Conference in 2013. She is Artistic Director of Marin Shakespeare Company. At San Quentin prison\, she and her company have produced many many Shakespeare plays\, and original “devised” theatre performances\, based on themes from the plays. Here’s a link to Kimani’s “Parallel Play Piece” from September 7\, 2012: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWgZNwLuks0 \n  \nThe Marin Shakespeare Company has an extensive archive of performances from San Quentin on their website (https://www.marinshakespeare.org). \n  \nAt the third Shakespeare in Prisons Conference in San Diego in 2018\, I had the extreme good fortune to get a darshan from the Goddess Saraswati\, who has incarnated in the form of Alokananda Roy. She has produced dance-theatre productions in prisons in India. The performers were able to get out of prison to take their shows on tour to theaters in cities around India. Here’s a link to the moving story of her “Love Therapy”: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OspzzO7gAiw&t=1186s \n  \nHad enough links yet? Wait! There’s one more! Early last year the fourth Shakespeare in Prisons Conference hosted Stratis Panourios\, from Athens. Here’s a link to a TED talk by him\, which eloquently tells the story of his experience directing Shakespeare’s “Tempest” in a prison in Greece: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zMZaUUW_Xs&t=91s \n  \nI want to close this BARD’S BIRTHDAY ISSUE of “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding” with a few notes about books and films about Shakespeare and his plays. \n  \nMy all-time favorite book about Shakespeare is Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being by Ted Hughes. It’s utterly unlike all the thousands of other books about William Shakespeare. He explores the mythic dimension of Shakespeare’s life and art. It’s the best account I know of Shakespeare’s inner life. I’ve read and re-read it many times. When I get to the end\, I start at the beginning again. \n  \nSome other favorites include Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human and Hamlet: Poem Unlimited by Harold Bloom. A great book about “Macbeth” is Garry Wills’ Witches and Jesuits. James Shapiro’s books are excellent: A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare: 1599\, The Year of Lear: Shakespeare in 1606\, and Shakespeare in a Divided America. For theater makers\, Michael Pennington’s “User’s Guides” to “Hamlet\,” “Twelfth Night” and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” are indispensable. His book Sweet William: Twenty Thousand Hours with Shakespeare is a treasure trove for actors and directors. \n  \nAs for films\, Akira Kurosawa’s 1985 film “Ran\,” based on “King Lear\,” is the all-time masterpiece. He might have started a trend toward much better film adaptations of Shakespeare’s plays. Kenneth Branagh’s 1993 “Much Ado About Nothing” is a sparkling example. Baz Luhrmann’s imaginative “Romeo + Juliet\,” with Leonardo DiCaprio and Clare Danes in the title roles\, is highly entertaining. Those who prefer a more traditional staging may prefer Franco Zeffirelli’s gorgeous 1968 film\, with Olivia Hussey as Juliet. I had the good fortune to see Adrian Lester play the part of Hamlet in Peter Brook’s production. Best Hamlet ever (according to me)! The play was filmed\, and is available on DVD\, but the live performance is so vivid in my imagination\, that I find the film performance disappointing by comparison. Still\, it might be the most brilliant Hamlet performance on film. Mark Rylance played the Duke in the Shakespeare’s Globe production of “Measure for Measure.” If you are intrepid\, you can find it on DVD. \n  \nWell\, that’s about it for now.  \n  \nHappy Birthday\, Will!  \n  \nGetting to see your plays and read your plays and direct them and play some of the astonishing characters you created\, including Hamlet\, Lear\, Edgar\, Feste\, Ophelia\, Cordelia\, and two of the three Weird Sisters\, has greatly enriched my life. In closing\, let’s imagine that we are the Singer and our Beloved Bard is the object of our song: \n  \n  \nWhen\, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes\, \nI all alone beweep my outcast state\, \nAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries\, \nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate\, \nWishing me like to one more rich in hope\, \nFeatured like him\, like him with friends possessed\, \nDesiring this man’s art and that man’s scope\, \nWith what I most enjoy contented least; \nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising\, \nHaply I think on thee\, and then my state\, \n(Like to the lark at break of day arising) \nFrom sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate; \n       For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings \n       That then I scorn to change my state with kings. \n  \n–William Shakespeare\, Sonnet 29 \n  \n  \n  \npeace\, love & poetry \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-21-22/
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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  4/15/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n April 15\, 2022 \n  \nAs the crickets’ soft autumn hum \n        is to us \n     so are we to the trees \n        as are they \n  to the rocks and the hills \n  \n—Gary Snyder \n* \n  \nMeditation for Ukraine \n  \nWhen the war in Ukraine began\, we couldn’t believe it. Then we had to\, as an avalanche of headlines\, numbers\, and film clips came at us from all directions. The old ritual of violence had begun again so soon\, so fierce\, so inexplicable. All I could do\, every morning\, was to walk before dawn\, then sit alone\, ponder\, and write. The poems in this book arose in the first 30 days for the fighting\, as I tried to look at the obscene events in Russia and Ukraine from oblique angles—big picture\, close encounter\, root cause\, and imagined outcome.  \n  \nWe have been helped in this time by a Zoom group sponsored by Shambhala Online\, which each day of the war has convened a hundred or so from around the world for the practice of tonglen meditation. Our custom has included Buddhists in the U.S.\, Canada\, Britain\, Holland\, Poland\, India\, Japan\, Ukraine\, and beyond. We sit in silence for many long breaths\, working to inhale suffering and grief\, then exhale\, as we can\, compassion from the heart open wide. Following this practice\, we ask Iryna and Sasha in Kyiv\, Oleg in Odessa\, Andriy in Lviv\, and others inside the war how it is for them—days\, nights\, times of spring sun\, and of darkness. “Now I have no fear\, or no hope. I have only this time\, today.” “I don’t watch the news\, instead I go to the subway and see how little families each make a nest of their belongings.” “Humility comes to the front of your life. You see how artificial was life before.”  \n  \n—from the preface to Sunflower Seeds: Poems for Ukraine (www.lulu.com) \n  \nI have explored the “tonglen” practice of meditation in a poem: \n  \n      Trees Send Oxygen to Weary Citizens \n  \nSome Buddhists sit in silence to inhale sorrow\, \ngrief\, fear\, and all the cloudy darkness of strife \ninto the infinite open heart\, and there transform it \nto an exhalation of light\, of compassion\, a new \nchance for all sentient beings to be at peace. In \npractice\, in fact\, how can this miracle be understood? \nThe last breath of every soldier flies on the wind  \nover the rooftops of generals and their commanders \nfaster\, more direct than roads or other human tricks \nto far Siberia where in ravines and all along ridges \nhorizon by horizon\, valley by valley\, peak by peak \nthe waiting arms of pine\, spruce\, larch\, and fir sip deep  \ninto their green needle tangle a feast of human exhalation  \nto seethe\, turn\, and return pure oxygen for wind to freight  \naround the world\, passing all others\, to the battlefield \nwhere a girl wears her father’s coat\, a boy says his  \nmother’s name with breath made sacred by this war. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nIf you would like to participate in daily meditations with people in Ukraine at 8 a.m. (PDT)\, here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us06web.zoom.us/j/83817903514 \n  \n* \n  \nJude responds to meditation #11 from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh: \n  \n#11  Aimlessness  \n  \nBuddhist teaching of aimlessness instructs us not to set an object or goal in front of us and run after it\, believing that happiness is impossible unless and until we get it. We must do as the flower does: we must stop reaching for something.  The flower knows it contains everything within it and doesn’t try to become something else.  \n  \nThis is another instance of word nuances: ‘goal’ and ‘objective’ have negative connotations in this case. They imply reaching for something\, usually a material something\, not being satisfied with life as is. \n  \nBut what about the desire\, the deep and intense desire\, and need\, to know and understand others not like you? The deeply felt purpose imbedded in that desire. The belief that knowing and understanding—connection— erases fear and mistrust and must lead to love. What if you call that a goal? Does that make it wrong? In my intense and life changing moment (still ongoing) of illumination in the mid 90s\, I knew I must seek understanding of those not like me: I found a deep and long friendship with Skosh who had AIDS; I sat with him when he died. I taught at Jefferson High School with its 80-90% Black student body (and took kids to prom and planted gardens with parents); went on five Habitat for Humanity builds to Mississippi\, South Carolina\, West Virginia\, Oklahoma\, etc; mentored rough and tough teenagers for\, now decades (and went to three Metallica concerts!). I befriended an Indian woman and her chaotic family (and sat with her daughter while she went through drug withdrawal) for sixteen years; worked in a family homeless shelter for three years; tutored and ‘adopted’ Hispanic adults (and made 200 tortillas with Maria)\, and up to current times\, volunteered in our precious OHOM prison program. Among other things. Everything I have done has been with a part of my world that I had little or no knowledge or understanding of.  \n  \nI hesitate to mention all of this for fear of sounding as if I’m tooting my own horn; it is not that. It is that I have felt propelled to do this. It is the deep need to know and understand others not like me. It all comes from that experience of ‘illumination’ (at 2:05 pm on March 25\, 1994) (more on that later). \n  \nAre these “goals?” Is this running after something and not being satisfied or happy until I’ve achieved it? I am happy—no\, I am filled with joy when I am living with this desire\, this ‘goal.’ It doesn’t feel wrong\, but oh so right. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nHere are some excerpts from Michel’s March meditation journal. The numbers refer to meditations from Thich Nhat Hanh’s book Your True Home: \n  \nMarch 3\, 2022  –  #250  Touched By Her Light \n  \nThis is a beautiful image. Just imagine it; living in a state of constant mindfulness\, leading others\, through contact\, to grow in cultivation of his/her own mindfulness…to become ripples in the pond of human consciousness\, spreading mindfulness to ever more people—like an anti-dis-ease\, or wellspring of happiness\, compassion and contentment with each one. Not only would that be something to behold\, but it would be amazing to become part of as well. \n  \nDo we not already have this opportunity\, and yet how many are touched by the “light” of my life? (Or\, yours?) What does it take for any one of us to step up and embrace mindfulness fully\, developing our light—let alone touching others’ lives with that light? I find it peculiar that all it takes for me (and you\, too) is to sit down regularly and practice mindfulness—to sit and breathe deliberately. That’s it! I only need to want to take the time to sit for a while. Doing this alone can be extra challenging\, lonely even. It’s funny how yesterday was about space\, leading me to embrace aloneness\, and here I am struggling to overcome loneliness in solitary practice—which is fundamentally still a solitary practice\, even in a hall with 1\,000 meditators at one sangha (fellowship/community). The union of conscious intent\, even practicing in “solitude” within a sangha of any size\, is the strength to overcome a sense of aloneness or loneliness. \n  \nI definitely am more consistent with a group—dedication to other until for self kicks in; and even more so with a personal plan as well. What do you do to get you to the cushion alone\, or in sangha regularly? \n  \nMarch 10\, 2022  –  #251  Many Wonders \n  \nThis is so apropos for my last few days. I find it curious; when I don’t take even the time to exercise and/or contemplate/write here\, it’s as if my experience of life becomes overwhelming to cope with. With the overwhelm comes a flood/flurry of other intensive emotional experiences\, which mount challenge after challenge as the day grinds on…to…a halt. I can go no further… \n  \nOr\, so I thought. Apparently\, enough training\, experience\, or divine intervention reminded me to “just breathe!” As I continued to breathe\, not giving in just yet\, still plodding forward\, one foot in front of the other\, perpetually pressing on and striving to keep going—slowly\, with help and kind words from others\, things started turning back around…unexpectedly. \n  \nThat is the point I believe Thây makes here: No matter how intense the experience of the self-induced suffering (it all is!) we can fall back on our past practice/training to carry us through. We can also reap benefit from just being open (through practice and training the mind) that we see and experience myriad wonders present in every moment—right there before our very eyes\, we only need to be aware enough to look (to go looking for these “wonders.”) \n  \nIt’s a matter of focal points—positive versus negative; wonders abounding everywhere\, or suffering\, pain and misery in each and every moment. I know where I wish I would focus and where I want to focus—I even do succeed occasionally as I desire\, just not as often as I wish I did. But that’s just it. This is all about our personal power of choice. Each of us makes this choice—often unconsciously or passively. \n  \nResults are obvious. You achieve what you focus on and strive for\, not what you aren’t paying attention to. So why don’t we choose better? Why don’t parents teach children that there is this option\, and that choice is our great inheritance of life power? Why don’t we own what they didn’t know then\, and teach/learn for ourselves (and others) now? All I have to do (and you can too!) is make my choice\, then act on it. That’s it. There’s no magic pill\, formula\, incantation\, or grotto. I need only grit to stick with the choice and do the “hard” work—(which isn’t actually hard at all\, it’s just more illusions I created for myself). What’s your choice? \n  \nMarch 24\, 2022  –  #256  Mind Creates Everything \n  \nExcitement rolled through the dorm building\, to a crescendo\, as each man anticipated the call to go down to get our feed. Dark clouds collecting at the edge of the valley\, rolling out over the plains\, building to a full frenzy thunder and lightning display. Just as quickly as the energy built\, each was in his seat\, eating a giant hero. Some chicken clubs—most\, actually—and a few for pastrami. The rains fell\, calming all sound with the coolness settling all around. One by one\, each finished his meal\, moving on to another area. Rains lifted\, skies cleared\, and all was quiet once again. Each man moaned in soft contentment of satisfaction\, having eaten his fill. \n  \nOur minds got bored—all people. The mind craves the new\, exciting\, colorful\, flashy\, brilliant distractions\, not silence within. Practicing mindfulness calms the mind’s desires for innovative and new stimuli. Through training\, a mind learns calmness and peace. \n  \nTV commercials\, live feeds\, Twitter\, Snapchat\, instant access to…every thing. This feeds the chaos drive of the mind. It’s little wonder most people are starving psychically for stillness\, calm and quiet. Few know this secret: It all starts with the mind—both the peace and the noise. \n  \nThrough the mind’s power we can create stories about many things; about peace and harmony\, beauty or chaos and disturbances\, war and violence\, etc. We have power\, which many of us don’t know to use\, but it’s there. All we need to do is practice mindfulness. With time\, practicing leads to consistent behavior\, leading to consistent peace within. What are you creating today? \n  \nMichel Deforge \n* \n  \nAlex Tretbar wrote to me that he has begun meditating every morning. I like to encourage people who want to meditate\, so I wrote some of my thoughts about meditation to him. I’m lazy. Instead of writing something new for this issue\, I’m just going to copy and paste what I wrote to Alex: \n  \nDear Alex \n  \nThanks for your letter and poem. I’m happy to learn that you are meditating every morning. I’ve had a serious meditation practice for more than 50 years\, so I’d like to share a few thoughts on the subject that I hope might be helpful to you. \n  \nThe word “meditation” can mean a lot of different things. For many years\, people considered it a kind of oddball thing that Buddhists were into. Many people tried meditating once or twice\, found it difficult or frustrating and concluded that it was not for them. In more recent years\, meditation & mindfulness—along with yoga—have become much more mainstream and normal. There are meditation apps that people have on their phones. Lots and lots of books about meditation and mindfulness. Health and mental health professionals now routinely recommend meditation and mindfulness for reducing stress and helping with various physical\, mental and emotional problems. \n  \nClassical Japanese Zen is rigorous and practiced in monasteries by monks. The poet Gary Snyder lived in Japan for eight years. He practiced Zen at a monastery and did zazen (sitting meditation) a minimum of five hours a day. \n  \nThere are kinder and gentler ways to practice meditation. Thich Nhat Hanh\, for example\, has a friendlier approach. He says you should enjoy it. If you’re not enjoying it\, you’re doing it wrong. \n  \nA brief word on sitting meditation. The two essential things are: eyes open and back straight. When your eyes close or your posture slumps you tend to daydream and then fall asleep. This is not a bad thing. Like taking a nap\, it’s restful. \n  \nMeditation is wakefulness. Attention. A mind quiet and alert. \n  \nRather than thinking of it as a difficult activity\, it might be good to think of meditation as “quiet time.” Peaceful time. A time set aside\, when you don’t have to accomplish anything. In our culture achievement is at a premium and people who don’t meditate tend to think of it as wasting time. Walt Whitman said: \n  \n“I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.” \n  \nThat’s the idea. \n  \nIf you spend some quiet time every morning\, over time your brain and mind and nervous system will gradually quiet down. \n  \nOne of the things that you learn from meditation is that instead of seeing and feeling and experiencing the world directly\, we learned early in life to see and experience and feel the world through a filter of thought and language. It’s like the difference between reading about Multnomah Falls\, or looking at a postcard of Multnomah Falls\, and actually standing if front of it and feeling the spray. \n  \nMeditation & mindfulness—that immediate kind of perception—can inspire poetic expression. All you have to do is find the right words to convey this experience to others. Simple. \n  \nIn one of our earlier exchanges\, you said that the problem for you with meditating\, is that you would be sitting there and you’d have an idea\, and you would want to write it down before it disappeared—and thus you would have to interrupt your meditation. This made me smile. The thing is: of course you can stop “meditating” in order to write. Writing is a form of meditation. Maybe silent sitting is one of the ways to invite poetic inspiration. Like opening a window\, so that you can feel the breeze. \n  \nThis problem\, like most problems\, is an imaginary one. First you imagined it\, then you imagined that it was a “real” problem. A toothache is a real problem. The Buddhist view is that 99% of suffering is self-inflicted. (“Imaginary” problems are not necessarily less painful than “real” ones.) Meditation is the art of not making yourself miserable. \n  \nOne of the paradoxes of meditation is that there is no goal. You sit in order to sit. Trying to get something—like peace\, or enlightenment\, or whatever—is just another way of making yourself miserable. It introduces time and a hypothetical future. There is no future\, only this present moment. \n  \nWell\, that’s enough for now about all that. \n  \npeace & love\, \nJohnny \n* \n  \n“Whenever you meet a situation that awakens your compassion… \nyou can stop for a moment\, breathe in any suffering you see\, \nand breathe out a sense of relief.” \n  \n—Pema Chödrön – Tonglen\, the Path of Transformation \n  \nI have been attending a daily Buddhist meditation practice since the early days of the War against Ukraine. Hosted by a group in New York and a group in Ukraine\, we gather on Zoom\, to give support to those suffering from violence due to the  ongoing invasion. \n  \nThe practice of Tonglen\, an extension of Loving-Kindness meditation\, is new to me. We begin with a check-in from sangha members in Ukraine. Iryna gives a hello and a weather report if the sun is shining\, then a brief update about the latest destruction and pauses in bombing. She speaks in Ukrainian and her friend translates for us. Then others are asked to speak – Oleg in Odessa\, Sasha and Ella in Kyiv\, Andrei in Lviv\, give personal stories from their homes. Seeing them in their zoom boxes\, with their windows shaded\, is a moving and transporting experience. These check-ins have been both heartrending and inspiring. Also comforting to know that they are alive\, these brave humble people who we have come to care for and LOVE over these weeks of war. Sometimes these new friends are away on meditation retreat\, or called to army duty\, or helping to take care of the wounded or homeless. In Kyiv they are involved with reconstructing a building for those who have lost their homes or have been sheltering in the subways.    \n  \nTaking a moment to sit with awareness of our feelings\, gathering stability and compassion\, we go directly into a practice of transforming suffering into compassion.  Tonglen – in English called Sending and Taking\, is new to me. The essence of it is to breathe in heaviness\, sorrow\, whatever images may be disturbing us\, then breathe out peace\, tenderness\, lightness\, liveliness.  Our minds may be overwhelmed by news\, or anxiety\, but our hearts have a bottomless well of love and compassion.  \n  \nThe Practice closes with a Dedication of Merit sent out to all beings that may be  suffering. Then we unmute for an open discussion\, questions\, poems\, or music. The chat box overflows with thanks and good wishes\, resources are sent for compassion in action.    \n  \nThirty minutes of raising compassion in a group dedicated to non-violence allows us to be supportive of one another in a volatile time. I’m sure the Ukrainians feel supportive\, but I am much more aware of the support for myself. It has been a gift; an antidote to the images in the morning newspaper\, to the enervating quality of nightly news commentary on the war that I have completely given up. \n  \nI had wondered if it would feel like a burden to begin my day up close in a war with strangers.  Rather it has been energizing\, spiritually creative\, and friendly. Here we are greeting one another each day\, getting to know our Eastern neighbors with names and faces and stories. I grieve for the children\, remembering our own war years and protests\, “Where have all the children gone\, long time ago?” I draw strength from my Polish ancestors\, when I hear stories of the millions taking refuge in Poland’s homes. In Western Ukraine too\, every person we heard from had people from Eastern towns staying in their apartment.  \n  \nHere at home\, I recognize a Ukrainian accent in line at Goodwill. Hannah starts weeping when I hug her\, so thankful to be listened to; her husband is Russian and supports Putin. Her parents meanwhile are terrified in Kyiv. Her own children are young.    \n  \nI feel grateful for our experience with you all through Open Hearts Open Minds dialogue and theater and Open Road discussions and readings and reflecting on Thich Nhat Hanh’s teachings. Being interactive\, communicating!\,  interbeing as Thay says\, practicing a common aspiration for peace and happiness\, has been helpful for not turning away from the suffering in war. \n  \nI muse over these words of Thich Nhat Hanh’s and think about how we might transform\, in prison or in a state of fear or in a difficult time of despair over how to help.   \n  \n The Buddha’s teaching is about viewing the world through the eyes of compassion. Thich Nhat Hanh taught deep listening and open communication with people on both sides of an issue. And taking action to relieve suffering\, everyone’s suffering. \n  \nHe said\, “When you have compassion in your heart\, you suffer much less\, and you are in a situation to be and to do something to help others to suffer less. This is true. So to practice in such a way that brings compassion into your heart is very important. A person without compassion cannot be a happy person. And compassion is something that is possible only when you have understanding. Understanding brings compassion. Understanding is compassion itself.”   \n  \nThank you\, dear friends\, for our ongoing communication\, and open hearts.  May we be at peace.     \n  \nLove\,     \nKatie
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-4-15-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220410T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220410T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220405T171234Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220408T190206Z
UID:2669-1649602800-1649610000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  4/10/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nThis Sunday\, April 10th\, at 3 p.m. (PDT) the theme for our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering is Gary Snyder & Friends. Here’s the link: \n\n \n\nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n\n\n\n\nMay all people be happy.\nMay we live in peace & love\n \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-4-10-22/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220407
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220421
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220407T224113Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T130942Z
UID:2685-1649289600-1650499199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  4/7/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 7\, 2022 \n  \nMy dad loved the poems of Carl Sandburg. Sometimes I take the heavy tome The Complete Poems of CARL SANDBURG off the shelf\, in search of treasures. When I  open the book\, I always feel that my dad is by my side. \n  \n  \nTENTATIVE (FIRST MODEL) \nDEFINITIONS OF POETRY \n  \n1 Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes\, syllables\, wave lengths. \n  \n2   Poetry is an art practised with the terribly plastic material of human language. \n  \n3 Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments\, when people say\, ‘Listen!’ and ‘Did you see it?’ ‘Did you hear it? What was it?’ \n  \n4 Poetry is the tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes. \n  \n5 Poetry is a sequence of dots and dashes\, spelling depths\, crypts\, crosslights\, and moon wisps. \n  \n6 Poetry is a puppet-show\, where riders of skyrockets and divers of sea fathoms gossip about the sixth sense and the fourth dimension. \n  \n7   Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water. \n  \n8 Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought\, two thoughts\, and a last interweaving thought there is not a number for. \n  \n9 Poetry is an echo asking a shadow dancer to be a partner. \n  \n10 Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land\, wanting to fly in the air. \n  \n11 Poetry is a series of explanations of life\, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations. \n  \n12 Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing\, with an illegible oath between. \n  \n13 Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen. \n  \n14 Poetry is a sky dark with wild-duck migration. \n  \n15 Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and unknowable. \n  \n16 Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines or a doorknob with thumb- prints of dust\, blood\, dreams. \n  \n17 Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun\, hate\, love\, death. \n  \n18 Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish. \n  \n19 Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles\, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring. \n  \n20 Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches. \n  \n21 Poetry is a sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog. \n  \n22 Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it. \n  \n23 Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower. \n  \n24 Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it. \n  \n25 Poetry is the opening and closing of a door\, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment. \n  \n26 Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night. \n  \n27 Poetry is a statement of a series of equations\, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors\, pools\, skies\, the only never- changing sign being the sign of infinity. \n  \n28 Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes. \n  \n29 Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights\, delivered between bridges and whistles\, so one says\, ‘Oh!’ and another\, ‘How?’ \n  \n30 Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables. \n  \n31 Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path\, matched up with foam-flanked horses\, bloody knuckles\, and bones\, on the hard ways to the stars. \n  \n32 Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts. \n  \n33 Poetry is an enumeration of birds\, bees\, babies\, butterflies\, bugs\, bambinos\, babayagas\, and bipeds\, beating their way up bewildering bastions. \n  \n34 Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. \n  \n35 Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly- wings and the scraps of torn love-letters. \n  \n36 Poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits. \n  \n37 Poetry is a mystic\, sensuous mathematics of fire\, smoke-stacks\, waffles\, pansies\, people\, and purple sunsets. \n  \n38 Poetry is the capture of a picture\, a song\, or a flair\, in a deliberate prism of words. \n  \n—Carl Sandburg\, from Good Morning\, America (The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg\, pp. 317-319) \n  \n  \nCarl Sandburg wrote Rootabaga Stories for his daughters. Here are a couple of them—(reading aloud recommended): \n  \n  \nThe Potato Face Blind Man  \nWho Lost the Diamond Rabbit on  \nHis Gold Accordion \n  \nThere was a Potato Face Blind Man used to play an accordion on the Main Street corner nearest the postoffice in the Village of Liver-and-Onions. \n  \nAny Ice Today came along and said\, “It looks like it used to be an 18 carat gold accordion with rich pawnshop diamonds in it; it looks like it used to be a grand accordion once and not so grand now.” \n  \n“Oh\, yes\, oh\, yes\, it was gold all over on the outside\,” said the Potato Face Blind Man\, “and there was a diamond rabbit next to the handles on each side\, two diamond rabbits.” \n  \n“How do you mean diamond rabbits?” Any Ice Today asked. \n  \n“Ears\, legs\, head\, feet\, ribs\, tail\, all fixed out in diamonds to make a nice rabbit with his diamond chin on his diamond toenails. When I play good pieces so people cry hearing my accordion music\, then I put my fingers over and feel of the rabbit’s diamond chin on his diamond toenails\, ‘Attaboy\, li’l bunny\, attaboy\, li’l bunny.’” \n  \n“Yes I hear you talking but it is like dream talking. I wonder why your accordion looks like somebody stole it and took it to a pawnshop and took it out and somebody stole it again and took it to a pawnshop and took it out and somebody stole it again. And they kept on stealing it and taking it out of the pawnshop and stealing it again till the gold wore off so it looks like a used-to-be-yesterday.” \n  \n“Oh\, yes\, o-h\, y-e-s\, you are right. It is not like the accordion it used to be. It knows more knowledge than it used to know just the same as this Potato Face Blind Man knows more knowledge than he used to know.” \n  \n“Tell me about it\,” said Any Ice Today. \n  \n“It is simple. If a blind man plays an accordion on the street to make people cry it makes them sad and when they are sad the gold goes away off the accordion. And if a blind man goes to sleep because his music is full of sleepy songs like the long wind in a sleepy valley\, then while the blind man is sleeping the diamonds in the diamond rabbit all go away. I play a sleepy song and go to sleep and I wake up and the diamond ear of the diamond rabbit is gone. I play another sleepy song and go to sleep and wake up and the diamond tail of the diamond rabbit is gone. After a while all the diamond rabbits are gone\, even the diamond chin sitting on the diamond toenails of the rabbits next to the handles of the accordion\, even those are gone.” \n  \n“Is there anything I can do?” asked Any Ice Today. \n  \n“I do it myself\,” said the Potato Face Blind Man. “If I am too sorry I just play the sleepy song of the long wind going up the sleepy valleys. And that carries me away where I have time and money to dream about the new wonderful accordions and postoffices where everybody that gets a letter and everybody that don’t get a letter stops and remembers the Potato Face Blind Man.” \n  \n  \n  \nHow the Potato Face Blind Man Enjoyed \nHimself on a Fine Spring Morning \n  \nOn a Friday morning when the flummywisters were yodeling yisters high in the elm trees\, the Potato Face Blind Man came down to his work sitting at the corner nearest the postoffice in the Village of Liver-and-Onions and playing his gold-that-used-to-be accordion for the pleasure of the ears of the people going into the postoffice to see if they got any letters for themselves or their families. \n  \n“It is a good day\, a lucky day\,” said the Potato Face Blind Man\, “because for a beginning I have heard high in the elm trees the flummywisters yodeling their yisters in the long branches of the lingering leaves. So—so—I am going to listen to myself playing on my accordion the same yisters\, the same yodels\, drawing them like long glad breathings out of my glad accordion\, long breathings of the branches of the lingering leaves.” \n  \nAnd he sat down in his chair. On the sleeve of his coat he tied a sign\, “I Am Blind Too.” On the top button of his coat he hung a little thimble. On the bottom button of his coat he hung a tin copper cup. On the middle button he hung a wooden mug. By the side of him on the left side on the sidewalk he put a galvanized iron washtub\, and on the right side an aluminum dishpan. \n  \n“It is a good day\, a lucky day\, and I am sure many people will stop and remember the Potato Face Blind Man\,” he sang to himself like a little song as he began running his fingers up and down the keys of the accordion like the yisters of the lingering leaves in the elm trees. \n  \nThen came Pick Ups. Always it happened Pick Ups asked questions and wished to know. And so this is how the questions and answers ran when the Potato Face filled the ears of Pick Ups with explanations. \n  \n“What is the piece you are playing on the keys of your accordion so fast sometimes\, so slow sometimes\, so sad some of the moments\, so glad some of the moments?” \n  \n“It is the song the mama flummywisters sing when they button loose the winter underwear of the baby flummywisters and sing: \n  \n‘Fly\, you little flummies\, \nSing\, you little wisters.’” \n  \n“And why do you have a little thimble on the top button of your coat?” \n  \n“That is for the dimes to be put in. Some people see it and say\, ‘Oh\, I must put in a whole thimbleful of dimes.’” \n  \n“And the tin copper cup?” \n  \n“That is for the base ball players to stand off ten feet and throw in nickels and pennies. The one who throws the most into the cup will be the most lucky.” \n  \n“And the wooden mug?” \n  \n“There is a hole in the bottom of it. The hole is as big as the bottom. The nickel goes in and comes out again. It is for the very poor people who wish to give me a nickel and yet get the nickel back.” \n  \n“The aluminum dishpan and the galvanized iron washtub—what are they doing by the side of you on both sides on the sidewalk?” \n  \n“Sometime maybe it will happen everybody who goes into the postoffice and comes out will stop and pour out all their money\, because they might get afraid their money is no good any more. If such a happening ever happens then it will be nice for the people to have some place to pour their money. Such is the explanation why you see the aluminum dishpan and galvanized iron tub.” \n  \n“Explain your sign—why is it\, ‘I Am Blind Too.’” \n  \n“Oh\, I am sorry to explain to you\, Pick Ups\, why this is so which. Some of the people who pass by here going into the postoffice and coming out\, they have eyes—but they see nothing with their eyes. They look where they are going and they get where they wish to get\, but they forget why they came and they do not know how to come away. They are my blind brothers. It is for them I have the sign that reads\, ‘I Am Blind Too.’” \n  \n“I have my ears full of explanations and I thank you\,” said Pick Ups. \n  \n“Good-by\,” said the Potato Face Blind Man as he began drawing long breathings like lingering leaves out of the accordion—along with the song the mama flummywisters sing when they button loose the winter underwear of the baby flummywisters. \n  \n  \nHere are a couple of my dad’s and my favorite Carl Sandburg poems: \n  \n  \nTHE RIGHT TO GRIEF \nTo Certain Poets About to Die \n  \nTAKE your fill of intimate remorse\, perfumed sorrow\, \nOver the dead child of a millionaire\, \nAnd the pity of Death refusing any check on the bank \nWhich the millionaire might order his secretary to scratch off \nAnd get cashed. \n  \n  Very well\, \nYou for your grief and I for mine. \nLet me have a sorrow my own if I want to. \n  \nI shall cry over the dead child of a stockyards hunky. \nHis job is sweeping blood off the floor. \nHe gets a dollar seventy cents a day when he works \nAnd it’s many tubs of blood he shoves out with a broom day by day. \n  \nNow his three year old daughter \nIs in a white coffin that cost him a week’s wages. \nEvery Saturday night he will pay the undertaker fifty cents till the debt is wiped out.  \n  \nThe hunky and his wife and the kids \nCry over the pinched face almost at peace in the white box. \n  \nThey remember it was scrawny and ran up high doctor bills. \nThey are glad it is gone for the rest of the family now will have more to eat and wear. \n  \nYet before the majesty of Death they cry around the coffin \nAnd wipe their eyes with red bandanas and sob when the priest says\, “God have mercy on us all.” \n  \nI have a right to feel my throat choke about this. \nYou take your grief and I mine—see? \nTo-morrow there is no funeral and the hunky goes back to his job sweeping blood off the floor at a dollar seventy cents a day. \nAll he does all day long is keep on shoving hog blood ahead of him with a broom. \n  \n  \n  \nHAPPINESS \n  \n  \nI ASKED the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell me what is happiness. \n  \nAnd I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men. \n  \nThey all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them. \n  \nAnd then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river \n  \nAnd I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion. \n  \n—Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) \n  \n  \nSince the Potato Face Blind Man plays the accordian\, and the Hungarians on the banks of the Desplaines River do likewise\, perhaps it would be good to include links to some rockin’ accordian music: \n  \nThose Darn Accordians play Jimi Hendrix: \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TzP-G9cVc7k \n  \nFlaco Jimenez\, Mingo Saldivar\, Pete Ybarra\, David Farias & David Lee Garza: \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zc1ZXm-rFLA \n  \nClifton Chenier & the Louisiana Ramblers play “Tighten Up”: \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zc1ZXm-rFLA
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-7-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220327T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220327T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220323T213254Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220323T220311Z
UID:2644-1648393200-1648400400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  3/27/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThis Sunday\, March 27th\, at 3 p.m. (PDT) the theme for our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering is: War & Peace & Spring!  Here’s the link:\n \n\nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n\n\n\n\nMay all people be happy.\nMay we live in peace & love\n \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-3-27-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220324
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220407
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220324T201557Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T130754Z
UID:2660-1648080000-1649289599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/24/22
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nWAR & PEACE & SPRING! \n  \n  \nArt Degraded\, Imagination Denied\, War Governed the Nations. \n—William Blake \n  \nMarch 24\, 2022 \n  \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding is two years old!  \n  \nHURRAH!!! \n  \nOur first issue celebrated Spring Equinox. Last year at this time we again enjoyed a bunch of Spring poems. \n  \n(https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-18-21/).  \n  \nSo\, we want to celebrate Spring…and there are other things on our minds as well. In our last issue people wrote about some of their favorite books. In it\, we invited friends inside prison to write about some of their favorite books. Meanwhile\, we are also thinking about war and peace and refugees. \n  \nIt’s Spring!!! \n  \nAnd every day the front page reminds us that bombs are falling on people in Ukraine. \n  \nKim had this to say: \n  \nThese days I seem to be obsessed with news from the war…and with the little plum tree outside the door of my writing shed. It was only a matter of time before the two started talking to each other in a poem. \n  \nPlum Trees in War \n  \nHow do they do it?—no resistance\, \nno complicity\, simply opening \na new species of light bud by bud \nin spite of all that is burned and broken. \n  \nSplayed against a shattered wall\, \nfrom a stump amid the rubble\, \nor even from a sheared branch \ndusted with ash\, petals unfurl. \n  \nAs enemies prepare to advance \nacross hills and fields\, spring \ngot there first\, took possession \nand raised its million flags of green. \n  \nFrom the sky\, breath by breath\, \nthe command comes down\, so every \nsoldier says\, “I can’t kill today— \nI am busy blossoming.” \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nThomas Bray wrote to us about his favorite books: \n  \nI thoroughly enjoyed your latest newsletter with all the book recommendations in it. I read it with great interest. My two favorite books are: \n  \nMan’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. This is about a Jewish psychiatrist imprisoned in Auschwitz and how he manages to find meaning in the most dire of situations. I read it at least once a year. I always think the same thing when I read it: that if he can survive that\, then surely I can survive this. \n  \nShantaram by Gregory David Roberts. This is another true story of an Australian prisoner who escapes\, and flees to India. He lives amongst the “untouchables” for years. It’s a truly riveting tale of survival. \n  \nRegards\, \nThomas Bray \n* \n  \nEach spring I read this favorite gem of a poem by Roethke. The last line captures my feeling about the return of spring perfectly. As the blossoms of my daphne waft the delicious fragrance in my backyard portending the return to life of all of the brown stalks and underground plants waiting to burst forth with fullness\, I am always filled with a sense of wonder and excitement. Here is the poem that I always read: \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  \n—Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nKatie talks about some of her favorite books\, and then\, on the subject of War & Peace & Spring\, she includes a poem by Czeslaw Milosz: \n  \nthat was impossible!  and my favorite author lately is Olga Tokarchuk.    \n  \n“My first thought about art\, as a child\, was that the artist brings something into the world that didn’t exist before\, and that he does it without destroying something else. A kind of refutation of the conservation of matter. That still seems to me its central magic\, its core of joy.” \n  \n—John Updike \n  \nFavorite books is a BiG topic for a houseful of too many loved books.  I do have a shelf  of some of my favorite books that I like to have more than one copy so that I can give one away to whoever is here at the time that fits.  \n  \nOn that shelf are these magical books–  \nThe Lives of Rocks short stories by Rick Bass\, living out in the Montana wilds. \nLove Invents Us by Amy Bloom \nThe Green Child by Herbert Read \nThe Great Fire by  Shirley Hazzard   WW II time: is the great fire war or love? \nWalden by Henry David Thoreau \nSwann’s Way by Marcel Proust    \nThe Plague by Albert Camus\, the book I have reread the most often. I highly recommend it in the Covid era. \n  \nOn the shelf too is Bill’s favorite book. For years he has given most\, a book called History: A Novel by Elsa Morante. \n  \nMaking this list I am aware of how I like to read what is most foreign to me. \n  \nLately I’m wild about the stories and writing of Roy Jacobsen\, his trilogy about a family who are the only ones living on their island off the coast of Norway.  The Unseen is the first in the series. \n  \nI read the heartbreaking Arizona/Mexico Border Trilogy by Cormac McCarthy: All the Pretty Horses\, The Crossing\, Cities of the Plain. “The man smiled at him a sly smile. As if they knew a secret between them\, these two. Something of age and youth and their claims and the justice of those claims. And of their claims upon them. The world past\, the world to come. Their common transciencies.”  (Then\, this line I have posted on my writing desk): “Above all a knowing deep in the bone that beauty and loss are one.”  From Cities of the Plain. \n  \nPenelope Fitzgerald   –   I first read The Bookshop\, very English\, but then read all her books and liked most The Gate of Angels\, about the chaos theory.   \n  \nWhen I love a book then I want to read everything else the author has written. \n  \nWhen I first read a book by a black American author I was also in a foreign land and wanted to read all Black Women Writers in America \n  \nI first read Sula\, by Toni Morrison\, then read her others\, through Beloved. This led me to Gloria Naylor\, Alice Walker\, then Zora Neal Hurston\, then plays of August Wilson and Lynn Nottage. \n  \nIn poetry too\, I love the foreign but also the most current in America. The poems of T’ao Ch’ien\, written in the 4th century China\, witten in a natural\, personal voice of his immediate experience and feelings makes it seem so contemporary. This led me somehow to Buddhist teachings and practice. And the first thing I read by Thich Nhat Hanh\, The Sun My Heart\, which led me the next week to my first Mindfulness retreat. \n  \nNow I’m reading the Polish poets Szymborska and Milosz to stay open hearted and in solidarity with those suffering in the war zone and on the move as refugees and those opening their homes in a safe place. Here is a War and Peace and Springtime poem from the 70’s by Milosz to ease the sorrow as we continue to pay attention and practice peace.  \n  \nOn Pilgrimage \n  \nMay the smell of thyme and lavender accompany us on our journey\nTo a province that does not know how lucky it is\nFor it was\, among all the hidden corners of the earth\,\nThe only one chosen and visited. \n  \nWe tended toward the Place but no signs led there.\nTill it revealed itself in a pastoral valley\nBetween mountains that look older than memory\,\nBy a narrow river humming at the grotto. \n  \nMay the taste of wine and roast meat stay with us\nAs it did when we used to feast in the clearings\,\nSearching\, not finding\, gathering rumors\,\nAlways comforted by the brightness of the day. \n  \nMay the gentle mountains and the bells of the flocks\nRemind us of everything we have lost\,\nFor we have seen on our way and fallen in love\nWith the world that will pass in a twinkling. \n  \n—Czeslaw Milosz \nEnglish version by Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Hass\nOriginal Language Polish \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nMilosz’s poem reminded me of this poem by William Stafford: \n  \nAt the Un-National Monument along the Canadian Border \n  \nThis is the field where the battle did not happen\, \nwhere the unknown soldier did not die. \nThis is the field where grass joined hands\,  \nwhere no monument stands\, \nand the only heroic thing is the sky. \n  \nBirds fly here without any sound\, \nunfolding their wings across the open. \nNo people killed—or were killed—on this ground \nhallowed by neglect and an air so tame \nthat people celebrate it by forgetting its name. \n  \n—William Stafford \n* \n  \nThe Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz \n  \n—Michael Deforge \n* \n  \nMy favorite series of books are the Harry Potter novels. They are so rich and full of flavor\, each one has its own beginning and end\, and kept me enchanted the entire read. A true masterpiece they are. \n  \nSpring happens to be my favorite season. It is to me and many the beginning of something. It has the feel of new endeavors and adventures to take on. A new start\, rather. So\, in a negative sense\, the beginning of war—since that is the topic. We humans always find a way to not get along. One day I believe we will have to\, or it will be the end of us. \n  \n—Brandon Gillespie \n* \nHere’s are a couple of my recent contributions to the Poetry of Peace: \n  \nlet’s pretend \n  \ninstead of pretending that we are afraid \nthat we must improve \nthat we have enemies \nthat the future will arrive someday \n  \nlet’s pretend everything is sacred \npretend this is Paradise \npretend every moment is precious \npretend we love everyone \n  \npretend our joy knows no bounds \npretend we are the whole wide world \n  \n  \nMy Foolproof Plan for World Peace \n  \nI hereby declare today to be International Love Day. \nAnd a General Armistice. \nAll hostilities must cease on International Love Day. \nHenceforward\, every day is International Love Day. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nPerrin Kerns sent me a Zoom link to a daily meditation\, at 8 a.m. (PDT)\, with people in Ukraine. In addition to sitting together\, there is an opportunity to hear from people in Ukraine and give them love and support. Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us06web.zoom.us/j/83817903514 \n  \n  \nToday’s Yogi Tea bag message: \n  \nLive righteously and love everyone\, you will build up around you an aura of light and love. \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-24-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220315
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220415
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220315T153234Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250717T154539Z
UID:2617-1647302400-1649980799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  3/15/22
DESCRIPTION:“There is One Holy Book\, the sacred manuscript of nature\,\nthe only scripture which can enlighten the reader.” ~ Hazrat Inayat Khan \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n March 15\, 2022 \n  \n(These are some excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to sections from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh.) (JS) \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2022  #239  Peace Permeates \n  \nIt’s true! Whatever we cultivate in mindfulness will permeate the life and body. It is also true that physical states (feelings) can affect the mindfulness. This is why I believe there is value in any type of mindfulness practice. Currently I strive to practice during moments on the exercise bike\, and do nothing else while I sit there. Maybe formal sitting isn’t for everyone—(it is the easiest and quickest path I’ve learned)—but learning to find some idle time to focus on the breath\, while not attending to every thought whim arising each moment\, can be helpful. Lately\, I’ve referenced recollections of childhood: those times on sunny summer days\, laying on a lawn beach\, etc.\, watching clouds pass by. Thoughts can become the clouds. Let them go on. \n  \nFebruary 16\, 2022  #240  Rest Naturally \n  \nI would take Thây’s allusion one step further. I would imagine myself as that pebble sitting down to rest in sleep. These images sound like a very restful contemplation for meditation practice\, or sleep—which can be a form of meditation\, I’ve heard. \n  \nThe beauty of this image\, to me\, is the pebble does nothing. It is acted upon\, and eventually comes to a state of rest\, all without any self effort. Once at rest\, more nothing; it still doesn’t do. It just is.  I like allowing thoughts to be like water\, flowing by with no affect or input. I think emulating the small stone is valuable. \n  \nI wonder: how far this allusion-metaphor-image can be interpreted and applied before the analogy breaks down? Still\, I like this idea of imagining myself (my mind?) as the small stone resting as clouds\, air\, rain\, water\, a river\, living beings (various forms of thought?) simply pass by\, while I continue to rest unaffected by all the passersby\, or the melee of thoughts passes on without my interaction or attachment. \n  \nFebruary 23\, 2022  #245  The Sangha Body of Peace \n  \nIt has been over two years since we last gathered\, here at TRCI\, for our weekly dialogues and since we’ve been able to function for each other as a sangha. We’ve been doing so remotely. In this two years\, several have moved on to their next phase\, whatever and wherever that may be. All of us\, I’m guessing\, look forward to meeting with those of us remaining\, and for our dialogues to resume. I wonder what this may be likened to and how we\, the remnant or those departed\, may feel about being where we are when that happens. Will everyone experience unity of sangha\, or some\, maybe? I don’t know; it’s a personal experience. \n  \nI trust if we remember Thây’s teaching on mindfulness—“I am here for you”—and apply it to be mindfully present wherever we are at the reunification of our weekly “love feat\,” then those present (and hopefully those afar\, lending their light) will give/receive the most from that meeting of our sangha again. I look forward to that day myself. \n  \nWith love\, be well! \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nin my old age \ni have become a connoisseur \nof perfect moments \n  \nSome people say\, “No one’s perfect\,” or “Nothing is perfect\,” but\, if you look at it a certain way\, everyone is perfect and every thing is perfect. We’ve all drunk a lot of water in our life\, but sometimes we stop and notice that the glass of water in our hand is the most beautiful thing we have ever seen. We are amazed by water. It’s impossible. It’s wet. We are made of water. Without air\, without water\, without the sun\, there could be no life on this planet. Without our body\, without our eyes and brain and skin and nervous system we couldn’t see or touch or taste water. We couldn’t know or imagine. When I was young\, I knew everything. The older I get\, the more bewildered I’ve become. I’m dumbfounded by the beauty and unlikelihood of absolutely everything. \n  \n(After writing the above\, I asked Mr. Google: “What percentage of the human body is water?” Here is the reply:) \n  \n60% \n  \nUp to 60% of the human adult body is water. According to H.H. Mitchell\, Journal of Biological Chemistry 158\, the brain and heart are composed of 73% water\, and the lungs are about 83% water. The skin contains 64% water\, muscles and kidneys are 79%\, and even the bones are watery: 31%. \n  \n(From the U.S. Geological Survey website article: “The Water in You: Water and the Human Body.” The article is highly entertaining. Here’s the link:) \n  \nhttps://www.usgs.gov/special-topics/water-science-school/science/water-you-water-and-human-body \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \n#302  No Ideas \n  \n“When we look deeply\, we see that all our ideas about our body and about our mind are inaccurate. We have to practice no ideas…” \n“When we can stop every idea in our mind…” \n“When we can see the emptiness of each thing…” \n  \nBut aren’t ‘looking deeply’ and ‘when we can see’ just other ways of saying ‘thinking\,’ and having ideas about? Isn’t the very practice of “practicing no ideas” an idea? An act of thinking? A conscious process of the mind? Do you acknowledge that it’s an idea to “practice no idea\,” and that it is a necessary step to get beyond to get to emptiness?  \n  \nWe might use a mantra in order to go beyond no idea? But the derivation of mantra goes back to Sanskrit – sacred counsel\, formula; and back to Latin – mens: mind. From manyate: he thinks. Hmmm\, that sure sounds like mind>thinking>idea to me… \n  \nAm I overthinking this no idea/emptiness…idea? Sheesh. I have no idea….Hey! I think I’m getting somewhere with this.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nIn life I have done things that were detestable. And in life we have all at times been faced with choosing the path. But which path do we take—not knowing where any of them lead? I had been lost for so long\, and lost so much\, and so many of those things can never be replaced. But some of them will never fail\, and that is the love I have for them—lost and found and kept. Unconditional love is there for those that need it. People are the real treasure in love\, and those relationships are what is most important. Love is free and we should always freely give love unconditionally. It is a simple seed and if it is allowed to grow unchecked it is gladly evasive. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nOld Spruce Sets the Clock \n  \nI’ve been running daylight saving time \nsince I was a sprig\, a sprout\, a sapling \nhoarding every filament of illumination \nthat made it through these shadows \nto find my reaching hands open wide. \nDon’t ask me about frenzy–I’ve been \nslow-timing for a hundred years\, and \nlook where that has got me\, rooted \ndeeper\, yearning higher\, greener\, \nolder\, thick and sturdy\, easy with \nroot and bud\, snow and starlight.  \nIn this war\, one could do worse. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nMy meditation lately consists of viewing what I look like by someone else’s eyes and mind. How do I act\, talk\, walk\, sit\, eat? How do I treat others? This gives me self awareness. It is sometimes uncomfortable to view myself outside of myself\, but it does bring me perspective. Thanks everyone for your thoughts and writings. \n  \n—Brandon Gillespie \n* \n  \nFor a joyous and heart opening experience\, spend a few breaths looking closely at these spirals (on page 1) of nature’s energy unfolding.  \n  \nMarch has many celebrations—International Women’s Day\, Spring Equinox\, Earth Day\, Candlemas and Nancy Scharbach’s Birthday! \n  \nAs Spring approaches I am delighted by the polka dots of nature—soft rain drops on the pavement\, along with pink petals from the cherry trees. Pussy willows in bud\, raindrops clinging to the leafless twigs after a rain. But there is also the spiral when I look closely at the ferns sending out their new shoots. \n  \nIt is also the time of Fasting after a last winter Feast. “Carnival” means going without meat\, or food in general\, until the gardens are producing once again. Through eons and within all cultures and religions\, the need for Lent (or sacrifice\, and changing one’s habits to survive) has been a Spring ritual. Blessing the Earth for sustenance. \n  \nIn Buddhist practice\, rather than a forty day fast\, the Five Precepts are recited once a week\, to help change unkind and unhealthy elements of our “habit energy\,” as Thay calls it\, with the intent to live a happier and ethical life. \n  \nRather than making these sound like commandments\, Thich Nhat Hanh over the years has rewritten the precepts so they help us focus on practicing awareness and kindness\, for ourselves\, for others\, and for the planet. \n  \nHere are Thay’s latest rendition with his commentary. You may want to take one to heart for a week or two\, then reflect on your own habit energy\, and what changes you might see from paying attention. Maybe there is something you want to give up and you would like your community to support. \n  \nIn peace and love\,  \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n  \nThe Five Mindfulness Trainings are one of the most concrete ways to practice mindfulness. They are nonsectarian\, and their nature is universal. They are true practices of compassion and understanding. All spiritual traditions have their equivalent to the Five Mindfulness Trainings. \n  \nThe first training is to protect life\, to decrease violence in oneself\, in the family and in society. The second training is to practice social justice\, generosity\, not stealing and not exploiting other living beings. The third is the practice of responsible sexual behavior in order to protect individuals\, couples\, families and children. The fourth is the practice of deep listening and loving speech to restore communication and reconcile. The fifth is about mindful consumption\, to help us not bring toxins and poisons into our body or mind. \n  \nThe Five Mindfulness Trainings are based on the precepts developed during the time of the Buddha to be the foundation of practice for the entire lay practice community.  \n  \nI have translated these precepts for modern times\, because mindfulness is at the foundation of each one of them. With mindfulness\, we  are modern times\, because mindfulness is at the foundation of each one of them. With mindfulness\, we are aware of what is going on in our bodies\, our feelings\, our minds and the world\, and we avoid doing harm to ourselves and others. Mindfulness protects us\, our families and our society. When we are mindful\, we can see that by refraining from doing one thing\, we can prevent another thing from happening. We arrive at our own unique insight. It is not something imposed on us by an outside authority. Practicing the mindfulness trainings\, therefore\, helps us be more calm and concentrated\, and brings more insight and enlightenment. \n  \nThe Five Mindfulness Trainings \n  \nThe Five Mindfulness Trainings represent the Buddhist vision for a global spirituality and ethic. They are a concrete expression of the Buddha’s teachings on the Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path\, the path of right understanding and true love\, leading to healing\, transformation\, and happiness for ourselves and for the world. To practice the Five Mindfulness Trainings is to cultivate the insight of interbeing\, or Right View\, which can remove all discrimination\, intolerance\, anger\, fear\, and despair. If we live according to the Five Mindfulness Trainings\, we are already on the path of a bodhisattva. Knowing we are on that path\, we are not lost in confusion about our life in the present or in fears about the future. \n  \nReverence For Life \n  \nAware of the suffering caused by the destruction of life\, I am committed to cultivating the insight of interbeing and compassion and learning ways to protect the lives of people\, animals\, plants\, and minerals. I am determined not to kill\, not to let others kill\, and not to support any act of killing in the world\, in my thinking\, or in my way of life. Seeing that harmful actions arise from anger\, fear\, greed\, and intolerance\, which in turn come from dualistic and discriminative thinking\, I will cultivate openness\, non-discrimination\, and non-attachment to views in order to transform violence\, fanaticism\, and dogmatism in myself and in the world. \n  \nTrue Happiness\n \n  \nAware of the suffering caused by exploitation\, social injustice\, stealing\, and oppression\, I am committed to practicing generosity in my thinking\, speaking\, and acting. I am determined not to steal and not to possess anything that should belong to others; and I will share my time\, energy\, and material resources with those who are in need. I will practice looking deeply to see that the happiness and suffering of others are not separate from my own happiness and suffering; that true happiness is not possible without understanding and compassion; and that running after wealth\, fame\, power and sensual pleasures can bring much suffering and despair. I am aware that happiness depends on my mental attitude and not on external conditions\, and that I can live happily in the present moment simply by remembering that I already have more than enough conditions to be happy. I am committed to practicing Right Livelihood so that I can help reduce the suffering of living beings on Earth and stop contributing to climate change. \n  \nTrue Love\n \n  \nAware of the suffering caused by sexual misconduct\, I am committed to cultivating responsibility and learning ways to protect the safety and integrity of individuals\, couples\, families\, and society. Knowing that sexual desire is not love\, and that sexual activity motivated by craving always harms myself as well as others\, I am determined not to engage in sexual relations without true love and a deep\, long-term commitment made known to my family and friends. I will do everything in my power to protect children from sexual abuse and to prevent couples and families from being broken by sexual misconduct. Seeing that body and mind are one\, I am committed to learning appropriate ways to take care of my sexual energy and cultivating loving kindness\, compassion\, joy and inclusiveness – which are the four basic elements of true love – for my greater happiness and the greater happiness of others. Practicing true love\, we know that we will continue beautifully into the future. \n  \nLoving Speech and Deep Listening\n \n  \nAware of the suffering caused by unmindful speech and the inability to listen to others\, I am committed to cultivating loving speech and compassionate listening in order to relieve suffering and to promote reconciliation and peace in myself and among other people\, ethnic and religious groups\, and nations. Knowing that words can create happiness or suffering\, I am committed to speaking truthfully using words that inspire confidence\, joy\, and hope. When anger is manifesting in me\, I am determined not to speak. I will practice mindful breathing and walking in order to recognize and to look deeply into my anger. I know that the roots of anger can be found in my wrong perceptions and lack of understanding of the suffering in myself and in the other person. I will speak and listen in a way that can help myself and the other person to transform suffering and see the way out of difficult situations. I am determined not to spread news that I do not know to be certain and not to utter words that can cause division or discord. I will practice Right Diligence to nourish my capacity for understanding\, love\, joy\, and inclusiveness\, and gradually transform anger\, violence\, and fear that lie deep in my consciousness. \n  \nNourishment and Healing\n \n  \nAware of the suffering caused by unmindful consumption\, I am committed to cultivating good health\, both physical and mental\, for myself\, my family\, and my society by practicing mindful eating\, drinking\, and consuming. I will practice looking deeply into how I consume the Four Kinds of Nutriments\, namely edible foods\, sense impressions\, volition\, and consciousness. I am determined not to gamble\, or to use alcohol\, drugs\, or any other products which contain toxins\, such as certain websites\, electronic games\, TV programs\, films\, magazines\, books\, and conversations. I will practice coming back to the present moment to be in touch with the refreshing\, healing and nourishing elements in me and around me\, not letting regrets and sorrow drag me back into the past nor letting anxieties\, fear\, or craving pull me out of the present moment. I am determined not to try to cover up loneliness\, anxiety\, or other suffering by losing myself in consumption. I will contemplate interbeing and consume in a way that preserves peace\, joy\, and well-being in my body and consciousness\, and in the collective body and consciousness of my family\, my society and the Earth. \n  \n—from Happiness: Essential Mindfulness Practices by Thich Nhat Hanh (pp. 35-38) \n* \n  \nSome quotes on Jeff K’s mind lately: \n  \n’’Be patient\, your future will come to you and lie down at your feet like a dog who knows and loves you no matter what you are” \n  \n—Ted Chiang Stories of Your Life and Others\, p. 278 \n  \n”Found a dollar and had a slice of pizza… One day closer to death’’  \n& \n”We come into this world alone… Then we die alone… But\, in the meantime… Snacks.’’ \n  \n—Adult Swim \n  \nOur universe might have slid into equilibrium emitting nothing more than a quiet hiss. The fact that it spawned such plenitude is a miracle\, one that is matched only by your universe giving rise to you. Though I am long dead as you read this\, explorer\, I offer to you a valediction. Contemplate the marvel that is existence\, and rejoice that you are able to do so. I feel I have the right to tell you this because\, as I am inscribing these words\, I am doing the same.  \n  \n—Ted Chiang\,  Exhalation\, p. 57 \n  \n”Artists are magical helpers. Evoking symbols and motifs that connect us to our deeper selves\, they can help us along the heroic journey of our own lives.”  \n  \n—Joseph Campbell \n  \n—Jeff Kuehner
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-3-15-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220313T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220313T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220310T173522Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220311T200133Z
UID:2613-1647183600-1647190800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  3/13/22
DESCRIPTION:  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! It’s Women’s History Month! This week\, Sunday\, March 13th\, at 3 pm (Pacific Daylight Time)\, our theme is “Women Authors and Women Fictional Characters.” Here’s the link for the Zoom gathering: \n  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-3-13-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220310
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220324
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220310T170121Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T130500Z
UID:2606-1646870400-1648079999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/10/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nMarch 10\, 2022 \n  \nY’know how when you read a really good book\, you want all your friends to read it? That’s the idea here. \n  \nI asked some friends (at the last minute) to write about some of their favorite books—books they read recently\, or a long time ago\, books that changed the way they see or experience or understand the world\, books that they’ve read many times: their favorite books! \n  \nThis can be a conversation between people outside and inside prison walls. Our next issue (March 24th) will feature some of the favorite books of friends who are “on the inside.” If you are an Insider\, please write to me about some of your favorite books. And if you would like to read any of the books that are talked about here\, let me know which books you’d like to read\, and we should be able to send them to you. \n  \nKim was the first to reply to my email. He wrote: \n  \nWhen I was seven years old\, on a second-grade field trip to a local church\, I stole a hand-sized New Testament someone had left on the pew where I sat in the back. The cover was black\, pretend leather. I liked the feel of it in my fingers. The owner’s name was written on pale blue paper on the inside cover. I tore off the blue paper bit by bit until the book was mine. My own book. It fit in my pocket. I couldn’t read it yet\, but I knew it was important. I knew my grandmother would love it. Her minister husband had died\, but she still prayed sometimes. What I didn’t know was how to share it with anyone\, show it to anyone. It had to be my secret until I was old enough to know what was inside. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nHey Johnny; \n  \nFun! \nHere is my top 10. What’s yours? \n  \n10) Between the World and Me by Ta-nehisi Coates  \n9) Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol  \n8) The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion \n7) Spring by Ali Smith \n6) The Lonely City by Olivia Laing \n5) No one belongs here more than you by Miranda July \n4) Townie by Andre Dubus III \n3) Zone One by Colson Whitehead  \n2) The Powerbroker by Robert Caro  \n1) Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishigurio \n  \n—Pat (The Dad) Walsh \n* \n  \nA wonderful\, thrillingly great book that is relatively under-read is INDEPENDENT PEOPLE by Haldor Laxness of Iceland. It weaves the development of Icelandic society into a story of hate and love between a daughter and a father. It is an intimate epic\, good enough to hurt your heart\, and then to heal it\, but not without leaving a scar. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \n  \nOh\, so many books. How can I even choose? But of course I will\, and then regret what has been left out. But such is life. \n  \nCurrent faves: \n  \n1. Circe by Madeline Miller \nI just finished Circe\, a retelling of the Greek goddess\, mostly known as someone who captured and loved Ulysses on his way home. This new story of her life is monumental\, mythic and utterly real. Years and aeons merge into one another\, the stories are told from the women’s point of view\, sidelined characters are given full lives and we find ourselves alive in a world of magic and beauty. I can’t even begin to say how much I loved it. When I finished Circe it wasn’t even possible to start a new book…how could I step out of this world of enchantment? Buy it\, borrow it\, read it–you too can participate in this meditation on the meaning of mortality and divinity. \n  \n 2. All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr  \nAll the Light We Cannot See creates a world deeply immersed in the one we live in and yet somehow it expands and deepens our knowledge of another world. It is the story of two children\, one from Paris and one from Germany\, during WWII. The quiet details in their interwoven stories lead into a world where people are haunted\, as are we\, by both love and violence. Long after finishing the book these characters will live with you\, tell you stories\, unveil secrets. \n  \n 3. An American Sunrise; Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings–both by Joy Harjo \nHarjo is the current Poet Laureate of the United States\, the first Native American woman to hold that position. Her wild\, direct\, illusive poems speak from another world to us\, and they continue to stand firmly on the ground of the country’s original inhabitants. And yet she is utterly modern and relevant\, creating poems you only wish you could write.  \n  \n4. New and Collected Poems by Czeslaw Milosz \nMilosz won the Nobel Prize for Literature for his enormous and profound body of work. From a childhood in rural Lithuania through Nazi occupation\, World War II\, Soviet rule\, and eventual exile and career as a professor in California\, Milosz saw himself as a conduit for all the silenced voices he knew\, and he recreated world upon world\, all the time pondering the reasons behind what he experienced. Monumental and touching\, this is a book you can never finish. \n  \n—xxoxo Deb Buchanan \n* \n  \nPretty short notice! So if I don’t have synopses and astute commentary on any or all of them\, it’s because of…pretty short notice! \n  \nThe numbering is not in any particular order of best to last. \n  \n1. Go\, Went\, Gone by Jenny Erpenbeck.  The novel tells the tale of Richard\, a retired classics professor who lives in Berlin. His wife has died\, and he lives a routine existence until one day he spies some African refugees staging a hunger strike in Alexanderplatz. Curiosity turns into compassion and an inner transformation\, as he visits their shelter\, interviews them\, and becomes embroiled in their harrowing fates. Go\, Went\, Gone is a scathing indictment of Western policy toward the European refugee crisis\, but also a touching portrait of a man who finds he has more in common with the Africans than he realizes. \n  \n2. Becoming Duchess Goldblatt by Anonymous is a nonfiction\, ongoing story of a person who has had relative success in a career but has a difficult family past\, including a mentally ill older brother and a father who cannot disavow his son\, no matter how he hurts other members of the family. The protagonist also experiences a wrenching divorce with child issues\, which lead her/him to seek out community on Twitter. Let’s call her ‘she\,’ although that is never clarified. She finds that her difficult personal life translates unwittingly into a compassionate Twitter figure\, and she develops a following who look to her for solace and advice. Her gentleness\, wit\, and compassion for others draws people from all over\, including Lyle Lovett. This is all true!  MUST READ!!! \n  \n3.  The True American by Anand Giridharadas  (nonfiction).  Days after 9/11\, an avowed “American terrorist” named Mark Stroman\, seeking revenge\, walks into a Dallas mini-mart and shoots Raisuddin Bhuiyan\, a Bangladeshi immigrant\, maiming and nearly killing him. Ten years after the shooting\, Bhuiyan wages a campaign against the State of Texas to have his attacker spared from the death penalty. The True American is a rich\, colorful\, profoundly moving exploration of the American dream in its many dimensions.  \n  \n4.  Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy novel    A Russian nobleman takes advantage of a young woman\, gets her pregnant and then deserts her. He forgets about her until years later when he discovers that she is in court for stealing\, and she has become a vagrant and wastrel of a figure. He has a change of heart\, mind and soul\, and determines to save her by devoting his life to that purpose. His persistence and her resistance take them into uncharted waters.  \n  \n5.  Tortilla Curtain by T. C. Boyle.  An upper middle class Southern California couple encounters a Mexican undocumented man living in the arroyos near their gated house. The story deals with the husband’s run ins with the Mexican while on his (the husband’s) ‘nature walks.’  At first aghast and  uncomfortable\, then curious\, then understanding\, and finally compassionate and a life saver\, the husband finds his world changed. \n  \n6.  A Gentleman in Moscow  by Amor Towles  (fiction) \n  \n7.  Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown  (nonfiction) \n  \n8.  The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan  (nonfiction) \n  \n9.  Nicholas and Alexandra\, Peter the Great\, Catherine the Great all by Robert Massie.  The most readable and fascinating history writing\, from one who has always had difficulty reading history. \n    \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nHere are five books that had high impact on me\, \n  \nThe Sacred Pipe\, Black Elk—One of the first books that showed me how some people live a totally spiritual life without a distinct religion. \n  \nThe Naked Ape by Desmond Morris—This was the first book that helped me understand our animal origins. \n  \nLao Tzu—Still a faithful companion\, one that doesn’t waste words but covers Life pretty completely. \n  \nOn The Road\, by Jack Kerouac—This put into words what a lot of us were starting to sense about life in modern America. \n  \nIshmael\, by Daniel Quinn—A broad perspective on how our human history has developed over the last few millennia\, forging delusions of separateness and mastery and privilege in us.            \n  \nThis brief list perforce needs to omit Mad magazine\, the great Russian novelists\, and many other wonderful writers like Shakespeare and Tolkien who have influenced or entertained me over the years\, but these five are books I find myself still thinking about years after reading them. \n  \nlove and peace\,      \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \nGreat question on books.  I decided to list those that\, after several book purges\, are still on my shelves and ones that I come back to over and over:   \n  \nTrickster Makes This World   Lewis Hyde \nMemories\, Dreams\, Reflections   Carl Jung \nThe Water of Life   Michael Meade \nIrish Fairy Tales  James Stephens \nCoyote Was Going There   Jarold Ramsey \nThe Red Haired Girl from the Bog   Patricia Monaghan \nGood Poems    Edited by Garrison Keillor \nThe Woman Warrior  Maxine Hong Kingston \nGo Down Moses      William Faulkner \nIrish Folk Tales   Edited by Henry Glassie \nReturning to Earth    Jim Harrison \nThe Nutmeg’s Curse  Amitav Ghosh (I just read but it\,  but it will be on my shelves a long time.) \n  \nThanks for doing this\, Johnny.   \n  \n—Will Hornyak \n* \n  \nThe two books that I have read/listened to on Audible are both by Isabel Wilkerson: The Warmth of Other Suns\, which travels with the Great Migration from the South and highlights/follows the lives of three people who made the migration. While I intellectually had an understanding of Jim Crow\, Wilkerson provided an emotional understanding in a very moving way. I also valued her later book Caste\, which looks at how caste systems provide a powerful framework for understanding race and other social issues. This work is less personal than the earlier book but the tandem is quite compelling. \n  \nCheers\, \n  \n—Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nI’ve recommended Of Water and the Spirit by Malidoma Somé to lots of my friends. When we think about different cultures\, we have the idea that they do things a little differently than we do\, they speak different languages\, and they have different beliefs. But Malidoma’s Somé’s book gave me the feeling that he lives in an entirely different world than I do. He has seen things that I’ve never seen\, and never will see. Even if I went to his village\, I couldn’t see them. Each one of us lives in our own world—the world as we imagine it\, as we describe it and explain it to ourselves. His book\, more than any other book I know\, shows me that there is not just one “reality”—there are as many realities as there are human beings. (And that doesn’t take into account the realities of moles\, goldfinches\, dogs\, lizards\, elephants\, gnats\, whales\, et cetera.) A different culture is a different way of being in the world. \n  \nWalt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” is a poem\, not a book. Although it’s long for a poem (56 pages in my Signet edition of Leaves of Grass)\, I’ve memorized most of it. It changed my life\, changed the way I see the world\, changed the way I imagine who I am. It is\, I think\, the strongest expression in the world’s literature of the mystic’s feeling of being one with everything. Because it’s a poem\, and not a lecture or an essay\, it has the power to alter our sensibilities. It has made me a more joyful person\, made me more free\, given me the feeling of limitless love for everyone and every thing. The poem is a corrective to the ascetic and life-denying aspects of much religious literature. What saint or yogi would say?: \n  \n“I believe in the flesh and the appetites\, \nSeeing\, hearing\, feeling\, are miracles\, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.” \n  \nBut he doesn’t stop there. He goes on to say: \n  \n“Divine am I inside and out\, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from\, \nThe scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer\, \nThis head more than churches\, bibles\, and all the creeds.” \n  \nWalt abolishes dualities\, like body and soul\, that are characteristic not just of most spirituality\, but of thought and language. It is a giant YES! to Life. And to Death. And everything in between. \n  \nMy two favorite short stories are Dream of a Ridiculous Man by Fyodor Dostoevsky and Tenth of December by George Saunders. I read the first one a long time ago\, and realized that the narrator had the same ridiculous dream that I have—the dream that we could all love each other. I’ve performed a version of this story from time to time. Jason Beito recommended the George Saunders story to me. Thank you\, Jason! \n  \nI’m always reading more than one book at a time. At the beginning of each day\, I usually read from certain inspirational texts. These are books that I read again and again. When I get to the end\, I start at the beginning. My current repertoire includes Zen in English Literature and Oriental Classics by R. H. Blyth\, A Year With Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky\, The Poetical Works and Centuries of Meditations by Thomas Traherne. Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh and The Only Revolution by J. Krishnamurti. Alan Watts is another stalwart early morning companion. I’m currently reading Eastern Wisdom\, Modern Life: Collected Talks 1960-1969. \n  \nI love to re-read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass from time to time. And Huckleberry Finn. \n  \nI learned a lot from Woman and Nature by Susan Griffin\, and For Your Own Good: Hidden Cruelty in Childrearing and the Roots of Violence by Alice Miller\, and Magical Child and Evolution’s End by Joseph Chilton Pearce\, and from many books by Ken Wilber. Joseph Campbell is a personal favorite. I like his lectures best\, especially as audio books. \n  \nWilliam Shakespeare is my favorite writer. He’s the greatest poet in the English language\, and the greatest playwright in any language. Endless delight! My favorite companion volume to the works of Shakespeare is Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being by Ted Hughes. \n  \nThree of my favorite novels: The Storyteller by Mario Vargas Llosa\, The Zoo Where You’re Fed to God by Michael Ventura\, and Borgel by Daniel Pinkwater. \n  \nAlthough Ralph Waldo Emerson and William Blake are wondering why I left them out\, that’s enough for now! \n  \n—Johnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-10-22/
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CREATED:20220226T193122Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220506T222747Z
UID:2601-1645974000-1645981200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  2/27/22
DESCRIPTION:Woman Reading at a Desk (c. 1910) by Thomas P. Anshutz \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! This week\, Sunday\, February 27th\, at 3 pm (PST)\, our theme is “Favorite Fictional Characters.” Here’s the link for the Zoom gathering: \n  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-2-27-22/
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DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220310
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220226T190350Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220310T172428Z
UID:2584-1645660800-1646870399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  2/24/22
DESCRIPTION:Photo #12  Bee in lilac blossoms\,  May 17\, 2020 (photos by Abe Green)  \n  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 24\, 2022 \n  \n  \nWhere the bee sucks\, there suck I:  \nIn a cowslip’s bell I lie;  \nThere I couch when owls do cry.  \nOn the bat’s back I do fly  \nAfter summer merrily.    \nMerrily\, merrily shall I live now  \nUnder the blossom that hangs on the bough. \n  \n—from The Tempest by William Shakespeare \n  \n  \nAs promised\, here are more pictures and texts from Abe Green: \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #13  Mouse friend\,  May 7\, 2019 \nThe wheel turns ceaselessly—birth and death. \n  \n  \n“Birth is not the beginning\, \nDeath is not the end.” \n  \n—Zhuangzi (Chuang Tzu) (370 BC – 287 BC) \n  \nWalt Whitman says: \n  \nThe smallest sprout shows there is really no death\, \nAnd if ever there was it led forward life\, and does not wait at the end to arrest it\, \nAnd ceased the moment life appeared. \n  \nAll goes onward and outward\, nothing collapses\, \nAnd to die is different from what any one supposed\, and luckier. \n  \nHas anyone supposed it lucky to be born? \nI hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die\, and I know it. \n  \n–from “Song of Myself” \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #14  Robin eggs\,  May 19\, 2020 \n  \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #15  Campfire at Fresno Lake\, (North Central MT.)\,  July 24\, 2020 \n  \nI once wrote a lengthy story about campfires. This is the last paragraph: \nSo here I sit by my campfire\, don’t want to “do” anything with it; it doesn’t have to be huge or roaring\, just be itself—warm and friendly. \nI want to hear its special language of hisses\, snaps\, pops\, and crackles—it’s a language made for my spirit. \nI want to smell its earthy\, woodpitch scent. \nAnd I want to stare into its inferno-like heart\, knowing what I see is a glimpse of the blazing glory of my own human heart. \nThe same bursting energy that fires the universe. \n  \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #16  Showdown Ski Area\, (Central MT.)\, October 27\, 2020 \n  \nI just love this photograph\, (though I did not take it). The juxtaposition of the dog and an awaiting ski area clothed in deep new snow—two very experiential loves! \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #17  Eye painted on stone\, December 28\, 2021 \n  \nI found the rock\, an artist friend painted the eye at my request. Live\, the piece is dynamic. I call it: “The observer being observed”! It reminds to not only witness what surrounds me\, but to also authentically witness my “self.” \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #18  Fall colors on Aspen trees\, September 26\, 2021 \n  \n“It’s the job of wise people to encourage us to perform thought experiments to challenge us about things we take for granted\, to imagine in new ways.” \n  \n—J. Stallings quoted by A. Green \n  \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #19  Grizzly Bear release\, (photo: MT. Fish & Game)\, October 17\, 2021 \n  \nI included this picture of a grizzly relocation release as an opportunity to speak of the plight of so many of Earth’s habitants. When I see a bear or bird or beetle I see no less than the same spark of life that resides within my breast. How can I wish to experience life while denying it to other life expressions? For that’s what is really going on here\, we are all—every plant\, every animal\, and every mother’s son and daughter—expressing the “gift” in our own way. \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #20  Bent tree regrowth\, October 24\, 2021 \n  \n  \nLessons from a Tree \n  \nSeed split. Root sprout. Leaf bud. \nDelve deep. Hold fast. Reach far \nSway. Lean. Bow. Loom. \n  \nClimb high. Stand tall. Last long. \nGrow. Thicken. Billow. Shade. Sow seed. \n  \nRise by pluck\, child of luck\, \nlightning-struck survivor. \n  \nBurn. Bleed. Heal. Remember. Testify. \nNest. Host. Guard. Honor. \n  \nFall. Settle. Slump. \nSurrender. Offer. Enrich. \n  \nBe duff. Enough. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n  \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #21  Sleeping Giant Skyline\, Beartooth Mtns.\, (Southcentral MT.)\, November 4\, 2021 \n  \n  \nThe Peace of Wild Things \n  \nWhen despair for the world grows in me \nand I wake in the night at the least sound \nin fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be\, \nI go and lie down where the wood drake \nrests in his beauty on the water\, and the great heron feeds. \nI come into the peace of wild things \nwho do not tax their lives with forethought \nof grief. I come into the presence of still water. \nAnd I feel above me the day-blind stars \nwaiting with their light. For a time \nI rest in the grace of the world\, and am free. \n  \n–Wendell Berry \n  \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #22  Broken Objects\, December 16\, 2021 \n  \n  \nThough sometimes unseen\, there are extraordinary possibilities in everyone. If today\, I’m a good enough example\, if I shine my light bright enough\, just maybe…I can change the world! But the world is so big. Better to focus on those I encounter in my little corner of life. \n  \n–Abe Green \n  \n  \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2-24-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220315
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220219T192757Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220219T195207Z
UID:2577-1644883200-1647302399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  2/15/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nDear Beloved Community\, \nWith a deep mindful breath\, we announce the passing of our beloved teacher\, Thay Nhat Hanh\, on January 22 (January 21 in USA)\, 2022 at  \nTừ Hiếu Temple in Huế\, Vietnam\, at the age of 95. \n \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2022 \n  \nThay has been the most extraordinary teacher\, whose peace\, tender compassion\, and bright wisdom has touched the lives of millions. Whether we have encountered him on retreats\, at public talks\, or through his books and online teachings–or simply through the story of his incredible life–we can see that Thay has been a true bodhisattva\, an immense force for peace and healing in the world.  Never diluting and always digging deep into the roots of Buddhist teaching\, he brings out its authentic radiance. \n  \nNow is a moment to come back to our mindful breathing and walking\, to generate the energy of peace\, compassion\, and gratitude to offer our beloved Teacher. It is a moment to take refuge in our spiritual friends\, our local  community\, and each other.  \n  \n—From the Monks and Nuns of Thich Nhat Hanh’s Order of Interbeing \n  \n  \n“At the moment my front yard is flush with brilliant winter sunshine slanting to earth beneath the clouds and at the same time it is raining gently. This paradox makes me feel that Thay is right here with me\, showing how I can feel grateful for his life as well as deep grief for his passing. We will dearly miss his personal presence\, but we have gained so much from his writings\, stories\, teachings and inclusiveness that we now carry with us. Thay calls his birth and his death day his continuation days.   \n  \nAt a Teacher’s passing in the Buddhist tradition it is honorable to address your teacher by calling his/her name\, and saying a short phrase of appreciation and best wishes.  Please write to us all or say silently to Thay what is on your heart.   \n  \nLet us each resolve to do our best over the coming days to generate the energy of mindfulness\, peace\, and compassion\, to send to our beloved Teacher. \n  \nDear Thay: I am so grateful for the way you and Sister Chan Khong have shared the Buddha’s teachings and how they have touched my life as well as the life of those around me with kindness and clarity. A lotus to you.” \n  \n—Katie Radditz  \n  \n  \n“I think of Thich Nhat Hanh as my friend. He said things that have been very helpful to me in my life. I love his sweetness\, his gentleness\, his friendliness. I know of no one more compassionate\, more peaceful\, more happy\, more free. I love his idea of “interbeing.” I love him. He left an extraordinary legacy of books and YouTube videos that we can revisit again and again\, and share with each other. Thank you thank you thank you.” \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n  \n  \nValentine’s Day wishes to you and all your loved ones. \n  \nMake a True Home of your Love   –   (this is a Valentine from Thay) \n  \nEvery one of us is trying to find our true home. We know that our true home is inside\, and with the energy of mindfulness\, we can go back to our true home in the here and the now. Sangha is our true home. \n  \nIn Vietnamese\, the husband calls the wife “my home.” And the wife calls the husband her home. Nha toi means my house\, my home. When a gentleman is asked “Where is your wife?” he will say\, “My home is now at the post office.” (with a sweet chuckle)  And if a guest said to the wife\, “Your home is beautiful; who decorated it?” she would answer\, “It’s my home who decorated it\,” meaning\, “my husband.” When the husband calls his wife\, he says\, “Nha oi\,” my home. And she says\, “Here I am.” Nha oi. Nha toi. \n  \nWhen you are in such a relationship\, the other person is your true home. And you should be a true home for him or for her. First you need to be your own true home so that you can be the home of your beloved. We should practice so we can be a true home for ourselves and for the one that we love. How? We need the practice of mindfulness. \n  \nIn Plum Village\, every time you hear the bell\, you stop thinking\, you stop talking\, you stop doing things. You pay attention to your in-breath as you breathe in and you say\, “I listen\, I listen. This wonderful sound brings me back to my true home.” My true home is inside. My true home is in the here and the now. So practicing going home is what we do all day long\, because we are only comfortable in our true home. Our true home is available\, and we can go home every moment. Our home should be safe\, intimate\, and cozy\, and it is we who make it that way. \n  \n—Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \n  \nRich Land Between \n                   —for Perrin \n  \nIn a forest wilderness many years ago \nyou appeared to me\, and I appeared to you — \ntwo birds in separate trees singing to the sky. \n  \nWe looked down to find the ground between us  \nilluminated by a story we wanted to live. I could \nsee it with your eyes\, and you with mine. \n  \nSince then\, we have explored the land between — \nevery crumb of earth\, every stem golden by day\, \nwithering by season\, sprouting again and again \n  \nuntil it’s hard to tell where your song ends \nand mine begins. The land between\, crisscrossed \nby our devotions\, has revealed how in our life \n  \nthe gifts are many\, and the price is everything. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n  \n  \n#206 An Act of Love   –  A work of ART can help people understand the nature of their suffering\, and have insight into how to transform . . . . Writing\, making a film\, (performing a play)\, creating a work of art can be an act of love. . . . that nourishes you and nourishes others.   Michel sends a deep reflection on the effects of music – years of playing the piano- and a painting that he loved\, gifted to him by a friend who loved to paint.  “There was a time when one of the Group Dialogue member’s father came to play a cello for us. And the Oregon Poet Laureate\, Kim Stafford\, came to share his art. Each time the artist loved his art form. I believe also that each shared love with the audience for that brief session.  Even our Theatre Troupe and directors (all of them) share not only love for this art form but are sharing love through it as well – both for us in prison and for our audience.   . . . . What might our world look and feel like if we were more aware (open to) as both givers and receivers of art forms – of this opportunity to love one another deliberately?   \n  \n#212 The Heart of life – Through accepting – even embracing impermanence I find hope. Hope helps endurance through the distresses of life. So I wish everyone a dose of hope to help bolster you through distress on your journey to luminescence. May you shine brightly as the stars revealing a way for others to find their hope too.   \n  \n#217 Beyond Labels  –  As we move into 2022 I hope for everyone I know\, past and present\, that each learns to accept and release the hold of memories of past events as well as letting go of judgements of “now” going by moment by moment. May we each find love and freedom in our own right. And\, may we share that love through understanding and compassion for our fellow travelers along the way as we learn to see the “other” as part of our own self\, interconnected with the life we live now.   \n  \nWith love\, to all \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n  \n  \n#281 Loving Words — “Every time the other person does something well\, we should congratulate him or her to show our approval. This is especially true with children….” \n  \nFor seven or eight years in the mid-nineties I was a mentor in an at-risk youth program in Portland\, OR. Our kids were each 14 yrs. old\, ready to enter high school\, and in danger of dropping out —doing drugs\, skipping school\, acting out\, being promiscuous\, failing at most everything. We had to work with parents (all of whom were behaving in pretty much the same way as their kids\, except they had dropped out of school long before) as well as our youth. \n  \nMy girl\, let’s call her Amy\, lived with her father. She was very bright; at 14 she did all the accounting for her dad’s used car sales business out on 82nd Av. (I’m sure he handled the side business of drug dealing accounts). She was affectionate and attentive with me. She had all the potential to be a strong and capable young woman. \n  \nHer dad\, let’s call him Gerald\, however\, saw a different picture. When we met\, with Amy sitting there\, Gerald told me ‘the problem.’ \n  \n“She’s a whore\, just like her mother! She’ll never amount to anything\, I guarantee you. She lies and can’t be trusted about anything. She sneaks out at night to be with men—all the time. She’s screwing off in school\, when she goes\, that is. Just like her mom\, she’s dumb and she’ll drop out of school\, I know it. Maybe be able to get a bartender job like her mom\, if she’s lucky\, but…” \n  \nI was so shocked to be hearing this\, needless to say. I told him this was a different Amy than the one I knew. The girl I knew was extremely smart – didn’t she do the accounting for his business???- and she was caring and dependable\, and a lovely girl. He couldn’t even hear me. He’d constantly go back to his well-practiced rant while Amy sat there stoney-faced and silent. \n  \nThis went on for a couple months\, with me politely (and carefully\, given Gerald’s demonstrable anger and burly presence) defending Amy\, until one evening when I stopped to pick up Amy for a meeting. \n  \nShe was in tears\, crying so hard I could hardly understand her. The gist was\, Dad must be right\, and you and I are wrong. I’m just going to give up; he’s so sure he knows me\, so I must be that bad… or words to that effect. \n  \nI was speechless and stunned—but not for long. Gerald had gone out to his favorite biker bar. I knew where it was. Beyond furious\, I sped out and spun my Honda into the lineup of a dozen Harleys with the ape-hanger bars. You know there’s that adrenalin thing where you can pick up a car by its bumper to save a child trapped under the wheel? Lifting a hundred times your weight as if it were a paper placemat? That’s the way I was: I barreled into the bar\, spotted Gerald and charged over to him and his buddies. He looked up and started\, “Hey\, hey\, what are you..?” But I grabbed him by the collar and jerked him backwards and bellowed\, “Gerald\, you are going to get out of here\, and go home\, and talk to your daughter! You are going to tell her that she’s a fine young woman\, and she’s smart and talented and you are proud of her!!! I will be right there listening so you’d better say it really good\, so that she believes you! GOT it?” \n  \nHe started whining a little\, but one of the guys mumbled\, “Hey Jer\, maybe you better go on home like the nice lady says…” I yanked his shirt again and barked\, “Hear that??? Now move!” \n  \nI gave him a shove and out we went. And he went home and I listened to him tell his daughter that she was smart and helpful to his business. I glared at him\, and he added\, “And you’re a fine young woman …and I’m proud of you.” \n  \nAmy should’ve said\, “That’s bull—-\, Daddy and you know it.” But she didn’t; she threw her arms around him and told him she loved him. \n  \nThat’s how easy it is with a child. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n  \n  \n \n  \nVoices in the Forest \n  \nWind sighing in the trees\, boughs rocking and  \nwhispering a story\, the world telling us who we are.  \nThe world a song\, and we sing with the wind  \nand trees\, our voices trembling in the dark.  \nThe sun lies down behind the trees in twilight \n blue\, stars shining\, moonlight rippling rivers.  \nBirds call\, squirrels and rabbits rustle  \ntheir way to bed. We sing to our babies—  \nYou too\, you too\, time to sleep\, the stars will watch\,  \nclose your eyes\, the wind breathes our song—sleep\, baby\, sleep.  \nOwls awaken\, wings whoosh overhead\, feathers  \na blanket\, the sky a bed\, we lie down with the wind \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan\n\n \n  \nCan the New Year really be a New Year?   \n  \nThe beginning of February is a New Year celebration – in Vietnam ( called Tet) as well as China and other east Asian countries.   It is a celebration of the Lunar New Year. \n  \nOften we feel that a “new year” can provide us with a chance to begin anew with ourselves – to put into action our deepest aspirations\, and to better care for ourselves and the world. However\, many of us have also experienced that a new year does not automatically bring us closer to our aspirations. \n  \nThich Nhat Hanh teaches us how to truly begin anew with ourselves. Below is a written excerpt from his talk\, with guiding questions for your reflection: \n  \n  \nDear beloved community\, \n  \n“To begin this year anew\, we should reflect on these simple questions:\n· What have I done during the year?\n· Have I been able to produce feelings of joy and happiness during my days?\n· Have I been able to take care of the painful feelings during the year?\n· Have I been able to handle them\, to calm them down\, so that I will not be a source of suffering for myself and for other people? \nWith mindfulness\, we can produce a feeling of joy whenever we want\, because we are a practitioner. We can produce these feelings for ourselves\, and everyone we love. Have we done that this year? \nWe can learn how to calm down painful feelings\, and even transform them into something better\, like compassion\, friendship and forgiveness. Pain and pleasure are all organic\, like love and hate. If we do not know how to handle love\, it can turn into hate or anger. If we know how to handle hate and anger\, we can turn it back into understanding and love. If we do not know how to handle painful emotions\, we are going to repeat that in the new year\, and the new year will not be very new. \nThe value of the year depends on the value of acting\, of our way of life. With mindfulness\, we can improve the quality of our life\, of our days\, our months\, our years.” \n  \n—Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \n  \nWinter Poem \n  \nonce a snowflake fell \non my brow and I loved \nit so much and I kissed \nit and it was happy and called its cousins \nand brothers and a web \nof snow engulfed me then \nI reached to love them all \nand I squeezed them and they became \na spring rain and I stood perfectly \nstill and was a flower \n  \n—Nikki Giovanni \n  \n  \nOne of Thay’s favorite Meditations  – \n  \nBreathing in\, I see myself as a flower \nBreathing out\, I feel fresh. \nBreathing in\, I see myself as a Mountain \nBreathing out\, I feel solid. \nBreathing in\, I see myself as a Mountain Lake \nBreathing out\, I am calm and reflective. \nBreathing in\, I see myself as the Sky or Space \nBreathing out\, I feel free.  \n  \n  \n  \n Three poems by Heather Cahoon \n  \n1. \nCounter balance \nTo his curiosity \nThe magpie’s tail \n  \n2. \nThe shallow v-shape \nOf conviction opens \nWhere wing becomes body \n  \n3.  \nGetting firewood: \nBlaring chainsaws \nGive way \nTo thurderous crashing \nFrom the fallen trees \nBlack ants pour out \nLike blood \n  \n—From Alex Tretbar \n  \n  \nNo day is ever the same\, and no day stands still; each one moves through a different territory\, awakening new beginnings. A day moves forward in moments\, and once a moment has flickered into life\, it vanishes and is replaced by the next. It is fascinating that this is where we live\, within an emerging lacework that continuously unravels. Often a fleeting moment can hold a whole sequence of the future in distilled form: that unprepared second when you looked in a parent’s eye and saw death already beginning to loom. Or the second you noticed a softening in someone’s voice and you knew that a friendship was beginning. Or catching your partner’s gaze upon you and knowing the love that surrounded you. Each day is seeded with recognitions. \n  \n–John O’Donohue\, from “To Bless the Space Between Us” \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-2-15-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220120
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220224
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220120T221434Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220226T192407Z
UID:2560-1642636800-1645660799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  1/20/22
DESCRIPTION:Photo # 1  Yellowstone\, August 28\, 2018 (all photos by Abe Green) \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJanuary 20\, 2022 \n  \n \nPhoto #2   Yellowstone\, August 28\, 2018 \n  \nPhotos 1 & 2 \n  \nYellowstone River (Paradise Valley). In 1806\, the Core of Discovery\, upon leaving Astoria area and re-entering Montana split up—with Lewis traveling via Marias and Missouri Rivers\, and Clark the Yellowstone. I often bring DeVoto’s edition edition of Lewis & Clark Journals along on floats here to read aloud by campfire to my fishing friends. \n  \nFriends! \n  \nI feel like I’m a member of this fantastic community of humans engaged in the fine art of self-realization! Like Stretch Armstrong (remember him?)\, I’m trying to stretch myself beyond the social\, cultural\, and religious structures that permeate our modern world. \n  \nThe big question is: “What the hell is really going on here?” \n  \nThe big answer: Well\, stay tuned. I know as I read the pages of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding and Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue\, listening to the discourse therein\, that we are helping one another. \n  \nAnd we are going in a good direction. I read somewhere\, \n  \n“Walk in a good direction\, end up in a good place.” \n  \nI thank you all—staff\, contributors\, and readers. My spirit prospers as a result of your earnest endeavor to be authentic. \n  \nAs a parting gesture\, I would like to suggest two books that have had an influence on my thinking and how I do that thinking: \n  \nSapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari \nThe Constitution of Knowledge: A Defense of Truth by Jonathan Rauch \n  \nPeace and Wellness… \n  \nAbe Gren   \n2022 \n  \n \nPhoto #3  Northwest Montana \n  \nI see this often during Winter and Summer. The view is looking east into Glacier Park from the top of Whitefish Ski Area. In Summer you can ride the lift with your mountain bike\, get the same scenery\, and then trail ride down. \n  \n \nPhoto #4  Spring Crocus with bee \n  \nDew & Honey \n  \nSip by sip in thimble cup \nthe meadow bees will drink it up \nthen ferry home to bounty’s hive \nflower’s flavor\, hum and thrive \nto show us how through word and song \nby gestures small and patience long \nin spite of our old foolish ways \nWe may fashion better days. \n  \nSo\, my friend\, come sip and savor \nsyllables as crumbs of pleasure— \nby honor in each conversation \nwe begin a better nation. \n  \n—Singer Come from Afar by Kim Stafford \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #5  Storm over Fresno \n  \nWeather cell moving east after furious rain/hail storm at Fresno Dam (North Central Montana) \n  \nRain \n  \nThe Beauty in the rain is expressed \nas wildflowers on the hillside. \nThe gift in the rain is accessible  \nas the bounty of our table. \nBemoan not the lack of sunshine \nbut rejoice in rain’s gift of life.  \nFor without the rain you and I do not exist. \n  \n—From the Other Side: Poetry and Stories by Neall Ryon \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #6  Beartooth Mountains peak (South Central Montana) \n  \nSince you’re not merely a body\, it is inestimable how much of the cosmos lies within the folds of your mind. I wonder if you know how much light\, love\, and peace you carry around. \n  \n—Love & Blessings: The Autobiography of Guru Nitya Chaitanya Yati \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #7  Clouds over Bearpaw Lake (North Central Montana) \n  \nNature offers up gifts of incredible beauty every day.But first we have to be there with eyes and heart wide open\, to witness in order to receive these precious gifts. Doesn’t matter where you are: backyard\, county road\, mountains\, city park\, even a prison yard! They’re for everyone\, with no barriers of color\, gender\, economics\, or religion. She says\, “Come one\, come all.” \n  \n \nPhoto #8  Hiking Glacier Park in August (Northwest Montana) \n  \n“If you don’t make time for your wellness\, you will be forced to make time for your illness.” \n  \n \nPhoto #9  Cutthroat Trout \n  \nI see in this fish\, in the grass\, in a bird\, a tree\, an ant\, and in myself the identical notes and words of a song played and sung across the cosmos. \n  \n \nPhoto #10  Reflection \n  \nAll that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world. What we think and what we believe creates the experience we have in life. As sure as the cart follows the ox\, we are what we think. \n  \n—Siddhartha Gautama Buddha\, c. 520 BC \n  \n  \n \nPhoto #11  On Big Horn River (North Central Wyoming) \n  \nFinding delight in the moment\, no matter what the circumstances! One of my most favorite photographs. \n  \nTo be continued… \n  \n  \nAbe sent 22 photographs\, with accompanying texts. Look for the rest in the next issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding.  (JS)
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-20-22/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220120
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220226
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20200324T184257Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220120T223202Z
UID:617-1642636800-1645833599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:NURTURING CULTURE & COMMUNITY
DESCRIPTION:We need to nurture culture and community during this time when our options for getting together are limited. Here are a few suggestions\, for starters: \nEvery other Sunday at 3\, please join us for Bibliophiles Unanimous!: The Open Road Literary Salon. \nSubscribe to The Open Road’s peace\, love\, happiness & understanding journal. Use the Contact form on this website to let us know if you’d like to get it in your inbox every other week. \nBrowse through the 375\,000 high-resolution images of public domain works from the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art! \nRight now (3/18/21) you can watch Zeina Daccache’s documentary “Johar Up In the Air” on the Catharsis Facebook page!  Zeina has been making her films available for free during this challenging time. It’s a rare opportunity to watch these great films. Don’t miss it! \nThe Fourth Shakespeare in Prisons Conference highlighted Ashley Lucas’ new book Prison Theatre and the Global Crisis of Incarceration. I interviewed Ashley for the September 3\, 2020 issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding. \nThe Metropolitan Opera shows a new opera every day starting at 4:30 pm (PDT). Each opera streams for 20 hours. Here’s the link to the Metropolitan Opera. \nThe Portland Japanese Garden  is open again. Hurray! \nVirtual group meditation daily at  The Village Zendo    \nHost a Zoom meeting of your own! It’s easy. I’m hosting two every week. I really love seeing and hearing my friends–some of whom are far away. \nWALT WHITMAN FUN: For two years now\, we have celebrated Walt Whitman’s birthday with a group reading of “Song of Myself” on Zoom at the end of May! You can also listen to an interview I did a couple years ago on Marfa Public radio: “Song of Myself” interview with Johnny Stallings . Perin Kerns turned me on to the amazing “Whitman\, Alabama” documentary by Jennifer Crandall\, which features a wonderful array of people reading verses from “Song of Myself.”  \nFollow Kim Stafford on Instagram and get inspired on a regular basis! \nEnjoy this song from Mexico\, Mexico Lindo y Querido\, thanks to Playing for Change! \nLots of adventure suggestions at  Virtual Concerts\, Play\, Museums\, et cetera    \nGet a poem-a-day from poets.org.   \nLOTS of ideas at The Social Distancing Festival! \nThe Random Acts of Kindness Foundation is brainstorming and heartstorming ideas. Check out their website and learn more. \npeace\, love & happiness \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/nurturing-culture-community-without-gathering-together/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220115
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220215
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220115T173921Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220115T184819Z
UID:2543-1642204800-1644883199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  1/15/22
DESCRIPTION:Hotei \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  January 15\, 2022 \n  \nLive light\, travel light\, spread the light\, be the light. \n—tag on Yogi Tea bag \n  \nEvery thing that lives is Holy. \n—William Blake \n  \nEach thought\, each action in the sunlight of awareness becomes sacred. In this light\, no boundary exists between the sacred and the profane. \n—Thich Nhat Hanh\, from Your True Home\, #269 \n  \nKen Margolis sent this poem by our friend Dennis Wiancko: \n  \n      Our Mother’s Prayer \n  \nOur Mother\, Whose name is Earth\, \nHallowed be Your ground \nAnd Your skies \nAnd Your rolling seas \n  \nYour gardens thrive; Your spirit alive \nThrough woodlands\, streams\, \nMountains and plains \nEverywhere \n  \nGrant us this day our needs for tomorrow \nAnd refresh us with Your living waters \n  \nForgive us our mistreatment \nAs we would forgive those who cause you harm \n  \nLift us from negligence\, and deliver us from greed\, \nFor Yours is the home\, and the beauty\, \nAnd the life that sustains us\, \nAnd we would love\, respect\, and care for You \nNow and ever\, ever forward. \n  \n—R. Dennis Wiancko 2016 \n* \n  \nKim sent a poem and some thoughts from the Dalai Lama.  \n  \n      Etiquette of Thought \n  \nWhen first you wake\, you may wonder \nwithout knowing. Dream work still rules. \nThen\, the coffee\, you begin to know \nwithout saying. The mind has a mind \nof its own. When others wake\, you may \nsay without asking\, caught in your own \nlittle world. But with luck\, a little grace\, \nyou may then ask and listen\, and by this \nblessing\, work your way back to wonder. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n  \nHere is what a friend told me she learned from the Dalai Lama when he visited her nonprofit in India: \n  \nKindness brings joyfulness \nservice to others brings joyfulness \nwe are made for goodness \nthe gift of suffering makes us appreciate joy  \njoy is our work of giving joy to others \nhappiness is a result of kindness  \nwell being is a skill  \nwhile you are alive your life should be meaningful  \n  \n—Dalai Lama \n* \n  \n[There is a] marvelous story in the world of Zen Buddhism where the man is standing on the hill in the distance and a group of people come along and see him standing there and begin to wonder why he’s standing there. So they have quite a full discussion of the possibilities of what caused him to be standing there. When they finally  reach him\, they say we’ve been having this discussion about why you’re standing here. Which one of us is right? He says\, I have no reason. I’m just standing here. \n  \n—John Cage\, from Musicage: Cage Muses on Words Art Music\, p. 129 \n* \n  \nJason Beito shared this from his friend Steve Decker\, who recently released to Portland. Steve is a student of Siddha Yoga. \n  \nTo celebrate gratitude is to express gratitude. \n  \nThe origin of the word “sacrifice” is: “to make sacred.” \n  \n“Love is\, first and foremost\, sacrifice. More than passion\, romantic declarations\, or outer expressions of loyalty and faith. Where there is true love\, there is a willingness to give one’s essence in its service—whether as a mother who sacrifices for her children\, a leader for his country\, a seeker to his spiritual practices\, or an artist to his art.”—Siddha Yoga \n  \n“A man who enjoys what is given by the gods \nwithout offering something in return\, \nhe is a thief and lives in vain.”—the Vedas \n  \nLet’s make our lives Sacred. \n  \nThanks for what you give to me \nand to so many others. \n  \n—Jason Beito \n* \nFor me\, the beginning of each day is an important time. I like to find my way to what I call “The Golden World.” When I feel that I am “in” the Golden World\, everything is beautiful\, perfect\, miraculous. I silently say “thank you.” Thought and language fall away. Without a care in the world\, I feel slightly elated. I have no problems. No ambitions. No fears. No boundary. There is no distinction between “me” and “the world.” This nameless feeling is quite lovely. It’s Paradise.  \n  \nAs the day goes on\, and I get busy with various activities\, I like to take good care of my feelings of peace and love and happiness. I want to see everyone I meet\, including my plant and animal friends\, as the beautiful luminous beings we are. \n  \nI got a new book by Thich Nhat Hanh yesterday: Zen and the Art of Saving the Planet. It’s edited from his talks and writings by Sister True Dedication. I like this poem. It reminds me of a poem by Walt Whitman: \n  \nI have been looking for you\, my child\, \nSince the time when rivers and mountains still lay in obscurity. \nI was looking for you when you were still in a deep sleep\, \nAlthough the conch had many times \nEchoed in the ten directions. \nFrom our ancient mountain I looked at distant lands \nAnd recognized your steps on so many different paths. \nWhere are you going? \n  \nIn former lifetimes you have often taken my hand \nAnd we have enjoyed walking together. \nWe have sat for long hours at the foot of old pine trees. \nWe have stood side by side in silence \nListening to the sound of the wind softly calling us \nAnd looking up at the white clouds floating by. \nYou have picked up and given to me the first red autumn leaf \nAnd I have taken you through forests deep in snow. \nBut wherever we go\, we always return to our \nAncient mountain to be near to the moon and stars\, \nTo invite the great bell every morning to sound\, \nAnd help all beings to wake up. \n  \n—from “At the Edge of the Forest\,” by Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \n  \n      We Two\, How Long We Were Fool’d \n  \nWe two\, how long we were fool’d\, \nNow transmuted\, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes\, \nWe are Nature\, long have we been absent\, but now we return\, \nWe become plants\, trunks\, foliage\, roots\, bark\, \nWe are bedded in the ground\, we are rocks\, \nWe are oaks\, we grow in the openings side by side\, \nWe browse\, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any\, \nWe are two fishes swimming in the sea together\, \nWe are what locust blossoms are\, we drop scent around lanes mornings and evenings\, \nWe are also the coarse smut of beasts\, vegetables\, minerals\, \nWe are two predatory hawks\, we soar above and look down\, \nWe are two resplendent suns\, we it is who balance ourselves orbic and stellar\, we are as two comets\, \nWe prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods\, we spring on prey\, \nWe are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead\, \nWe are seas mingling\, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling over each other and interwetting each other\, \nWe are what the atmosphere is\, transparent\, receptive\, pervious\, impervious\, \nWe are snow\, rain\, cold\, darkness\, we are each product and influence of the globe\, \nWe have circled and circled till we have arrived home again\, we two\, \nWe have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy. \n  \n—Walt Whitman \n  \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nFirst\, a disclaimer: These monthly musings of mine from Your True Home are appearing to me to be less worldly and philosophical and more self-absorbed than others’ entries. Maybe it’s okay; these ‘everyday wisdoms’ of Thich Nhat Hanh force me to be self-reflective\, and I guess its about time—-just a couple weeks away from turning 78\, I’m thinking maybe Socrates is right about the unexamined life. So. \n  \n#111-Taking Care of the Future \n“The future is being made out of the present\, so the best way to take care of the future is to take care of the present moment. This is logical and clear. Spending a lot of time speculating and worrying about the future is totally useless. We can only take care of our future by taking care of the present moment\, because the future is made out of only one substance: the present. Only if you are anchored in the present can you prepare well for the future.” \n  \nWhew\,  I’m in luck\, because I am not a planner\, not an organizer\, not a ‘projectionist.’  “Goals” is a foreign word to me. In my late 30s\, post divorce\, I took a business class for artists\, and the instructor asked us to write down our ‘short term goals\,’ and our ‘long term goals.’ Huh?!?!? What’s that? Okay- 1. to make enough money for my daughter and me\, and 2. to be rich and famous hahaha (groan\, yes\, I wrote that).  Next question: What is your business plan to accomplish these goals?  Umm\, well\, like in the card game of Hearts\, I’ll shoot the moon! Meaning\, I’ll just go all out\, risk everything\, and just do it!  Fortunately\, there was no grading in that class. \n  \nAnd my almost-80-year-old husband keeps asking almost-78-year-old me how long\, how many years\, I think we can stay in this house\, with its ever lengthening staircase\, menacing throw rugs nipping at our toes\, and acre of whining\, demanding property to care for. Well\, forever! Climbing those stairs twenty time a day keeps us strong; tripping on throw rugs is good practice for balance\, and…oh\, just look at this peony.  \n  \nI should be thinking of the future\, but I keep forgetting. If I try to think ahead I get sidetracked\, distracted by something that’s happening right then: OMG\, Lolo’s fur is sooo soft on my cheek. I’ve never had a dog whose fur smelled so sweet. And she’s an old dog. Don’t old dogs smell? Lolo\, you’re the sweetest.  \n  \nSame with anger\, resentment\, worry. I can be stewing away vigorously about something—that guy in front of me is flipping snow all over me from his snowshoes. I should tell him how to stop doing…OH! Look at this!! It’s snowing tiny flakes and they look like diamonds sparkling with the sun shining behind them. Or fireflies! Yeah\, fireflies\, blinking on and off… \n  \nBut back to Taking Care of the Future; I trust TNH\, but I don’t quite understand how being anchored in the present can prepare you well for the future. Doesn’t ‘anchored’ mean ‘stuck?’ Shouldn’t you replace ‘worrying’ with the more positive word\, ‘planning?’ How does noticing dog fur and snowflakes help me prepare for the future? I’m serious.  \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nHere is something I have been meditating on for some time now. \n       \nMercy and forgiveness. I used to think that these two kindnesses could only be truly given by those who you had wronged. But if we can’t forgive ourselves first\, the forgiveness given can not be truly accepted by us.  \n        \nThere recently came a time when I finally was able to forgive myself. I had hated the person I USED to be\, and for years kept doing this ritual of inner self abuse for the pain I had caused others.  \n         \nI had a good dose of my past life recently and I could not function in that way any longer. I no longer was that person. Confused\, I meditated.  \n  \nThis man that I am now would never do the things the old man would do. The very thought is unpalatable to me now in every way. A person that has gone through such a massive life reformation should be allotted a small dose of mercy\, a reprieve from sins of a damaged past life—a life that was poisoned from birth by people who were themselves abused. No one is to blame. No one. It is the world and if I have seen the change in myself others must see it too. I feel I have grown into a remorseful man\, guilty of what I did\, and extremely repentant. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \n(Rocky’s words remind me of King Lear’s: “None does offend. None\, I say. None.”) (JS) \n  \nBelow is a quote from Alan Lightman (who wrote Einstein’s Dreams) that I have saved to my computer. Every so often I open the file and am inspired again by his vast vision.  \n  \n“The individual atoms\, cycled through wind and water and soil\, cycled through generations and generations of living creatures and minds\, will repeat and connect and make a whole out of parts. Although impermanent\, they make a permanence. Although scattered they make a totality.”  \n  \nIt reminds me that we don’t have to create or forge connections–everything is already in that state of union. It is just necessary to see past fog and illusion to the very interknit whole that we all are. Here are two poems of mine that express the same idea in slightly different ways. \n  \n  \nDirt’s Revelation \n  \nUnearthed in Sussex\, the now un-favored\, \nalmost forgotten word\, smeuse\, \ndescribing holes small animals make\, \npassageways through hedges and forest\, \nfrom lawn to lawn\, a hidey-hole\, smeuse\, \nthe unknown word once familiar\, \nnow waiting to be noticed\, little path \nin the dark from your heart to mine\, \nboth of us looking askance\, \npretending not to see but knowing \nall along this hidden world is life saving\, \nessential\, our worlds interwoven \nand dependent on the other. \nSmeuse\, word and passage\, \nis only an excuse \nwhere we pretend to be alone \nneeding connection. \nOh\, lovely play acting\, our face-saving \nlittle charm where we live as separate— \nbut the tunneling smeuse \nbetrays us in the dirt\, excavating \nthe truth of our necessary complicity \nand consummation. \n  \n  \nTime’s Velocity \n  \nThe water like glass\, we look  \nand see ourselves transparent\,  \nthen rippled and below \nare rounded rocks\, small fish.  \nCold eddies form around our hands  \nas we reach in trying to touch  \nthe reflected clouds\, ourselves\, a shadow. \nThe flow keeps moving farther and deeper  \nwhile the smell of water\, of time\, of glass  \nall mingle\, flaring our nostrils. \nWe wonder where have those hours gone\, \nnow years\, now memories we reach for\, \nso electric\, so evanescent. \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nHappy New Year. So glad to be here together. I’ve been thinking about New year’s resolutions.    \n  \nI’m living with a Young Thai woman in the household now. My son’s wife. In Thailand and other Buddhist cultures\, the New Year is highly celebrated with lights\, lanterns\, and joy. Of course it isn’t 30 degrees there and snowing.    \n  \nRather than resolutions about doing things\, they set intentions for how they want to be. Right intention is one of the paths on the eightfold path. Being in loving relationship with ourselves\, one another and with all beings on earth is what we are dedicated to on the Open Road. Here is something from the powerful bell hooks to give us a little boost for a new year:  \n   \nbell hooks died in December and her work is now celebrated in all sorts of arenas. She was an African American author\, teacher\, academic and social activist. In a career spanning four decades\, she has explored and written on a variety of themes including racism\, feminism\, culture and education. Her work has centered on identifying and challenging systems of oppression and discrimination which are based on race\, sex and class. In her last years she was most influenced by the teachings and life of Thich Nhat Hanh. Here is an excerpt from one of her talks where she speaks about her realization about the importance of Love as a practice for transformation.   \n  \nToward a Worldwide Culture of Love  \n  \nBY BELL HOOKS| JUNE 8\, 2021  \n  \n“Fundamentally\, the practice of love begins with acceptance—the recognition that wherever we are is the appropriate place to practice\, that the present moment is the appropriate time. But for so many of us our longing to love and be loved has always been about a time to come\, a space in the future when it will just happen\, when our hungry hearts will finally be fed\, when we will find love. . . ( She attended a conference that was more like a Love-In than an intellectual gathering about social justice and experienced a great shift). . .  Sacred presence was there\, a spirit of love and compassion like spring mist covered us\, and loving-kindness embraced me and my words. This is always the measure of mindful practice—whether we can create the conditions for love and peace in circumstances that are difficult\, whether we can stop resisting and surrender\, working with what we have\, where we are.”  \n  \nThe practice of love\, says bell hooks\, is the most powerful antidote to the politics of domination. She traces her thirty-year meditation on love\, power\, and Buddhism\, and concludes it is only love that transforms our personal relationships and heals the wounds of oppression.  \n  \nHer story makes me think about the shift that has taken place for all of us during performances in prison. When the production comes out of love and tolerance and caring during dialogue group then there is a magical transfer to creating a work of art that has meaning for us all.   \n  \nThis feeling seeps through our meditation and mindfulness conversation\, as we read together and reflect on our own practice\, alone but also together in a sangha that knows no walls. It is like our interbeing relationship with Thay as a writer and teacher; he is here because we are here\, responding with one another.  \n  \nin gratitude for your ongoing practice and presence everyone\,     \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-1-15-22/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220109T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20220109T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220108T212313Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220108T213443Z
UID:2537-1641740400-1641747600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  1/9/22
DESCRIPTION:Woman Reading at a Desk (c. 1910) by Thomas P. Anshutz \n  \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! This week\, Sunday\, January 9th\, at 3 pm (PST)\, our theme is “Read Any Good Books Lately?” Or a long time ago? Here’s the link for the Zoom gathering: \n  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \n  \n  \nI hope to see you there! \n  \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-1-9-22/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Unknown-40.jpeg
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20220106
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220120
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20220108T204359Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T130239Z
UID:2529-1641427200-1642636799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  1/6/22
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJanuary 6\, 2022 \n  \nDr. Cornel West gave the Collins Distinguished Speaker Lecture at the University of Oregon\, on April 26\, 2019. His lecture was titled “Race Matters…A Timely Discussion on the Fabric of America.” On YouTube\, the talk is titled “What It Means to Be Human.” This is a transcription of the first part of the talk: \n  \n  \nWhat It Means to Be Human \n  \nFour hundred years of being hated—individually\, systemically\, chronically\, institutionally\, and yet the best of the Black tradition is what? Teaching the world so much about love. I could just turn on John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” right now\, and sit down. Just let you take it in. Or I could read passages from Toni Morrison’s Beloved. A love so thick that it takes the form of the killing of your precious baby\, because you don’t want your baby dirtied and thingified by white supremacist persons\, practices\, institutions\, structures. I could read the love-soaked essays of James Baldwin\, the son of Harlem. Never went to college\, but at least two colleges went through him. He would say over and over again: “Love forces us to take off the mask we know we cannot live within\, but fear we cannot live without.” Courage. Interrogation. There’s never been a figure on the American stage—given all of the genius and talent\, of Eugene O’Neill and probably the greatest indictment ever written of the American Empire in The Iceman Cometh\, or Tennessee Williams\, or Arthur Miller\, or August Wilson\, or Adrienne Kennedy—but I’m talkin’ about Loraine Hansbury’s A Raisin in the Sun. Has there ever been a figure with more love than Mama on the American stage? Five generations enacted\, and her attempt to bequeath and to transmit what the Isley Brothers would call “a caravan of love” to that younger generation. Walter keeps Travis\, in light of Old Man Walter—you oughta know the play—who dies\, who bequeaths ten thousand dollars\, to see whether they’ll get to that vanilla suburb or not. But that’s not the end and aim of it. The aim is: measuring people based on their courageous attempt to cultivate the capacity to think for themselves. To learn how to love. And to laugh. And to hope. I could turn on Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On?” Every note and the silence between the notes. “Save the babies.” “Who really cares?” Or Stevie Wonder’s “Love’s in Need of Love.” But this love that we’re talking about again—this is not abstract. It is concrete\, and it is as real as a heart attack. And it has something to do with the Socratic legacy of Athens. It has something to do with line 38A of Plato’s Apology: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And we know the Greek actually said: “The unexamined life is not the life of a human.” And we know our English word “human” comes from the Latin humando\, which means what? Burial and burying. We’re beings on the way to death. And you can’t talk about race matters\, you can’t talk about what it means to be human\, without talking about wrestling with forms of death and what it means to be on intimate relations with forms of death. Early physical deaths\, indeed\, but also social death. That 244 years of  white supremacist slavery attempt to make them socially dead\, in the language of the great Orlando Patterson\, in his 1982 classic\, Slavery and Social Death. Unsuccessful. Resistance\, resilience still kicks in\, but the attempt to impose a social death. And then a psychic death. And what is psychic death? Well\, for black people in the modern world it has to do with trying to wrestle against the forces of niggerization. Because to niggerize a people is to try to convince them they’re less beautiful\, they’re less intelligent\, they’re less moral—to instill in them unbelievable fear\, to instill in them this sense  that they oughta be scared all the time\, and intimidated all the time. Laughin’ when it ain’t funny. Scratchin’ when it don’t itch. Wearing the mask\, as Paul Lawrence Dunbar said it in his great poem. That’s why one of the most powerful sentences in James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time\, is that line in the letter to the nephew: “Don’t\, comma\, be afraid.” That’s why Marcus Garvey would always have a black person in front of every major demonstration with a big sign: “The negro is not afraid.” Even if they’re shaking\, carrying the sign. That’s why the great Mary Ellen Pleasant\, who was the first black woman millionaire in America\, known as “the Mother of Human Rights in California.” She happened to be a black domestic maid who married a white Robber Baron\, and he dropped dead. She got all his money. And she didn’t kill him. It was a natural thing. But never forget Mary Ellen Pleasant. She gave eight hundred thousand dollars to a white brother named John Brown. That’s how he survived financially on his way to Harper’s Ferry. She would start every lecture\, all over California\, with the line: “I’d rather be a corpse than a coward.” Just like Martin Luther King\, Jr. would always say to his staff: “I’d rather be dead than afraid.” Wrestling with what it means to be human. Being on intimate terms with death. And the echoes\, going back to Plato\, when he says: “Philosophy itself is a meditation on and preparation for death.” Philo sophia\, “love of wisdom.” Meditation on\, preparation for: death. And even Seneca—and we don’t expect too much profundity from the Romans\, they’re so busy running an empire\, very much like we Americans—he used to say: “He or she who learns how to die\, unlearns slavery.” I’ve told my students for 41 years of my very blessed life of teaching: “When you come in my classroom\, you’re here to learn how to die.” “Oh Brother West\, I thought I was just taking a Philosophy class\, to read some texts\, and get a grade.” “No\, no! This is paideia. This is p-a-i-d-e-i-a. This is deep education. This is not cheap schooling.” When you’re talking about race matters you’re not just talking about skill acquisition and information. You’re talking about self-interrogation and social transformation. And the best of the University of Oregon\, with all of the challenges that go along with any institution of higher learning in our late Capitalist civilization that’s undergoing commodification\, bureaucratization\, corporatization\, rationalization\, making it more and more difficult for any kind of paideia to take place. But the students come in so pre-professional. Can’t wait to make their move into the professions. “No\, you gotta learn how to think first. No\, you gotta learn how to laugh first. You gotta learn how to play first. You gotta wrestle with what it means to be human.” “I’ll get to that later on\, I just need my skills.” Oh\, what makes you think any democracy can survive\, based on dominant forces of corporatization\, commodification\, bureaucratization and rationalization\, in the Weberian sense? You’re gonna end up\, as Du Bois said so powerfully in The Souls of Black Folk: “Caught in the dusty desert of smartness and dollars.” And in many ways that’s where we are. I don’t know about the University of Oregon\, but back at Harvard oftentimes the highest thing a student can say about themselves is they’re the smartest in the room. And I tell ‘em: “Let the phones be smart\, and you be wise.” The fantasizing of smartness\, tied to richness—how spiritually empty! How morally vacuous! And\, most importantly\, reinforcing the worst protocols of professional culture\, which are conformity\, complacency\, and when it’s time to actually act\, cowardliness. Because the careerism and the opportunism are so overwhelming . Thank God for Socrates. Thank God for all of those who are willing to\, first\, begin with themselves. Self-examination. Self-interrogation. And when you give up an assumption or presupposition\, when you give up a dogma or a doctrine—that’s a form of death. And there is no education without that kind of death. There’s no maturation without that kind of death. That’s what learning how to die is all about. One of the greatest eulogies ever written—one sentence—by a sister named Dorothy Day\, one of the great prophetic figures of the Twentieth Century. She’s my fellow Catholic sister. When Martin Luther King\, Jr.\, was murdered\, April 4th\, 1968\, in her historic newspaper The Catholic Worker she said: “Martin Luther King\, Jr. learned how to die daily.” To continually grow\, continually mature\, and it’s endless\, it is perennial\, and you always end up in a moment of inadequacy—almost an echo of our great lapsed Protestant artistic genius\, Samuel Beckett\, when he said: “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” That’s the best that we can do. But you’re continually in process\, calling yourself into question\, interrogating whatever assumptions you are falling back on. That’s Socratic energy at its highest level. To come to terms with race matters is to begin with self always already tied to society\, always already tied to forms of death\, forms of dogma\, and forms of domination. To be human is to wrestle with those inescapable and unavoidable realities\, to drop any linguistically conscious primate\, like ourselves\, in time and space\, means you’re gonna have to wrestle with forms of death—first\, bodily extinction\, the psychic and spiritual death\, possibly civic death\, forms of patriarchy\, class-based\, could be empire\, colonized people. But then: dogma—ideological dogma\, religious dogma\, political dogma\, scientific dogma. You say: “Brother West\, how could there be scientific dogma? To be scientific is to be always concerned about questioning.” “Read the history of science.” Just read it closely. The great John Dewey always made a distinction between scientific method and scientific temper. The method itself can become a dogma. Just like skepticism. If you’re not skeptical about skepticism you get locked into a certain kind of skepticism. And in the end it becomes a matter of adolescent activity\, because skepticism usually presupposes the vantage point of a spectator. Whereas\, criticism is one of a participant. So\, you can play all kinds of games as a spectator\, but when you are involved\, when it comes to your house\, and your loved ones\, all of a sudden things shift. And that’s one of the great stories of white supremacy in the United States. So often people can be in a state of denial. Look at the U.S. Constitution: any reference to the institution of white supremacist slavery? No! Twenty-two percent of the inhabitants of the thirteen colonies are enslaved. No reference to the institution in your constitution. You’re gonna end up havin’ a Civil War of 750\,000 precious people killed over an institution not invoked in your constitution. “Well\, Professor West\, that’s just a fascinating tension between principal and practice.” “Get off the crack pipe!” That’s called denial. That’s called avoidance. That’s called thinking in fact that you can somehow\, through willful ignorance\, treat people\, conceive of yourself\, in ways that those effects and consequences won’t come back to haunt you. What did Malcolm X call it? “Chickens comin’ home to roost.” Sooner or later\, you’re gonna reap what you sow. Sooner or later\, what you think you’ve been able to escape from is gonna hunt you down. We’re seeing that right now in imperial America. We end up killing almost a million Muslims and can’t say a mumblin’ word in our public discourse. Invasions of Iraq\, Afghanistan\, Pakistan. And then you get the counter-terrorists and we wonder why they’re upset. Now\, terrorism\, for me\, needs to be called into question across the board. Taking the life of innocent human beings\, for any reason\, is a crime against humanity. But no serious concern about how many Iraqis died. Same is true with our drones. Innocent folk in Yemen and Somalia and Pakistan\, Libya\, Afghanistan can die. Kill one American—Brother Barack did what? Had a press conference that same day. Gave economic compensation for the family that same day. And yet already denied that they killed any innocent people\, as a whole. Quit lyin’! Quit lyin’! Keep track of human beings! Those babies in Yemen and Somalia\, those babies in Pakistan—they have exactly the same status and significance as black babies in South Central Los Angeles\, as brown babies in East Los Angeles\, as white babies in Newtown Connecticut\, as yellow babies in San Francisco. And we like to talk about it in the abstract\, but when it comes time to being actually tested in our actions\, we’re livin’ in denial. We might as well be in Disneyworld on Main Street. And what’s fascinating about Disneyworld—so stereotypically and quintessentially American? There’s a lot of fun there. But there’s no life. And there’s no life because there’s no death. If somebody’s about to die in Disneyworld\, you just take ‘em and push ‘em across the line. “You’re gonna besmirch our image. Nobody’s supposed to die in Disneyworld\, now.” Ah! I’m bein’ facetious. Y’all get the point\, though. Escapist! Escapist! Escapist! Given all of the overwhelming sense of possibility\, and supposedly prosperity\, and yet\, one out of two of our children\, black and brown\, under six years old\, live in poverty in the richest nation in the history of the world. That’s a moral disgrace! Where’s the discourse about it? Martin Luther King\, Jr. turns over in his grave. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel turns over in his grave. Are we gonna actually keep track of the underside? Are we gonna be Socratic enough that we can keep track of the Conrad-like heart of darkness shot through all of the life of liberty that we talk about in the United States? Or\, sooner or later\, you’re gonna reap what you sow. Absolutely. And of course\, usually the people who raise this issue end up being misunderstood\, misconstrued\, marginalized\, incarcerated\, or shot down like a dog. The truth is too much! It’s too overwhelming! Rather close one’s eyes. And yet\, when the crisis comes\, ooh\, lo and behold! That’s why race matters in regard to indigenous peoples\, in regard to our precious brown brothers and sisters. Moving borders. I grew up in California. Used to be Mexico. Read what Ulysses S. Grant says about the Mexican War. Just massive gentrification\, a power grab\, and a land grab\, across the board. Immigration discourse. Well\, they comin’ home. They comin’ home. That used to be theirs. Viciously\, immorally taken. Or Asian brothers and sisters. The very year in which we had the Statue of Liberty—“Give me your poor”—there’s the Chinese Exclusion Act. So much for our universality. And of course you all here in Oregon\, you know about the Black Exclusion Acts of 1844. Is that right? You know about those? [Someone in the audience says: “No\, we don’t.”] Well\, they need to know. I’m gonna put up a picture. Serious exclusion acts. Black folk can’t step foot in Oregon. “But we’re anti-slavery.” “Yes\, but you’re anti-black people\, at the same time.” That is highly possible. We human beings\, we’re so creative when it comes to mistreatin’ each other. Be against slavery\, but don’t want black folks too close. Can’t stand the institution\, but oh\, when those live human beings and bodies get close\, we’re overwhelmed. That’s part of the challenge\, too. That’s why any discussion about race is never simply a discussion about policy\, structural institutions—as crucial as structural institutions are. But it’s also about the ways in which subjectivities are constructed\, the ways in which individuals are created. And then\, the choices that people make\, not just as persons\, but in collectivities\, in groups\, in communities. And that’s one of the reasons why the best of the University of Oregon or any other institution of higher learning has to put such a stress on that Socratic legacy of Athens\, that paideia. And that line 24A of Plato’s Apology\, when Socrates says: “Parrhesia is the cause of my unpopularity.” What is parrhesia—p-a-r-r-h-e-s-i-a? Frank speech. Fearless speech. Plain speech. Unintimidated speech. Education at its highest level is about fusing the formation of our wise attention with the cultivation of our critical thinking\, that’s linked to the maturation of compassionate and courageous people. Now\, we raised the question: “Is courage a dominant virtue in our universities?” Hell\, no! No\, it’s not at all. It’s about smartness. It’s about status. And\, too often\, arrogance and condescension. Courage is tied to fortitude. Fortitude is tied to a certain humility. Socrates!: “I know that I know more than others precisely because I know that I know nothing. And they think they know something they do not know.” Intellectual humility. Personal humility. But it’s tied also to a tenacity. “I’m going to raise whatever is inside of me to think for myself\,” as Kant put it in What is Enlightenment?  of 1784. The release from self-incurred tutelage. The release from self-imposed immaturity. Dare to think for yourself! That’s what it is to find a voice of my own black tradition. So when Monk tells Coltrane\, “You been imitatin’ Johnny Hodges of the Duke Ellington Band too much\, John. It’s time for you to find your voice. What does Trane sound like?” And I don’t know how many of you all had a chance to see “Amazing Grace.” Has that hit Eugene yet? Aretha\, twenty-nine years old\, walks into James Cleveland’s church and raises her voice. And who’s on the front row? Not just her father\, Reverend C. L. Franklin\, one of the finest of all preachers enacting such a grand oratorical art\, but Clara Ward—echoes of Marion Williams—those Aretha imitated\, until she found her voice. I don’t know if many of you all got a chance to see “Homecoming” yet\, about Beyonce. Oh\, we got some Queen Bee beehives up in here? Oh\, sooki sooki\, now. Yeah. So what does she do when she enters predominantly white space? She brings her whole crew with her\, doesn’t she? She brings her whole culture with her—two hundred musicians linked to historically black college performances. And the performances are not mere entertainment. Each one of them are lifting their voices\, just like Duke Ellington’s orchestra. Just like James Brown’s band. Just like the musicians in Sly Stone’s group. Each one finding their voice. And they bounce off against each other. Ralph Ellison called it “antagonistic cooperation.” ‘Cause it’s not competition in the market-driven sense: “I’m so good\, and you’re sounding so bad.” No. Grow up. We’re in this together. And\, most importantly\, kenosis. And this is what oftentimes is missing in any serious talk about race matters\, especially in the academy\, but even outside. And what is kenosis—k-e-n-o-s-i-s? Kenosis is self-emptying\, self-donating\, self-giving. It’s like the end of a James Brown concert\, when he comes out and says\, “I’m an extension of you. You’re an extension of me. I’ve just given you three-and-a-half hours of all that I am. Did anybody come here to hear a song we did not play?” “You didn’t play ‘Soul Power\,’ James.” He says\, “Hit it\, Bootsie!” Because you come to serve. You’re not a spectacle. I go to some of these concerts with these young brothers and sisters\, highly talented\, and all that spectacle hits. I went to one of Usher’s concerts. That negro was flippin’ over like he was in a circus. I said: “ Pick up the microphone and sing a song\, negro! I didn’t come here for all this mess!” Spectacle! That’s late Capitalist culture. Image! Spectacle! Superficiality! Titillation! Stimulation! All Aretha Franklin needs is a microphone. She sits down—is that right\, my sister?—she sits down at that piano and what does she do? Within three minutes she has touched you in parts of your soul you forgot about. Because she has mastered her craft and her technique in such a way\, but she’s there to give\, she’s there to enable\, she’s there to empower. She wants people to leave feeling as if they could take on death and its forms\, domination and its forms\, dogma and its forms\, and be ready to die with dignity\, physically\, and then hope your afterlife will be at work in the lives of those who come after. Oh\, what a great conception of what it is to be human! Black folk have no monopoly on this. This is a human thing\, across the board…. \n  \n  \nSorry to stop here. This is about halfway through his talk. It takes quite a while to transcribe it from the video\, I’m a day late in getting out this issue\, and this is about our normal length. Those of you with access to the Internet are encouraged to watch the whole lecture on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aekb3ppKm5w&t=1813s). (JS) \n  \n  \nDr. West has taught at Yale\, Princeton and Harvard. He currently teaches at Union Theological Seminary in New York. 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-6-22/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211223
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220106
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20211223T220544Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211223T220725Z
UID:2521-1640217600-1641427199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  12/23/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nDecember 23\, 2021 \n  \nQuite a long time ago\, I adapted this short story by Fyodor Dostoevsky and performed it. I hope you enjoy it! (J.S.) \n  \n  \nDream of a Ridiculous Man \n  \nI’m ridiculous. Some people think I’m crazy. Which is better\, in a way\, except that they also think I’m ridiculous. But I don’t mind. I love everyone. I’ll tell you why. See\, that’s what I want to talk to you about. About why I love you. Even though I don’t know you. Even if you laugh at me. I’d laugh too–not exactly at myself\, but just to join in–but I feel so sad when I look at you. Because you don’t know the truth. And I do. It’s hard being the only one who knows the truth.  \n  \nI used to feel depressed about seeming ridiculous. Not seeming. Being. I’ve always been ridiculous\, and I think I’ve known it since the day I was born. Well\, for sure by the time I went to school. The more I learned\, the more I understood that I was ridiculous. Life was just like school in that respect. Everyone always laughed at me. But nobody ever suspected that if there was one person on earth who knew better than anybody else that I was ridiculous\, it was me! And what really irritated me was that nobody knew that I knew. But that was my own fault. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone. I was too proud. My pride was so strong that if I had confessed to anyone that I was ridiculous\, I think I would have blown out my brains the same evening. As a kid\, I lived in constant fear that one day I would break down and tell one of the other kids. But as I got older I became a lot calmer for some reason. I don’t know… Maybe it was because I was becoming very disheartened about something that I couldn’t do anything about\, which was that I was slowly but surely coming to the rather cheerless conclusion that nothing in the whole world made any difference. This idea had been creeping up on me for a long time\, but I became fully convinced of it only last year. All of a sudden. I suddenly felt that it made no difference to me whether the world existed or whether nothing existed at all. I became acutely conscious that nothing mattered. I thought: probably things had mattered in the past. But as I thought about it more I realized that things had not really mattered in the past\, they only seemed to. I became quite certain that nothing would matter in the future either. At that point I stopped being angry with people\, and almost stopped noticing them altogether. I would be walking along and I would run into people! And not because I was lost in thought–what would I be…? I didn’t have anything to think about. I had more or less stopped thinking by that time. It made no difference. Not that I had everything figured out. Far from it. I had no idea what the hell was going on. I didn’t understand anything. But nothing made any difference and so all the things I used to worry about just sort of faded away.  \n  \nAnd\, well\, it was only after that that I learned the truth. I learned the truth last November. The third of November\, to be exact. It was a gray\, depressing evening. Cold and rainy. I was walking home. It was late. And I remember thinking: “God\, this is a miserable night.” The rain was that kind of rain that is hostile\, the kind of rain that is deliberately trying to make you feel miserable. Then the rain stopped\, but that was even worse because everything was just so soggy\, and it seemed colder than when it had been raining. I was thinking that it wouldn’t be so depressing if the streetlights weren’t on. They only made it worse by illuminating everything.  \n  \nI looked up at the sky. It was very dark. There were clouds that had torn wispy edges. The patches of sky between the clouds were deep black. All of a sudden I noticed a little star in one of those patches. I stopped walking and just stood there\, looking at it. Because that little star gave me an idea: I made up my mind to kill myself that night.  \n  \nI had been planning to kill myself for a couple of months. And even though I’m always broke I had bought a nice little gun and loaded it. But two months had gone by and it was still lying in the drawer. I was waiting for the right moment. I was completely indifferent to everything and I was waiting for a moment when I didn’t feel indifferent so I could kill myself. Yeah\, I know…sounds stupid…  \n  \nOkay. So…I was standing there looking at the sky. And all of a sudden this little girl grabbed me by the coat sleeve. She was\, I don’t know\, maybe about eight years old. She was completely soaked. She was pulling at my arm and trying to say something. But I couldn’t tell what because she was shivering and sobbing. You know how it is when kids try to talk when they haven’t finished crying yet? I looked down at her\, but I didn’t say anything. Then I pulled my arm away and kept walking. But she ran after me and caught me and was pulling at my coat. She was very frightened about something…incoherent. All I could make out was something about her mother. Her mother was dying or was in some very bad situation. And the little girl had run out to find someone to help. But I didn’t go with her. At first I told her to go find a policeman. But she just held me tighter and wouldn’t let go. Then I got angry and shouted at her. And she let go of me and just stood there. I think she was too stunned to even cry. Then she saw someone coming across the street and ran to him.  \n  \nI went back to my apartment. It’s pretty depressing. The wallpaper is this ugly color of green\, but it’s so grimy you can hardly tell what color it’s supposed to be. It’s peeling off the walls. The carpet is filthy. Whoever lived there before me must have had a lot of cats\, because the carpet and the furniture have the unmistakable smell of cat piss. Plaster is falling off the ceiling. The guy upstairs keeps having problems with his toilet. I don’t know what you’d have to do to get the landlady to fix anything. I mentioned to her once that the furniture smelled like cat piss\, and she said: “If you don’t like it\, you can move out.” And that was the end of that conversation. So\, anyway\, my apartment is pretty depressing. But it’s cheap. I sat down at my desk and lit a candle. I prefer candlelight. I don’t want to have to look at what a dump I live in. I sat there. Next door they were making lots of noise. As usual. The walls are paper thin. Sometimes I can hear my neighbors having sex. But my other neighbor is this big dirty guy with a beard. I think he sells drugs because people are always coming and going all night long. His regular friends like to drink beer. And they get into fights a lot. Usually they just shout at each other\, but sometimes they get into real fights. One of them put his fist through the wall once\, right into my apartment. The landlady doesn’t say anything because she’s afraid of him. I’ve seen this guy drunk on the street\, asking people for money. But I don’t mind having him for a neighbor. He doesn’t bother me. I just ignore him. And he ignores me. I don’t care how many of them there are in that room or how much noise they make. I don’t even hear them after a while. I sit up all night in my armchair–doing nothing. I only read in the daytime. At night I just sit without even thinking about anything. Well\, sometimes thoughts sort of wander in and out of my mind. By morning the candle has burned out.  \n  \nSo\, I sat down at my desk and took the gun out of the drawer. I remember asking myself: “Is this it?” And I said to myself: “It is!” I was going to shoot myself. I knew for certain that I would shoot myself that night. The only thing I didn’t know was how much longer I would go on sitting there before I shot myself. And I would have shot myself\, if it hadn’t been for the little girl.  \n  \nSee\, nothing made any difference to me\, but I could still feel pain\, for instance. I mean\, if someone had hit me\, it would hurt. Same with feelings. I could feel pity\, just like I used to do when things did make a difference to me. I felt pity for that little girl while she was pulling at my coat and sobbing\, which didn’t make sense\, given what I’d just decided. And I continued to feel sorry for her even after I got home. As I sat at my desk I couldn’t get her out of my mind. And that irritated me. I hadn’t been so upset in…I don’t know how long. And all these thoughts were banging around in my head. Like: “As long as I am a human being and not nothing\, and until I cease to exist\, I’m alive\, and able to suffer\, be angry\, feel ashamed. Okay. But\, on the other hand\, if I’m going to kill myself in a couple hours\, why should I care about that little girl\, or about shame\, or anything else? I’m going to become nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to completely cease to exist\, and the whole world along with me\, so shouldn’t that have some slight effect on my feelings of pity for that little girl?” Why did I shout at her? It was because I was angry at the fact that she was making me feel. Why should I feel anything? Why should it matter if I’m kind or cruel if I’m going to be extinct in two hours?  \n  \nAs I sat there all these questions were driving me crazy. Before I could answer the first one\, another would come up. And another and another. Do your thoughts ever come so fast that you can’t keep up with them? Like\, I wondered: what if I had lived before on the Moon or Mars and had done something so shameful that you can hardly imagine? Y’know\, like you sometimes experience in a nightmare. Something just unbearable. And if afterwards I found myself on Earth and I remembered what I had done on the other planet–and I knew that I would never go back there–would I feel shame when I looked from the Earth to the Moon\, (or Mars\, or whatever)\, or would I feel that it made no difference to me? I mean\, the questions were completely useless! The gun was lying on the desk in front of me and I knew I was going to…use it\, but I couldn’t get the thoughts out of my mind. It seemed to me that I couldn’t die until I had figured something out. The little girl\, in fact\, saved me\, because by asking these questions I put off my execution.  \n  \nThen I fell asleep\, sitting in my armchair. I had never done that before.  I fell asleep without being aware that I was doing it. I dreamed a dream. It was the third of November. People make fun of me: they say it was only a dream. But it revealed the truth to me\, so I don’t care if it was a dream. Once you’ve realized the truth\, you know it’s the truth. It was just a dream. Okay. But I was about to commit suicide. And my dream saved my life and changed it.  \n  \nI dreamed that I picked up the gun and pointed it straight at my heart. My heart\, not my head. I always thought I would shoot myself in the head. I aimed the gun at my chest\, paused for a second or two\, and pulled the trigger.  \n  \nY’know how in a dream sometimes you fall from a great height\, or are being murdered or beaten\, but you don’t feel any pain? That’s how it was. I didn’t feel any pain\, but everything was suddenly extinguished\, and a terrible darkness descended all around me. It was like I had become blind. And I couldn’t speak. I was lying on my back. I saw nothing. I couldn’t move. People came near and they were shouting. The guy from next door was shouting\, the landlady was screaming….    \n  \nThen\, the next thing was: I was being carried in a closed coffin. I could feel the coffin swaying\, and I was thinking about it\, and for the first time it occurred to me that  I was dead–dead as a doornail–and I knew it. There couldn’t be any doubt about it. I couldn’t see or move\, but I could think and feel. This didn’t bother me. I just accepted it.  \n  \nThen they buried me. And they went away. And I was alone. It was cold and damp\, just like you’d expect. I felt very cold\, especially in the tips of my toes\, but I didn’t feel anything else.  \n  \nI laid in my grave. I didn’t expect anything. I just accepted that a dead man has nothing to look forward to. But it was damp. Some time passed. I don’t know how long. A drop of water that had seeped through the lid of the coffin fell on my left eyelid. A minute later… another drop. A minute later…another drop. One drop every minute. It was infuriating! And when I got angry I felt a sharp stab of pain in my chest. “That’s my wound\,” I thought. “That’s where I shot myself. There’s a bullet in there.” And every minute another drop of water fell on my eyelid. It was driving me crazy. And I cried out—not with my voice\, but with my whole being:  \n  \n“Whoever you are that’s doing this to me\, if anything more rational exists than what is happening to me now\, I would like to experience it. But if you are punishing me for committing suicide with life-after-death\, no torture that you inflict on me can ever equal the contempt that I will go on feeling for you forever and ever!”  \n  \nI made this appeal and waited. It was silent for almost a minute. Then a drop fell on my closed eyelid. But I knew that everything was going to change immediately. And it did.  \n  \nI don’t know how my coffin was dug up and opened\, but I was grabbed by a dark unknown being. And the next thing was: we were flying through space. I could see again\, but it was pitch-black. It was the blackest black night. We were flying through space at a terrific speed. We had left the earth far behind us. I didn’t question the being who was carrying me. I was too proud. I just waited. I wasn’t afraid\, which surprised me. I have no idea how long we were flying. Suddenly I saw a little star in the darkness.  \n  \n“Is that Sirius?” I just blurted it out. And then I got mad at myself\, because I wasn’t going to ask any questions.  \n  \nThe being who was carrying me said: “No. That’s the same star you saw between the clouds when you were coming home.”  \n  \nI didn’t like this being one bit. I had expected complete non-existence—that’s why I shot myself. And now here I was in the hands of this being—not a human being\, but a being nevertheless. It existed. “So there is life beyond the grave\,” I thought\, in that kind of off-hand way you do sometimes in dreams. Deep down\, though\, nothing had really changed for me. I thought to myself: “If I must be again\, I won’t be defeated and humiliated!”  \n  \nI said to my companion\, “You know I’m afraid of you and that’s why you despise me.” That’s just like me — to say something completely humiliating right after I told myself I wasn’t going to be humiliated.  \n  \nHe didn’t answer\, but somehow I sensed that our journey had a mysterious purpose. I was really frightened now. We had long passed the constellations that were familiar to me. And then I saw our sun and was flooded with a strong feeling of nostalgia. It couldn’t be our sun—we were millions of light years away from it—but somehow I knew with every fiber of my being that it was an exact twin copy of our sun. I had a warm feeling of coming home. And for the first time since I had been in the grave I felt a stirring in my heart.  \n  \n“But if this is exactly like our sun\, then where is the earth?”  \n  \nMy companion pointed to the little star I had seen twinkling in the darkness with an emerald light. We were heading straight for it.  \n  \nI felt an uncontrollable\, deep and sad love for the earth I’d left behind.  \n  \nThe face of the little girl I had treated so badly flashed through my mind. I started crying like a baby.  \n  \nWe were rapidly approaching the planet. It was growing before my eyes. I could distinguish the ocean\, the outlines of Europe. A great jealousy blazed up in my heart.  \n  \n“How is such repetition possible? And why? I can only love the earth I’ve left behind\, stained with my blood. I know I’m an ungrateful bastard for shooting myself through the heart. But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the earth. I never\, never stopped loving it. I loved it more than ever on the night I ended my life.”  \n  \nSomehow…I don’t remember how…I was already standing on this other earth. My companion was gone. It was a bright\, sunny day. It was beautiful. It was like Paradise.  \n  \nThere was a radiant feeling in the air. Bright flowers were everywhere. The sky was filled with birds. And they weren’t afraid of me. They landed on my shoulders and hands and sang to me. And I saw and came to know the people of this blessed earth. They surrounded me and touched me and kissed me all over. They were beautiful! I’d never seen people so beautiful. The first moment I looked at their faces I understood everything! It was an earth unstained by the Fall\, inhabited by people who hadn’t sinned\, who didn’t know the meaning of sin. They lived in the same kind of Paradise that our first parents lived in. Except that all the earth was everywhere the same Paradise. It had no boundary.  \n  \nWell\, so\, I mean…all right\, so it was just a dream. But the love of those innocent and beautiful people has stayed with me. I can still feel their love flowing out to me from over there. I have seen them. I have known them and they showed me something. I loved them\, and I suffered for them afterwards. I knew from the beginning that there were many things about them I would never understand. I was kind of surprised that they knew nothing about our science\, for instance. But I soon realized that their knowledge was derived from different emotions than we are accustomed to. And their aspirations were different\, too. They desired nothing. They were at peace with themselves. They didn’t strive to gain knowledge about life in the way we do because their lives were full. I couldn’t understand their way of being in the world. They looked at their trees with an intense love and talked to them as if the trees were beings like themselves. They really talked with them. And the trees understood them! I’m sure of it. They knew the language of the trees. They looked on all nature like that. The animals lived peaceably with them and didn’t attack them or run from them\, but loved them. They weren’t concerned with whether I understood them or not; they loved me regardless.  \n  \nThey were playful and high-spirited like children. They made love and begot children\, but I never saw in them those outbursts of cruel sensuality which are the source of almost every sin. There were no quarrels or jealousy among them—they didn’t even know what those words meant. Their children were the children of them all\, for they were all one family. They rarely got sick\, though of course they died; but their old people died peacefully\, as though falling asleep. I saw smiles on those occasions\, never grief or tears. I saw love that seemed to reach the point of rapture. They had no specific places for worship\, but wherever they went they were in a kind of uninterrupted communion with the whole universe.  \n  \nI told them that I had a presentiment of all this years ago. That I felt a nostalgic yearning\, that became at times an unendurable sorrow. I told them that often on our earth I couldn’t look at the setting sun without tears…that there was a sharp pang of anguish in my love for people: why couldn’t I love them without hating them?  \n  \nThey listened to me\, but I  could tell they didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. They didn’t  understand me\, but they loved me. They loved me. And when in their loving presence my heart became as innocent and as truthful as theirs I didn’t mind that I couldn’t understand them either.  \n  \nI’ve tried to talk to people about this. They just laugh at me. How could all this have been crammed into one dream? I must have just awakened with a certain sensation and then invented most of the details after I woke up. And when I admit that they’re probably right\, they think it’s the funniest thing in the world. Sure\, when I woke up what remained was mostly a powerful sensation. But nonetheless\, the real shapes and forms of my dream\, those I actually saw while dreaming\, were so harmonious and enchanting and beautiful that when I was awake and trying to describe them in words I just blundered along the best I could and had to make up some of the details. I needed to make some conscious account to myself of what I had just experienced\, even if in the process I couldn’t help distorting it. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t really happen. All that couldn’t possibly not have been. Because what happened afterwards was so awful\, so horribly true\, that it couldn’t have been a mere figment of my imagination. The fact is\, I corrupted them all!  \n  \nYeah. That’s how it ended. The dream encompassed thousands of years and left in me only a vague sensation of the whole. I only know that I was the cause of the Fall. Like a horrible virus\, I infected that happy earth that knew no sin or sorrow before me. They learned to lie and grew to appreciate the beauty of a lie. Maybe it all began innocently\, with a joke\, a flirtation\, a bit of sarcasm\, some small deceit–just a germ. But this germ made its way into their hearts and they liked it. Voluptuousness was soon born\, voluptuousness begot jealousy\, and jealousy…cruelty. I don’t know how it happened! I can’t remember. But soon\, very soon\, the first blood was shed. They were shocked and horrified. They began to separate and avoid one another. They formed alliances\, but the alliances were against each other. The idea of honor was born. They began killing the animals for food\, or just for sport—and the animals ran away from them into the forests. People began to crave separation. They asserted their “personality.” And they came to distinguish between “yours” and “mine.” Especially “mine.” They began talking in different languages. They knew sorrow\, and they loved it. They thirsted for suffering. And they said that truth could only be attained through suffering. It was then that science appeared among them. When they became vicious they began to talk of brotherhood and humanity. When they became criminals they invented justice. They drew up codes of law and instituted public executions.  \n  \nThey only vaguely remembered what they had lost\, and they wouldn’t believe that they were ever happy and innocent. They even laughed at the idea of their former happiness and called it a dream. And yet they longed to be happy and innocent again. Like children\, they surrendered to the desire of their hearts\, glorified this desire\, built temples\, and offered up prayers to their own idea\, their own desire. But if someone had showed them the way back to their state of happy innocence they would have refused to go. They said to me:  \n  \n“What if we are dishonest\, cruel and unjust? That’s the way things are. That’s how they’ve always been. Maybe with the help of science and reason we can make some small improvements. Knowledge is higher than feeling.”  \n  \nThat’s what they said. Something like that.  \n  \nSaints came among them. With tears in their eyes they told the people of their pride\, of their loss of proportion and harmony. They were ignored\, or laughed at\, or stoned to death. Men arose who began to wonder how they all could be united again in mutual understanding\, so that everybody would still love himself or herself best of all\, but nobody would interfere with anybody else. Whole wars were fought over this idea.  \n  \nEveryone believed that each of these orgies of reciprocal mass-destruction would be the last. That science\, and the instinct of self-preservation would ultimately force humanity to unite in a harmonious and intelligent society. Therefore\, to speed up this inevitable progress\, the “very wise and righteous” did their best to exterminate as quickly as possible those who failed to understand this noble idea.  \n  \nThey glorified suffering as the most profound experience. I felt so sad for them. I think I loved them more than before—when there was no suffering in their faces\, when they were innocent and so beautiful! I loved the earth they had poisoned even more than when it was a paradise\, because sorrow had made its appearance. I’ve always been in love with suffering. But only for myself! Only for myself. To see them suffer just made me utterly miserable. I hated myself for what I had done. I told them that I was responsible for all the corruption\, contamination and lies. I asked them to crucify me. I even showed them how to make the cross. I couldn’t kill myself because I didn’t have the courage\, but I wanted them to martyr me. I yearned for my blood to be shed to the last drop in torment and suffering. They just laughed at me. They didn’t believe me when I said I was the cause of their suffering. And even those who gave me the benefit of the doubt—maybe they were just humoring me—said that what I did was perfectly justifiedt that they didn’t want a life without suffering\, and that what happened was inevitable. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. They said I was becoming dangerous and they would lock me up in an insane asylum if I didn’t shut up. Then a sadness entered my heart with such force that I felt like I was dying. And then I woke up.  \n  \nIt was morning. My candle had burned out. Everyone was asleep next door and it was completely quiet. I was in a very strange state of mind. I had never fallen asleep in my armchair before. And as I was trying to adjust to being awake—because a really strong sensation from the dream still lingered—I saw my gun lying there loaded and ready. I pushed it away! I wanted to live! I wept. I felt this amazing joy—infinite\, boundless joy. I was intoxicated just at being alive. And I immediately felt this strong desire to talk to someone\, to anyone. To everyone. I decided: “I’m going to tell them.” What? The Truth. I have seen the Truth. I have seen it with my own eyes and it’s beautiful!  \n  \nAnd ever since then I’ve been trying to tell people about it. They laugh at me. People say I get the story all mixed up\, and if I’m already doing that\, then what will it be like later on? They’re right. I get confused and I’ll probably just get worse as time goes on. I mean\, it’s confusing because it’s very hard to put it into words. I don’t know…I think everyone is confused. Because…well\, everyone wants to be happy\, right? And look how unhappy everyone is!  \n  \nBut I have seen the Truth. And I know that people can be happy and beautiful. I just can’t believe that evil is our normal condition\, that we are evil by nature. People laugh at this faith of mine. But how can I help believing it? I’ve seen the Truth. It’s not like I invented it with my mind. I really saw it. I experienced it. And the living image of it will be with me always. I’ve seen it and I know we can realize it\, and that it will transform us. I’m not confused about that. Of course I’ll make mistakes and say the wrong thing\, but the living image of what I’ve seen will correct me and put me back on the right path. I’m feeling pretty good right now. And I feel like I have a kind of mission and I will have it as long as I live. But I don’t know exactly what it is. At first I wasn’t going to tell you that I corrupted them. That was a mistake. But the Truth whispered to me\, “You’re lying\,” and put me back on the path. I don’t know how to establish a heaven on earth. I don’t know how to put it into words. At least the most important things I need to say—I don’t know how to say them. But that’s okay. I’ll just keep trying.  \n  \nIt’s all really very simple:  \n  \nIn one day\, in one hour\, everything could change! The main thing is: we have to love each other\, and love this earth. That sounds too simple\, doesn’t it? But it’s true. That’s the main thing. That’s everything. Nothing else matters. It’s not particularly original. It’s been said a million times and it hasn’t done any good. I mean\, look at the world! It’s a mess. I don’t know…if only we all wanted it\, everything would change in the blink of an eye. \n  \n  \n–Fyodor Dostoevsky
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-23-21/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20220115
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
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LAST-MODIFIED:20211216T173328Z
UID:2513-1639526400-1642204799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  12/15/21
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  December 15\, 2021 \n  \n(Andy Larkin made the design on the first page\, inspired by a verse from the Ātmopadesha Śatakam of Narayana Guru. Below is an English translation of the verse\, along with a brief commentary by Andy.) \n  \nVerse 83 \nAtmopadesha Satakam \n  \nTo break\, to exist and to come into being is the nature of bodies here- \none goes\, another takes its place; \nremaining in the highest\, the Self that knows all these three\, \nthe indivisible one\, is free of modifications. \n  \n  \nAs people with minds conditioned by notions of “before” and “after”\, and “here” and “there”\, we cannot know what lies beyond the twin portals of birth and death\, where such notions no longer apply. Are we confined here? The Guru wants to reassure us. Birth and death are not just gates\, but are twin features of every instant of our lives. The knowing Self is the imperishable ground upon which all these transformations are enacted. The changes we experience\, even those that bring us intense joy or grief\, can actually become constant reminders of our original nature\, the Changeless. \n  \n—Andy Larkin \n* \n  \n Complaint\, Compliant \n  \nSometimes the fix is easy—a small \nadjustment\, and things start looking up\, \nthe storm in you shot through with \nsunlight\, and you can be kind again. \n  \nBreath you used to snipe and slander \ncould be humming as you putter at some \nhealing task\, raking leaves\, making the dishes \ngleam\, jotting notes to friends. \n  \nYou could trade in fear for a fare on the \nlove train. You could shun your trials \nand follow trails into forest birdsong.  \nYou could make bitterness into butterness\,  \n  \nand spread your love around. \n  \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \n(Alex is Editor of Free Spirit\, which is published at Deer Ridge Correctional Institution. This is his essay from the December issue.) \n  \nHeart of Snow \n  \nIt is a simple word\, “love\,” and while it reverberates with pinks and sighs\, I also hear the echo it contains: “of”—that fittingly nested rhyme employed “to indicate distance or direction from\, separation\, deprivation\, etc.”1 That “etc.” wrecks me\, as it seems to indicate that there is an infinite number of ways to be deprived of the people\, places and things we love. \n  \nThe complexities of love usually arise from our attempts to schematize\, to understand love by way of language. For example\, is it really true that a seemingly cold or unfeeling person has a “heart of ice”? Ice may be slow\, ponderous and impermeable\, but it does permit light\, and in this way it is honest. It lasts. Conversely\, a least on paper (poetically speaking)\, a person with a heart of snow seems more gentle\, kind\, capable of love. But snow is fragile\, reflects light\, and is easily muddied. It melts much faster than ice. \n  \nLanguage\, an inherently inefficient technology (unlike a purely utilitarian engine\, or sword\, which has no extraneous parts)\, only hems love in\, but we barrel ahead with letters and poems and avowals anyway. Nevertheless\, I believe that love\, as humans experience it\, would be much less exhilarating without these passionate attempts to encapsulate and communicate it. \n  \nAnd our love\, as it builds\, as we ornament\, qualify it with words\, becomes a tangled thicket trailing behind us\, a world whose heavy beauty\, with each new annexation of the heart\, becomes more capable of destroying us\, until five words—which would have meant nothing before—suddenly mean a great deal: “I don’t love you anymore.” And yet heartbreak is ultimately something we do to ourselves\, because we are its architect\, and because we are blessedly doomed to remember. Love wallops all. \n  \nHow many times have we wished to forget our greatest joys\, simply because they no longer exist except in their capacity to haunt? And how many times have we outlasted our grief\, and counted ourselves lucky to still possess those joys alive within us\, so distant now that they can do us no harm? Daniel Kahneman proposes that “the time people spend dwelling on a memorable moment should be included in its duration.”2 If so\, a kiss\, even a meeting of eyes\, can go on resolving for years\, like a film frozen at its climax\, and the lips finally part\, the eyes look elsewhere\, only as we draw our last breath and take leave of the earth. \n  \n  \n\nRandom House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary\, Second Edition\, 2001.\nKahneman\, Daniel\, Thinking Fast and Slow\, 2011.\n\n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nThe Gift \nLife is a gift certificate\, \n        many ways of spending it? \nDo I \n        save it to use later\, \n                but for when and what time? \nOr do I \n        spend it little by little\, \n                until it’s gone? \nOr do I \n        throw it away\, \n                knowing not what I spend it on? \n  \n        It is something you cannot change\, \n                after you have spent it all. \n  \n        So think before you spend your gift\, \n                you only have but one. \n  \n  \n© December 14\, 1996 \nJoshua Underhill \n* \n  \n(Jude meditates on Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditation from Your True Home.) \n  \n#294  More Time for What Is Important \n  \nI have some principles I live by. Principles sounds too lofty; let’s say ideas. In no particular order they are: \n\nGive everything ten years to work out—for my stepchildren to love me\, to lose ten pounds\, for my wisteria to bloom; after ten years\, reevaluate and maybe give another ten years.\nWhatever the question\, trees are the answer.\nHate drains you\, love fills you.\nBe happy that you’re not easily offended but try not to be so obtuse to others’ sensitivities. \nLess is more. Progress is overrated. Consumption sucks.\n\n  \nThere are others to expand on at a later time\, but there is one more to talk about in regard to #294: More Time for What Is Important. Every sentence resonates. My summation is Don’t Waste Life! When Thich Nhat Hanh says\, “Time is very precious: every minute every hour counts. We don’t want to throw time away\,” I remember what I say to others: I wish there were two more hours in a day\, two more days in a week\, two more weeks in a month! Think of the things I could do! Find more beautiful mountain meadows. Make more meals for the Ziegler family. Plant another sweet gum  tree for fall. Sleep more nights in the playhouse. Invite little Lily Contreras again for milk and cookies in the playhouse. See\, if I had more hours\, more days\, I could squeeze so much more out of life.  \n  \nThis idea is not just a recent Time-is-running-out-because-I’m-getting-older-by-the-minute thought; I have thought this for as long as I can remember. \n  \nLife is so short! \n  \nLive it! \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \n(These are excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to meditations by Thich Nhat Hanh in Your True Home.) \n  \nNovember 3\, 2021  #190 A Wonderful Opportunity \n  \nI enjoy the idea of being a refuge for others. It’s a way to help and to heal the world\, which demands nothing more from me than I’m already doing for my own well-being. I can still develop a proactive aspect also\, but by simply caring for the self—deliberate breathing practice\, being happy\, accepting the reality that is instead of focusing on what I may wish it to be—I can be a happy\, peaceful haven for others around me\, many of whom seem weary from all of their machinations and façade maintenance\, which they believe will provide happiness and safety. I can simply “be” and allow peace to develop around me\, as strife eventually falls away. I’m not being naïve about this. It takes a great deal of time to develop for/around anyone. At the same time\, my efforts to not create my own strife will attract others seeking the same. As I create a world of peace through my choices\, the world I live in will reflect that back to me\, over time. \n  \nNovember 7\, 2021  #191 Love is Understanding \n  \nI have experienced the truth of this teaching. Although I will add\, it has not always been easy to see or accept the understanding. Other times it can be as easy as accepting the axiom: “hurt people\, hurt people.” In this I can often see a (general) cause and from this arises acceptance\, love and compassion…. \n  \nI write this because to develop love from understanding is going to show\, even if one doesn’t set out to do so. It just “leaks” out. Love can’t be contained. No matter how intensely or thoroughly one may attempt to hide or contain it\, love will find its expression in this world. So\, don’t fight it. Let it come out as you feel it is best to share. And rest knowing that: Love does indeed coquer all. A caveat is that it is genuine and altruistic\, not the least bit self-serving\, contrived\, or stifled. Let it loose and let love reign. \n  \nNovember 17\, 2021  #196 A Relaxation Practice \n  \nEveryone can appreciate one of these\, right? It’s so simple and yet very rewarding to do. I only wish I could go to a park\, or a lake\, or a river or stream for a relaxing\, mindful walk. I guess I can go in my mind through memory\, reliving a moment\, or just recalling the river\, lake\, park\, etc.\, and recall the sights and sounds\, while attending to how I experience them (anew) now. I could also relive that moment fully by recalling the physical sensations—the gentle touch of the breeze\, the sounds of the birds in the trees\, the gurgling river\, the light softly filtered by the trees bathing my “moment\,” the pungent aroma of nature\, and even the body sensations that ground me in the moment. I wish I could share this memory with each one\, but I’m certain that everyone has a relaxing memory to recall. \n  \nNovember 18\, 2021  #197 Elegant Silence \n  \nI agree. I have had an experience of this. It’s calming. In a chaotic world\, wherever one lives\, having a retreat\, of sorts\, in the mind\, where one may go to experience cessation of noise…can be very rewarding. Don’t take my word for it. Just start a daily practice\, focus on the natural uncontrolled breath\, and watch thoughts as they float by consciousness as clouds\, without attaching or grasping onto them. With time\, the mind quiets\, after a habit is stabilized\, and you’ll notice elegance. Don’t “look” for it. It may only be a glimpse. Or\, something to notice after it happened. Seeking and finding aren’t the point. Being open and available to what “is” is the goal\, and even that is not an “end\,” but just a beginning of learning to just “be”—whatever may come. It’s a type of flow—like floating a river instead of resisting it. \n  \nNovember 25\, 2021  Thanks Giving Day!  #199 Driving Lesson \n  \nToday is an amazing day! I’m alive! I woke up again. I’m sort of like the rooster in the latest Peter Rabbit movie\, exclaiming surprise and joy at being alive to see another day. I have much to be thankful for\, such as: family and friends and comrades in the prison\, too!….I’m housed in a safe\, warm space where I can communicate with others for my needs\, as well as for social contact and mental wellness. I have food to enjoy\, and even “special” foods for today…. \n  \n—Michael Deforge \n* \n  \n(Last year about this time\, my friend Rocky Hutchinson was in segregation. I wrote him a “meditation letter” in the hope that it would be helpful to him in getting through a difficult time. Here it is:) (JS) \n  \nDecember 26\, 2020 \n  \nDear Rocky \n  \nThinking of you this morning. I start each day with inner stillness. It seems to me that it would be good for you to start your day by being still. And throughout each day to find moments of peace and stillness. \nThis letter will be a kind of guided meditation. \nSit quietly. Comfortably. Eyes open. Notice breath. Body. See what’s around you\, but don’t name it\, or think about it. Just observe. \nBreath. No past. No problems. No worries. No Rocky. \nNo past. No future. Breath. \nThe present moment is a wonderful moment. I am alive. I breathe. I see with my eyes.  \nWhen I close my eyes\, the world disappears. When I open them\, it reappears. Wonderful! \nCalm. Peace. Quiet. \nThoughts arise. Say: “Thank you. No thank you.” \nBack to stillness. Back to breath. \nWhen you drop a pebble into a pool\, it makes little ripples. After a while the surface of the pool is still. Thoughts are like those pebbles. Thoughts are not bad. All thoughts are just thoughts. Happy thoughts\, sad thoughts\, are just thoughts. In between the thoughts is perfect emptiness. Perfect fullness. \nSitting still\, there are no problems. There are no worries. Each moment of stillness is a vacation from being Rocky. From the past. From guilt. From shame. From pride. \nThe future has not arrived. It never arrives. The future is uncertain. Everything is always changing. We don’t know what will happen. In this moment we can bless the day. Say thank you for our breath. For the gift of life. For the gift of awareness. \nIn silence\, we are free. In silence\, a feeling of boundless being. Even if the silence is just for a few seconds\, it nourishes us. And so\, we return to it again and again. Whenever we can. \nAllow thought and language to fall away. Just be. Be without a boundary. Be without beginning or end. No past. No future. Awake. Aware.  \nThoughts come and go. Observe them like clouds\, floating by in the sky. The brain is used to being very active—to thinking and imagining one thing after another. Allow it to slowly\, slowly quiet down. To have a rest. \nNotice how stupid and repetitive all the thoughts are. How useless. The mind is like a noisy radio playing terrible music and dumb advertisements all day long. Gently turn down the volume. Gently turn it off. Breathe. \nAwake. Aware. No boundary. No inside or out. No here or there. No ideas. No memories. No worries. \nEverything\, without exception\, is miraculous. This moment\, perfect. All my stories are just stories. All my thoughts are just thoughts. Watch the thoughts come and go\, like clouds floating by in the sky. Return again and again to stillness. To the peace which passeth understanding.  \nBless the day. The present moment is a wonderful moment. It has no beginning or end. \n* \nWell that’s about it for that. \nI think it would also be good to read the Hsin Hsin Ming slowly every day\, in a meditative way. It only makes sense in the context of meditation. You could learn it by heart. It is a doorway to freedom. \nMeditation and mindfulness and silence are part of the dance of life. Without inner peace\, life becomes confusing and overwhelming. All our fears become magnified. We torture ourselves. We become depressed. And anxious. Our thoughts drive us mad. \nAs you water the seeds of inner peace\, it grows—and becomes stronger every day. With a sense of well-being and quiet joy you can face all the problems and challenges of life.  \nIn silence\, problems are dissolved. They don’t arise.  \nPlease stay safe. Always choose the option that is the safest one.  \nTake good care of yourself. You are a good person. You have a loving heart. \nWater the seeds of peace\, love\, happiness and understanding. Don’t water seeds of anger\, hatred or fear. \nThis day is a perfect day. Don’t waste this precious day being miserable. \nPractice the Metta Prayer for yourself and for others: \nMay I be happy. \nMay I be well in body and mind. \nMay I be peaceful and at ease. \nMay I live in love. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \n(Deborah sent two short pieces from Raids on the Unspeakable by Thomas Merton\, and a poem she wrote.) \n  \nRain and the Rhinoceros \n  \nLet me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for money. By “they” I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a festival\, who do not appreciate its gratuity\, who think that what has no price has no value\, that what cannot be sold is not real\, so that the only way to make something actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free\, and I am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness. \n  \nThe rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and its porch with insistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen\, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize\, rhythms that are not those of the engineer. \n  \nI came up here from the monastery last night\, sloshing through the cornfield\, said Vespers\, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth\, a whole world of meaning\, of secrecy\, of silence\, of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down\, selling nothing\, judging nobody\, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves\, soaking the trees\, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water\, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone\, in the forest\, at night\, cherished by this wonderful\, unintelligible\, perfectly innocent speech\, the most comforting speech in the world\, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges\, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows! \n  \nNobody started it\, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants\, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen. (pp. 9-10) \n  \n  \nLetter to an Innocent Bystander \n  \nThe true solutions are not those which we force upon life in accordance with our theories\, but those which life itself provides for those who dispose themselves to receive the truth. Consequently our task is to dissociate ourselves from all who have theories which promise clear-cut and infallible solutions\, and to mistrust all such theories\, not in a spirit of negativism and defeat\, but rather trusting life itself\, and nature\, and if you will permit me\, God above all. For since man has decided to occupy the place of God he has shown himself to be by far the blindest\, the cruelest\, and pettiest and most ridiculous of all the false gods. We can call ourselves innocent only if we refuse to forget this\, and if we also do everything we can to make others realize it. (p. 61) \n  \n—Thomas Merton \n  \n  \nWhat Do I Know? \n  \nClosing my eyes\, \na silent darkness\, \nlight \nat the edges. \nMy breath moves \nup and down\, \nholding each moment\, \ninhalation \nthen release. \n  \nThe human heart \nis quixotic\, \nmalleable\, \nalmost like a berry \nin the palm of my hand. \n  \nIn my ears\, \na deeper space \nthat stretches out\,  \na disappearing \nreverberation. \n  \nWe touch nothingness. \n  \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \n(Katie Radditz shares two poems and some of her thoughts:) \n  \nIn Celebration of the Winter Solstice  \n  \nDo not be afraid of the darkness.\nDark is the rich fertile earth\nthat cradles the seed\, nourishing growth.\nDark is the soft night that cradles us to rest.\nOnly in darkness\ncan stars shine across the vastness of space.\nOnly in darkness\nis the moon’s dance so clear.\nThere is mystery woven in the dark quiet hours.\nThere is magic in the darkness.  \n  \nDo not be afraid.\nWe are born of this magic.\nIt fills our dreams\nthat root\, unravel and reweave themselves\nin the shelter of the deep dark night.\nThe dark has its own hue\,\nits own resonance\, its own breath.\nIt fills our soul\,\nnot with despair\, but with promise.\nDark is the gestation of our deep and knowing self.\nDark is the cave where we rest and renew our soul.\nWe are born of the darkness\,\nand each night we return\nto the deep moist womb of our beginnings.  \n  \nDo not be afraid of the darkness\,\nfor in the depth of that very darkness\ncomes a first glimpse of our own light\,\nthe pure inner light of love and knowing.\nAs it glows and grows\, the darkness recedes.\nAs we shed our light\, we shed our fear\,\nand revel in the wonder of all that is revealed.  \n  \nSo\, do not rush the coming of the sun.\nDo not crave the lengthening of the day.\nCelebrate the darkness.\nHere and now. A time of richness. A time of joy.  \n  \n—Stephanie Noble  \n  \nStephanie Noble is an insight meditation teacher\, author and board member of the Buddhist Insight Network. Many resources are on her website.  \n  \nThay encourages us to nourish those seeds underground (he calls it\, “our store consciousness”); look deeply and heal through touching those feelings you wish to grow. This is a good time to meditate\, on Loving-Kindness\, toward ourselves as well as others : \n  \nMay I be at ease\, \nMay I know the light of my True Nature \nMay I be healed \nMay I be a source of healing for All Beingss \nMay I be at Peace \n  \nThis meditation can sooth\, be repeated for “you” and “we.” Weekly\, this past year\, I have meditated with a small\, open group and felt a shift in some of those blocked places within. Always\, i feel connected with you all\, my extended love-in community. In the dark time that is also the time of giving\, may our hearts remain open!    \n  \nlove\, katie \n  \nHere is a parting gift from poet Robert Bly\, a poem that embraces grief as he embraces being alive.   \n  \nKEEPING OUR SMALL BOAT AFLOAT \n  \nSo many blessings have been given to us\nDuring the first distribution of light\, that we are\nAdmired in a thousand galaxies for our grief. \n  \nDon’t expect us to appreciate creation or to\nAvoid mistakes. Each of us is a latecomer\nTo the earth\, picking up wood for the fire. \n  \nEvery night another beam of light slips out\nFrom the oyster’s closed eye. So don’t give up hope\nthat the door of mercy may still be open. \n  \nSeth and Shem\, tell me\, are you still grieving\nOver the spark of light that descended with no\nDefender near into the Egypt of Mary’s womb? \n  \nIt’s hard to grasp how much generosity\nIs involved in letting us go on breathing\,\nWhen we contribute nothing valuable but our grief. \n  \nEach of us deserves to be forgiven\, if only for\nOur persistence in keeping our small boat afloat\nWhen so many have gone down in the storm. \n  \n  \n— Robert Bly\, first Poet Laureate of Minnesota (December 23\, 1926-November 21\, 2021)
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-12-15-21/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20211212T150000
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CREATED:20211209T173825Z
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UID:2509-1639321200-1639328400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!  12/12/21
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nSome stories get better with each telling. This is one of those stories. Charles Dickens used to do public readings of an abridged version of “A Christmas Carol” at this time of year. This is based on his abridged version. On Sunday\, December 12th\, at 3 pm (PST) our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering will feature a Group Reading of this version of A Christmas Carol. Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nIt’s gonna be fun! I hope you can join us!  \n  \nMerry Christmas!  \n  \nGod Bless Us Every One! 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-12-12-21/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20211209
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20211223
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20211209T171214Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211209T171700Z
UID:2500-1639008000-1640217599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  12/9/21
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nDecember 9\, 2021 \n  \n  \nSome stories get better with each telling. This is one of those stories. Charles Dickens used to do public readings of an abridged version of “A Christmas Carol” at this time of year. This is based on his abridged version. On Sunday\, December 12th\, at 3 pm (PST) our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering will feature a Group Reading of this version of A Christmas Carol. Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058 \n  \nIt’s gonna be fun! I hope you can join us! Merry Christmas! God Bless Us Every One! (J.S.) \n  \n  \nA Christmas Carol \n  \n  \nStoryteller:  Marley was dead. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman\, the clerk\, the undertaker\, and the chief mourner\, Ebenezer Scrooge. \nOld Marley was dead as a doornail. \nScrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for…I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor\, his sole administrator\, his sole friend\, his sole mourner. \nScrooge never painted out old Marley’s name\, however. There it yet stood\, years afterwards\, above the warehouse door—Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge “Scrooge\,” and sometimes “Marley.” He answered to both names. It was all the same to him. \nO\, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone—a squeezing\, wrenching\, grasping\, scraping\, clutching\, covetous old sinner! External heat and cold had little influence on him. No warmth could warm\, no cold could chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he. No falling snow was more intent upon its purpose\, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. \nNobody ever stopped him in the street to say\, with gladsome looks\, “My dear Scrooge\, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle\, no children asked him what it was o’clock\, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place of Scrooge. Even the blindmen’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on\, would tug their owners into doorways. \nBut what did Scrooge care?! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life\, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance. \nOnce upon a time of all the good days of the year\, upon a Christmas eve\, old Scrooge sat busy in his countinghouse. It was cold\, bleak\, biting weather\, and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down\, beating their hands upon their breasts\, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three\, but it was quite dark already. \nThe door of Scrooge’s countinghouse was open\, that he might keep his eye upon his clerk\, who\, in a dismal little cell beyond\, a sort of tank\, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire\, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn’t replenish it\, for Scrooge kept the coal box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with his shovel the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore  the clerk put on his white comforter\, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort\, not being a man of strong imagination\, he failed. \nScrooge’s Nephew:  A merry Christmas\, uncle! God save you! \nScrooge:  Bah! Humbug! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Christmas a humbug\, uncle?! You don’t mean that\, I am sure. \nScrooge:  I do. Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older\, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in ‘em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I had my will\, every idiot who goes about with “Merry Christmas” on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding\, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Uncle! \nScrooge:  Nephew\, keep Christmas in your own way\, and let me keep it in mine. \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Keep it? But you don’t keep it. \nScrooge:  Let me leave it alone\, then. Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  There are many things from which I might have derived good\, by which I have not profited\, I dare say\, Christmas among the rest. I have always thought of Christmas time as a good time; a kind\, forgiving\, charitable\, pleasant time; the only time I know of when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely\, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-travelers to the grave\, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore\, uncle\, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket\, I believe that it has done me good\, and will do me good: and I say\, God bless it! \n(Clerk claps.) \nScrooge:  Let me hear another sound from you and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You’re quite a powerful speaker\, sir. I wonder you don’t go into Parliament. \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Don’t be angry\, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow. \nScrooge:  I’ll see you…in hell first. \nScrooge’s Nephew:  But why? Why? \nScrooge:  Why did you get married? \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Because I fell in love. \nScrooge:  Because you fell in love! Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  Nay\, uncle\, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now? \nScrooge:  Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends? \nScrooge:  Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  I am sorry\, with all my heart\, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel. But I’ll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So\, a Merry Christmas\, uncle! \nScrooge:  Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  And a Happy New Year! \nScrooge:  Good afternoon! \nScrooge’s Nephew:  (Leaving. To Bob Cratchit.)  Merry Christmas. \nCratchit:  Merry Christmas. \nScrooge:  There’s another fellow\, my clerk\, with fifteen shillings a week\, and a wife and family\, talking about a merry Christmas. He’ll retire to Bedlam. \n(Two portly gentlemen enter.) \nFirst Gentleman:  Scrooge and Marley’s\, I believe. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge\, or Mr. Marley? \nScrooge:  Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years. He died seven years ago\, this very night. \nSecond Gentleman:  We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner. At this festive season of the year\, Mr. Scrooge\, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute\, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts\, sir. \nScrooge:  Are there no prisons? \nFirst Gentleman:  Plenty of prisons. But under the impression that they scarcely furnish cheer of mind or body to the unoffending multitude\, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink\, and means of warmth. \nSecond Gentleman:  We choose this time\, because it is a time\, of all others\, when Want is keenly felt\, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for? \nScrooge:  Nothing! \nFirst Gentleman:  You wish to be anonymous? \nScrooge:  I wish to be left alone. Since you ask me what I wish\, gentlemen\, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas\, and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the prisons and the workhouses—they cost enough—and those who are badly off must go there. \nSecond Gentleman:  Many can’t go there. \nFirst Gentleman:  Many would rather die. \nScrooge:  If they had rather die\, they had better do it\, and decrease the surplus population. \nSecond Gentleman:  (Leaving.)  Good day\, sir. \nFirst Gentleman:  Merry Christmas.  \nScrooge:  Bah! Humbug! \nBoth Gentlemen:  (To Cratchit.)  Merry Christmas. \nCratchit:  Merry Christmas. \n(Scrooge and Cratchit return to their work. Scrooge is very pleased with himself. Some time goes by. Scrooge gets off his stool\, which means that it’s time to close up shop. Cratchit snuffs his candle and puts on his hat.) \nScrooge:  You’ll want all day tomorrow\, I suppose? \nCratchit:  If it’s convenient. \nScrooge:  It’s not convenient\, and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half a crown for it\, you’d think yourself mightily ill-used. And yet you don’t think me ill-used when I pay a day’s wages for no work. \nCratchit:  It’s only once a year\, sir. \nScrooge:  A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December! But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here early the next morning. \nCratchit:  I will. \n(Scrooge goes out with a growl\, followed by Bob Cratchit.) \nStoryteller:  The office was closed in a twinkling\, and the clerk went down a slide\, at the end of a lane of boys\, twenty times\, in honor of its being Christmas eve\, and then ran home as hard as he could pelt\, to play at blindman’s bluff. \nScrooge took his usual dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers\, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s book\, went home to bed. He double-locked the door\, took off his coat\, put on his nightshirt\, slippers and cap\, and sat down before the fire. It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He had to sit close to it\, and brood over it\, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. \nThen there came a clanking noise\, deep down below\, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain. Then he heard the noise much louder\, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight toward his door. \nScrooge:  It’s humbug! I won’t believe it. \nStoryteller:  His color changed\, though\, when\, without a pause\, it came on through the heavy door\, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in\, the dying flame leaped up\, as though it cried\, “I know him; Marley’s Ghost!” and fell again. \nThe same face\, the very same. Marley in his usual waistcoat\, tights and boots. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long\, and wound around him like a tail; it was made of cash-boxes\, keys\, padlocks\, ledgers\, deeds and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent\, so that Scrooge\, observing him\, and looking through his waistcoat\, could see the two buttons on his coat behind. \nThough he looked the phantom through and through\, and saw it standing before him—though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes\, he was still incredulous. \nScrooge:  How now?! What do you want with me? \nMarley:  Much! \nScrooge:  Who are you? \nMarley:  Ask me who I was. \nScrooge:  Who were you then? \nMarley:  In life I was your partner\, Jacob Marley. \nScrooge:  Can you…can you sit down? \nMarley:  I can. \nScrooge:  Do it\, then. \nMarley:  You don’t believe in me. \nScrooge:  I don’t. \nMarley:  What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses? \nScrooge:  I don’t know. \nMarley:  Why do you doubt your senses? \nScrooge:  Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef\, a blot of mustard\, a crumb of cheese\, a fragment of underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of the grave about you\, whatever you are! \nMarley:  Ahhhhhhh! Man of the worldly mind! Do you believe in me\, or not? \nScrooge:   I do! I do! I must! But…dreadful apparition\, why do you trouble me? Why do spirits walk the earth\, and why do they come to me? \nMarley:  It is required of every man\, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men\, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life\, it is condemned to do so after death and witness what it cannot share\, but might have shared on earth\, and turned to happiness! Oh\, woe is me! \nScrooge:  You are fettered. Tell me why. \nMarley:  I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will\, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you? Or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It is a ponderous chain! \nScrooge:  Jacob\, Old Jacob Marley\, tell me more. Speak comfort to me\, Jacob! \nMarley:  I have none to give. I cannot tell you what I would. A very little more is all that is permitted to me. I cannot rest\, I cannot stay\, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our countinghouse—mark me!—in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me! Oh blind man\, blind man! Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one’s life’s opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Such was I! \nScrooge:  But you were always a good man of business\, Jacob! \nMarley:  Business? Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity\, mercy\, forbearance\, benevolence\, were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business! Hear me! My time is nearly gone. I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring\, Ebenezer. \nScrooge:  You were always a good friend to me. \nMarley:  You will be haunted by Three Spirits. \nScrooge:  Is that the chance and hope you mentioned\, Jacob? I…I think I’d rather not. \nMarley:  Without their visits\, you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Look to see me no more. And look that\, for your own sake\, you remember what has passed between us. \nStoryteller:  It walked backward from him\, and at every step it took\, the window raised itself a little\, so that\, when the apparition reached it\, it was wide open\, and it floated out upon the bleak\, dark night. \nScrooge closed the window\, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked\, as he had locked it with his own hands\, and the bolts were undisturbed. Scrooge tried to say “Humbug!” but stopped at the first syllable. And being\, from the emotion he had undergone\, or the fatigues of the day\, or his glimpse of the invisible world\, or the lateness of the hour\, much in need of repose\, he went straight to bed\, without undressing\, and fell asleep on the instant. \nWhen Scrooge awoke\, it was so dark that\, looking out of bed\, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber—until suddenly the church clock tolled a deep\, dull\, hollow\, melancholy ONE. \nLight flashed up in the room\, and a strange figure appeared: like a child\, and like an old man. Its hair was white\, as if with age\, and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it\, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand\, and yet its dress was trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light\, by which all this was visible\, and which was doubtless the occasion of its using\, in its duller moments\, a great extinguisher cap\, which it now held under its arm. \nScrooge:  Are you the Spirit\, sir\, whose coming was foretold to me. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  I am. \nScrooge:  Who and what are you? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. \nScrooge:  Long past? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  No. Your past. \nScrooge:  Would you mind putting on your cap? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  What?! Would you so soon put out the light I give? \nScrooge:  No\, no. Of course not. What business brings you here? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Your welfare. Rise\, and walk with me! (Takes Scrooge by he hand\, leads him to the open window\, and prepares to fly out.) \nScrooge:  I am a mortal\, and liable to fall! \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Bear a touch of my hand upon your heart\, and you shall be upheld in more than this! \nStoryteller:  They flew through the air until they came to a country road\, with fields on either side. The city had entirely vanished. It was a clear\, cold\, winter day\, with snow upon the ground. \nScrooge:  Good Heaven! I was bred in this place. I was a boy here! \nGhost of Christmas Past:  You remember the way? \nScrooge:  Remember it? I could walk it blindfolded. \nStoryteller:  They walked along the road—Scrooge recognizing every gate\, and post\, and tree—until a little market town appeared in the distance.  Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs\, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts\, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits\, and shouted to each other\, until the broad fields were so full of merry music that the crisp air laughed to hear it. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  These things are but shadows of the things that have been; they will have no consciousness of us. \nStoryteller:  But Scrooge knew and named them\, every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them? Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them wish each other Merry Christmas\, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways\, for their several homes? What was merry Christmas to Scrooge? Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done him? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  The school is not quite deserted. A solitary child\, neglected by his friends\, is left there still. \nStoryteller:  They went to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them\, and disclosed a long\, bare\, melancholy room\, made barer still by the lines of plain desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire. Scrooge sat down and looked at his poor forgotten self as he used to be. \nScrooge:  Poor boy. I wish…but it’s too late now. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  What is the matter? \nScrooge:  Nothing\, nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something: that’s all. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Let us see another Christmas!  (The boy Scrooge stands up and is now some years older. Scrooge’s younger sister comes in.) \nScrooge’s Sister:  Dear\, dear brother! I have come to bring you home\, dear brother! To bring you home\, home\, home! Home\, for good and all. Home\, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be\, that home’s like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one night when I was going to bed\, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home. And he said “Yes!\,” you should. And he sent me a coach to bring you\, and you are never to come back here. And we’ll be together all the Christmas long\, and have the merriest time in all the world! \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Always a delicate creature\, your sister\, whom a breath might have withered. But she had a large heart! \nScrooge:  So she had. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  She died a woman\, and had\, as I think\, children. \nScrooge:  One child. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  True\, your nephew! \nScrooge:  Yes. \nStoryteller:  They were now in the busy thoroughfare of a city\, and it was Christmas time again\, but it was evening\, and the streets were lighted up. The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Do you know this place? \nScrooge:  Know it?! I was apprenticed here!  (They go in. Fezziwig sits at his desk.)   \nScrooge:  Why\, its old Fezziwig! Bless his heart\, it’s Fezziwig\, alive again! \nFezziwig:  (Gets up.) Yo ho\, there! Ebenezer! Dick! (Dick Wilkins and young Scrooge come in.) \nScrooge:  Dick Wilkins\, to be sure. My old fellow-‘prentice\, bless me. Yes\, there he is. He was very much attached to me\, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear\, dear! \nFezziwig:  Yo ho\, my boys! No work tonight. Christmas Eve\, Dick. Christmas\, Ebenezer! Let’s have the shutters up\, before a man can say Jack Robinson! Clear away\, my lads\, and let’s have lots of room here! (They bustle about. The room fills up with guests\, including Mrs. Fezziwig and their three daughters. Maybe the piano player could play a tune\, while a lively dance is improvised.) \nStoryteller:  There were more dances\, and more dances\, and there was cake\, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast\, and there were mince-pies and plenty of beer. When the clock struck eleven this domestic ball broke up. (Everyone says “Merry Christmas” to the Fezziwigs as they leave.) \nGhost of Christmas Past:  A small matter\, to make these silly folks so full of gratitude. \nScrooge:  Small? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money—three or four\, perhaps. \nScrooge:  It isn’t that\, Spirit.He has the power to render us happy or unhappy\, to make our service light or burdensome\, a pleasure or a toil. The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  What is the matter? \nScrooge:  Nothing particular. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  Something\, I think. \nScrooge:  No\, no. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. That’s all. \nGhost of Christmas Past:  My time grows short. Quick! (The young Scrooge comes back in and sits next to a young woman.) \nYoung Woman:  (Tears in her eyes.) It matters little to you. Another idol has displaced me. If it can comfort you in time to come\, as I would have tried to do\, I have no just cause to grieve. \nScrooge:  What idol has displaced you? \nYoung Woman:  A golden one. You fear the world too much. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one\, until the master-passion\, Gain\, engrosses you. \nScrooge:  What then? Even if I have grown so much wiser\, what then? I am not changed towards you. Have I ever sought release from our engagement? \nYoung Woman:  In words\, no. Never. \nScrooge:  In what\, then? \nYoung Woman: In a changed nature.If you were free today\, can I believe that you would choose a poor girl? Or that you would not repent that choice? And so\, I release you. With a full heart\, for the love of him you once were. May you be happy in the life you have chosen. (She leaves.) \nScrooge:  Spirit\, show me no more! Take me home. Why do you delight to torture me? \nGhost of Christmas Past:  I told you these were shadows of the things that have been. Do not blame me that they are what they are. \nScrooge:  Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer! \nStoryteller:  Scrooge seized the extinguisher cap and pressed it down upon the Spirit’s head. The flame went out. The Spirit dropped down. \nScrooge was conscious of being exhausted\, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness. He was back in his own bedroom. He fell into a heavy sleep. \nWhen the clock struck again\, Scrooge was suddenly wide awake: waiting for the next Spirit to appear. After a while\, when a Spirit failed to materialize\, he notice a great light coming from the adjoining room. He shuffled in his slippers into the next room and saw that it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that it seemed like a grove. Leaves of holly\, mistletoe and ivy reflected the light\, as if many little mirrors had been scattered there. A mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney: a blaze never known in Scrooge’s time! \nHeaped upon the floor\, to form a kind of throne\, were turkeys\, geese\, game\, great joints of meat\, sucking pigs\, long wreaths of sausages\, mince pies\, plum puddings\, barrels of oysters\, red-hot chestnuts\, cherry-cheeked apples\, juicy oranges\, luscious pears\, immense twelfth-night cakes\, and great bowls of punch. In easy state upon this couch there sat a Giant\, glorious to see\, who bore a glowing torch\, shaped like Plenty’s horn\, that shed its light upon Scrooge\, as he came peeping round the door. \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Come in! Come in and know me better\, man! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me! \nStoryteller:  He was clothed in a simple green robe\, bordered with white fur. His feet were bare\, and on his head he wore a holly wreath\, set here and there with shining icicles. He had a genial face\, sparkling eyes\, and a joyful disposition. \nGhost of Christmas Present:  You have never seen the like of me before! \nScrooge:  Never. \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Have never walked forth with the members of my family who came before me? \nScrooge:  I don’t think so. I’m afraid not. Have you many brothers\, Spirit? \nGhost of Christmas Present:  More than eighteen hundred. \nScrooge: A tremendous family to provide for! \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Come! Touch my robe! (Scrooge does so.) \nStoryteller:  The room and all its contents vanished instantly. They stood in the city streets upon a snowy Christmas morning. \nScrooge and the Ghost passed on\, invisible\, straight to the home of Scrooge’s clerk\, Bob Cratchit. \nFirst they encountered Mrs. Cratchit\, dressed in a simple gown\, adorned with ribbons\, which are cheap\, but make a goodly show for sixpence. She was assisted in laying the cloth upon the table by her oldest daughter\, Belinda Cratchit. Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes. And now two smaller Cratchits\, a boy and a girl\, came tearing in. They danced about the table while Master Peter blew the fire\, until the slow potatoes\, bubbling up\, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled. \nMrs. Cratchit:  What has ever got your father? And your brother\, Tiny Tim? \nTwo Young Cratchits:  There’s father coming! \nStoryteller:  In came Bob\, the father\, with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for poor Tiny Tim\, he bore a little crutch\, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! The two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim off to the wash-house that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. \nMrs. Cratchit:  And how did little Tim behave? \nBob Cratchit:  As good as gold\, and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful\, sitting by himself so much\, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me\, coming home\, that he hoped the people saw him in the church\, because he was a cripple\, and it might be pleasant to them to remember\, upon Christmas day\, who made the lame beggars walk and the blind see. He’s growing strong and hearty. \nStoryteller:  Tiny Tim came back in with his brother and sister. Bob compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons\, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer. Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose\, with which they soon returned in high procession. \nSuch a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds—a feathered phenomenon—and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the applesauce; Bob sat Tiny Tim beside him at the corner of the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody\, not forgetting themselves\, and mounting upon their posts\, crammed spoons into their mouths\, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on\, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause\, as Mrs. Cratchit\, looking slowly all along the carving knife\, prepared to plunge it in the breast. But when she did\, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth\, one murmur of delight arose all around the board\, and even Tiny Tim\, excited by the two young Cratchits\, beat on the table with the handle of his knife\, and feebly cried: \nTiny Tim:  Hurrah! \nStoryteller:  There never was such a goose! Its tenderness and flavor\, size and cheapness\, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by applesauce and mashed potatoes\, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family. Everyone had had enough\, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now\, the plates being changed\, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in. \nIn half a minute Mrs. Cratchit returned\, flushed\, but smiling proudly\, with the pudding\, like a speckled cannonball\, so hard and firm\, blazing in half a quarter of ignited brandy\, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck on top. \nO\, a wonderful pudding! Everyone had something to say about it\, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. \nAt last the dinner was all done\, the cloth was cleared\, the hearth was swept\, and the fire made up. \nBob Cratchit:  A  Merry Christmas to us all\, my dears.  God bless us! \nTiny Tim:  God bless us\, every one! \nStoryteller:  He sat very close to his father’s side\, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his\, as if he loved the child\, and wished to keep him by his side\, and dreaded that he might be taken from him. \nScrooge:  Spirit\, tell me if Tiny Tim will live. \nGhost of Christmas Present:  I see a vacant seat in the chimney corner\, and a crutch without an owner\, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future\, none other of my race will find him here. What then? If he be like to die\, he had better do it\, and decrease the surplus population. \nScrooge:  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Man—if man you be in heart—forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is and where it is. \nBob Cratchit:  (Toasting.)  To Mr. Scrooge: the Founder of the Feast! \nMrs. Cratchit:  The Founder of the Feast\, indeed! I wish I had him here! I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon\, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it! \nBob Cratchit:  My dear\, the children! Christmas day! \nMrs. Cratchit:  It should be Christmas day\, I am sure\, on which one drinks the health of such an odious\, stingy\, hard\, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is\, Robert! Nobody knows it better than you do\, poor fellow! \nBob Cratchit:  My dear…Christmas day! \nMrs. Cratchit: I’ll drink his health for your sake and for the day’s\, not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy New Year! He’ll be very merry and happy\, I have no doubt! \nStoryteller:  The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. Scrooge was the ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party\, which was not dispelled for a full five minutes. \nBut after it had passed away\, they were ten times merrier than before\, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round. \nTiny Tim:  God Bless Us\, Every One! \nStoryteller:  They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty. But they were happy\, grateful\, pleased with one another\, and contented with the time. And when they faded\, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit’s torch at parting\, Scrooge had his eye upon them\, and especially on Tiny Tim\, until the last. \nNext\, Scrooge was surprised to find himself at his nephew’s\, in a bright\, dry\, gleaming room\, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side\, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability. \nFred:  He said that Christmas is a humbug! He believed it\, too! \nFred’s Wife:  More shame for him\, Fred. \nFred:  He’s a comical old fellow: that’s the truth. I am sorry for him. I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself\, always. He takes it into his head to dislike us\, and he won’t come and dine with us. What’s the consequence? He loses some pleasant moments\, which could do him no harm. But I mean to give him the same chance every year\, whether he likes it or not. \nStoryteller:  Now the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by the nephew. Then Scrooge and the Spirit were again upon their travels. \nMuch they saw\, and far they went\, and many homes were visited\, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds\, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands\, and they were close at home; by struggling men\, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty\, and it was rich. In almshouse\, hospital and jail\, in misery’s every refuge\, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door and barred the Spirit out\, he left his blessing\, and taught Scrooge his precepts. \nIt was a long night\, if it were only a night. It was strange\, too\, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form\, the Ghost grew older. Scrooge noticed that his hair was grey. \nScrooge:  Are spirits’ lives so short? \nGhost of Christmas Present:  My life upon this globe is very brief. It ends tonight at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near. \nScrooge:  Forgive me\, but I see something strange\, and not belonging to yourself\, protruding from your robe. Is it a foot or a claw? Spirit\, are they yours? \nGhost of Christmas Present:  They are Man’s. And they cling to me. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both—but most of all beware this boy\, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom\, unless the writing be erased. \nScrooge:  Have they no refuge or resource? \nGhost of Christmas Present:  Are there no prisons? \nStoryteller:  The clock struck the hour. Scrooge looked around him for the Ghost\, and saw it no more. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate\, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley\, and\, lifting up his eyes\, beheld a solemn Phantom\, draped and hooded\, coming like a mist along the ground toward him. \nThe Phantom slowly\, gravely\, silently approached. In the air through which this spirit moved\, it seemed to spread gloom and mystery. \nIt was shrouded in a deep black garment\, which concealed its head\, its face\, its form\, and left nothing visible save one outstretched hand. But for this\, it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night\, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. \nIts mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. The Spirit neither spoke nor moved. \nScrooge:  Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?   \nStoryteller:  The Spirit pointed downward with its hand. \nScrooge:  You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened\, but will happen in the time before us. Is that so\, Spirit? \nStoryteller:  The Spirit inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. \nAlthough well used to the ghostly company by this time\, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him\, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. \nIt thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror\, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him\, while he\, though he stretched his own to the utmost\, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black. \nScrooge:  Ghost of the Future\, I fear you more than any specter I have seen! But as I know your purpose is to do me good\, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was\, I am prepared to bear you company\, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me? \nStoryteller:  It gave him no reply. The hand pointed straight before them. \nScrooge:  Lead on! Lead on! The night is waning fast\, and it is precious time to me\, I know. Lead on\, Spirit! \nStoryteller:  They scarcely seemed to enter the city\, for the city rather seemed to spring up about them. But there they were in the heart of it\, amongst the merchants\, who hurried up and down\, and chinked the money in their pockets\, and conversed in groups\, and looked at their watches\, and so forth\, as Scrooge had seen them often do. \nThe Spirit stopped beside one little knot of businessmen. (The Spirit points to them.) \nFirst Businessman:  No\, I don’t know much about it. I only know he’s dead. \nSecond Businessman:  When did he die? \nFirst Businessman:  Last night\, I believe. \nThird Businessman:  Why\, what was the matter with him? I thought he’d never die. \nFirst Businessman:  God knows. \nSecond Businessman:  What has he done with his money? \nFirst Businessman:  I haven’t heard. Left it to the company\, perhaps. He hasn’t left it to me. That’s all I know. \nThird Businessman:  It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral\, for upon my life I don’t know of anybody to go to it. Shall we make up a party and volunteer? \nSecond Businessman:  I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided. But I must be fed. \nStoryteller:  Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversation apparently so trivial. He looked about him in that very place for his own image\, but another man stood in his accustomed corner\, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there\, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes. \nNow he recoiled in terror\, for the scene had changed\, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare uncurtained bed\, on which\, beneath a ragged sheet\, there lay\, plundered and bereft\, unwatched\, unwept\, uncared for\, was the body of a man.  (Phantom points to the head.)   \nThe cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it\, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge’s part\, would have disclosed the face. \nScrooge:  I understand you\, and I would do it if I could. But I have not the power\, Spirit. I have not the power. (Ghost continues to point at the head.) If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man’s death\, show that person to me\, Spirit\, I beseech you. \nStoryteller:  The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment\, like a wing\, and\, withdrawing it\, revealed a room by daylight\, where a woman waited. \nShe was expecting someone with anxious eagerness. At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door\, and met her husband: a man whose face was careworn and depressed\, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed\, and which he struggled to repress. \nCaroline:  Is it good…or bad? \nHusband:  Bad. \nCaroline:  Then\, we are quite ruined. \nHusband:  No\, there is hope yet\, Caroline. \nCaroline:  If he relents\, there is. Nothing is past hope\, if such a miracle has happened. \nHusband:  He is past relenting. He is dead. \nCaroline:  I am thankful. God forgive me. I’m sorry…To whom will our debt be transferred? \nHusband:  I don’t know. But before that time we shall be ready with the money. We may sleep tonight with light hearts\, Caroline. \nStoryteller:  The only emotion that the Ghost could show him\, caused by the event\, was one of pleasure. \nScrooge:  Let me see some tenderness connected with a death\, or that dark chamber which we left just now will be forever present to me. \nStoryteller:  The Ghost conducted him through several streets with which he was familiar\, and as they went along Scrooge looked here and there to find himself\, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit’s house\, the dwelling he had visited before\, and found the mother and the children seated round the fire. \nQuiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in the corner\, and sat looking up at Peter\, who was reading a book. The mother and her daughter were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet! \nThe mother laid her work upon the table\, and put her hand up to her face. \nMrs. Cratchit:  Your father should be home soon. \nPeter:  He’s late.  But I think he has walked a little slower than he used to\, these last few evenings\, mother. \nMrs. Cratchit:  When he walked with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder\, he walked very fast indeed. But he was very light to carry\, and his father loved him so\, that it was no trouble…no trouble. There’s your father now. (The family rushes to greet Bob Cratchit. He appears very cheerful.) You went today\, then\, Robert? \nBob Cratchit:  Yes\, my dear. I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there every Sunday. My little child! My little child! (Sobs.) However and whenever we part from one another\, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim—shall we?—or this first parting that there was among us. \nAll:  Never\, father! \nBob Cratchit:  And I know…I know\, my dears\, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was\, although he was a little child\, we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves\, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it. \nAll:  No\, never\, father! \nBob Cratchit:  I am very happy! I am very happy! \nScrooge:  Specter\, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it\, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead. \nStoryteller:  The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him to a dismal\, wretched\, ruinous churchyard. The Spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to one. \nScrooge:  Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point\, answer me one question: Are these shadows of the things that will be\, or are they shadows of things that may be only? \nStoryteller:  Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. \nScrooge:  Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends\, to which\, if persevered in\, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from\, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me. \nStoryteller:  The Spirit was as immovable as ever. \nScrooge crept towards it\, trembling as he went\, and\, following the finger\, read upon the neglected grave his own name: EBENEZER SCROOGE. \nScrooge:  Am I that man who lay upon the bed? (The Spirit points from the grave to him\, and back to the grave.) No\, Spirit! Oh no\, no! Spirit\, hear me! I am not the man I was. Why show me this if I am past all hope? Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life! I will honor Christmas in my heart\, and try to keep it all the year. O\, tell me I may erase the writing on this stone! \nStoryteller:  Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate reversed\, he saw an alteration in the Phantom’s hood and dress. It shrunk\, collapsed\, and dwindled down into…a bedpost. Yes\, and the bedpost was his own! The bed was his own! \nScrooge:  I am here!  The shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be! I know they will!  I will live in the past\, the present and the future!  The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this! I say it on my knees\, old Jacob\, on my knees! \nI don’t know what to do! (Laughing.) I am as light as a feather! I am as happy as an angel! I am as merry as a schoolboy! I am as giddy as a drunken man! A Merry Christmas to everybody! A Happy New Year to all the world! \nThere’s the door by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There’s the corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present sat. It’s all right\, it’s all true\, it all happened! (He laughs.) \nStoryteller:  Really\, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years\, it was a splendid laugh\, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long\, long line of brilliant laughs. \nScrooge:   I don’t know what day of the month it is. I don’t know how long I’ve been among the spirits. I don’t know anything. I’m quite a baby. Never mind. I don’t care. I’d rather be a baby. \nStoryteller:  The church bells began ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Oh\, glorious\, glorious!   \nRunning to the window\, he opened it and put out his head. No fog\, no mist\, just clear\, bright\, jovial\, stirring cold! Golden sunlight! Heavenly sky! Sweet fresh air! Merry bells! Oh\, glorious\, glorious! \nScrooge:  What’s today? \nBoy:  Huh? \nScrooge:  What’s today\, my fine fellow? \nBoy:  Today?! Why\, CHRISTMAS DAY! \nScrooge:  It’s Christmas Day! I haven’t missed it! The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hello\, my fine fellow! \nBoy:  Hello. \nScrooge:  Do you know the Poulterer’s shop\, over in the next street\, on the corner? \nBoy:  Of course I do! \nScrooge:  An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey… the big one? \nBoy:  The one as big as me? \nScrooge:  What a delightful boy! It’s a pleasure to talk to him. Yes\, the one as big as you! \nBoy:  It’s hanging there now. \nScrooge:  Is it? Go and buy it. \nBoy:  What?! \nScrooge:  Go and buy it and tell ‘em to bring it here. I’ll give them the directions where to take it. Come back with the man and I’ll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I’ll give you half a crown! (The boy runs off.) \nI’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s! He won’t know who sent it. It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim! (The boy and the poulterer’s apprentice arrive.) Here’s the turkey! Hello! How are you? Merry Christmas! \nStoryteller:  It was a turkey! He never could have stood on his legs\, that bird. They would have snapped off like sticks of sealing wax. \nScrooge:  Why\, it’s impossible to carry that to Camden Town. You must have a cab. \nStoryteller:  The chuckle with which he said this\, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey\, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab\, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy\, were only exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down\, breathless\, in his chair again\, and chuckled till he cried. \nShaving was not an easy task\, for his hand continued to shake very much. And shaving requires attention\, even when you don’t dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off\, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaster over it\, and been quite satisfied. \nHe dressed himself all in his best\, and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth\, and Scrooge looked so irresistibly pleasant that three or four good-humored fellows said: \nGood-humored Fellows:  Good morning\, sir. A Merry Christmas to you. \nScrooge:  Merry Christmas! \nStoryteller:  And Scrooge said often afterwards\, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard\, those were the blithest in his ears. \nHe had not gone very far\, when he saw coming toward him the portly gentleman who had walked into his countinghouse the day before. It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him\, and he took it. \nScrooge:  My dear sir (taking both his hands)\, how do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A Merry Christmas to you\, sir! \nFirst Gentleman:  Mr. Scrooge? \nScrooge:  Yes\, that is my name\, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness…(Scrooge whispers in his ear.) \nFirst Gentleman:  Lord bless me! My dear Mr. Scrooge\, are you serious? \nScrooge:  If you please\, not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it\, I assure you. Will you do me that favor? \nFirst Gentleman:  My dear sir\, I don’t know what to say to so much munifence… \nScrooge:  Don’t say anything. Please come and see me. Will you? \nFirst Gentleman:  I will! \nScrooge:  Thank you. I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you! \nStoryteller:  Scrooge went to church\, and walked about the streets\, and watched people hurrying to and fro\, and patted children on the head\, and questioned beggars\, and looked down into the kitchens of houses\, and up to the windows\, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew’s house. \nHe passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash\, and did it: \nScrooge:  Fred! \nFred:  Who is it? \nScrooge:  It’s I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in\, Fred? \nStoryteller:  Let him in?! It’s a mercy he didn’t shake his arm off! He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. Wonderful party\, wonderful games\, wonderful unanimity\, wonderful happiness! \nBut he was early at the office the next morning! If he could only be there first\, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon. \nAnd he did it. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. Bob was a full eighteen minutes and-a-half late. Scrooge sat with his door wide open\, that he might see him come in. \nBob’s hat was off before he opened the door\, his comforter too.  He was on his stool in a jiffy\, driving away with his pens\, as if he were trying to overtake nine o’clock. \nScrooge:  (Growling.)  What do you mean by coming here at this time of day? \nCratchit:  I’m very sorry\, sir. I’m late. \nScrooge:  Are you? Yes\, I think you are. Come over here. \nCratchit:  It’s only once a year\, sir. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday\, sir. \nScrooge:  Now\, I’ll tell you what\, my friend. I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore…and therefore…I am going to raise your salary! \nStoryteller:  Bob trembled and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it\, holding him\, and calling to the people in the court for help and a straight-jacket. \nScrooge:  A Merry Christmas\, Bob! A merrier Christmas\, Bob\, my good fellow\, than I have given you for many a year! I’ll raise your salary\, and endeavor to assist your struggling family\, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon over a bowl of hot wassail\, Bob! Make up the fires\, and buy another coal scuttle before you dot another “i\,” Bob Cratchit. \nStoryteller:  Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all\, and infinitely more. And to Tiny Tim\, who did not die\, he was a second father. He became as good a friend\, as good a master\, and as good a man\, as the good old city knew\, or any other good old city\, town\, or borough in the good old world. \nAnd it was always said of him\, that he knew how to keep Christmas well\, if any man alive possessed the knowledge.May that be truly said of all of us! And as Tiny Tim would say: \nTiny Tim:  God Bless Us\, Every One! \n  \n  \n  \n—Charles Dickens
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-9-21/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20211128T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20211128T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T065541
CREATED:20211127T180347Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211127T182421Z
UID:2490-1638111600-1638118800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Mythology  11/28/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nTodd suggested MYTHOLOGY as our topic for Sunday\, November 28th\, at 3 pm (PST). Here’s the link to the Zoom gathering: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/86949399028 \n  \nI hope to see you there!  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness  \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-mythology-11-28-21/
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