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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210711T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210711T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210709T024543Z
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SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Your Favorite 50 Books of the Last 50 Years
DESCRIPTION:  \nWhat are your favorite 50 books of the past 50 years? Make a list\, and join the Zoom gathering on Sunday\, July 11th\, at 3 pm (PDT). Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/83135193074 \n  \nSee you there! \n  \npeace & love \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-your-favorite-50-books-of-the-last-50-years/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210708
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210722
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210708T153913Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123947Z
UID:2256-1625702400-1626911999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  7/8/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nDREAMS OF BETTER WORLDS \n  \nJuly 8\, 2021 \n  \nI once asked my friend Howard Thoresen what he thought the future would be like. “Like the present\,” he said. \n  \nIn the drawings above\, the artist Robert Crumb gives three versions of the future of the same street corner. In the first\, everything is more-or-less dead. The second is a high-tech future\, with flying cars. The third is a hippie ecotopian future. One of the things I think Howard was getting at is that all three of these “futures” exist right now. Somewhere there’s a terrible drought and the crops have died. Somewhere there’s a city where tall skyscrapers have skins of mirrored glass. And somewhere someone is riding her bike to the organic vegetable market. \n  \nIn movies and popular culture dystopian visions abound. Back in the Hippie Days\, before the Internet\, we had a Bible of Hope known as The Whole Earth Catalog. On the cover\, it had a picture of our planet as seen from space. \n  \nIn the Fifties\, in America\, World War Two was over and many people dreamed of raising a happy family—like the ones on TV—in their house in the suburbs\, with a two-car garage and an automatic washer and dryer. A company advertised: PROGRESS IS OUR MOST IMPORTANT PRODUCT. The idea was that things were better than they had ever been\, and they would just keep getting better and better. \n  \nAround 1970\, we got the Bad News. Ecologists told us that there were too many people on the planet for its “carrying capacity.” Plant and animal species were becoming extinct. Forests were being cut down\, topsoil was being exhausted and eroded\, fresh water sources were being depleted. Factories were poisoning the air\, the soil and the rivers. The climate was changing. The trajectory we were on\, they said\, was not taking us to a better place\, but to a worse one. \n  \nThis came as quite a shock. All our stories had told us that humanity was ascending from a state where life was “nasty\, brutish and short” to a more and more civilized\, more and more “modern” one\, where all our problems would be abolished by rational problem solving\, economic prosperity and technological progress. \n  \nOne of the thinkers featured in the Whole Earth Catalog was R. Buckminster Fuller\, the inventor of the geodesic dome\, and a “futurist.” He wrote a book called Utopia or Oblivion. These\, he said\, were our options. He said that he didn’t find the subject of oblivion very interesting\, so he spent his life trying to figure out how\, together\, we could “make the world work.” He said he had done the math\, and it was quite possible for everyone on this planet to have enough to eat and a place to live. We could educate all the children and provide health care for everyone. \n  \nIt makes you wonder: why aren’t we doing that? \n  \nWhen we go camping\, we’re supposed to leave the campsite better than we found it. Individually and collectively\, we would like to do that with our planet. One problem is that we can never give an adequate answer to the question: “What’s going on here?” There’s always too much going on at every moment. I don’t know what’s happening in my backyard right now. What are all the worms up to? And everything is always growing and changing—within me and around me. \n  \nAnother difficulty is that people have different ideas about what the most important problems are and about how things could be improved. Each of us has our own utopian dreams. \n  \nIn The Tempest\, while Gonzalo puts forward his ideas of what he would do if he was king of the island\, hecklers are busy finding all the flaws in his Big Idea: \n  \nGONZALO \nHad I plantation of this isle\, my lord\,– \nANTONIO \nHe’ld sow’t with nettle-seed. \nSEBASTIAN \nOr docks\, or mallows. \nGONZALO \nAnd were the king on’t\, what would I do? \nSEBASTIAN \n‘Scape being drunk for want of wine. \nGONZALO \nI’ the commonwealth I would by contraries \nExecute all things; for no kind of traffic \nWould I admit; no name of magistrate; \nLetters should not be known; riches\, poverty\, \nAnd use of service\, none; contract\, succession\, \nBourn\, bound of land\, tilth\, vineyard\, none; \nNo use of metal\, corn\, or wine\, or oil; \nNo occupation; all men idle\, all; \nAnd women too\, but innocent and pure; \nNo sovereignty;– \nSEBASTIAN \nYet he would be king on’t. \nANTONIO \nThe latter end of his commonwealth forgets the \nbeginning. \nGONZALO \nAll things in common nature should produce \nWithout sweat or endeavour: treason\, felony\, \nSword\, pike\, knife\, gun\, or need of any engine\, \nWould I not have; but nature should bring forth\, \nOf its own kind\, all foison\, all abundance\, \nTo feed my innocent people. \nSEBASTIAN \nNo marrying ‘mong his subjects? \nANTONIO \nNone\, man; all idle: whores and knaves. \nGONZALO \nI would with such perfection govern\, sir\, \nTo excel the golden age. \nSEBASTIAN \nGod save his majesty! \nANTONIO \nLong live Gonzalo! \n* \n  \nIn Joyce’s Ulysses\, Leopold Bloom fantasizes about being an eloquent politician: \n  \nBLOOM \n  \nI stand for the reform of municipal morals and the plain ten commandments. New worlds for old. Union of all\, jew\, moslem and gentile. Three acres and a cow for all children of nature. Saloon motor hearses. Compulsory manual labour for all. All parks open to the public day and night. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis\, lunacy\, war and mendicancy must now cease. General amnesty\, weekly carnival with masked licence\, bonuses for all\, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors. Free money\, free rent\, free love and a free lay church in a free lay state. \n  \nShakespeare and Joyce are having fun with our proclivity to imagine ourselves in charge of everyone and everything. \n  \nThe protagonist of Dostoevsky’s short story “Dream of a Ridiculous Man\,” is depressed. He wants to find the right day to commit suicide. He falls asleep in his chair and dreams that he travels through space to a planet just like Earth—except that everything there is perfect. Everyone there is happy. They love each other. They love the animals. They talk to the trees. In his dream\, the unfortunate narrator corrupts that world. Things get worse and worse\, until it resembles our own. When he wakes from the dream\, he wants to live! He feels that his mission in life is to convince everyone that we need to love each other. He is certain that if we could do that our world would become a Paradise. \n  \nParadises and utopias come in all shapes and sizes. A perfect moment is Paradise. When we write a poem or paint a picture\, we create a perfect little world. \n  \nThe philosopher Wittgenstein contrasted the idea of “the world” with the idea of “my world.” It’s fun to ponder this distinction. If you wanted to change the world for the better\, it would be quite hard to do because it’s so big and there are so many forces in play. But my world—the world as I experience it—changes from day to day. We create a new world from moment to moment. A happy person lives in a friendly world. An angry person lives in a world full of adversaries. We create our own Heaven. Or Hell. We can see the kind of world Marc Chagall lived in by looking at his paintings. \n  \nPeople have imagined that Paradise existed sometime long ago\, or will arrive at some time in the distant Future. Maybe after we die—if we’re good. Hesiod spoke of a long-ago Golden Age\, when people were happy\, lived long\, and didn’t have to work. In the Bible\, our first parents lived in a Garden until they were kicked out for disobedience. Karl Marx believed that some day a casteless\, classless society would be ushered in\, and all would be well. Paradise is always elsewhere. \n  \nIn contrast to this story\, Thich Nhat Hanh says: “The present moment is a wonderful moment.” I don’t have to wait for The End of War in the world\, in order to abolish the conflict within myself. I could live in Love right now. It’s not against the law. \n  \nOne of my favorite books is The Big Orange Splot by Daniel Pinkwater. In it\, one day a seagull drops a bucket of orange paint on the roof of Mr. Plumbean’s house. Instead of fixing the problem\, Mr. Plumbean painted his house to look like all his dreams.  \n  \nIt reminds me of the colorful\, wildly imaginative architecture of Gaudi and Hundertwasser.  \n  \nThe Mexican muralists Rivera\, Orozco and Siqueros painted walls in Mexico\, and inspired thousands of people to do likewise around the world. \n  \nThanks to YouTube\, we can tour the barn of the Bread & Puppet Theater in Glover\, Vermont \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OV232D962pE \n  \nor the home of the clown Slava Polunin in France \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yy9DqXzGEAI&t=12s \n  \nor accompany Dr. John “Slomo” Kitchin as he skates along the sidewalks of San Diego \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xn87-mcnoVc \n  \nMaybe Paradise is not far away. Maybe we’re in it right now.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-7-8-21/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210627T130000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210627T150000
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210615T231258Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210626T172012Z
UID:2232-1624798800-1624806000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: PLAYS!
DESCRIPTION:my first play\, circa 1956\, Columbia Falls\, Montana (JS) \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nOn June 27th\, at 1 pm\, we will gather together on Zoom to talk about PLAYS!–reading them\, watching them\, performing them. The Zoom link is:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/83135193074 \n  \nHope to see you there!  \n  \npeace\, love & katharsis   \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-plays/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210624
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210708
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210624T231228Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210624T231324Z
UID:2245-1624492800-1625702399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  6/24/21
DESCRIPTION:sidewalk message \n  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJune 24\, 2021 \n  \nBe kind whenever possible. It is always possible. \n—Dalai Lama \n* \n  \nThe other day I was thinking about what I would say if asked to give a TED talk. Here’s what I wrote: \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n  \nthat’s William Blake \n  \nI’d like to talk about love \nand so I shall \nnot the fascinating question of the relation between love and sex \nbut another kind of love: \nunconditional love for everyone and every thing \nis such a love possible? \nthat’s an open question \nbut surely it is possible to have this as an aspiration \nfor our love to grow and grow as we go along on our life journey \nit is good to begin with this axiom: \nwe are one human family \nthat means: \nall children are our children \nall children are our children \nevery child\, everywhere in the world \nif you accept this as true\, then war becomes impossible \nunthinkable \nfor whenever we drop a bomb on our so-called “enemies” we would at the same time murder some of our own children \nsurely we don’t want to do that \nit’s much more pleasant to have no enemies  \nthere’s no one to fear \nwe can live in love \nthe preamble to the UNESCO constitution says: \n“wars begin in the minds of men” \nso\, that’s where they must end\, too \nwe can end the wars within ourselves \nby doing our own inner work \nthe other kind of war—between nations and groups of people— \nends with acts of imagination\, informed by love \nby the knowledge that each person’s life is as limitless and precious as our own \nif we don’t imagine that we have enemies\, we don’t have enemies \nthis is true\, because we are one human family  \nand all children are our children \nwe have no enemies \nthere is no “other” \nthere is no scapegoat upon whom to project all our sins \nwe are not born in sin \n(every newborn baby proves Saint Augustine was wrong about that) \nwe are born in love \nwe grow in love \nthat’s why we came here \nto love and be loved \nthat’s why we came to this earth \nthat’s why we came to this room \nlove has no limit \nit has no beginning or end \nto quote the Bible: \nwho loves not\, knows not God \nfor God is love \nJesus enjoined us to love our neighbors as ourselves  \nand to love our enemies \nif you love your enemies\, they are no longer enemies \nthey are friends \nbrothers and sisters \n* \nour family is larger than the human family \nit includes every living being \nand rocks and rivers and clouds \nThich Nhat Hanh speaks of interbeing \nwe all inter-are \nthe trees provide oxygen for us to breathe \neach of our bodies is a host for millions of micro-organisms\, without which we couldn’t digest our food \nit’s wonderful! \nwhether or not you postulate a creator\, this world is amazing!  \nevery particle of creation is miraculous \neverywhere you look is another miracle \nour breath\, the circulation of our blood\, our brain\, the bees pollinating the fruit trees— \nthe Web of Life! \n* \nthe odds against any one of us being born are impossibly large— \nthe chance meeting of our parents\, the moment of conception\, the zillions of little swimmers— \nand yet here we are \nit is great good fortune \nhere we are with our precious human bodies and brains \nour thoughts\, our emotions\, our imaginings \nwe are in this well-lit room\, where the temperature is regulated for our comfort \nwe are all suitably clothed \nwell-fed \nwe are very fortunate \nmany people\, as we know\, are not so fortunate \neveryone should have access to clean and abundant drinking water \nno one should go to bed hungry \nno one should live in fear \nwe have a lot of work to do \ncompassion is the essential prerequisite \n* \nthe earth is hurting\, too \nwe have been relentlessly destroying the ecological health of our planet—especially since the advent of the Industrial Revolution \nwe have to learn\, or re-learn\, how to live on this earth in ways that are not so destructive \nthis\, too\, begins with love \nwe must love our Mother Earth \n* \nand as the poet Auden said: \n“we must love one another or die” \nof course you probably got the memo that we’re all going to die anyway \nwe are mortal beings \nthe question is: \nhow shall we live? \nmay I have the envelope please? \nand the answer to the question “How shall we live?” is… \nin Love \n  \nthank you \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI shared it with Kim Stafford\, who sent me a poem and also a letter that his friend  Charles Busch had written to the mothers and fathers of Palestine and Israel: \n  \nFor the Bird        \n Singing before Dawn  \n  \nSome people presume to be hopeful \nwhen there is no evidence for hope\, \nto be happy when there is no cause. \nLet me say now\, I’m with them.  \n  \nIn deep darkness on a cold twig \nin a dangerous world\, one first \nlittle fluff lets out a peep\, a warble\, \na song—and in a little while\, behold:  \n  \nthe first glimmer comes\, then a glow \nfilters through the misty trees\, \nthen the bold sun rises\, then \neveryone starts bustling about.  \n  \nAnd that first crazy optimist\,  \ncan we forgive her for thinking\, dawn by dawn\,  \n“Hey\, I made that happen! \nAnd oh\, life is so fine.” \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nLetter to the Mothers and Fathers of Palestine and Israel\, \n  \nWe have read the names of the 69 children killed in the 11-day exchange of violence between your peoples. Though we live far away\, your grief reaches us\, for we too have daughters and sons we love and cannot imagine life without. \n  \nQusai al-Qawlaq (6 months)\, Ibrahim al-Rantisi (6 months)\, Muhammade-Zain al-Attar (9 months) \n  \nThe deaths of your children point to the dark truth of modern warfare: For every 1 combatant killed\, 9 civilians are killed\, the majority of them children. These numbers have been reported consistently for decades\, but are hard to hear. War has become the killing of children. \n  \nDain Ishkontana (2)\, Yazan al-Masri (2)\, Nagham Salha (2)\, Adam al-Qawlaq (3)\, Yahya Ishkontana (4) \n  \nWe at Fields of Peace\, a small nonprofit on the coast of Oregon\, have a Mission: To stop the killing of children in wars. Today\, we recommit to working for a lasting peace in your land by daring to propose a way to a new beginning. \n  \nBaraa al-Gharabli (5)\, Ido Avigal (5)\, Amira al-Attar (6)\, Butheina Obaid (6)\, Abdurrahman al-Hadidi (7) \n  \nWe know there have been countless failed attempts at peacemaking. And we know that there are seemingly intractable issues—borders\, occupation\, settlements\, refugees\, statehood. But we also know that the majority of peoples on both sides desperately want and demand peace. \n  \nZaid al-Qawlaq (8)\, Bilal Abu Hatab (9)\, Yara al-Qawlaq (9)\, Yahya al-Hadidi (10)\, Mira al-Ifranji (11) \n  \nTo begin anew\, a shared perspective is needed\, one that rises above the narratives on each side that justify violence. The perspective we propose is the view from the eyes of mothers and fathers. They see that to gain a whole world is not worth the killing of a single child. \n  \nAbdullah Jouda (12)\, Hala Rifi (13)\, Ahmad al-Hawajri (14)\, Muhammad Suleiman (15)\, Nadine Awad (16) \n  \nTo unite the mothers and fathers of Palestine and Israel into a force for peace\, a common commitment is needed. The commitment we propose is an obvious one: make A Promise to Our Children. It begins\, \n  \nI will not be a part of the killing \nof any child\, \nno matter how lofty the reason. \nThese words may seem slight given the history and walls that divide your land\, but words hold the power of creation. They set in motion the good that is waiting in us to be born. Nothing new begins without words. But they must be said out loud\, and someone must go first. \n  \nI will not be a part of the killing \nof any child\, \nno matter how lofty the reason. \nNot my neighbor’s child. \nNot my child. \nNot the enemy’s child. \nNot by bomb. Not by bullet. \nNot by looking the other way. \nI will be the power that is peace. \nSpoken\, these words will travel out\, be heard and repeated by other mothers and fathers\, by grandparents\, godparents\, by all who say the name of a child with love. They will serve notice to leaders: “Stop the killing of children in wars. Stop wars.” Spoken\, the words will also travel in\, reminding us of who we are\, giving us courage to stand and act. \n  \nThere is a way to a new beginning. It is simple and immediate: See with the eyes of mothers and fathers. Make A Promise to Our Children. It begins\, \n  \nI will not be a part of the killing \nof any child\, \nno matter how lofty the reason. \n  \nThank you\, \nFields of Peace \n  \nJune\, 2021 \nfieldsofpeace.org
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-6-24-21/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210615
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210715
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210615T224651Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210615T225414Z
UID:2223-1623715200-1626307199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  6/15/21
DESCRIPTION:Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n   \nJune 15\, 2021 \n  \nYou are equally as beautiful as the universe. \n—tag on a Yogi Tea bag \n* \nIt is easy to see the conventional character of roles. For a man who is a father may also be a doctor and an artist\, as well as an employee and a brother. And it is obvious that even the sum total of these role labels will be far from supplying an adequate description of the man himself\, even though it may place him in certain general classifications. But the conventions which govern human identity are more subtle and much less obvious than these. We learn\, very thoroughly though far less explicitly\, to identify ourselves with an equally conventional view of “myself.” For the conventional “self” or “person” is composed mainly of a history consisting of selected memories\, and beginning from the moment of parturition. According to convention\, I am not simply what I am doing now. I am also what I have done\, and my conventionally edited version of my past is made to seem almost more the real “me” than what I am at this moment. For what I am seems so fleeting and intangible\, but what I was  is fixed and final. It is the firm basis for predictions of what I will be in the future\, and so it comes about that I am more closely identified with what no longer exists than with what actually is! \n  \n—Alan Watts\, from The Way of Zen\, p. 6 \n* \nEsoterica  \n  \nShall I write for the ages? Shall I compose  \nfor a scholar’s delectation? Shall footnotes \nbe the explication implement for my puzzles\,  \nmy utterance reeking of the lamp? Shall glossy  \nlyricism enamel my philosophies? Shall I play  \ncat and mouse\, merciless with a reader’s mind?  \nShall I strive to conceal my meaning so teachers \nmay tease their students for the great shazam?  \n  \nDo not hang my painting  in the parlor\,  \nsaid Van Gogh—I see it in the cabin of a boat \nstorm-tossed at sea\, as a help to frightened sailors. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nTakes a heap of meaning to make a body happy \n  \nThere have been complaints these days about meaninglessness. \n  \nThe spiritual end of our civilization seems to have broken down. We were originally set up to be monotheistic\, and not polytheistic. The gods were banished and all space taken by Jehovah on his golden throne. That worked through the Middle Ages\, but the Industrial Revolution put a spoke in the wheel. Almost unnoticed\, the gods started coming back. \n  \nThere are those who would turn Jehovah out and bring the gods back. Monotheism\, polytheism\, whatever. The important thing is to live a meaningful spiritual life. But a lot of Christians\, Muslims and Jews are invested in monotheism\, which is the idea that if there is one god there can’t be many. Logic won’t allow it. Others say that religion needs to be founded on paradox\, in which case\, there can be one god or many\, depending on your visionary angle. \n  \n—Charles Erickson \n* \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—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nYou can take any object whatsoever–a stick or a stone\, a dog or a child–draw a ring around it so that it is seen as separate from everything else\, and thus contemplate it in its mystery aspect–the aspect of the mystery of its being\, which is the mystery of all being–and it will have there and then become a proper object of worshipful regard. So\, any object can become an adequate base for meditation\, since the whole mystery of man and nature and of everything else is in any object that you want to regard. \n  \n—Joseph Campbell\, from Mythic Worlds\, Modern Words: On the Art of James Joyce\, p. 130 \n* \n  \nI hear and behold God in every object\, yet understand God not in the least\, \nNor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. \n  \nWhy should I wish to see God better than this day? \nI see something of God each hour of the twenty-four\, and each moment then\, \nIn the faces of men and women I see God\, and in my own face in the glass\, \nI find letters from God dropt in the street\, and every one is signed by God’s name\, \nAnd I leave them where they are\, for I know that wheresoe’er I go\, \nOthers will punctually come for ever and ever. \n  \n—Walt Whitman\, from “Song of Myself” \n* \n  \nAnd this our life\, exempt from public haunt\,  \nFinds tongues in trees\, books in the running brooks\,  \nsermons in stones\, and good in every thing.  \nI would not change it. \n  \n—William Shakespeare\, from As You Like It\, Act II\, scene 1 \n* \n  \nHere are some excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. (JS) \n  \nMay 3\, 2021  #113  The Beautiful Earth \n  \nThis one ended up not being about the entitled topic: certainly it does start there…and ends where we can help others find/touch peace more often in their lives\, realizing that the Earth and all it contains is already beautiful. I appreciate that Thây tells/reminds us that we are “able to”—“We can allow ourselves…” How often do we do this—allow ourselves to do anything for ourselves?; let alone\, walking mindfully or touching the Earth. Certainly\, it can be a greater challenge for those of us located in the box. But\, we can let our spirit soar outside this box\, our minds don’t have to be imprisoned along with our bodies. (As an aside: How many do you know and/or notice whose mind is as trapped as their body\, unable to see any beauty or kindness inside here?) Even walking on concrete we can touch the Earth. Even looking at concrete walls\, or at a sky above\, we can recognize the beauty of the Earth around us—as we once knew it\, or as we can see it now in faces of people\, or pictures\, or birds flying overhead. We can allow ourselves to live\, breathe\, see\, feel\, and even “be” outside the box. We only need to “see” it… \n* \n  \nMay 24\, 2021  #128  Peace is Contagious \n  \nI guess I have not experienced this truth yet. I see war as a result of greed\, hatred\, delusion: this is contagious\, in a way. Peace has certainly been a byproduct of meditation practice\, as has happiness with ease. I wonder if this is the intent of using “contagious.” \n  \nWouldn’t that be wonderful? If we could get many to meditate and peace were to spontaneously erupt. Then\, as a result of all the peaceful people and the contagious nature of peace\, that Peace broke out all over the world. What would that world look like? Would it be astonishing or amazing? Or\, would we all\, as active meditators\, know it was what we expected to occur? \n  \nPeace is the antithesis of greed\, hate\, and delusion (The Three Poisons). Meditation is part of the path for overcoming the self-told lies leading to these three poisons. So\, if this is known—(this is known\, isn’t it?)—then why don’t more people pursue peace this way: divesting of false narratives\, of grasping for what others have\, and the desire to erase the otherness? \n  \nIt all comes down to choices. We each make choices. Some will blind us to reality\, and others bring sharp relief. Each person gets to choose. When one discovers the path of peace\, he or she wants others to share in it—contagious. \n* \n  \nMay 31\, 2021  #133  Where the Buddhas Live \n  \n….We are all sleeping Buddhas. And\, we all share this planet together. We can all love ourselves\, in the now\, as it is\, as we really are\, seen in the “others” with whom we share the air we breathe\, the sunlight that warms our body\, on this planet provided for us to live. Where do the buddhas live? In you and in me and in each person we encounter. Can you see it? Can you feel this? \n  \nLove \nMichel Deforge \n* \n  \nOne of my favorite “children’s books” is Cosmic View: The Universe in 40 Jumps by Kees Boeke\, published by John Day\, 1957. It has long been out of print but some amazing soul has scanned the whole book to a PDF:  \n  \nhttp://www.arvindguptatoys.com/arvindgupta/cosmic-view.pdf \n  \nAnd in 1968 Canadian Broadcasting made a film based on it:  \n  \nhttps://letterboxd.com/film/cosmic-zoom/ \n  \nWe take size and our reactions to it almost by rote\, not seeing how very relative our slice or box of the universe is. And these two\, the book and film\, remind us of  that. In addition there is a great French movie\, Microcosmos\, about the life of insects in a field in France.  \n  \nhttps://www.imdb.com/title/tt0117040/ \n  \nTalk about different worlds and sizes! Which is just what I have done in this recent poem of mine\, that I am attaching. \n  \nlove\,  \nDeb \n  \nOpening the Hubble Galaxy Calendar \n  \nIn a summer field the camera inches closer\, the air’s hum becomes louder\, thicker and we watch small creatures move through wilds of grass and dirt\, beings so tiny our lordly bodies rarely see them\, human vision inattentive to antennas\, faceted eyes\, and carapace. How unimaginable these day-long worlds are to us and we to them\, our one hundred years beyond reach in the universe of insect life. \n  \nAnts\, worms\, and crickets\, dynasties of arachnid and lepidoptera rush to mind each morning as I open another color-enhanced photograph from the Hubble telescope\, each one bringing the unexpected into view: the Horse Head Nebula rearing as if a stallion\, a butterfly configuration composed of galaxy upon galaxy\, streams of gas and water\, glowing fire. What can we know of 100 million light-years\, these interstellar worlds? \n  \nO\, how like insects we are\, hands and legs\, thorax and mandibles all waving in the limitless dark. \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \n#161 Think Globally \n  \n“…When we see things globally we have more wisdom and we feel much better We are not caught by small situations…” \n  \nI don’t remember when I first started doing this\, but I know it was many\, many decades ago\, during my first rocky marriage. When caught up with tormenting thoughts I would extricate myself by saying\, “Look at the big picture. Look at you\, now\, in this time. This is nothing; you are nothing. In the “Grand Scheme of Things” this doesn’t matter. You don’t matter (you do\, but you don’t). It is nothing. Things will change.” I would detach myself\, look at the situation from the outside\, like a scientist\, untethering myself from the suffocating emotional bind. I would think of centuries\, of eons\, eras\, of countries\, continents\, planets\, the universe — and all the inhabitants therein\, and how their lives could be monstrous compared to mine. \n  \nThen I would count up the joys in my life\, remembering what I had within and without me that others globally could not experience. I would get specific\, enumerate details—loving\, supportive parents and siblings; vegetables in my garden ready to pick; good physical (if not mental) health; art; adoring\, adorable dog; freedom from addictions (for now); the trees and mountains calling me… \n  \nIf nothing else\, the time it took me to go through this process would invariably diffuse the heretofore unbearable situation. \n  \nI am everything. I am nothing. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nI love this poem: \n  \nI am one \nWho eats his breakfast \nGazing at morning glories \n  \n—Basho \n  \nhttps://matsuobashohaiku.home.blog/2019/04/12/gazing-at-morning-glories-eating-breakfast-basho/ \n  \nI am still contemplating the story Michel sent about fishing with a straight hook. Picturing this fisherman/fisherwoman sitting with companions who are intent on catching fish for dinner\, or sport.  \n  \nThe difference seems to me about letting go of expectations\, come what may\, but staying engaged with companions in the present moment. A surprise might come that feels magical\, but it isn’t about waiting for something better in the future. But the straight hook does make that fisherbeing unique amongst others. I am sending some quotes on this thought: \n  \nIf you always sit in expectation\, you’re not in the present moment. The present moment contains the whole of life.  \n—Thich Nhat Hanh   \n  \nLetting go is a painful part of life. But according to Buddhism\, we must let go of attachment and desires if we are to experience happiness. \nHowever\, letting go doesn’t mean you don’t care about anyone and anything. It actually means you can experience life and love fully and openly without clinging to it for your survival. \nAccording to Buddhism\, this is the only way to experience true freedom and happiness.  \nLetting go gives us freedom\, and freedom is the only condition for happiness. If\, in our heart\, we still cling to anything—anger\, anxiety\, or possessions—we cannot be free. \n—Thich Nhat Hanh   \n  \nThe greatest loss of time is delay and expectation\, which depend upon the future. We let go of the present\, which we have in our power\, and look forward to that which depends upon chance\, and so relinquish a certainty for an uncertainty. \n—Seneca   \n  \nIf we deny our happiness\, resist our satisfaction\, we lessen the importance of their deprivation. We must risk delight….We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world….( injustice cannot be the only measure of our attention)….We must admit there will be music despite everything.      \n—Jack Gilbert \n  \nLet Go Of Expectations  \n  \n“If it weren’t for my mind\, my meditation would be excellent.” \n—Pema Chödrön     \n  \nShe continues:      \n  \nEvery meditation is different. Some of them will be peaceful throughout and you may feel a deep sense of joy. Other times your mind might be wild with thoughts of the day\, responsibilities you have yet to fulfill\, or emotions that percolate to the surface of your mind.  \n  \nHere are some steps you can take during your practice so that you avoid unnecessary turmoil and disappointment:  \n  \n\nAccept whatever shows up for you. If your mind is wild with thoughts\, simply let them arise without judgement. When you catch yourself being aware of these thoughts\, you can remind yourself to focus once again on your breath.\n\n\nSometimes you may experience emotions arising. Again\, allow them to move through you without judgement. Emotions need to move through us\, otherwise they can become stuck within our body and cause discomfort or even disease later in life. The release of that emotion could be the very thing that brings some relief and a quieter mind. \n\n\nRelease expectations of a specific outcome before you go in to a meditation. Some people will enter meditations with the hope that they will be able to manifest money\, relationships or health. High expectations of a specific outcome can lead to disappointments when they do not arise immediately. The less you expect of your meditation the easier you will find happiness. \n\n* \n  \nOK\, you are now ready to begin\, take a calm\, deep breath. \n—Katie Radditz
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-6-15-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/Unknown.jpeg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210613T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210613T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210601T140213Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210611T163618Z
UID:2208-1623596400-1623603600@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: BLOOMSDAY CELEBRATION!!!  6/13/21
DESCRIPTION:James Joyce (1882-1941) \n  \n  \nOn June 13th\, we will celebrate Bloomsday! On June 16th\, 1904 two fictional characters–Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus–wandered the streets of Dublin\, Ireland\, in what many bibliophiles consider the greatest novel of the 20th Century\, James Joyce’s Ulysses. On Sunday\, June 13th\, at 3 pm (PDT) we will journey together through those same streets and see what adventures befall us. Here’s the Zoom link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/83135193074 \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-bloomsday-celebration-6-13-21/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210610
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210624
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210610T151739Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123728Z
UID:2214-1623283200-1624492799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  6/10/21
DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nJune 10\, 2021 \n  \nThis is the Nobel Prize Lecture that Wisława Szymborska gave on December 7th\, 1996: \n  \nThe poet and the world \n  \nThey say the first sentence in any speech is always the hardest. Well\, that one’s behind me\, anyway. But I have a feeling that the sentences to come – the third\, the sixth\, the tenth\, and so on\, up to the final line – will be just as hard\, since I’m supposed to talk about poetry. I’ve said very little on the subject\, next to nothing\, in fact. And whenever I have said anything\, I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that I’m not very good at it. This is why my lecture will be rather short. All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses. \n  \nContemporary poets are skeptical and suspicious even\, or perhaps especially\, about themselves. They publicly confess to being poets only reluctantly\, as if they were a little ashamed of it. But in our clamorous times it’s much easier to acknowledge your faults\, at least if they’re attractively packaged\, than to recognize your own merits\, since these are hidden deeper and you never quite believe in them yourself … When filling in questionnaires or chatting with strangers\, that is\, when they can’t avoid revealing their profession\, poets prefer to use the general term “writer” or replace “poet” with the name of whatever job they do in addition to writing. Bureaucrats and bus passengers respond with a touch of incredulity and alarm when they find out that they’re dealing with a poet. I suppose philosophers may meet with a similar reaction. Still\, they’re in a better position\, since as often as not they can embellish their calling with some kind of scholarly title. Professor of philosophy – now that sounds much more respectable. \n  \nBut there are no professors of poetry. This would mean\, after all\, that poetry is an occupation requiring specialized study\, regular examinations\, theoretical articles with bibliographies and footnotes attached\, and finally\, ceremoniously conferred diplomas. And this would mean\, in turn\, that it’s not enough to cover pages with even the most exquisite poems in order to become a poet. The crucial element is some slip of paper bearing an official stamp. Let us recall that the pride of Russian poetry\, the future Nobel Laureate Joseph Brodsky was once sentenced to internal exile precisely on such grounds. They called him “a parasite\,” because he lacked official certification granting him the right to be a poet … \n  \nSeveral years ago\, I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Brodsky in person. And I noticed that\, of all the poets I’ve known\, he was the only one who enjoyed calling himself a poet. He pronounced the word without inhibitions. \n  \nJust the opposite – he spoke it with defiant freedom. It seems to me that this must have been because he recalled the brutal humiliations he had experienced in his youth. \n  \nIn more fortunate countries\, where human dignity isn’t assaulted so readily\, poets yearn\, of course\, to be published\, read\, and understood\, but they do little\, if anything\, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind. And yet it wasn’t so long ago\, in this century’s first decades\, that poets strove to shock us with their extravagant dress and eccentric behavior. But all this was merely for the sake of public display. The moment always came when poets had to close the doors behind them\, strip off their mantles\, fripperies\, and other poetic paraphernalia\, and confront – silently\, patiently awaiting their own selves – the still white sheet of paper. For this is finally what really counts. \n  \nIt’s not accidental that film biographies of great scientists and artists are produced in droves. The more ambitious directors seek to reproduce convincingly the creative process that led to important scientific discoveries or the emergence of a masterpiece. And one can depict certain kinds of scientific labor with some success. Laboratories\, sundry instruments\, elaborate machinery brought to life: such scenes may hold the audience’s interest for a while. And those moments of uncertainty – will the experiment\, conducted for the thousandth time with some tiny modification\, finally yield the desired result? – can be quite dramatic. Films about painters can be spectacular\, as they go about recreating every stage of a famous painting’s evolution\, from the first penciled line to the final brush-stroke. Music swells in films about composers: the first bars of the melody that rings in the musician’s ears finally emerge as a mature work in symphonic form. Of course this is all quite naive and doesn’t explain the strange mental state popularly known as inspiration\, but at least there’s something to look at and listen to. \n  \nBut poets are the worst. Their work is hopelessly unphotogenic. Someone sits at a table or lies on a sofa while staring motionless at a wall or ceiling. Once in a while this person writes down seven lines only to cross out one of them fifteen minutes later\, and then another hour passes\, during which nothing happens … Who could stand to watch this kind of thing? \n  \nI’ve mentioned inspiration. Contemporary poets answer evasively when asked what it is\, and if it actually exists. It’s not that they’ve never known the blessing of this inner impulse. It’s just not easy to explain something to someone else that you don’t understand yourself. \n  \nWhen I’m asked about this on occasion\, I hedge the question too. But my answer is this: inspiration is not the exclusive privilege of poets or artists generally. There is\, has been\, and will always be a certain group of people whom inspiration visits. It’s made up of all those who’ve consciously chosen their calling and do their job with love and imagination. It may include doctors\, teachers\, gardeners – and I could list a hundred more professions. Their work becomes one continuous adventure as long as they manage to keep discovering new challenges in it. Difficulties and setbacks never quell their curiosity. A swarm of new questions emerges from every problem they solve. Whatever inspiration is\, it’s born from a continuous “I don’t know.” \n  \nThere aren’t many such people. Most of the earth’s inhabitants work to get by. They work because they have to. They didn’t pick this or that kind of job out of passion; the circumstances of their lives did the choosing for them. Loveless work\, boring work\, work valued only because others haven’t got even that much\, however loveless and boring – this is one of the harshest human miseries. And there’s no sign that coming centuries will produce any changes for the better as far as this goes. \n  \nAnd so\, though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration\, I still place them in a select group of Fortune’s darlings. \n  \nAt this point\, though\, certain doubts may arise in my audience. All sorts of torturers\, dictators\, fanatics\, and demagogues struggling for power by way of a few loudly shouted slogans also enjoy their jobs\, and they too perform their duties with inventive fervor. Well\, yes\, but they “know.” They know\, and whatever they know is enough for them once and for all. They don’t want to find out about anything else\, since that might diminish their arguments’ force. And any knowledge that doesn’t lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life. In the most extreme cases\, cases well known from ancient and modern history\, it even poses a lethal threat to society. \n  \nThis is why I value that little phrase “I don’t know” so highly. It’s small\, but it flies on mighty wings. It expands our lives to include the spaces within us as well as those outer expanses in which our tiny Earth hangs suspended. If Isaac Newton had never said to himself “I don’t know\,” the apples in his little orchard might have dropped to the ground like hailstones and at best he would have stooped to pick them up and gobble them with gusto. Had my compatriot Marie Sklodowska-Curie never said to herself “I don’t know”\, she probably would have wound up teaching chemistry at some private high school for young ladies from good families\, and would have ended her days performing this otherwise perfectly respectable job. But she kept on saying “I don’t know\,” and these words led her\, not just once but twice\, to Stockholm\, where restless\, questing spirits are occasionally rewarded with the Nobel Prize. \n  \nPoets\, if they’re genuine\, must also keep repeating “I don’t know.” Each poem marks an effort to answer this statement\, but as soon as the final period hits the page\, the poet begins to hesitate\, starts to realize that this particular answer was pure makeshift that’s absolutely inadequate to boot. So the poets keep on trying\, and sooner or later the consecutive results of their self-dissatisfaction are clipped together with a giant paperclip by literary historians and called their “oeuvre” … \n  \nI sometimes dream of situations that can’t possibly come true. I audaciously imagine\, for example\, that I get a chance to chat with the Ecclesiastes\, the author of that moving lament on the vanity of all human endeavors. I would bow very deeply before him\, because he is\, after all\, one of the greatest poets\, for me at least. That done\, I would grab his hand. “‘There’s nothing new under the sun’: that’s what you wrote\, Ecclesiastes. But you yourself were born new under the sun. And the poem you created is also new under the sun\, since no one wrote it down before you. And all your readers are also new under the sun\, since those who lived before you couldn’t read your poem. And that cypress that you’re sitting under hasn’t been growing since the dawn of time. It came into being by way of another cypress similar to yours\, but not exactly the same. And Ecclesiastes\, I’d also like to ask you what new thing under the sun you’re planning to work on now? A further supplement to the thoughts you’ve already expressed? Or maybe you’re tempted to contradict some of them now? In your earlier work you mentioned joy – so what if it’s fleeting? So maybe your new-under-the-sun poem will be about joy? Have you taken notes yet\, do you have drafts? I doubt you’ll say\, ‘I’ve written everything down\, I’ve got nothing left to add.’ There’s no poet in the world who can say this\, least of all a great poet like yourself.” \n  \nThe world – whatever we might think when terrified by its vastness and our own impotence\, or embittered by its indifference to individual suffering\, of people\, animals\, and perhaps even plants\, for why are we so sure that plants feel no pain; whatever we might think of its expanses pierced by the rays of stars surrounded by planets we’ve just begun to discover\, planets already dead? still dead? we just don’t know; whatever we might think of this measureless theater to which we’ve got reserved tickets\, but tickets whose lifespan is laughably short\, bounded as it is by two arbitrary dates; whatever else we might think of this world – it is astonishing. \n  \nBut “astonishing” is an epithet concealing a logical trap. We’re astonished\, after all\, by things that deviate from some well-known and universally acknowledged norm\, from an obviousness we’ve grown accustomed to. Now the point is\, there is no such obvious world. Our astonishment exists per se and isn’t based on comparison with something else. \n  \nGranted\, in daily speech\, where we don’t stop to consider every word\, we all use phrases like “the ordinary world\,” “ordinary life\,” “the ordinary course of events” … But in the language of poetry\, where every word is weighed\, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all\, not a single existence\, not anyone’s existence in this world. \n  \nIt looks like poets will always have their work cut out for them. \n  \n— Wisława Szymborska \nTranslated from Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh. \n* \n  \nHere is one of her poems: \n  \nA Few Words On The Soul \n  \nWe have a soul at times. \nNo one’s got it non-stop\, \nfor keeps. \n  \nDay after day\, \nyear after year \nmay pass without it. \n  \nSometimes \nit will settle for awhile \nonly in childhood’s fears and raptures. \nSometimes only in astonishment \nthat we are old. \n  \nIt rarely lends a hand \nin uphill tasks\, \nlike moving furniture\, \nor lifting luggage\, \nor going miles in shoes that pinch. \n  \nIt usually steps out \nwhenever meat needs chopping \nor forms have to be filled. \n  \nFor every thousand conversations \nit participates in one\, \nif even that\, \nsince it prefers silence. \n  \nJust when our body goes from ache to pain\, \nit slips off-duty. \n  \nIt’s picky: \nit doesn’t like seeing us in crowds\, \nour hustling for a dubious advantage \nand creaky machinations make it sick. \n  \nJoy and sorrow \naren’t two different feelings for it. \nIt attends us \nonly when the two are joined. \n  \nWe can count on it \nwhen we’re sure of nothing \nand curious about everything. \n  \nAmong the material objects \nit favors clocks with pendulums \nand mirrors\, which keep on working \neven when no one is looking. \n  \nIt won’t say where it comes from \nor when it’s taking off again\, \nthough it’s clearly expecting such questions. \n  \nWe need it \nbut apparently \nit needs us \nfor some reason too. \n  \n— Wisława Szymborska \nTranslated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-6-10-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210530
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210613
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210518T150122Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210531T155219Z
UID:2164-1622332800-1623542399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Annual Group Reading of Walt Whitman's "Song of "Myself"  5/30/21
DESCRIPTION:painting by Rick Bartow \n  \n  \nEach moment and whatever happens\, thrills me with joy. \n–Walt Whitman\, from “Song of Myself” \n  \nTo celebrate Walt’s 202nd birthday\, on Sunday\, May 30th we performed the sacred rite of reading Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” together. Readers and Listeners who joined the gathering included:  \n  \nMartha Ragland\, Brent Gregston\, Claire Stock\, Prabu Muruganantham\, Mary Real-Leflar\, Tad Leflar\, Jeffrey Sher\, Nancy Scharbach\, Marianne Pulfer\, Todd Oleson\, Katie Radditz\, Gail Lester\, Andy Larkin\, Scott Teitsworth\, Deborah Buchanan\, Carla Grant\, Ken Margolis\, Alan Benditt\, Carmen Bernier-Grand\, Nick Eldredge\, Jude Russell\, Will Hornyak and me. \n  \nThis poem changed my life. And continues to inspire me. In this interview I did a few years ago on Marfa Public Radio\, I elaborate on what the poem means to me. If you’re interested\, here’s a link to that interview:  \n  \n https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0D6WmHaSE8&t=25s \n  \nAll truths wait in all things.  \n  \n–Johnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-annual-group-reading-of-walt-whitmans-song-of-myself-5-30-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210516
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210530
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210329T010236Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210518T174835Z
UID:1954-1621123200-1622332799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: ALL THINGS GREEK  5/16/21
DESCRIPTION:Dionysus \n  \n\n  \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nStratis Panourios was our Hierophant \n  \n  \nThe Ethiops say that their gods are flat-nosed and black\, while the Thracians say that theirs have blue eyes and red hair. Yet if cattle or horses or lions had hands and could draw\, and could sculpt like men\, then the horses would draw their gods like horses\, and cattle like cattle; each would shape bodies of gods in the likeness of their own. \n  \n\n\n\n\n–Xenophanes (died: 475 B.C.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  \nOn Sunday\, May 16\, Stratis Panourios was our Special Guest. He is fluent it English\, but his friend Lena translated for him so that he could give the clearest expression to his thoughts. He talked about a production of Aeschylus’ play The Persians which he is directing at a prison in Athens. He emphasized the character of Xerxes\, who returns to Persia after leading the Persian army to a terrible defeat by the Greeks. Stratis said that men coming out of prison face a difficulty analogous to that of Xerxes\, and that when he talked with them about it\, he was very moved by their stories. \nWe had a lively Zoom gathering\, which included Keith Scales\, Curt Tofteland\, Kim Stafford\, Gail Lester\, Martha Ragland\, Todd Oleson\, Demetra Ariston\, Brent Gregston and Katie Radditz. \nIf you’d like to watch a video recording of the conversation\, let me know\, and I’ll email it to you. \nειρήνη &  αγάπη \nJohnny \n  \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-all-things-greek-4-11-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/0-8-2.jpeg
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210515
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210615
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210518T155600Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210916T003424Z
UID:2171-1621036800-1623715199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  5/15/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nThis picture is based on Verse 18 from “A Hundred Verses of Self-Instruction” by the South Indian master of mindfulness meditation\, Narayana Guru: \n  \nThe “I” is not dark; if it were dark we would be in a state of blindness\, \nunable to know even “I\,I”; \nas we do know\, the “I” is not darkness; \nthus\, for making this known\, this should be told to anyone. \n  \nThe author is inviting us once again to recognize a simple truth: there is a continuous background awareness operating in us that watches our actions\, the arising of our mental states\, our dreaming and even our breathing in a timeless unbroken flow of attention. It simply exists\, prior to any more definite notions we could have about our personal identity\, our names\, our age\, our sex and so on. \n  \nThis pure awareness can’t see itself directly\, but that doesn’t mean it’s dark or absent. We know it’s there\, because it illuminates the objects of our inner and outer experience. \n  \nBecause it’s absolutely featureless\, and because we all share it\, we could say\, in a sense\, that we are one Being. And although everyone calls their inner awareness “I”\, this is an “I” that is actually shared by all. \n  \nOur mental states are cycling in constant flux\, sometimes light and sometimes very dark indeed. So here the author is offering a kindly reminder: our moments of deepest confusion can be known\, as such\, only by virtue of that light in us that watches. \n  \n–Andy Larkin \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n May 15\, 2021 \n  \nKatie Radditz is editing this month’s Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue\, while Nancy and I are in Mexico. (JS) \n  \nHello dear friends\, \n  \n Last week\, I went to Walla Walla to help take care of my grand kids while their parents worked there for a few days. It was joyful and freeing to be out after covid vaccines\, no masks necessary in the outdoors. The bare hills and the towering rock walls with giant wind mills are a huge contrast to our home landscape in Portland in the cedar trees and lush spring greens and reds of rhododendrons\, yellow tulips\, orange poppies.  I hadn’t been on I-84 going East for more than a year.  The last time was visiting at Two Rivers. On our return we came past the prison.  And I was filled with the feeling of being home and homesick at the same time. It was hard not to be able to come inside.  So we stopped\, went down to the river and I meditated with you\, just breathing the same air. Being at ease.  And I pictured the banner that hangs in the trees at Plum Village when one arrives on retreat.  It blows gently in the breeze with Thay’s calligraphy that says\, “You have arrived. You are home.”  It was a wonderful moment of being home.  We are always arriving\, right here\, right now.  This was most refreshing\, and I felt grateful for having been welcomed there always\, in that magical\, loving dialogue group.    \n  \n—  Katie R \n  \nHere is a poem by Deb that reminds us of all the life going on beneath our feet while above our minds can be spinning  –  \n  \nWhite Orchid \n  \nWaxy petals unfurl slowly against the tropical earth pale insects burrow in drawn by fragrance escaping molecule by molecule through soft loam surrounding the tendril of whitened stem piercing soil branching off a flower then another creeping underground this life unseen unheeded above ground our life drawing sustenance from the dark explosion    \n  \n—   Deborah Buchanan \n  \nFirst Light Meditation this morning May 16 –  \n  \nYou pedal furiously \ninto a future you’re trying \nhard to prolong \nby this exercise\, \nthough the landscape \nthat rolls by here is time \npassing\, with its lists \nof things undone \nor not done properly\, \nand all this effort\, \nthe fierce monotony \nof this ride feels \nmuch like life itself — \ngoing nowhere \nstrenuously… your legs \nbeginning to throb\, as if \nthe body communicates \nin a code of pain\, saying \nnever mind the future\, \nyou’re here \nright now\, alive. \n  \n–Linda Pastan \n  \nTwo entries from Michel’s journal: \n  \nApril 29\, 2021 #111 Taking Care of the Future \n  \nThe 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.  (Thich Nhat Hanh\, from Your True Home) \n  \nMichel writes about how to deal with his father’s coming death –  \n  \nIt becomes a matter of focus:  Do I dwell on the inevitable loss? Or\, do I focus my attention and energy on the now\, striving to be fully present to any of life’s moments\, making the most out of each one? The result of the second has some happiness for now and later; the former is only anguish and suffering.  \n  \nMay 2\, 2021  Michel sends this Buddhist story to ponder and respond to from your own life experience  –   \n  \nIt is from a Zen teacher who begins\,   “We might say that Zen practice is about directly experiencing the most satisfying kind of aliveness. The path of practice is about how we may go about realizing this possibility in our everyday lives\, regardless of the circumstances\, whether they’re comfortable or whether they’re challenging circumstances.”  \n  \nThere’s a story about a fisherman in a remote village in ancient China. As was the custom with people in the village\, each day they would go to the mountain stream that ran through the main part of the village and they would fish for their dinner. One day this fisherman showed up using a straight hook\, rather than using a curved hook with a barb. He began fishing next to his neighbors\, and they all started to make fun of him. They said\, “What are you going to do with that? Why are you trying to fish with a straight hook?” And he said\, “You may catch an ordinary fish with your curved hook with a barb on it. But one day I may catch an extraordinary fish with my straight hook.” And it’s said that he continued to fish in this way for 40 years. News of this unusual fisherman and his way of fishing spread throughout all of China\, even to the Imperial Court. The Emperor was very interested to see\, “What is this all about? What is this person doing? What’s this straight-hook fishing?” So he gathered together an entourage. They traveled up to the remote mountain village. Of course\, he arrived to see this now old man with his line fishing with a straight hook\, and he said\, “Old Man\, whatever were you hoping to catch with this straight hook?” And he replied\, “I was hoping to catch you\, dear Emperor.”  \n  \nThe teacher comments  –   So\, here we are together\, separated by time and distance but engaged as a learning community. Sitting quietly\, each of us on our own and all of us together\, putting our hook in this water. What are we hoping to catch? Maybe some piece of understanding\, clarity or insight. Maybe relief from some difficulty or challenge we’re facing. Maybe some way that we can help somebody who we care about deeply; who’s having some difficulty. We don’t know what to do. Maybe we’ll find some way we can really be of help and support. Maybe we don’t know why we’re casting our line into this water of meditation. Maybe it doesn’t matter to us at all. And we can’t know. I mean\, this is a story\, so we can’t know what the intention really of this old man fishing in this unusual way was. Could he ever have imagined that he’d catch an emperor at the end of his straight hook? But there’s the possibility in this slippery kind of situation\, where we’re numbed leading into the moment with what we know\, with what we understand\, with what we think works\, with what makes sense to us. We’re entering a moment in a wider way\, wider margins on how we’re approaching this feeling of directly experiencing the most satisfying kind of aliveness. And it marks a shift. It’s a shift from relying on our habits\, on our past\, or thinking what we know; our associations. Enter in the present situation in our experiencing of it\, not just for ideas about it. So the possibility of practice is not just to know ourselves as the idea we have of ourselves\, but to know ourselves directly\, which is much wider than those ideas. . . We could be open to possibilities much wider than what we can imagine. The possibility of fishing without a specific sense of what it is that we’re going to gain\, what the outcome is going to be.  \n  \n–Paul Rosenblum Roshi  \n  \nA few excerpts from Michel’s comments –  \n  \nI’ll allow everyone to develop each one’s meaning to this story\, so you can catch your own fish.  I just found the idea interesting as a launching point for his talk\, “this feeling of directly experiencing the most satisfying kind of aliveness. And it marks a shift from relying on our habits\, on our past or thinking what we know\, our associations.”   \n  \n(Michel continues): How do I fish with a straight hook\, unconcerned/unattached to a specific outcome to my actions?  \n  \nThe Roshi went on to share about Suzuki Roshi and how he would interact with the world: receiving\, using both hands\, drawing the “gift” into himself–and giving\, in the same way from his center with both hands. Suzuki’s whole being was involved. This reminds me of how Johnny sees us (or how his perspective was first described to me) as our 3-5 year old selves – innocent\, vulnerable\, etc.  Think back\, before you learned to be selfish\, to protect a separate “self\,” to a time when we engaged in each moment with both hands and total focus on that moment. Think of receiving a full glass of milk to carry to the table\, how we might use both hands to not drop\, and totally focus to not spill\, as we walked to our destination.  \n  \nWhat might life be like if/when we re-discover this engagement\, attention and focus? How would we treat others as well as ourself? Would it be engaged\, attentive\, focused? Would others feel loved\, or our compassion as we offer a hand up from a fall?  What would the world look like when we all learn to enter now with no thought of past or not holding anything back for any possible future but putting all of “self” into now\,  fishing with a straight hook? \n  \nHow often and how easy it is to get caught up in a narrative where I only use a part of my self (one-handed\, not two) and look more toward what I can get instead of giving and extending my whole self.  It’s that fishing hook story again. Is my hook for just an ordinary\, everday fish? Or am I fishing for an Emperor\, something unique and unexpected? \n  \n–Michel Deforge \n  \n# 241 What are you Doing?     \n  \nOne day as I walked through the kitchen\, I saw someone cleaning vegetables and I asked\, ‘What are you doing?’  I was playing the role of a spiritual friend.  Even though it was obvious that they were washing vegetables\, I asked the question to wake the person up to how happy they could be\, just washing the vegetables.  If we aren’t doing something with joy\, that moment is wasted.  (Thich Nhat Hanh\, from Your True Home) \n  \nI haven’t an inkling of a clue\, if honesty permits me to be so brazen. Though I have pondered this question many times.  \n  \nElusive conclusions leave me in a turnstile\, spinning in circles\, never out\, never in.  \n  \n…I was chasing down the past and looking for the future\, but crystal balls cast upside down reflections. \n  \nI think the question shouldn’t be what am I doing but rather\, what will I be doing in the now? A question for every passing second\, before it passes.   \n       \nParting Glass \n  \nMy life is a glass \nThat’s been filled many times \nIt’s been put through the wash \nDropped on the floor \nAnd is now a chipped trinket \nOn a shelf by the door \nBut soon\, very soon\, the glass will not matter \nFor its structure will weaken and eventually shatter \nThen it will sparkle bright in the Sun \nThen\, only then\, my life will be done. \n  \n–Joshua Barnes\, 2021 \n  \nWhat are you doing?  It makes me think of my friend Ron raking leaves.  Every year he would complain in the Fall when the thousands of leaves fell from his giant maple tree.  The time he needed to spend raking them up and putting into compost bags. I started to find one red and gold leaf with a tinge of green left at the center and put it on his windshield or into his book for a book mark.  One day\, he woke up and realized how easy and happy he could feel if he just enjoyed the fleeting moments of getting to rake these individually unique and beautiful leaves that had given him shade all summer.  He started working with gratitude and joy\, paying attention\, and it became a meditation he almost looked forward to.   (kr) \n  \nHere are two poems that reflect on some of the submissions above. (kr) \n  \nThree Times My Life has Opened \n  \nThree times my life has opened.\nOnce\, into darkness and rain.\nOnce\, into what the body carries at all times within it and starts\n          to remember each time it enters the act of love.\nOnce\, to the fire that holds all.\nThese three were not different.\nYou will recognize what I am saying or you will not.\nBut outside my window all day a maple has stepped from her\n          leaves like a woman in love with winter\, dropping the\n          colored silks.\nNeither are we different in what we know.\nThere is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of light stays\,\n          like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor\, or the one\n          red leaf the snow releases in March. \n  \n– Jane Hirshfield\, from The Lives of the Heart: Poems \n  \n  \nThe Song of Wandering Aengus\n  \nI went out to the hazel wood\, \nBecause a fire was in my head\, \nAnd cut and peeled a hazel wand\, \nAnd hooked a berry to a thread; \nAnd when white moths were on the wing\, \nAnd moth-like stars were flickering out\, \nI dropped the berry in a stream \nAnd caught a little silver trout. \n  \nWhen I had laid it on the floor \nI went to blow the fire a-flame\, \nBut something rustled on the floor\, \nAnd someone called me by my name: \nIt had become a glimmering girl \nWith apple blossom in her hair \nWho called me by my name and ran \nAnd faded through the brightening air. \n  \nThough I am old with wandering \nThrough hollow lands and hilly lands\, \nI will find out where she has gone\, \nAnd kiss her lips and take her hands; \nAnd walk among long dappled grass\, \nAnd pluck till time and times are done\, \nThe silver apples of the moon\, \nThe golden apples of the sun. \n  \n–William Butler Yeats \n  \nA note of gratitude from Abe Green\, \n  \nFriends\,  \n  \nThank you so much for having me on your mailing list. I am honored. \n  \nEach week\, no matter my emotional or spiritual condition\, I am inspired by the wisdom and love enclosed.  I somehow become fuller with each reading . . . a miracle!  \n  \nPeace and Love\,  \nAbe \n                     \n  \n Treadmill \n(written this morning for you by Kim Stafford) \n  \nDo you ever have the feeling you’re plodding  \nin place\, trying to climb the down escalator\, \ntreading water as time’s river slides away? \n  \nDay after day you faithfully attend to life’s  \nadministration\, to mere maintenance\, as your \nbutterflies of aspiration flit from sight. \n  \nYour old dream is real— your shoes are made  \nof stone\, each step a struggle as you stagger across  \nlevel ground\, too young to be a codger\, and yet…. \n  \nWhat if you look up when wind shakes the trees\, \nthe pine sheds a pollen cloud\, the maple shakes  \nher skirt inviting you to dance? \n  \n–Kim Stafford \n  \n#357: The Simple Act of Walking \n  \nWalking is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. But we often find it difficult or tedious. We drive a few blocks rather than walk in order to “save time.” When we understand the interconnectedness of our body and our mind\, the simple act of walking like the Buddha can feel supremely easy and pleasurable.  (Thich Nhat Hanh\, from Your True Home) \n  \nLet’s start with that first sentence: “Walking is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other.” I said I was not going to dwell on my foot surgery any longer\, but this short passage just spoke to me with force. \n  \nThis ‘recovery’ from a supposedly minor operation is taking much longer\, with a few more uncertain results possible\, than I was led to expect. Complications\, infection\, antibiotics\, more doctor appointments and different approaches have been accompanied by a range of emotions on my part. Eager anticipation\, determination\, trust\, puzzlement\, frustration\, doubt\, fear\, elation\, discouragement\, encouragement—you name it\, I’ve felt it. Acceptance hasn’t yet set in… \n  \nSo since February 25\, “walking is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other” has been a dream—and a mockery. I dream of the moment I can get my swollen foot into a shoe and then put one foot in front of the other\, but the result is that I treasure the thought of that simple act. Is that what it takes to treasure life? Why is it that we have such difficulty appreciating these present moments\, these simple acts\, and just hurry through them to get to the ‘next thing?’ \n  \nThe gift in all of this is that I have slowed down\, learned deep appreciation for the simple act of walking (and plenty of other things)\, learned thoughtfulness\, awareness and appreciation\, and come to cherish the interconnectedness of my mind and body\, which this situation has certainly amplified. \n  \nThay likes to invite people to smile and appreciate a non-toothache. A simple practice.  Thank you for reminding us. \n  \n–Jude Russell \n  \nI want to include something from Alex Tretbar that I meant to include in an earlier issue\, but lost track of. Here it is!: (JS) \n  \n…I thought I’d pick your brain on the thorny subject of “desire.” I just finished Balzac’s The Wild Ass’s Skin—(La Peau de chagrin” is the original title\, “chagrin” being both “sorrow” and “a kind of grained leather\, ordinarily made of the skin of a mule or an ass”)—in which\, (pardon the summary\, if you’ve read it before)\, a man\, fallen on hard times\, finds in a novelty shop a piece of “chagrin” that will grant him any wish\, but each wish causes the skin to shrink. Once it shrinks to a certain small size\, the owner dies. He eventually discovers that unspoken wishes\, desires merely thought of\, also shrink the skin\, so he’s driven into solitude & reclusion to avoid shrinking it further by accident. At one point\, he tries to enlist a scientist’s help in stretching the skin to prolong his life\, (this fails)\, but the scientist says this: “Everything is motion. Thought is motion. Nature is based upon motion. Death is a form of motion whose end is imperfectly understood.” \n  \nThinking on it\, it does seem that any desire\, at its core\, is aimed at a particular arrangement of time & space. You want things to change in just such a way\, and then you want them to stay that way. This flies in the face of the never-ending motion that is nature & the universe. Resistance to change is a root of much suffering. So\, where & how does “desire” figure in Buddhist (or just “mindful”) thought? Can desire ever be healthy? \n  \nOr is it\, by nature\, essentially like trying to sweep back the tide with a broom? \n  \nLooking forward to reading your thoughts on this! \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n  \nRather than sharing in this Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue what I wrote to Alex\, I’d like to invite all of you readers to engage his insights and questions for yourselves. There are some great writing prompts! You could also start a conversation with a friend by reading what he wrote and using it as a jumping-off place for dialogue. I’ve kept a journal for fifty years. In it\, I like to explore these kinds of ideas and questions. If you don’t keep a journal\, you might try doing it as a way to inquire into questions like these\, to better understand yourself and the world. \n  \nMy contribution for the Merry Month of May is the quote from e. e. cummings: \n  \nI’d rather learn from one bird how to sing \nthan teach ten thousand stars how not to dance \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n  \nMetta Meditation  –    \n  \nMay I be healed.  May I be a source of healing for all beings. \nMay you be healed. May you be a source of healing for all beings. \nMay we be healed. May we be a source of healing for all beings.  \n  \nFarewell. Walk in peace\, be in love\,   \n  \n–Katie \n  \n*
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-5-15-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210429
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210610
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210429T154953Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123511Z
UID:2150-1619654400-1623283199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  4/29/21
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 29\, 2021 \n  \nBIBLIOMANIA \n  \nI like to think of myself as a bibliophile\, but the correct term would probably be “bibliomaniac.” There is definitely something nutty about my relationship with books. Here’s an example: \n  \nOne day I had selected a stack of about eight books to check out from the downtown branch of the Multnomah County Library. I brought them to the front desk. The librarian began checking them out. About halfway through the pile she said: “I’m gonna have to cut you off here. This doesn’t happen very often. You aren’t allowed to have more than 500 books checked out at a time.” \n  \nSee what I mean. \n  \nI love books. I console myself with the thought that there are worse things to be addicted to. Probably meth would be worse\, in the long run. \n  \nAs a lad\, I hated school. It impinged upon my freedom to go wherever I felt like going and do whatever I felt like doing. Halfway through my Freshman year in college\, it dawned on me that going to school was optional. I walked away. I still sometimes have dreams where I walk out of school and get the most wonderful feeling! \n  \nOnce I left school\, I started reading like a madman. I could read anything I wanted to! It was thrilling! I carried a backpack with me wherever I went\, with at least five or six books in it. I had to have a lot of books to choose from\, because I didn’t know in advance which book I would be in the mood to read once I sat down in the coffee shop. I carried a bag of books with me for many years before I noticed that most people were walking around without any books! That seemed strange to me. It still does.  \n  \nLike\, what if someone found themself somewhere with nothing to read? What would they do? Fortunately\, I’ve never had that experience. \n  \nI start the day sitting on the couch. Then I begin building my nest. By ten o’clock I am surrounded by piles of books. Ask Nancy. \n  \nInstead of going for a long walk\, I’m much more likely to reserve a book from the library with a title like: 50 Best Oregon Hiking Trails.  \n  \nI consider my books to be my friends. And many of the authors\, likewise. I feel very fortunate to have Walt Whitman and William Shakespeare as companions on my life journey. And it’s lovely to make new friends. Wikipedia says that Thomas Traherne died in 1674\, but that doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We just recently became close. \n  \nAs I get older I read less and less\, and slower and slower\, but I still need to have a lot of books nearby—maybe the way some people enjoy having their golden lab sleeping next to them. When I come home\, all my books wag their tails. The shelves are crowded with worlds waiting to be explored. \n  \nThere are so many books! Way too many to read in a single lifetime! (Maybe I’ll have to come back again and again\, and get a new library card every time.) Of the books I have read\, I can’t remember much. Nevertheless\, some books changed the way I see and experience the world. I guess one of my ambitions is to live a life rich in meaning. Books have helped me with that. \n  \nI read slowly. Sometimes a few words are enough to satisfy me. I put the book back on the pile\, happy as a clam at high tide. \n  \nI’ve always dreamed of writing a book. I’ve gotten so much pleasure from reading books\, I’d like to give that same pleasure to others. But I don’t know what to say. Or how to say it. I’ve kept a journal for fifty years. I write letters. I’ve written a few poems and stories\, theater pieces and essays. I guess I’m writing this little essay\, or whatever it is. If I do ever manage to get something I’ve written published between the covers of a book\, it will probably consist of short things. I don’t seem to have the attention span or the work ethic to write something long. \n  \nWhen I was young\, I just assumed I’d effortlessly write a great book someday. Perhaps the “effortlessly” is the clue to why it never happened. Who knows? I may still write a book and get it published. I’m not dead yet. \n  \nHere are a few of the books I’ve enjoyed most: \n  \nI put a picture of Autobiography of a Yogi on the first page. I read that book when I was 19 and it opened up a world that I didn’t know existed—the world of the Indian yogi. It turned out that that world was quite congenial to me. In my twenties\, I lived for a couple years in India with yogis. For yogis\, silence—inner stillness—is important. For me\, too. \n  \nThree of my favorite short stories are: “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens\, “Dream of a Ridiculous Man” by Fyodor Dostoevsky\, and “Tenth of December” by George Saunders. (Jason Beito recommended the latter story to me.) The words “human” and “humane” are related. It feels like certain works of fiction subtly enlarge our humanity\, make us more human—more kind. Maybe all of Charles Dickens’ works do this. One thing the world could use a lot more of is kindness. These stories can help us with that. \n  \nI’m re-reading Huckleberry Finn (again). The older I get\, the better it gets. I’m not alone in rating it the greatest American novel. It would be hard to find a more entertaining story\, or a more keen-eyed observer of human foibles than Huck. \n  \nLast Sunday\, we celebrated William Shakespeare’s 457th birthday on Zoom with friends from all over the place—Curt Tofteland and Ashley Lucas from Michigan\, Howard Thoresen from New York\, Stratis Panourios from Athens\, Alan Benditt from Seattle\, Todd Oleson from Walla Walla\, Keith Scales from Eureka Springs\, Arkansas\, Aaron Gilbert from Roseburg\, Allen Mills from Newberg\, and a number of friends from Portland. Since a lot of us have had experience acting\, directing and going to see Shakespeare plays in prison\, that’s mostly what we talked about. \n  \nWhat makes William Shakespeare so important to me has to do with the fact that he didn’t write novels—he wrote plays. And you can do the plays! Putting on his plays is an even greater pleasure than reading them. You learn the words! You play the parts! You rehearse the scenes over and over. Finally\, you perform the plays for your friends! In his day\, actors were called “players.” Kids need to play\, but grownups do too. There is no one more fun to play with than Will. And no better place to play the plays than in prison. \n  \nAnother book I’m re-reading (again) is Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being by Ted Hughes. It’s my favorite book about Shakespeare. Ted Hughes is a poet; with great intuition and sympathy he explores the personal\, historical and mythological dimensions of Shakespeare’s plays and poems. I had always wondered about Shakespeare’s inner life—who was he? Ted Hughes goes where a vast army of Shakespeare scholars have never dreamed of going. For me\, reading the book is thrilling—which is kind of weird for a book of literary criticism\, if that’s what it is. Okay\, that’s not what it is. But what is it? I don’t know. It doesn’t fit into any categories. It’s not like any other book. When I get to the end\, I’ll start again at the beginning. \n  \nOver the years\, in trying to better understand the meaning of my human life on Earth—(what’s going on here?)—I’ve continued to study what might be called “the wisdom of the East.” Joseph Campbell is one of my favorite guides. If this is a subject that interests you\, I would highly recommend the book Talks With Ramana Maharshi\, and the writings of R. H. Blyth\, J. Krishnamurti\, Shunryu Suzuki\, Thich Nhat Hanh\, Alan Watts\, Lao Tzu\, Seng Ts’an and Han Shan. \n  \nI’ve probably read more nonfiction than fiction. With nonfiction I can learn things I didn’t know\, and even change my inner landscape. I thought this essay would be about how books have shaped the way I see and experience the world\, but my mind meandered off in other directions. Maybe I’ll write that essay another day. \n  \nFor a bibliomaniac like me\, the subject of books has no beginning or end. Like the great globe itself\, the world of books is vast beyond our ability to know it. \n  \nA poem that changed my life and has enriched it endlessly is “Song of Myself\,” by Walt Whitman. It’s good to read and re-read it aloud\, as often as possible. If when you read it\, you mean what you say and feel it\, it will do something big to you. \n  \nIf I could take only one book to the proverbial desert island\, I’d take The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. A most rare vision! It hath no bottom. \n  \n  \nWe’re off to Mexico next week! Back in a month. \nOur revels now are ended. These our actors\, \nAs I foretold you\, were all spirits and \nAre melted into air\, into thin air: \nAnd\, like the baseless fabric of this vision\, \nThe cloud-capp’d towers\, the gorgeous palaces\, \nThe solemn temples\, the great globe itself\, \nYea\, all which it inherit\, shall dissolve \nAnd\, like this insubstantial pageant faded\, \nLeave not a rack behind. We are such stuff \nAs dreams are made on\, and our little life \nIs rounded with a sleep.   \n                      \n—William Shakespeare\, Prospero from The Tempest\, Act 4\, scene 1 \n  \n  \npeace & love \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-29-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210425
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210516
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210402T155615Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210427T182246Z
UID:2014-1619308800-1621123199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Will Shakespeare's 457th Birthday Party!!! 4/25/21
DESCRIPTION:the Cobbe portrait \n  \nI know a bank where the wild thyme blows\, \nWhere oxlips and the nodding violet grows\, \nQuite over-canopied with luscious woodbine \nWith sweet musk-roses and with eglantine: \nAnd there the snake throws her enamell’d skin\, \nWeed wide enough to wrap a fairy in… \n  \n—A Midsummer Night’s Dream\, Oberon\, Act 2\, scene 1 \n  \nBeloved Bibliophiles!  \n  \nWe had a lovely Zoom gathering on April 25th\, to celebrate Will’s 457th birthday (two days late). Because many of the people had experience doing Shakespeare plays in prison\, or going to see them there\, that’s mainly what we talked about. Friends from all over the world joined our conversation.  \nAaron Gilbert played Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night at Two Rivers prison. He joined us from Roseburg. \nAllen Mills joined us from his truck (maybe somewhere in the vicinity of Newberg)\, while he took a coffee break from work. Allen played Hamlet\, Puck and Feste at Two Rivers prison.  \n Some of the Actor/Directors who enlivened our conversation were:  \nCurt Tofteland of Shakespeare Behind Bars\, from Michigan.  \nStratis Panourios from Athens.  \nAshley Lucas of the Prison Creative Arts Project at the University of Michigan.  \nAlan Benditt\, from Seattle.  \nHoward Thoresen from New York.  \nKeith Scales from Eureka Springs\, Arkansas. \nTodd Oleson from Walla Walla\, Washington.  \nOther lovely friends who joined the conversation\, included Gail Lester from San Rafael\, and Portlanders Martha Ragland\, Jeffrey Sher\, Deborah Buchanan\, Tad Leflar and Nancy Scharbach. \nAnd of course Will Shakespeare was with us in spirit! \n  \n  \npeace\, love & happiness   \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-will-shakespeares-457th-birthday-party-4-25-21/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210415
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210515
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210416T163844Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210416T164502Z
UID:2109-1618444800-1621036799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  4/15/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \n  \nSongs are thoughts\, sung out with the breath when people are moved by great forces and ordinary speech no longer suffices. Man is moved just like the ice floe sailing here and there in the current. His thoughts are driven by a flowing force when he feels joy\, when he feels fear\, when he feels sorrow. Thoughts can wash over him like a flood\, making his breath come in gasps and his heart throb. Something like an abatement in the weather will keep him thawed up. And then it will happen that we\, who always think we are small\, will feel still smaller. And we will fear to use words. But it will happen that the words we need will come of themselves. When the words we want to use shoot up of themselves–we get a new song. \n  \n—Orpingalik\, Netsilik Inuit \n  \n April 15\, 2020 \n  \nWelcome to our eighth meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. The tag on my Yogi tea bag says: “Let your heart speak to other hearts.” \n* \n  \nA MEMORY OF WHAT \nafter Tracy K. Smith \n  \nAngels with days for eyes \nlay their hands on the dead. \n  \nWho is so fixed & desolate \nthat they cannot see the walls of honey \n  \nclosing in on a fugitive grief? They wince so \nbeautifully against the sun\, calamity: \n  \nchildren\, aspects of children\, falling \nin love with a flower. They are lost \n  \nin a memory of what the field was. \nIn a memory of when the field was \n  \nin love with a flower\, we are lost \nchildren\, aspects of children\, falling \n  \nbeautifully against the sun\, calamity \nclosing in on a future grief. We wince so \n  \nwe cannot see the walls of honey. \nWhat is fixed & desolate \n  \nlays its hand on the dead \nangels with days for eyes. \n* \n  \nAMONG THE CATTAILS \n  \nIf all that’s left are ashes \nin a lazy\, bending wind \namong the cattails— \nif a moth is blown off course \nand lost in lust \nfor wander\, a crazing of grasses— \nif the cottonwoods are twinned \nby the sky’s calm sister\, \nsunrisen water—if \nyou find one day that you miss me\, \nmiss everyone\, and your days \nare an inconsolable star \nwithout a night to fall from— \nwe will wake as seedlings \namong the cattails. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nI have been unusually busy and am only now catching up on my readings. I apologize to this group for my comments printed in the January 15th newsletter. These were intended as a personal communication with Johnny\, and not at all intended for the newsletter. The miscommunication is entirely my fault\, I did not adequately delineate my comments as a side conversation. The context was Johnny and I discussing tradition and lineage\, and my own confusions about these topics. My comments were not in any way a criticism of this group or its participants. \n  \n—Shad Alexander \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  \n[Three entries from Michel’s (almost) daily March meditation journal.] \n  \nMarch 7\, 2021  #92  Don’t Take Side \n  \nReconciliation is a beautiful idea. Yet\, even in here\, every one of us wants to be on “a side”—the winning sports team (or unit ball team)\, the “right” side of the power players (however one sees power displayed in prison: violence/aggression\, staff informant\, etc.)\, having the “right” charges and/or associates leading to the right job. Because whatever or whomever is of the “wrong” is to be despised\, belittled\, attacked\, exploited\, destroyed\, not tolerated to co-exist. So much suffering\, trauma\, and drama exists over this dualistic battle. I don’t recall (free) society being any different—possibly more subtle in some areas. We always have those who have/want power\, those who want to be close to power\, since they can’t have their own\, and those who run from power (maybe over-simplified\, and/or “wrongly” thought out.) \n  \nAs I read on\, Thây reminds me that: “What we (I) need are people who are capable of loving and not taking sides so that they can embrace the whole of reality….” “look at all beings with the eyes of compassion\, and we (I) can do the real work of helping to alleviate suffering.” I see that\, not only do I need/want to have people in my life “capable of loving and not taking sides\,” I also need/want to be that person in the world. When I (we) “look at all beings with the eyes of compassion…” it alleviates suffering—mine and theirs. \n  \nWhile I desire reconciliation with former friends and victims of my selfish choices\, I wonder how much simpler reconciliation I can do among my current friends and associates and/or family\, with whom I have contact. Or\, how much I need with my own self—letting me “off the hook” (providing forgivness) for mistakes\, big and small\, no longer taking a “side\,” and cultivating loving compassion to ease suffering in my world. \n  \nI imagine this reconciliation isn’t easy\, but it can’t be “hard” either. Thây wants me (us) to continue practicing mindfulness and reconciliation till I (we) see the suffering of others as my (our) own.  \n  \nThis is where it gets deep and demands much\, to give up self as separate from other\, and to see that we’re all made from the same mud. We all share the same source. Even though we insist on seeing separateness—me vs. you\, us vs. them—reconciliation helps us see the common ground we share\, upon which we can begin anew to build a future together\, not excluding anyone\, to strive toward relieving (alleviating)  suffering. \n  \nI believe I can do this work of developing mindfulness—breathing\, being aware\, holding compassion (instead of contempt)\, sharing love as acceptance\, patience and understanding. \n* \n  \nMarch 9\, 2021  #93  The Spiritual Dimension \n  \nOh\, if only all people pursued peace! What an amazing world this would be. But\, Wait! I can encourage friends\, family\, and anyone who is open to do so. I can bring the peace I have (find\, learn) into the world I already live in\, to begin a healing work in others I contact. Remind me again: Why is it I need to wait for the (war) world leaders to pull out and learn the ways of peace for their lives? Short answer: I don’t. I can communicate my desires for them to learn and pursue peace. But\, I can only find and cultivate my own. And\, I can support anyone else’s journey by expressing/living a life of peace. \n* \n  \nMarch 24\, 2021  #102  Like the Moon in the Sky \n  \n“Abandoning ideas” could be scary; especially if they are ideas of identity—“me\,” this self. It’s not that I cease to exist\, per se\, or that I wholly abandon my role in this play going on here. I LET GO of my attachment to the “role” and the “character’s” story. Shakespeare put it well when he called us all merely actors. \n  \nTo me\, an actor picks up a role: and a part in the story is begun. He or she develops a backstory\, beyond what’s provided\, to drive the character through conflicts to resolution. When the curtain falls for the last time\, the actor sets down the role and picks up with the role of the self. (But it’s not really different.) \n  \nI think this freedom Thây is speaking of today is like that actor. When I set down my attachment to all the stories spun for this role of Michel: then\, I become free to exist and move as I was created\, to be the person I came here to be—instead of this assumed role I was once convinced was the “real” me. (PS: I think glimpses of the “real” do shine through\, as with all actors bringing a piece of the self to a role.) \n  \nThe more I identify and attach to this story/role\, the more I face the challenge to discover a “real” self within this role. Thây is right\, happiness can’t come from this conflict (inner turmoil). It comes easily when I set down attachment to this role of “me.” The story of Michel persists\, until it ends: My participation is how I pursue suffering\, or ease into happiness…my breathing exercises. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nQuiet Day \n  \nDawn day. Gone gray. \nNo car. No key. No place to be. \nNo task. No mask. No fancy shoes. \nNo news. Nothing to lose. \nNo greeting. No meeting. \nA quiet nook. A long look. \nNo call. No knock. Forgotten clock. \nSinging birds. Few words. Taking stock. \nDusk slow. Moon glow. Let go. \n* \n  \nAll My Relations \n  \nI want to thank all my relations \nfor this chance to be on Earth \nin her time of flourishing; to thank  \nthe First People of this place\, the  \nMultnomah people\, the Clackamas\, \nMolalla\, Tualatin\, & Chinook\, to honor  \ntheir sovereignty in long and continuing  \nrelation\, still teaching us how we might \nbe here together; to thank my mother and father\,  \nmoon and sun\, for setting me forth before  \ntheir own passing on; to thank my grandmother \nwho listened to me so eloquently I learned \nto listen to my own heart and mind\, to find \nstories and songs there; to thank my family  \nand friends\, and all citizens and travelers  \nwho study and work for deeper kinship  \nin this place\, with one another\, and with  \nall creatures\, one Earth\, visible\, palpable\,  \nfragile\, intricate\, resonant\, in need of our \nbetter stories. I want to thank you  \nwho have gathered to receive what I have  \ncarried here — in hope that something \nI have may meet something you need\, \nso all our relations may be strengthened \nfor the life we live together. \n  \n—Kim Stafford\, from Singer Come from Afar\, Red Hen Press\, 2021 \n* \n  \n#50  The Basic Principle \n  \n“Have we wasted our hours and our days?Are we wasting our lives? These are important questions.” \n  \nWaste: This is what caught my attention. All my life (well\, at least for the last 30 years or so) my guiding desire\, my guiding principle has been to Not Waste Life. Live this life! Be Alive!  Do Not Waste  Life. If you are afraid of something\, move into it; don’t run from it. Expand\, don’t contract.  \n  \nTo that end\, I have had a (very) full life. Full of good times and also very difficult times. I am aware of and grateful for both. Many will say that I have Too Many Things going on. Do you ever stop going? they ask. To be clear\, these activities are not things I think I should be doing. They are all passions\, things I love\, or feel strongly about —some despite\, or because of their difficulty or complexity. \n  \nMy husband has set some rules: For every new thing you take on\, something else has to go. You want to sing in the Voci Choir? Fine\, then you might stop leading those hikes for young girls. Learn how to graft fruit trees? Cool\, but stop digging and potting up your two hundred plants for the plant sale. Take classes in Middle eastern cooking? Cook meals for that new Hispanic family? Only if you stop cooking for that other family.  \n  \nSo I’m busy\, maybe ‘over scheduled.’ That is until recently when I had to stop everything for two months to recover from foot surgery. And not like the Pandemic Stop\, when I could still ride my bike and hike and carry on almost as always. This stoppage has a requirement of REST\, of HEALING\, of SLEEP\, of RECOVERY. In other words\, being quite…motionless. \n  \nThis has undermined my brain pattern of ‘activity’ as being ‘not wasting life.’ If I can’t ‘do’ anything\, I must be wasting life. But then I came around to this: I am ‘doing’ something active by recovering\, by healing. That is ‘productive!’ Whew! I am not wasting life.  \n  \nBut then I read the rest of The Basic Principle. “Practicing Buddhism is to be alive in each moment. When we practice sitting or walking\, we have the means to do it perfectly. During the rest of the day\, we also practice. It is more difficult\, but it is possible. The sitting and the walking must be extended to the non-walking\, non-sitting moments of our day. That is the basic principle of meditation.”  Not wasting life is not about being active\, or being active in being inactive. It’s not about being ‘productive\,’ although I’ve never been proud of the word nor used it as a complimentary personal characteristic. Moment by moment being active and aware\, being still and aware. Being in the moment\, every moment. Not wasting life is about being alive in each moment. It is not about always doing something. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nMorning Walk \n  \nIn the park \nImmersed in birdsong \nDrowned in trees \nI breathe it in \nUntil I smile \n  \n—Kristen Sagan \n* \n  \nMeditation and Mindfulness are simply the Art of paying attention. This is the most wonderful time of year\, when we can first take a walk outside after a cold winter and enjoy seeing the new life that comes\, without any need but the energy of life. The pink azaleas have bloomed\, and the magnificent magnolias. The ground is polka dotted after a wind with plum blossoms. This week on my son’s farm\, three sheep have given birth to one lamb each. Each one a surprise because their winter wool hides the mamas’ full bellies. Surprise and awe are two of the gifts of a happy life.  \n  \nThis sense of transformation is also ours just by noticing and being present to how we feel when happiness or kindness shows up.  \n  \nMy wish for us all this beautiful month of spring is to enjoy and notice the rebirth in the world; this can resonate within ourselves.  If you don’t have a wonderful outside view\, may you find some quiet time for breathing meditation.  I like to take that time every day at 3 p.m. and know that others are creating lovingkindness energy along with me.  In Vietnam at the same time\, Thich Nhat Hanh and Sister Chan Kong and the monks and nuns will be meditating together in the morning after ringing the temple bell.   \n  \nHere is a note from Thich Nhat Hanh on what we can do paying attention to our breath: \n  \n“Our breathing is a stable solid ground that is always there for us to take refuge in. Whenever we are carried away by regret about something that has happened\, or swept away in our fears or anxiety in the future\, we can return to our breathing\, and re-establish ourselves in the present moment.  \n  \nWe don’t need to control the breath in any way. We simply encounter it\, just as it is. It may be long or short\, deep or shallow. With the gentle energy of mindfulness it will naturally become slower and deeper.” \n  \nPeace and Love\,   \n  \nIf i could I would send you all peach blossoms\,     \n  \n—Katie Radditz
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-4-15-21/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210415
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210429
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210416T160729Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210416T161533Z
UID:2098-1618444800-1619654399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  4/15/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 15\, 2021 \n  \nAll beings rejoice! A new book of Kim’s poems has just been published by Red Hen Press! Sing! Dance! Make Merry! Get your copy today! Act now! Easy monthly payments! No money down! Makes a great gift for all occasions! With Kim’s permission\, here’s a small sampling from the Treasure Trove: \n  \nPoetry in Prison \n  \nYou’re in\, but the question is: \nwhat’s in you? What story \naching to be told do you hold \nin solitary\, shackled\, denied \nits rights to visitors? \n  \nThe hard things that happened are gold \nyou hammer into shape\, the pain \nyou twist\, the grief you make shimmer\, \nthe lost good thing you restore \nby telling it back into being. \n  \nEveryone is in prison\, one way \nor another. And everyone is \nfree\, one way or another. The trick \nis to find your way to bear the story \nforth\, so it shines in the listener’s eyes. \n* \n  \nBlue Brick from the Midwest \n  \nAfter my father collapsed like a bolt of light\, toppled without a word\, \nI was the one to enter his study\, find the jagged note to our mother he \nscratched as he reeled\, the freight train of his departure hurtling \nthrough his heart— \n  \n \n  \n—a sentiment he did not speak in seventy-nine years\, as a tough customer\, \naffable but stern\, inert when grief came\, reserved as granite \nwhen my brother died\, cracking plaintive jokes when we trembled \nin the hospital\, mother going under the knife. \n  \nHis way was trenchant\, oblique. He distrusted those who \ntalk about God\, preferring to honor the holy with a glance\, \na nod\, or silence. Delving deeper\, the day he died\, we found \nin his sock drawer\, under that scant set of flimsy raiment\, the fetching \nphoto of the flirt; our mother\, coy at the sink\, looking back \nover her shoulder\, dressed only in an apron with a big bow. \nNo fool like an old fool. \n  \nAnd delving deeper\, at the back of the bottom file (the niche \nwhere one would hide the stuff of blackmail) I touched the blue \nbrick of love letters our mother had sent him when they \ncourted in the war—brittle leaves kissed snug together \nand bound with string\, the trouble he had carried \nin secret through every move since 1943. She knew \nthem not\, nor had his. “Oh Billy\,” she said. \n  \nFather\, early years taught your way with the heart’s contraband \nwhen the dirty thirties blunted your bravado\, tornado snatched \nyour friends\, the war your tenderness\, and left you with these secrets \nhoarded for us to find when you were gone. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nAt last Sunday’s Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering (April 11th) we shared “Mystic Poems and Prose.” I read William Stafford’s poem “Ask Me.” Kim has a story about this poem (my paraphrase): \n  \nThere was a big event at the Oregon Historical Society for the 100th Anniversary of William Stafford’s birth. OPB was there. Very Important People from the historical society and literary societies\, et cetera. A homeless man wandered in\, and headed for the table with the cookies. The cookies were being guarded by Someone of Importance. The homeless guy asked\, “What’s going on?” “We’re honoring a poet.” “Is he any good?” “Yes\, we think so: William Stafford.” The homeless man says\, “Ask me.” “Ask you what?” “Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made…” After the Uninvited Guest had finished reciting the poem\, the Guardian of the Refreshment Table asked\, “Would you like some cookies?” \n  \nAsk Me \n  \nSome time when the river is ice ask me \nmistakes I have made. Ask me whether \nwhat I have done is my life. Others \nhave come in their slow way into \nmy thought\, and some have tried to help \nor to hurt: ask me what difference \ntheir strongest love or hate has made. \n  \nI will listen to what you say. \nYou and I can turn and look \nat the silent river and wait. We know \nthe current is there\, hidden; and there \nare comings and goings from miles away \nthat hold the stillness exactly before us. \nWhat the river says\, that is what I say. \n  \n–William Stafford  (1914-1993) \n* \n  \nAt the Zoom gathering Todd Oleson read his favorite Emily Dickinson poem: \n  \nGod made a little Gentian – \nIt tried – to be a Rose – \nAnd failed – and all the Summer laughed – \nBut just before the Snows \n  \nThere rose a Purple Creature – \nThat ravished all the Hill – \nAnd Summer hid her Forehead – \nAnd Mockery – was still – \n  \nThe Frosts were her condition – \nThe Tyrian would not come \nUntil the North – invoke it – \nCreator – Shall I – bloom? \n  \n–Emily Dickinson  (1830-1886) \n* \n  \nJude read this poem by William Blake: \n  \nThe Divine Image \n  \nTo Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nAll pray in their distress; \nAnd to these virtues of delight \nReturn their thankfulness. \n  \nFor Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs God\, our father dear\, \nAnd Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs Man\, his child and care. \n  \nFor Mercy has a human heart\, \nPity a human face\, \nAnd Love\, the human form divine\, \nAnd Peace\, the human dress. \n  \nThen every man\, of every clime\, \nThat prays in his distress\, \nPrays to the human form divine\, \nLove\, Mercy\, Pity\, Peace. \n  \nAnd all must love the human form\, \nIn heathen\, turk\, or jew; \nWhere Mercy\, Love\, & Pity dwell \nThere God is dwelling too. \n  \n–William Blake  (1757-1857) \n* \n  \nLast Fall\, I walked out the back door and found the deck and the entire back yard covered with little orange polka dots. It was mysterious! Where had they come from? I looked up and discovered that a flock of cedar waxwings was flying back and forth from our maple tree to some neighbor’s bush or tree\, bringing hundreds (maybe thousands!) of orange berries. They ate the berries in the maple tree and spit out the skins. Mystery solved. This has absolutely nothing to do with the following poem\, which I have always loved: \n  \nWaxwings   \n  \nFour tao philosophers as cedar waxwings \nchat on a February berrybush \nin sun\, and I am one. \n  \nSuch merriment and such sobriety– \nthe small wild fruit on the tall stalk– \nwas this not always my true style? \n  \nAbove an elegance of snow\, beneath \na silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four \nbirds. Can you mistake us? \n  \nTo sun\, to feast\, and to converse \nand all together–for this I have abandoned all my other lives. \n  \n–Robert Francis  (1901-1987) \n* \n  \nWe bibliophiles didn’t get around to mystic prose last Sunday\, but as a special “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding” bonus\, here’s something loving and lovely from Thomas Traherne: \n  \n47  \nWhat life can be more pleasant\, than that which is delighted in itself\, and in all objects; in which also all objects infinitely delight? What life can be more pleasant\, than that which is blessed in all\, and glorious before all? Now this life is the life of Love. For this end therefore did He desire to Love\, that He might be Love. Infinitely delightful to all objects\, infinitely delighted in all\, and infinitely pleased in Himself\, for being infinitely delightful to all\, and delighted in all. All this He attaineth by Love. For Love is the most delightful of all employments. All the objects of Love are delightful to it\, and Love is delightful to all its objects. Well then may Love be the end of loving\, which is so complete. It being a thing so delightful\, that God infinitely rejoiceth in Himself for being Love. And thus you see how God is the end of Himself. He doth what He doth\, that He may be what He is: Wise and glorious and bountiful and blessed in being Perfect Love.  \n  \n48  \nLove is so divine and perfect a thing\, that it is worthy to be the very end and being of the Deity. It is His goodness\, and it is His glory. We therefore so vastly delight in Love\, because all these excellencies and all other whatsoever lie within it. By Loving a Soul does propagate and beget itself. By Loving it does dilate and magnify itself. By Loving it does enlarge and delight itself. By Loving also it delighteth others\, as by Loving it doth honor and enrich itself. But above all by Loving it does attain itself. Love also being the end of Souls\, which are never perfect till they are in act what they are in power. They were made to love\, and are dark and vain and comfortless till they do it. Till they love they are idle\, or mis-employed. Till they love they are desolate; without their objects\, and narrow and little\, and dishonorable: but when they shine by Love upon all objects\, they are accompanied with them and enlightened by them. Till we become therefore all Act as God is\, we can never rest\, nor ever be satisfied.  \n  \n–Thomas Traherne  (1636-1674) \n* \n  \nIn Centuries of Meditations\, Thomas Traherne has just over four hundred meditations. In the “Second Century\,” he goes on an extended meditation of love\, from numbers 39-67. I have included two typical ones.  \n  \nMay all people be happy.  \nMay we live in love.   \n  \n—Johnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-15-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/0-2-2.jpeg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210411
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210425
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210401T180606Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210416T181836Z
UID:2001-1618099200-1619308799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Mystical Poetry & Prose  4/11 - 4/24/21
DESCRIPTION:Thomas Traherne (1636-1674) \n  \n  \nSongs are thoughts\, sung out with the breath when people are moved by great forces and ordinary speech no longer suffices. Man is moved just like the ice floe sailing here and there in the current. His thoughts are driven by a flowing force when he feels joy\, when he feels fear\, when he feels sorrow. Thoughts can wash over him like a flood\, making his breath come in gasps and his heart throb. Something like an abatement in the weather will keep him thawed up. And then it will happen that we\, who always think we are small\, will feel still smaller. And we will fear to use words. But it will happen that the words we need will come of themselves. When the words we want to use shoot up of themselves–we get a new song. \n  \n–Orpingalik\,  Netsilik Inuit \n  \nOn Sunday\, April 11th\, our theme was MYSTIC POETRY & PROSE from Animist\, Polytheist\, Hindu\, Taoist\, Buddhist\, Jewish\, Christian & Muslim mystics.  \n  \nTodd Oleson read a poem by Emily Dickinson and two poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti\, Jude Russell read poems by Rilke\, Roethke & Blake. Dave Duncan read a poem by Sylvia Plath\, which reminded me of a passage from Hamlet. Martha Ragland read the opening of Tagore’s Gitanjali. Nick Eldredge read the lyrics to Into the Mystic by Van Morrison. I read poems by Staffords William & Kim\, and Waxwings by Robert Francis. Here are some the poems:  \n  \nGod made a little Gentian – \nIt tried – to be a Rose – \nAnd failed – and all the Summer laughed – \nBut just before the Snows \n  \nThere rose a Purple Creature – \nThat ravished all the Hill – \nAnd Summer hid her Forehead – \nAnd Mockery – was still – \n  \nThe Frosts were her condition – \nThe Tyrian would not come \nUntil the North – invoke it – \nCreator – Shall I – bloom? \n  \n–Emily Dickinson  (1830-1886) \n* \n  \nA Better Resurrection \n  \nI have no wit\, I have no words\, no tears; \nMy heart within me like a stone \nIs numbed too much for hopes or fears; \nLook right\, look left\, I dwell alone; \nA lift mine eyes\, but dimmed with grief \nNo everlasting hills I see; \nMy life is like the falling leaf; \nJesus\, quicken me. \n  \n–Sylvia Plath \n* \n  \nHamlet.  I have of late\, but wherefore I know not\, lost all my mirth\, foregone all custom of exercises\, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory\, this most excellent canopy\, the air\, look you\, this brave o’erhanging firmament\, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire—why it appears nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.  What a piece of work is a man\, how noble in reason\, how infinite in faculties\, in form and moving how express and admirable\, in action how like an angel\, in apprehension how like a god\, the beauty of the world\, the paragon of animals—and yet\, to me\, what is this quintessence of dust?  Man delights not me.  No\, nor woman\, neither.  \n  \n–Will Shakespeare \n* \n  \n“Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen” \n  \n“I live my life in widening circles  \nthat reach out across the world. \nI may not complete this last one \nbut I give myself to it. \n  \nI circle around God\, around the primordial tower. \nI’ve been circling for thousands of years \nand I still don’t know: am I a falcon\, \na storm\, or a great song?” \n* \n  \n“Alles wird wieder gross sein und gewaltig” \n  \n“All will come again into its strength: \nthe fields undivided\, the waters undammed\, \nthe trees towering and the walls built low\, \nAnd in the valleys\, people as strong \nand varied as the land. \n  \nAnd no churches where God \nis imprisoned and lamented \nlike a trapped and wounded animal. \nThe houses welcoming all who knock \nand a sense of boundless offering \nin all relations\, amd in you and me. \n  \nNo yearning for an afterlife\, no looking beyond\, \nno belittling of death\, \nbut only longing for what belongs to us \nand serving earth\, lest we remain unused.” \n  \n(I have to add one more here\, read and absorbed shortly after I had experienced my life changing ‘mystical experience\,’ and was still in the deepest throes of LOVE) (I still love it) (Jude) \n  \n”Losch mir die Augen aus; ich kann dich sehen” \n  \n“Extinguish my eyes\, I’ll go on seeing you\, \nSeal my ears\, I’ll go on hearing you\, \nAnd without feet I can make my way to you\, \nwithout a mouth I can swear your name. \n  \nBreak off my arms\, I’ll take hold of you \nwith my heart as a hand\, \nStop my heart\, and my brain will  start to beat\, \nAnd if you consume my brain with fire\, \nI’ll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.” \n  \nRilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God\, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy\,  1996 \n* \n  \nGitanjali \n  \nI \nThou hast made me endless\, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again\, and fillest it ever with fresh life. \nThis little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales\, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. \nAt the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. \nThy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass\, and still thou poorest\, and still there is room to fill. \n  \n–Rabrindranath Tagore \n* \n  \nInto the Mystic \n  \nWe were born before the wind \nAlso younger than the sun \nEre the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic \nHark\, now hear the sailors cry \nSmell the sea and feel the sky \nLet your soul and spirit fly into the mystic \n  \nAnd when that fog horn blows I will be coming home \nAnd when the fog horn blows I want to hear it \nI don’t have to fear it \n  \nAnd I want to rock your gypsy soul \nJust like way back in the days of old \nAnd magnificently we will flow into the mystic \n  \nWhen that fog horn blows you know I will be coming home \nAnd when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it \nI don’t have to fear it \n  \nAnd I want to rock your gypsy soul \nJust like way back in the days of old \nAnd together we will flow into the mystic \nCome on girl… \n  \nToo late to stop now…  \n  \n–Van Morrison \n* \n  \nAsk Me \n  \n  \nSome time when the river is ice ask me \nmistakes I have made. Ask me whether \nwhat I have done is my life. Others \nhave come in their slow way into \nmy thought\, and some have tried to help \nor to hurt: ask me what difference \ntheir strongest love or hate has made. \n  \n  \nI will listen to what you say. \nYou and I can turn and look \nat the silent river and wait. We know \nthe current is there\, hidden; and there \nare comings and goings from miles away \nthat hold the stillness exactly before us. \nWhat the river says\, that is what I say. \n  \n  \n–William Stafford  (1914-1993) \n* \n  \nAll My Relations \n  \nI want to thank all my relations \nfor this chance to be on Earth \nin her time of flourishing; to thank \nthe First People of this place\, the \nMultnomah people\, the Clackamas\, \nMolalla\, Tualatin\, and Chinook\, to honor \ntheir sovereignty in long and continuing \nrelation\, still teaching us how we might \nbe here together; to thank my mother and father\, \nmoon and sun\, for setting me forth before \ntheir own passing on; to thank my grandmother \nwho listened to me so eloquently I learned \nto listen to my own heart and mind\, to find \nstories and songs there; to thank my family \nand friends\, and all the citizens and travelers \nwho study and work for deeper kinship \nin this place\, with one another\, and with \nall creatures\, one Earth\, visible\, palpable\, \nfragile\, intricate\, resonant\, in need of our \nbetter stories. I want to thank you \nwho have gathered to receive what I have \ncarried here–in hope that something \nI have may meet something you need\, \nso all our relations may be strengthened \nfor the life we live together. \n  \n–Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nThe Divine Image \n  \nTo Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nAll pray in their distress; \nAnd to these virtues of delight \nReturn their thankfulness. \n  \nFor Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs God\, our father dear\, \nAnd Mercy\, Pity\, Peace\, and Love \nIs Man\, his child and care. \n  \nFor Mercy has a human heart\, \nPity a human face\, \nAnd Love\, the human form divine\, \nAnd Peace\, the human dress. \n  \nThen every man\, of every clime\, \nThat prays in his distress\, \nPrays to the human form divine\, \nLove\, Mercy\, Pity\, Peace. \n  \nAnd all must love the human form\, \nIn heathen\, turk\, or jew; \nWhere Mercy\, Love\, & Pity dwell \nThere God is dwelling too. \n  \n–William Blake  (1757-1857) \n* \n  \nIn a Dark Time \n\n\n\n  \nIn a dark time\, the eye begins to see\, \nI meet my shadow in the deepening shade;    \nI hear my echo in the echoing wood— \nA lord of nature weeping to a tree. \nI live between the heron and the wren\,    \nBeasts of the hill and serpents of the den. \n\n  \nWhat’s madness but nobility of soul \nAt odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!    \nI know the purity of pure despair\, \nMy shadow pinned against a sweating wall.    \nThat place among the rocks—is it a cave\,    \nOr winding path? The edge is what I have. \n\n  \nA steady storm of correspondences! \nA night flowing with birds\, a ragged moon\,    \nAnd in broad day the midnight come again!    \nA man goes far to find out what he is— \nDeath of the self in a long\, tearless night\,    \nAll natural shapes blazing unnatural light. \n\n  \nDark\, dark my light\, and darker my desire.    \nMy soul\, like some heat-maddened summer fly\,    \nKeeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I? \nA fallen man\, I climb out of my fear.    \nThe mind enters itself\, and God the mind\,    \nAnd one is One\, free in the tearing wind. \n\n  \n\n\n–Theodore Roethke  (1908-1963) \n* \n  \n\n\n\n\nConstantly risking absurdity \n                                             and death \n            whenever he performs \n                                        above the heads \n                                                            of his audience \n   the poet like an acrobat \n                                 climbs on rime \n                                          to a high wire of his own making \nand balancing on eyebeams \n                                     above a sea of faces \n             paces his way \n                               to the other side of day \n    performing entrechats \n                               and sleight-of-foot tricks \nand other high theatrics \n                               and all without mistaking \n                     any thing \n                               for what it may not be \n\n       For he’s the super realist \n                                     who must perforce perceive \n                   taut truth \n                                 before the taking of each stance or step \nin his supposed advance \n                                  toward that still higher perch \nwhere Beauty stands and waits \n                                     with gravity \n                                                to start her death-defying leap \n\n      And he \n             a little charleychaplin man \n                                           who may or may not catch \n               her fair eternal form \n                                     spreadeagled in the empty air \n                  of existence \n* \n\n\n  \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                         17\n\nThis life is not a circus where\nthe shy performing dogs of love\n                                                   look on\n\nas time flicks out\n                            its tricky whip\n                                                   to race us thru our paces\nYet gay parading floats drift by\n                               decorated with gorgeous gussies in silk tights\n                                       and attended by moithering monkeys\n                                                                  make-believe monks\n                                                                  horny hiawathas\n                                          and baboons astride tame tigers\n                                                     with ladies inside\n                      while googly horns make merrygoround music\n                  and pantomimic pierrots castrate disaster\n                               with strange sad laughter\n             and gory gorillas toss tender maidens heavenward\n                    while cakewalkers and carnie hustlers\n                all gassed to the gills\n                    strike playbill poses\n           and stagger after every\n                                              wheeling thing\nWhile still around the ring\n                                    lope the misshapen camels of lust\n   and all us Emmet Kelley clowns\n                                always making up imaginary scenes\nwith all our masks for faces\n                            even eat fake Last Suppers\n                                                         at collapsible tables\n             and mocking cross ourselves \n                                                          in sawdust crosses\n\nAnd yet gobble up at last\n                                to shrive our circus souls\n            the also imaginary\n                                         wafers of grace\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n–Lawrence Ferlinghetti \n* \n  \nWaxwings   \n  \nFour tao philosophers as cedar waxwings \nchat on a February berrybush \nin sun\, and I am one. \n  \nSuch merriment and such sobriety– \nthe small wild fruit on the tall stalk– \nwas this not always my true style? \n  \nAbove an elegance of snow\, beneath \na silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four \nbirds. Can you mistake us? \n  \nTo sun\, to feast\, and to converse \nand all together–for this I have abandoned all my other lives. \n  \n–Robert Francis  (1901-1987) \n* \n  \nIs anyone still reading this? It’s getting pretty long. But not long enough. On April 11th\, we didn’t get around to mystic prose\, but here’s something loving and lovely from Thomas Traherne: \n  \n47  \n  \nWhat life can be more pleasant\, than that which is delighted in itself\, and in all objects; in which also all objects infinitely delight? What life can be more pleasant\, than that which is blessed in all\, and glorious before all? Now this life is the life of Love. For this end therefore did He desire to Love\, that He might be Love. Infinitely delightful to all objects\, infinitely delighted in all\, and infinitely pleased in Himself\, for being infinitely delightful to all\, and delighted in all. All this He attaineth by Love. For Love is the most delightful of all employments. All the objects of Love are delightful to it\, and Love is delightful to all its objects. Well then may Love be the end of loving\, which is so complete. It being a thing so delightful\, that God infinitely rejoiceth in Himself for being Love. And thus you see how God is the end of Himself. He doth what He doth\, that He may be what He is: Wise and glorious and bountiful and blessed in being Perfect Love.  \n  \n  \n48  \n  \nLove is so divine and perfect a thing\, that it is worthy to be the very end and being of the Deity. It is His goodness\, and it is His glory. We therefore so vastly delight in Love\, because all these excellencies and all other whatsoever lie within it. By Loving a Soul does propagate and beget itself. By Loving it does dilate and magnify itself. By Loving it does enlarge and delight itself. By Loving also it delighteth others\, as by Loving it doth honor and enrich itself. But above all by Loving it does attain itself. Love also being the end of Souls\, which are never perfect till they are in act what they are in power. They were made to love\, and are dark and vain and comfortless till they do it. Till they love they are idle\, or mis-employed. Till they love they are desolate; without their objects\, and narrow and little\, and dishonorable: but when they shine by Love upon all objects\, they are accompanied with them and enlightened by them. Till we become therefore all Act as God is\, we can never rest\, nor ever be satisfied.  \n  \n–Thomas Traherne  (1636-1674) \n* \n  \n  \n(In Centuries of Meditations\, Thomas Traherne has just over four hundred meditations. In the “Second Century\,” he goes on an extended meditation of love\, from numbers 39-67. I have included two typical ones.) \n  \nMay all beings be happy. \nMay we live in love. \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-mystical-poetry-prose-4-11-21/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210401
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210415
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210401T153639Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210401T154228Z
UID:1993-1617235200-1618444799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  4/1/21
DESCRIPTION:The Aged Aged man\, illustration by John Tenniel (see the last poem) \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nApril 1\, 2021 \n  \nJerry Smith sent this inspiring prose poem: \n  \nAnd the people stayed home. And read books\, and listened\, and rested\, and exercised\, and made art\, and played games\, and learned new ways of being\, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated\, some prayed\, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently. \n  \nAnd the people healed. And\, in the absence of people living in ignorant\, dangerous\, mindless\, and heartless ways\, the earth began to heal. \n  \nAnd when the danger passed\, and the people joined together again\, they grieved their losses\, and made new choices\, and dreamed new images\, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully\, as they had been healed. \n  \n—Kitty O’Meara \n* \n  \nRocky sent this poem just in time for this issue: \n  \n     Recently\, after 45 years on earth\, \nmy whole being has been touched by love. \n     A lifetime of issues kept me from \nfeeling the truth of this most powerful emotion. \n     For the first good while I was uncertain \n& thought I was having heart problems. \n     In fact that is what happens to the \nheart when filled with arrows of love. \n     Until now\, I’ve never cried for love; \nthese tears are from the deepest pain. \n     My love is here\, free & it is real; \nit is unselfish\, it is hunting for the same. \n     The capability & potency & strength \nof the Love in me feels like lightning in my heart. \n     This is what will shatter the walls \nof this prison & cast me into the stars. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nOn Sunday\, March 28th\, for our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering we read\, recited and sang “Story Poems” to each other. Kim Stafford sent a link to a video\, along with these words: \n  \n“here’s a film I made a few years back…based on a ballad I wrote 20 years ago…about an encounter over 40 years ago…” \n  \nhttps://vimeo.com/259870242 \n  \nHe also sent a text version for this issue of “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\,” for our friends in prison who can’t watch the video. The italicized parts are sung: \n  \nI’ll Do Anything\, Watch Me Try \n  \nI was driving south along Interstate 5 in the Spring\, forty years ago\, and I picked up a hitchhiker with bandages on both hands. \n     “Is this a Mailbu?” he said\, climbing into my car. “My name’s Dan. I used to have a Malibu\, but she burned.” \n     “We was driving along\,” he said\, “me and Ruth and the boys—looking for work\, and the damn car catches on fire…” He told his whole sad story… \n  \nIt ain’t all honey & roses down in Portland\, \nwhen you got no work and hungry children\, \nDriving along down Burnside in the evening\, \nlook in every doorway for a sign. \n  \nI’ll do anything\, watch me try: \nfix your engine\, mend your road\, \nCrack my fingers\, break my back \non any load you lead me to. \n  \nWhen we came to a little town\, he said to let him out on Main Street. I shook Dan’s hand\, gently so as not to hurt the burn\, and then I gave him my coat\, and all the money I had on me. He set off down the street\, and I got in the car and drove south. \n  \nThere’s a place a few miles farther on\, where I sat by the river under a cottonwood with my guitar\, and Dan’s story turned into a song. \n  \nThe kids were sleeping in the back seat\, \nSoftly talking in their way. \nAny more they’re never sure\, \nWhen it’s night\, and when it’s day… \n  \nThen somehow a fire broke out\, \nin the backseat\, on the floor— \nI grabbed John\, and Ruth grabbed Daniel\, \nclosed my eyes and out the door. \n  \nI left the kids with my brother out in Gresham. \nRuth went wandering on her own. \nI got to find a job and make some dollars\, \nput it all together again. \n  \nWhen I got where I was going\, I told my friends about Dan\, and the burning car\, and one of them said\, “You didn’t give him any money\, did you? That’s a scam!” They made me feel small\, and a fool. But then\, heading north\, I stopped under the tree again\, and made a new verse about my friends. \n  \nNow the man who told that story was a drifter \nI picked up walking down Interstate 5. \nI gave him money and I told my friends— \nThey laughed and said\, “You got skinned alive!” \n  \nNo song should end without some kind of mercy. \nNo one’s life should be like this song. \nBut mine has been\, and you who listen\, \nbless your luck. So long. \n  \nWhat’s it like to be alone on the road? What’s it like to have a family\, a car\, a plan—and then to lose it all? And for my friends—what’s it like to guard your heart with denial\, so you can protect yourself from another person’s pain? \n  \nI was a student then\, writing a dissertation. I pretty much lived in the library. But Dan’s witness made me a singer instead. And I needed his pluck\, a few years later\, when my own family fell apart\, and I wandered alone. \n  \nI hope the story he told was but a fable\, \nI hope he spent that money on wine. \nI hope that Ruth is still with the family. \nI hope their Chevy is running fine. \n  \nFor every story you hear that’s a lie\, \nthere’s a hundred hard and true. \nI’ll give my money again to the stranger\, \nshare the money as I pass through. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n*  \n  \nHere are some great story poems. Read them aloud to someone!: \n  \nAbou Ben Adhem \n  \nAbou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) \nAwoke one night from a deep dream of peace\, \nAnd saw\, within the moonlight in his room\, \nMaking it rich\, and like a lily in bloom\, \nAn angel writing in a book of gold:— \nExceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold\, \nAnd to the presence in the room he said\, \n“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head\, \nAnd with a look made of all sweet accord\, \nAnswered\, “The names of those who love the Lord.” \n“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay\, not so\,” \nReplied the angel. Abou spoke more low\, \nBut cheerly still; and said\, “I pray thee\, then\, \nWrite me as one that loves his fellow men.” \n  \nThe angel wrote\, and vanished. The next night \nIt came again with a great wakening light\, \nAnd showed the names whom love of God had blest\, \nAnd lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. \n  \n—Leigh Hunt  (1784-1859) \n* \n  \nNirvana \n  \nnot much chance\, \ncompletely cut loose from \npurpose\, \nhe was a young man \nriding a bus \nthrough North Carolina \non the way to somewhere \nand it began to snow \nand the bus stopped \nat a little café \nin the hills \nand the passengers  \nentered. \nhe sat at the counter \nwith the others\, \nhe ordered and the \nfood arrived. \nthe meal was \nparticularly \ngood \nand the \ncoffee. \nthe waitress was \nunlike the women \nhe had \nknown. \nshe was unaffected\, \nthere was a natural  \nhumor which came \nfrom her. \nthe fry cook said \ncrazy things. \nthe dishwasher\, \nin back\, \nlaughed\, a good \nclean \npleasant \nlaugh. \nthe young man watched \nthe snow through the \nwindows. \nhe wanted to stay \nin that café \nforever. \nthe curious feeling \nswam through him \nthat everything \nwas \nbeautiful \nthere\, \nthat it would always \nstay beautiful \nthere. \nthen the bus driver \ntold the passengers \nthat it was time \nto board. \nthe young man \nthought\, I’ll just sit \nhere\, I’ll just stay \nhere. \nbut then \nhe rose and followed \nthe others into the \nbus. \nhe found his seat \nand looked at the café \nthrough the bus \nwindow. \nthen the bus moved \noff\, down a curve\, \ndownward\, out of \nthe hills. \nthe young man \nlooked straight \nforward. \nhe heard the other \npassengers \nspeaking \nof other things\, \nor they were \nreading \nor \nattempting to \nsleep. \nthey had not \nnoticed \nthe \nmagic. \nthe young man \nput his head to \none side\, \nclosed his \neyes\, \npretended to \nsleep. \nthere was nothing \nelse to do- \njust listen to the \nsound of the \nengine\, \nthe sound of the \ntires \nin the \nsnow. \n  \n—Charles Bukowski  (1920-1994) \n* \n  \nThe Three Hermits \n  \nThree old hermits took the air  \nBy a cold and desolate sea\,  \nFirst was muttering a prayer\,  \nSecond rummaged for a flea;  \nOn a windy stone\, the third\,  \nGiddy with his hundredth year\,  \nSang unnoticed like a bird:  \n‘Though the Door of Death is near  \nAnd what waits behind the door\,  \nThree times in a single day  \nI\, though upright on the shore\,  \nFall asleep when I should pray.’  \nSo the first\, but now the second:  \n‘We’re but given what we have eamed  \nWhen all thoughts and deeds are reckoned\,  \nSo it’s plain to be discerned  \nThat the shades of holy men  \nWho have failed\, being weak of will\,  \nPass the Door of Birth again\,  \nAnd are plagued by crowds\, until  \nThey’ve the passion to escape.’  \nMoaned the other\, ‘They are thrown  \nInto some most fearful shape.’  \nBut the second mocked his moan:  \n‘They are not changed to anything\,  \nHaving loved God once\, but maybe  \nTo a poet or a king  \nOr a witty lovely lady.’  \nWhile he’d rummaged rags and hair\,  \nCaught and cracked his flea\, the third\,  \nGiddy with his hundredth year\,  \nSang unnoticed like a bird. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats  (1865-1939) \n*            \n  \nThree Angels \n  \nThree angels up above the street \nEach one playing a horn \nDressed in green robes with wings that stick out \nThey’ve been there since Christmas morn \nThe wildest cat from Montana passes by in a flash \nThen a lady in a bright orange dress \nOne U-Haul trailer\, a truck with no wheels \nThe Tenth Avenue bus going west \nThe dogs and pigeons fly up and they flutter around \nA man with a badge skips by \nThree fellas crawlin’ on their way back to work \nNobody stops to ask why \nThe bakery truck stops outside of that fence \nWhere the angels stand high on their poles \nThe driver peeks out\, trying to find one face \nIn this concrete world full of souls \nThe angels play on their horns all day \nThe whole earth in progression seems to pass by \nBut does anyone hear the music they play \nDoes anyone even try? \n  \n—Bob Dylan \n* \n  \nA Story That Could Be True \n  \nIf you were exchanged in the cradle and \nyour real mother died \nwithout ever telling the story \nthen no one knows your name\, \nand somewhere in the world \nyour father is lost and needs you \nbut you are far away. \n  \nHe can never find \nhow true you are\, how ready. \nWhen the great wind comes \nand the robberies of the rain \nyou stand on the corner shivering. \nThe people who go by— \nyou wonder at their calm. \n  \nThey miss the whisper that runs \nany day in your mind\, \n“Who are you really\, wanderer?”— \nand the answer you have to give \nno matter how dark and cold \nthe world around you is: \n“Maybe I’m a king.” \n  \n—William Stafford  (1914-1993) \n* \n  \nThe Aged Aged Man \n  \nI’ll tell thee everything I can; \n     There’s little to relate\, \nI saw an aged\, aged man\, \n     A-sitting on a gate. \n“Who are you\, aged man?” I said. \n     “And how is it you live?” \nAnd his answer trickled through my head \n     Like water through a sieve. \n  \nHe said\, “I look for butterflies \n     That sleep among the wheat; \nI make them into mutton-pies\, \n     And sell them in the street. \nI sell them unto men\,” he said\, \n     “Who sail on stormy seas; \nAnd that’s the way I get my bread– \n     A trifle\, if you please.” \n  \nBut I was thinking of a plan \n     To dye one’s whiskers green\, \nAnd always use so large a fan \n     That they could not be seen. \nSo\, having no reply to give \n     To what the old man said\, \nI cried\, “Come\, tell me how you live!” \n     And thumped him on the head. \n  \nHis accents mild took up the tale; \n     He said\, “I go my ways\, \nAnd when I find a mountain-rill\, \n     I set it in a blaze; \nAnd thence they make a stuff they call \n     Rowland’s Macassar Oil– \nYet twopence-halfpenny is all \n     They give me for my toil.” \n  \nBut I was thinking of a way \n     To feed one’s self on batter\, \nAnd so go on from day to day \n     Getting a little fatter. \nI shook him well from side to side\, \n     Until his face was blue\, \n“Come\, tell me how you live\,” I cried\, \n     “And what it is you do!” \n  \nHe said\, “I hunt for haddocks’ eyes \n     Among the heather bright\, \nAnd work them into waistcoat-buttons \n     In the silent night. \nAnd these I do not sell for gold \n     Or coin of silvery shine\, \nBut for a copper halfpenny\, \n     And that will purchase nine. \n  \n“I sometimes dig for buttered rolls\, \n     Or set limed twigs for crabs; \nI sometimes search the grassy knolls \n     For wheels of hansom-cabs. \nAnd that’s the way” (he gave a wink) \n     “By which I get my wealth– \nAnd very gladly will I drink \n     Your honor’s noble health.” \n  \nI heard him then\, for I had just \n     Completed my design \nTo keep the Menai bridge from rust \n     By boiling it in wine. \nI thanked him much for telling me \n     The way he got his wealth\, \nBut chiefly for his wish that he \n     Might drink my noble health. \n  \nAnd now\, if e’er by chance I put \n     My fingers into glue\, \nOr madly squeeze a right-hand foot \n     Into a left-hand shoe\, \nOr if I drop upon my toe \n     A very heavy weight\, \nI weep\, for it reminds me so \nOf that old man I used to know– \nWhose look was mild\, whose speech was slow\, \nWhose hair was whiter than the snow\, \nWhose face was very like a crow\, \nWith eyes\, like cinders\, all aglow\, \nWho seemed distracted with his woe\, \nWho rocked his body to and fro\, \nAnd muttered mumblingly and low\, \nAs if his mouth were full of dough\, \nWho snorted like a buffalo– \nThat summer evening long ago\, \nA-sitting on a gate. \n  \n—Lewis Carroll  (1832-1898)
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-4-1-21/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210328
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210411
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210317T170432Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210329T041217Z
UID:1861-1616889600-1618099199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: STORY POEMS  3/28
DESCRIPTION:  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nWe had a lovely gathering on Sunday\, March 28th. Our theme was STORY POEMS. We talked about poems we remembered from our childhood–nursery rhymes and the words to songs.  \nJude Russell read “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll.  \nCharles Erickson sang “Woverton Mountain” for us.  \nI took a whack at Woody Guthrie’s song: “Pretty Boy Floyd the Outlaw.” \nKatie Radditz told us about Father Fox’s Pennyrhymes by Clyde and Wendy Watson and she read a couple of them for us.  \nKim Stafford was unable to join us\, but he sent this beautiful video he made\, “I’ll Do Anything”: \n  \n \n  \n  \nMartha Ragland read “Little Breeches” by Colonel John Hay that she found in the book Story Poems\, edited by Louis Untermeyer.  \nThat reminded me of another 19th Century classic\, “The Green Eye of the Yellow God\,” by J. Milton Hayes\, which I read. I also read the old Scottish Ballad “Edward\, Edward.” \nKatie read “The Song of Wandering Aengus” by W. B. Yeats.  \nDave Duncan told us that his brother Jack died yesterday\, and read this poem for us by Emily Dickinson: \n  \nI heard a Fly buzz – when I died – \nThe Stillness in the Room \nWas like the Stillness in the Air – \nBetween the Heaves of Storm – \n  \nThe Eyes around – had wrung them dry – \nAnd Breaths were gathering firm \nFor that Last Onset – when the King \nBe witnessed – in the Room – \n  \nI willed my Keepsakes – Signed away \nWhat portion of me be \nAssignable – and then it was \nThere interposed a Fly – \n  \nWith Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz – \nBetween the light – and me – \nAnd then the Windows failed – and then \nI could not see to see – \n* \n  \nWe ended our gathering by listening to a song that Dave loves: “Father and Son” by Yusuf Cat Stevens. \nHere’s a link: \n  \n \n  \nLook for more poems in the upcoming (April 1st) issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding. It will be published on this website. \n  \npeace\, love & poetry \n  \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-story-poems-3-28/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210318
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210401
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210318T171956Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210318T172302Z
UID:1872-1616025600-1617235199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/18/21
DESCRIPTION:Daphne odora \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nSpring Equinox \nMarch 18\, 2021 \n  \nKristen Sagan sent this poem just in time for our Annual Spring Issue!: \n  \nA Color of the Sky \n  \nWindy today and I feel less than brilliant\, \ndriving over the hills from work. \nThere are the dark parts on the road \n                     when you pass through clumps of wood    \nand the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean\,    \nbut that doesn’t make the road an allegory. \n  \nI should call Marie and apologize \nfor being so boring at dinner last night\, \nbut can I really promise not to be that way again?    \nAnd anyway\, I’d rather watch the trees\, tossing    \nin what certainly looks like sexual arousal. \n  \nOtherwise it’s spring\, and everything looks frail; \nthe sky is baby blue\, and the just-unfurling leaves \nare full of infant chlorophyll\,    \nthe very tint of inexperience. \n  \nLast summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio\,    \nand on the highway overpass\, \nthe only metaphysical vandal in America has written    \nMEMORY LOVES TIME \nin big black spraypaint letters\, \n  \nwhich makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back. \n  \nLast night I dreamed of X again. \nShe’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.    \nYears ago she penetrated me \nbut though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed\,    \nI never got her out\, \nbut now I’m glad. \n  \nWhat I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.    \nWhat I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.    \nWhat I thought was an injustice \nturned out to be a color of the sky. \n  \nOutside the youth center\, between the liquor store    \nand the police station\, \na little dogwood tree is losing its mind; \n  \noverflowing with blossomfoam\,    \nlike a sudsy mug of beer; \nlike a bride ripping off her clothes\, \n  \ndropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds\, \n  \nso Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.    \nIt’s been doing that all week: \nmaking beauty\, \nand throwing it away\, \nand making more. \n  \n—Tony Hoagland  (1953-2018) \n* \n  \nKim sent this: \n  \nOregon Dawn in Spite of the News \n  \nBefore I can get to our statistics—so many  \nstricken\, so many dead—I’m summoned  \nby the birds raising a ruckus outside\, crows  \nand jays in festive outrage\, trill\, chirrr\, and aria  \n  \nfrom the  little brown birds\, the mournful \ndove\, the querulous towhee\, rusty starlings \nin their see-saw mutter\, and a woodpecker \nflicker hammering the gutter staccato. \n  \nOn the porch\, I’m assaulted by the merciless  \nscent of trees opening their million flowers\, \nas I inhale the deep elixir of hazel\, hawthorn\,  \nmaple\, and oh those shameless cherry trees. \n  \nAnd just when I’ve almost recovered  \nmy serious moment\, I gasp\, helpless to see  \nthe full queen moon sidling down  \nthrough a haze of blossoms. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nE. E. Cummings has so many poems of spring springing.  In this one we can remember our youth and the joy of suddenly sunny play days and school letting out: \n  \nin Just-  \nspring          when the world is mud-  \nluscious the little  \nlame balloonman  \n  \nwhistles          far          and wee  \n  \nand eddieandbill come  \nrunning from marbles and  \npiracies and it’s  \nspring  \n  \nwhen the world is puddle-wonderful  \n  \nthe queer  \nold balloonman whistles  \nfar          and             wee  \nand bettyandisbel come dancing  \n  \nfrom hop-scotch and jump-rope and  \n  \nit’s  \nspring  \nand  \n         the  \n                  goat-footed  \nballoonMan          whistles  \nfar  \nand  \nwee \n  \nMay you know peace and well being this weekend on the spring equinox when things are in balance in the cosmos and the rain and the sun are in concert with one another.  \n  \n—Love\, Katie \n* \n  \nO sweet spontaneous \nearth how often have \nthe \ndoting \n  \n          fingers of \nprurient philosophers pinched \nand \npoked \n  \nthee \n\,has the naughty thumb \nof science prodded \nthy \n  \n      beauty       .how \noften have religions taken \nthee upon their scraggy knees \nsqueezing and \n  \nbuffeting thee that thou mightest conceive \ngods \n        (but \ntrue \n  \nto the incomparable \ncouch of death thy \nrhythmic \nlover \n  \n          thou answerest \n  \nthem only with \n  \n                             spring) \n  \n—e e cummings\, published in The Dial\, May 1920. \n* \n  \nSpring\, the sweete spring\, is the yeres pleasant King\, \nThen bloomes eche thing\, then maydes daunce in a ring\, \nCold doeth not sting\, the pretty birds doe sing\, \nCuckow\, jugge\, jugge\, pu we\, to witta woo. \n  \nThe Palme and May make countrey houses gay\, \nLambs friske and play\, the Shepherds pype all day\, \nAnd we heare aye birds tune this merry lay\, \nCuckow\, jugge\, jugge\, pu we\, to witta woo. \n  \nThe fields breathe sweete\, the dayzies kisse our feete\, \nYoung lovers meete\, old wives a sunning sit; \nIn every streete\, these tunes our eares doe greete\, \nCuckow\, jugge\, jugge\, pu we\, to witta woo. \n             Spring\, the sweete spring. \n  \n—Thomas Nashe  (1567-1601) \n* \n  \nSPRING \n  \nNothing is so beautiful as Spring— \n     When weeds\, in wheels\, shoot long and lovely and lush; \n     Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens\, and thrush \nThrough the echoing timber does so rinse and wring \nThe ear\, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; \n     The glassy peartree leaves and blooms\, they brush \n     The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush \nWith richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling. \n  \nWhat is all this juice and all this joy? \nA strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning \nIn Eden garden. — Have\, get\, before it cloy\, \n     Before it cloud\, Christ\, lord\, and sour with sinning\, \nInnocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy\, \n     Most\, O maid’s child\, thy choice and worthy the winning. \n  \n—Gerard Manley Hopkins  (1844-1889) \n* \n  \nA Thin Sliver at the Door \n  \nAll she ever needed was the one sliver of air that hovered between the door and the frame. That small space was a persistent invitation. She would look around and make sure no one was in the room\, then quietly get up from her chair\, turn sideways\, and slip through the crack between the heavy oak door and its sash. The room left behind was dark and immobile\, everything inert\, waiting without expectation or possibility. But once through the door the air changed. It expanded in the light\, vibrating. The world was hushed\, but with a kind of openness—something was just about to happen. When she went out\, when she slipped through that crack\, the world changed and so did she. The resonant hum of the air struck a note of movement in her body and she became more lithe\, more supple. And the light–of course\, the light–that made all the difference. In the trees the leaves moved gently\, dappled by the light. The ground seemed alive\, as if it too would burst into motion—iridescent green\, chocolate brown\, gray-blue in the stones. She heard her own low humming but there were other songs as well\, perhaps birds or even insects in the fields\, perhaps the echo of a bell from the far buildings. When she was out here she didn’t need anything. Everything felt inviting and reassuring. She never knew how long she was outside\, how much time had passed\, since she never felt any tug of memory when she was there. She moved and listened and watched. That was all. And that was more than enough. But eventually in the back of her mind a small cloud would begin to gather\, pulling her into its shaded heaviness. The cloud would become bigger and more compelling than the trees or the air and she would turn toward it reluctantly. The cloud covered more and more of her vision and she found herself looking for the door\, the way back through the crack into the dark\, static room. She was never sure how she actually got back in but would suddenly look around\, groggily\, and realize here she was again. Everything felt heavy. The world was dense. This last time\, though\, she remembered something—just as she was following the cloud\, just as it grew to include her\, she held her hand out to the nearest tree and touched the leaves. She pulled some from the lowest branch and held them in her hands. Even back in the room she had them. She looked down and saw their glittering green and inhaled their unnamable smell. She held them and remembered. She looked up to see that small sliver of air between the door and its frame.  \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nCome Spring \n  \nThe first warm days of spring\, give them to me: \na tepid rain\, crocus poking through last year’s leaves. \n  \nGive me the heart of it: pale yellow\, frail blue\, \ntrees bare but for the hard buds\, the few birds. \n  \nTo hear the screen door slam again. To shoo \nthe flies from the house\, the bowled fruit. \n  \nI’ll take all of it\, Mother of Summer\, the smell \nof manure shoveled over the potatoes. Diesel \n  \nfumes from the refuse truck. Scent of creek bottom\, \nferal\, lime laced. Cracked effusion of rotting eggs. \n  \nEven sinus infections and rusty rake tines sunk \nin rank earth near the shed. Mushroom spores. \n  \nThe asthmatic crank of winter-bound bikes. Fevers\, \nflu\, cold sores\, loose ends. Even the crows\, \n  \nhawking their dull black cloaks from the shiny wings \nof iridescent spring. Let them ride the rippled air \n  \nover the barren Sunday parking lots\, the farther fields\, \nwhere the weeds will grow thorny\, wild and tall. \n  \n—Dorianne Laux \n* \n  \nKim Stafford & Alan Benditt suggested these poems from Emily: \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  \nSpring comes on the World –  \nI sight the Aprils –  \nHueless to me until thou come  \nAs\, till the Bee  \nBlossoms stand negative\,  \nTouched to Conditions  \nBy a Hum.  \n  \n–Emily Dickinson \n  \n* \n  \nAlan also sent us some haiku\, inspired by Spring: \n  \nLook at this world even its \ngrasses right under my feet \nfeed us  \n  \nGrasshoppers in the chilly breeze \nsing \nas if you’ll never sing again  \n  \nSpring rain: \na mouse is lapping \nthe Sumida River.  \n  \n—Issa \n* \n  \nI don’t know  \nwhich tree it comes from\, \nthat fragrance  \n  \nSpring! \na nameless hill \nin the haze.    \n  \n—Basho \n* \n  \nthe pheasant sings- \nthe earth turns into \nvarious grasses  \n  \nI forget  \nto remember the days – \nyet these spring deer  \n  \nsquatting \nthe frog observes \nthe clouds  \n  \nto be in a world \neating white rice \namid plum fragrance \n  \n—Chiyo-ni \n* \n  \n”peace\, love\, happiness & understanding” is one year old!  \n  \nHURRAY!!! \n  \nIt began on the Spring Equinox\, March 19\, 2020\, as “peace\, love & happiness\,” a weekly newsletter. The “understanding” got added on June 25\, 2020. I started thinking of it as a “journal\,” rather than a “newsletter” at some point. It became bi-weekly\, instead of weekly on December 10\, 2020. Lots of friends have contributed images\, poems and other writings\, as well as suggestions for poems.  \n  \nTHANK YOU!!! (in no particular order) to:  \n  \nKim Stafford\, Prabu Muruganantham\, Deborah Buchanan\, Lonnie Glinski\, Shadrach Alexander\, Charles Erickson\, Nancy Yeilding\, Josh Underhill\, Howard Thoresen\, Esther Elizabeth\, Bill Faricy\, Katie Radditz\, Ken Margolis\, Will Hornyak\, Joshua Barnes\, Ashley Lucas\, Jeff Kuehner\, Alex Tretbar\, Bill Hughes\, Doug Marx\, Randall Brown\, Jude Russell\, Jeffrey Sher and Aaron Gilbert. (n.b. If you are a reader of “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\,” you are invited to contribute!) \n  \nSpeaking of Aaron Gilbert… He was granted clemency by Governor Kate Brown\, and got out of prison on February 25\, 2021—twenty months early! I’ve had the pleasure of video-visiting with him by phone. Unsurprisingly\, he’s happy to be out of prison! I’m looking forward to getting together soon in person—(with all the necessary safety precautions.) \n  \npeace\, love & fecundity \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-18-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210317
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210401
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210318T210043Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210318T212856Z
UID:1899-1615939200-1617235199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:25th Annual Exhibition of Art by Michigan Prisoners  March 17th-31st
DESCRIPTION:Gas-n-Go by Bradlee Cournaya; Hypervigilance by Bryan Picken \n  \n  \n25th Annual Exhibition of Art by Michigan Prisoners \n  \n  \nThere are some amazing works of art for sale\, now through the 31st of March. Highly recommended!! \n  \nHere’s a link to the website: \n  \nhttps://dcc.carceralstateproject.lsa.umich.edu/s/pcapexhibition25/page/home \n  \nSpend some time on the website.  There’s lots to see! The full price of the artwork goes to the artist. \n  \npeace\, love & creativity! \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/25th-annual-exhibition-of-art-by-michigan-prisoners-march-17th-31st/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210317
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210322
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210318T182845Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210318T183108Z
UID:1891-1615939200-1616371199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Will Hornyak presents: Tales of Erin's Daughters
DESCRIPTION:Storyteller Will Hornyak presents: \n  \n Tales of Erin’s Daughters \n  \nFrom Lusty Queen Maeve and Pirate Queen Grace O’Malley to the Hag of Beara and the White Witch of Feakle\, storyteller William Kennedy Hornyak celebrates the Wild Celtic Feminine with Tales\, Myths\, Poems\, History and Lore in honor of St. Patrick’s Day\, 2021   \n     \nThree live Zoom performances: \n  \nSt. Patrick’s Day\, March 17 at 6 p.m.  Pacific Time  Mature audiences \nFriday March 19 at 6 p.m.  Pacific Time Mature audiences \nSunday March 21   2 p.m.   Pacific Time   Family Show \n  \nZoom Link: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/82659078275 \n  \nThe Event is Free but Donations are Welcome: \n  \nhttps://paypal.me/WillHornyak?locale.x=e \n  \nor mail to: \n  \nWill Hornyak \n11375 SE 33rd Ave.  \nMilwaukie\, OR 97222 \n  \nIndividual Storytelling Coaching Sessions Available: \n  \nhornyak.will@gmail.com 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/will-hornyak-presents-tales-of-erins-daughters/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210315
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210415
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210316T024709Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211130T014147Z
UID:1849-1615766400-1618444799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  3/15/21
DESCRIPTION:picture by Andy Larkin \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nMarch 15\, 2021 \n  \nA note on this picture: \n  \nA couple of years ago I began illustrating a South Indian book on meditation and mindfulness called “A Hundred Verses of Self-Instruction” by a 19th century yogi from South India named Narayana Guru. This picture shows Verse 16\, which reads as follows: \n  \nA very vast wasteland suddenly \nflooded by a river in spate – thus comes the sound \nthat fills the ears and opens the eyes of the one who is never distracted; \nsuch should be the experience of the seer par excellence. \n  \nEveryone who meditates probably hears about some far-off experience called “enlightenment” that’s had only after years of heroic meditation sitting in a cave. When you read this verse\, you might think that’s what’s being described\, but I don’t think the author intended that. In a certain sense\, there’s something in us that’s always focused\, never distracted. It was working when you first opened your eyes this morning and looked out on your world. It was a wordless awareness that heard every thought you’ve had today\, and it monitored your heartbeat and your respiration when you were deeply asleep. If you look for it\, you can’t see it\, and you can’t say anything about it\, other than that it Is. So the picture shows you\, the “seer par excellence\,” in the center\, with that wordless awareness functioning continually in all these ways. As that awareness is all-filling\, the author likened it to a river in full flood. \n  \nI hope you enjoy the picture! \n  \nWith best wishes to all \n—Andy Larkin \n* \n  \nWe are what we think. \nAll that we are arises with our thoughts. \nWith our thoughts we make the world. \n  \n—words of the Buddha\, from The Dhammapada\, version by Thomas Byrom \n* \n  \nWelcome to our seventh meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. (JS) \n* \n  \nA few months ago\, I squeezed a whitehead near the tip of my nose\, squeezing out a most satisfying tiny white tube of gook. It turned out that in my enthusiasm\, I must have squeezed out some of the material that actually constituted that part of my nose\, because the next morning there was a pit displayed there\, of inestimable depth. \nOver the ensuing months I have sometimes used cortisone cream or vitamin E to help along my body’s unceasing but ineffective efforts to rebuild that little piece of nasal real estate. Most of the time\, I have just watched\, in my bathroom mirror\, the ceaseless process of rebuilding\, destruction\, rebuilding\, etc… Had this happened sixty-five years ago\, when I was fifteen (and it probably did\, given all the squeezing I was doing in those days)\, it would have healed in a week.  \nThis increasing inability of my body to fight my and time’s ravishings is part of a gradual slowing down of my systems. I can feel and see\, in and on my body and brain\, the cascade of imperfections always coming and coming. \nThe falling away of functions is like being stroked; I am being prepared\, so gently really\, molecule by molecule\, to detach completely from this pulpy shell that is me and not-me. \nAll ways of going are good. I am very grateful to be able to participate\, so far\, in this way. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \n  \n[Here are some excerpts from Michel’s meditation and mindfulness journal. I highly recommend the practice of keeping a journal to everyone. JS] \n  \nFebruary 1\, 2021 \n#75  Your True Nature \nThis idea could challenge some of us. For me\, the point I think Thây is trying to make is: not only is “heaven” or “nirvana” possible\, but\, like the ability to awaken (be a buddha)\, is already contained within all of us. If this existence is simply part of the journey\, then\, maybe\, I don’t have to attach to the identity of this self (or body driving that story). I can release those judgements—good/bad\, up/down\, like/dislike\, etc.—and simply be. I think this is where the challenge of living arises: letting go of attachment to preconceived (or inherited) beliefs or notions about life and what comes next. We can focus on the life we live now and be part of the now. The future\, not needing our control\, or guidance\, will attend to itself without our involvement (including whatever comes after “life.”) \nWe can and do (briefly) experience nirvana (“heaven on earth”). Sometimes\, I think\, it happens and we’re too busy with past/future concerns to notice. Other times\, we realize what we’ve found and\, in our excitement\, we begin grasping at that (old) moment\, trying to hold on to “perfection” forever. It’s fleeting\, this thing called “now.” If we learn to hold gently\, with open hands\, we might be able to relax into a moment\, become more familiar and comfortable in that space\, and eventually we may even bring some of it with us to share with others. \nWhatever it is\, or whatever it looks/feels like\, words will fail us to describe and share with others. We’ll know that they would benefit from what we found\, (our experience—but one of their own)\, yet each person must find his/her own way to nirvana/heaven in the now. The journey is where we find “the meaning\,” not the destination. I suspect this is why the Buddha had so much to say—not only do words fail us\, but others (each uniquely) hear a message differently\, based on their own life experience. My excitement\, over a moment in heaven on earth can pull me out of my “moment….” \nFor me\, it is like practicing zazen (just sitting) in the Zen dojo. I practice in a safe neutral space with the intent that the effect of learning to be present to the “now” will leach over into everyday life. I see heaven/nirvana interaction the same way. As I learn to be more present to “now\,” I am able to do so during ordinary (non-cushion practice) life. Likewise\, as I experience heaven\, I can just be with this. Eventually\, the experience will be transferable (translatable?) to everyday life too. May you find your nirvana soon. \n  \nFebruary 4\, 2021 \n#78  The Wounded Child \nThis is a toughie. I am aware of my wounded child within. I just don’t\, (or haven’t been aware of how to)\, understand “embracing” the child within. I have made some deliberate efforts to connect. So far\, I’ve not had much success even being aware of him. One day\, I’ll be able to create a sense of safety for him and be attentive to his needs—through practicing mindfulness. Until then\, I keep doing my best to care for this mind/body and practice mindful living often—on and off cushion—mostly “off cushion” currently. \nI don’t know about you\, but I want to connect with my child self—wounded or not. To reconnect\, reopen\, or revive the state of child-like awe and wonder—to embrace and protect that awareness. Being a “grown-up” doesn’t mean being “old.” Our world values strange\, alien ideals which we were compelled/forced to adopt/adhere our self identity. A result is we close off from parts of the world\, or shut down awareness to the beauty\, and then struggle for the rest of our adult life to return to that connection\, awareness\, “innocence” we once possessed. Some never find it again\, due to looking for outward objects for inward fulfillment. Our inner child\, wherever he or she is hiding\, is waiting to be heard\, seen\, loved\, held\, protected\, and known again. We only need to be quiet\, look and listen. \n  \nFebruary 14\, 2021 \n#82  Something to Believe In \nIt is a day dedicated to ideals of love—regardless of its origins or current capitalization. I am a little bit tender of heart. NEWS INSIDE from the Marshall Project\, (Issue 6\, December\, 2020)  \n(https://www.themarshallproject.org/2020/06/04/i-wonder-if-they-know-my-son-is-loved)\, \n  \n “I Wonder If They Know My Son Is Loved” by Ymilul Bates: This was a heart rending story of what one mother experienced as she visited her young son. Words fail to express other feelings for me\, beyond the sadness I experience thinking of what my own mother has faced to come visit me—and I wonder how she has “felt” about all of this—worsened by guilt that I dragged my parents into this place with me. But that’s love\, isn’t it? To follow your loved ones wherever they may go—emotionally\, if not physically—to set aside my comfort and accept a new paradigm for “normal\,” and go to a place (made to create fear and isolation) to bring and/or share comfort\, compassion and love to a person I care about. I wonder if I could do it\, to be strong enough to overcome discomfort and fear to share a restricted moment with an other\, for whom I feel love—could I? I want to hope so. I’ve only known this side of the exchange—receiving the gift of love and compassion\, the gifting of value estimation to remind me that I do have worth in this world. Whether it has been my mother and father\, uncle and aunt (in person)\, or the generous volunteers of Group Dialogue and Theatre for OHOM\, or religious volunteers and teachers—each has brought light\, color\, beauty\, love\, compassion inside\, and shown me that I am more than a number\, a statistic\, a criminal code violation followed by a sentence\, that I am still a human being\, that I still have worth and value\, that I am still lovable\, able to love\, and that I am worthy of it. The saddest\, darkest hour must be for those here for whom the call never comes for a visit\, a program\, a call-out to school or any other life-affirming event; because these walls give back only noise\, overwhelming light\, or absolute darkness\, (never warmth)\, and they never give back love\, compassion\, or humanity. So on this day of love\, SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN is  love. We each do our part to hold on to our spark\, but to fan the flame I found I must give it away to another—two sparks become a flame\, many sparks can become a fire to warm ourselves\, together. \n(Now\, I’ve paused to read…Thây.) \nThây spoke of mindfulness as the “something” to believe in\, which is present in everyday concrete actions\, such as sitting or drinking water. I offer this to add. Experiencing love. If I give of myself\, whatever the moment may be\, to the experience of love\, and I do it mindfully\, (focused\, fully present\, not distracted by past or future\, or worries clouding the now)\, then I can sink into the moment and really feel  this love. I will also be ready to return love\, fully committed and freely. \nI can’t think of a time\, since being incarcerated (August\, 2007) to the present\, or even prior to being locked away\, that the idea of love has not been my quest\, my holy grail. I didn’t always have the words\, or the capacity to express/receive (with full awareness) love as it was offered. But I was always pursuing it as a precious gem\, a treasure beyond compare\, buried beneath a mountain. I have experienced various moments over the years\, when awakened to the reality and beauty of love\, and now know it was not a fable\, or a lie\, or something just for those others more special than I. To this day I still struggle and search for my place in the sun\, and I Believe\, when it’s my time\, I’ll find the completeness held within. Until then\, I can BELIEVE IN this reality I have for now\, knowing I have love inside and outside these dark and musty walls. \n  \nFebruary 28\, 2021 \n#88  The Deepest Relief   (the day after turning 49!) \n“…the deepest kind of relief is the realization of nirvana” (or heaven on earth\, if you would prefer different terms.) The best part of today’s thought is this: Everything is “perfect” as it is; I have everything necessary to fully realize heaven on Earth for this self right now\, and all I need to do to access this is—breathe\, all the rest can take care of itself…. \nI find the allegory of farming—“cultivation” to be highly relevant. We must prepare soil for planting—tilling\, weeding\, fertilizing\, watering\, more tilling\, resting\, exposing to nature\, etc.—then we can “plant” seeds\, water and fertilize for a specific result. \nI think life can be much the same. Mindfulness can be both plowing/tilling of soil—turning up the deep and rich fertile ground—and it can also be the time allowing the ground to rest in nature…. We reap what we sow\, so they say—I think “they” are right….. \nWhen I neglect all of my practice\, I find the ground hard and dry; no matter how abundant the rains have been. But when I maintain even a small practice I find life is grander\, and I am more of the person I desire to be. I may not attract all the butterflies and pollinators to my “field\,” as I desire; at least the ones who do attend my field are appreciated and seen. \nI want to encourage each and everyone to discover and develop a time and space to focus  on and to “cultivate” a garden of life. I believe it will make all the difference to be deliberate\, rather than hoping for a “happy accident” to come about—it’s not as common as many wish it was. I too shall strive towards a daily\, regular\, focused\, recharge of love. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nShakespeare said: “All the world’s a stage\, and all the men and women merely players.” Like Plato’s Cave\, this is a deep metaphor. When called upon\, we play our parts. At the moment\, I’m offstage. Nothing is required of me. I don’t have to pretend to be Johnny Stallings until I get my next cue. \n  \nBright sunlight this morning (3/6/21). Always welcome this time of year. The forms and colors of Spring are vivid. I like to sit quietly\, like this\, in the morning. Even words like “meditation” and “mindfulness” are unnecessary. It’s too ordinary (and too extraordinary) to be named. I like how\, in the last verse of the Hsin Hsin Ming\, Seng Ts’an says: “No past\, no future\, no now.” No now! \n  \n—(pretending for a moment to be) Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nBelow is a copy of the Dalai Lama’s morning meditation to begin with right intention for the day. I think you will enjoy and relate. \nI thought it might be great for the dialogue people too. It makes me think of the intentions we must make to come regularly with kind and open intentions for everyone’s well being.   \nThis prayer was written by Shantideva\, a Buddhist monk of the Mahayana tradition who lived around 700 AD. It is said that His Holiness the Dalai Lama considers this text to be THE source for developing altruism in your character and the “Spirit of Awakening.” It is also said that His Holiness the Dalai Lama recites this prayer every morning as part of his waking rituals. \n  \nBodhisattva Prayer for Humanity \nMay I be a guard for those who need protection \nA guide for those on the path \nA boat\, a raft\, a bridge for those who wish to cross the flood \nMay I be a lamp in the darkness \nA resting place for the weary \nA healing medicine for all who are sick \nA vase of plenty\, a tree of miracles \nAnd for the boundless multitudes of living beings \nMay I bring sustenance and awakening \nEnduring like the earth and sky \nUntil all beings are freed from sorrow \nAnd all are awakened. \n  \nWhat a beautiful prayer to start a new day! A Bodhisattva is a person who has attained Enlightenment\, but who postpones Nirvana in order to help others to attain Enlightenment.  \n  \nThe bodhisattva ideal: \n  \nThe teachings of Buddhism are about your life\, about being the person you are. The practices of Buddhism are about being willing to be intimate with yourself\, with your idiosyncrasies. So when we talk about compassion and the ideal of the bodhisattva\, we are talking about how we as ordinary people—with this body\, this mind\, this life\, these problems—can find generosity\, effort\, and wisdom right here and now. We realize that they are always available. \nBodhisattvas are beings who are dedicated to the universal awakening\, or enlightenment\, of everyone. They exist as guides and providers of relief to suffering beings. They are models who exemplify lives dedicated to eradicating suffering in the world. Bodhisattvas can be awesome in their power\, radiance\, and wisdom\, and they can be as ordinary as your next-door neighbor. Bodhisattvas appear wherever they can be most helpful. Being a bodhisattva is especially about being an adult – a playful\, compassionate\, creative adult.  \nJohnny embodies the life of a bodhisattva.  I think there are others in the dialogue group that we may view this way. \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n  \n[Leaving aside questions of nirvana and enlightenment\, in my view\, anyone who sincerely desires to love all people\, and “all creatures great and small” is in tune with the bodhisattva ideal. Maybe a bodhisattva is nothing more or less than a kind person. JS] \n* \n  \n[Howard is doing an online study course with Nancy Yeilding and other friends on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. JS] \n  \nI just sent in my assignment for Nancy Yeilding’s class and I thought maybe with a little modification it could be my contribution to the meditation letter. \n  \nSutra II:43 \n  \nPerfection of the body and sense organs through destruction of impurity by self-purification. \n  \nThe deepest inquiry of yoga was expressed by Ramana Maharshi as\, “Who am I?”  \nWhen I say “my body” or “my mind” there is a presumption of separation. There is “I” and there is “my body” and the two are at odds with each other. “I” want to “control my body” or “I” want to “control my mind” but who is this “I” who thinks it can chop pieces off of the whole and then control them? \nThe body is not some dog that has to be beaten into submission. But neither is it some dog that has to be well fed and trained. It is the very matrix of my being. It is the finest intelligence\, awareness\, the consequence of a billion years of evolution. It perceives the world and it simultaneously creates the world. There is no brain without the body…and no heart\, either. \nIn Buddhism they say the first prerequisite for enlightenment is a human birth.  \nThere’s a famous Zen story in which a person brags that his master can walk on water. Another student says\, “My teacher can also perform miracles. When he is tired he sleeps; when he is hungry he eats.” To me this story has infinite implications and ramifications.  \nWhat is purity?—what is purification? Meister Eckhart said\, “To be pure is to have no thoughts.” \nHow to have no thoughts? Listen\, listen\, listen.  \nI feel that “tapas”—purification—is listening\, with all the connotations of that beautiful word. When I am listening\, there is no division. If I am listening and the voice of division arises\, it is just another sound like the song of the bird or the beep beep beep of the truck backing up…it has no more “authority” than that.  \nIf I listen\, I can sleep when I am tired and eat when I am hungry. \n  \n—Howard Thoresen \n* \n  \nHere’s a recent one: \n  \n                     Radical Justice  \n  \nMy dream displayed two words: radical justice. \nNo scene\, no story\, just those syllables delivered \nto a man\, American\, in the age of gizmos\, of radical \ninjustice careening toward catastrophe. So my outer life  \nsays to my inner life\, What do you mean? Are you saying  \nGive back the Western Hemisphere to First People here? \nAre you demanding Deep reparations for slavery? \nDo you specify The rich divest utterly? Do you say  \nRadical kindness to all creatures of the Earth?  \n  \nIf these\, they are far beyond my power\, yes? Well\, \nno. For if I choose to be a citizen of justice\, every act  \nwill question: What is best for every one and all? \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nIn meditation I was made aware of the fact that I have forgotten to smile…for quite a long time. In fact\, I have been unable (chosen not) to read\, think about\, write about\, many things. I have been unwilling to communicate in many ways\, including with myself\, or the larger consciousness. I feel a failure (no lectures\, please). Realizing that I had stopped taking my “smiling medicine\,” I became aware of a song I wrote as part of a song writing challenge here at DRCI a while back. I share the lyrics despite the fact that I believe that song lyrics often don’t translate well to silent poetry. So\, if any of you are “anti-rhymers”—read no further. Rhyme facilitates meter\, which combines in powerful ways with melody & harmony\, in my not so humble opinion. Maybe sometime I will be able to share this in its entirety\, it is the best advice I can offer myself & others. Thank you so much for The Open Road in both forms\, much anticipated\, highly appreciated. \n  \nLearning To Smile \n  \nWithout a smile\, I walk a mile \nSmilin’ just not my style \nI miss my friends\, I miss my wife \nI miss my outside life \n  \nBut there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nA smile overcomes all grief and pain \nIt takes me home again \nSo I force a smile\, walk that mile \nSmilin’ might become my style \n  \nBecause there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nSo\, check out this smile\, it’ll be here a while \nIt helps me through this trial \nMy spirit lifts\, the smile grips \nMy mood and won’t let go \n  \nSo there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nI’m alive\, I’m headed home \nWhen I smile I’m free \n  \n—T. String Clements \n© 2019 \n* \n  \nI had to smile when I read the Feb 15\, 2021 Open Road M & M dialogue filled with many intrigues. In particular\, and most notably to me\, the 3rd to the last line in the poem by Kim Stafford\, which says: “My greatest gift for you is the space between words.” The reason this stood out to me is that I recently was reading a book titled Forbidden Science by Douglas Kenyon\, which is a collection of articles\, one of which is titled “Altered States” by Patrick Marsolek. In this is a reference to an experiment by… \n  \n“…Dr. Les Fehmi…a psychologist and neurofeedback researcher from Princeton\, also studying the value of subjective experience\, as well as what we know about the physical mechanisms of the brain. He promotes an open focus state of awareness signified by synchronous alpha frequencies in the brain. He first experienced these alpha frequencies for himself when he tried and failed. ‘At the moment of surrender I experienced a deep and profound feeling of disappointment. Fortunately\, I surrendered while still connected to my EEG and while still receiving feedback. It was surprising to observe that I now produced five times the amount of alpha than before the act of surrendering.’ After learning how to open his focus and create the alpha waves\, he ‘felt more open\, lighter\, freer\, more energetic and spontaneous. A broader perspective ensued\, which allowed me to experience a more whole and subtle understanding. As the letting go unfolded\, I felt more intimate with sensory experience\, more intuitive….’ \n“Fehmi found that imagining space was one of the ways to force the brain to stop grasping and move into open focus. The state is experienced as ‘a vast three-dimensional space\, nothingness\, absence\, silence\, and timelessness. The scope of our attention is not only expanded\, but is experienced with greater immersion. Thus\, the ground of our experience is reified\, realized as a more pronounced sense of presence\, a centered and unified awareness\, an identity with a vast quality-less awareness in which all objects of sensation float\, as myself.’ This sounds surprisingly similar to meditators’ reports when they quieted the orientation area in their brains. You can get a taste of open focus now\, if you want. As you read\, become aware of he space in between the letters on the page while you are attending to the words and the meaning of the words. Can you also be aware of the space between you and the paper? At the same time\, is it also possible to be aware of the sounds around you? Let all of that stay with you as you attend to the words and to the meanings of the words you read.” \n  \nWhen I read Kim’s words\, this immediately came to mind. I’d also like to include the next two paragraphs of this for you: \n  \n“Fehmi believes that the way we pay attention is important. If someone is always in narrow objective focus\, he will start to experience stress\, regardless of the content of his attention. Fehmi was chronically in narrow focus; that is why he experienced such a profound breakthrough. He finally gave up and went into the open focus state. Consideration of our society’s chronic narrow focus may help us to explain both rampant drug use and fascination with meditation and ecstatic spiritual states. These methods help us to alleviate the tension of remaining chronically narrow focused in our consensus trance. \n“The relief that comes with altering our attention and our consciousness is more than just feeling good. Fehmi’s open focus\, hypnotic trances\, and other ecstatic states have been shown to bring about the remission of many stress-related symptoms\, chronic pain\, insomnia\, even eye and skin disorders. People who have been the most narrow focused may experience the most profound results. With practice most people can experience lasting changes.” \n  \nI can personally attest that the more I try this idea of “space between” things\, the more my body seems to relax. \n  \n–Joseph Opyd \n* \n  \nAches and Tensions #337 \n  \n“When I breathe in\, I generate the energy of mindfulness. With this energy\,  I recognize my body’s aches and tensions. I begin to embrace my body tenderly\, and allow any tension to be released. Many of us accumulate a lot of tension and pressure in our bodies\, working them too hard. It’s time to come home to our body. This is possible anytime\, anywhere\, whether we are sitting\, lying\, standing or walking.” \nAches and tensions I have been intimately familiar with the past two weeks – actually for about a year before that. My feet have had so much wear and tear from years of sports that I was hobbling in pain\, no matter what the shoes I wore. After complicated foot surgery two weeks ago – pins\, screws\, splints\, twenty stitches looking like black spider legs – I know the aches and pains of slow recovery. \nI have returned to the practice of sitting and breathing\, thirty minutes each day\, this past year. Usually it takes me a little while to let go. Breathe in – I wonder how Harry and Meghan are feeling. Breathe out – Will this fingernail ever stop splitting? In – Should I divide those peonies now or wait until fall?  Out – Those dang voter suppression bills are gonna sink us if they all pass…  Finally the breath and the body prevail and the mind goes. But not lately. \nThe severe pain of the foot surgery has caused extreme tension in my body. I can hardly walk (nor should I)\, and my breathing is shallow and rapid. I resumed sitting about five days after surgery. Not easy. Aches\, pain\, tension create a mind disjointed from the body\, let me tell you. I’m sure everyone has experienced this (or is experiencing it now) and can remember how pain can suck you dry.   The first three days of sitting were hopeless. I just sat and went through the motions\, waiting for something to change. And then I read this ‘everyday wisdom\,’ #337. There it was: “It’s time to come home to our body.”  And then\, that is just what happened. Breathing in\, breathing out – this body is miraculous. This breath is miraculous. And since then\, when I sit\, my body smiles and relaxes. We are back together —mind\, body\, breath.  And where did that pain go\, anyway? \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nOne of my favorite writers has been Thomas Merton. One example of why: \n  \nWhat I wear is pants.  \nWhat I do is live.  \nHow I pray is breathe.  \nWho said Zen? \n Wash out your mouth if you said Zen.  \nIf you see a meditation going by\, shoot it.  \nWho said “Love?”  \nLove is in the movies.  \nThe spiritual life is something people worry about when they are so busy with something else they think they ought to be spiritual.  \nSpiritual life is guilt.  \nUp here in the woods is seen the New Testament:  \nthat is to say\,  \nthe wind comes through the trees and you breathe it. \n  \n—from the memoir “Day of a Stranger\,” published in the Hudson Review\, Summer 1967 \n  \nIn this ground-breaking essay\, Merton allows himself to speak in the unexpurgated voice of the self he was excavating to be most true. You can read the entire essay here: \n  \nhttps://hudsonreview.com/1967/07/day-of-a-stranger/ \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nThis is for the meditation & mindfulness newsletter. It’s out of my heart\, not “Your True Home.” \n  \nMany times in my life I would sit and deeply think to myself. This is before I knew what it was to meditate. Many times I have imagined my self being a massive stone out in the sea. With wave after crushing wave breaking on me. The wave represented all of the whips and scorns of life. Nothing could ever break me. \n  \nThe inevitability is that the erosion\, pressure & time have slowly taken their toll on me. With a full and happy heart I will turn to sand on an eternal beach inside the hourglass of time. \n  \nBlessings\, \nPeace\, \nJoy\, \nUnconditionally \nLove \nAll \nThere is in Life \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nReflections On Meditation \n  \nGreetings to this worthy sangha. My name is Peter Oppenheimer. I’m an old crony of Johnny Stallings. I think it was 1973. Johnny and I were spending days\, and some nights\, together in a hospital in South India\, attending to our teacher’s teacher\, a well-known guru thereabouts.   \n At one point\, when I think\, only Johnny and I were in the room\, Guru motioned from his bed for me to come near. He said\, “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around. Do you want to ask me anything?”   \nI was taken aback. Daily I had countless questions\, but in the calming aura of his presence and under the spotlight of his gaze\, I couldn’t immediately think of one. “Oh yeah\,” I thought and asked\, “Can you teach me how to meditate?” His response was quickly made and quickly over\, “Meditate on the world without you in it.” Boom.  That was/is both a tall order and has become a lifelong aspirational practice of mine. \nOddly enough\, years later when I told my own guru about what his guru had suggested to me as how to meditate\, he said\, “That’s funny. Guru told me the opposite.  He told me to meditate on the room that I was in as being all inside and having no outside.”   \nAnd there’s another secret of meditation. There can be many ways to meditate\, but the paths all converge at the same goal. What is that goal?    \nAn inner quietude\, an inner fortitude\, an inner gratitude\, an inner clarity\, an inner affection\, an affection both that we have tasted from others and from Nature\, and an affection that we have within us as a treasure to share with others. This manifests as universal good will. These are all primary indicators of successful meditation. \nIf that’s the goal\, then how do we get there? \nDuring the ensuing 5 decades after those words of the guru\, I have studied and practiced several types or schools of seated-meditation\, such as the one taught by Johnny’s and my guru\, several practices taught by different Indian schools of yoga\, and zazen\, the practice of Zen Buddhist meditation.   \nThere’s been a through-line in all of these approaches to meditation. They all start from and aim at maintaining a state of mindfulness\, a “Be Here Now” approach to mental self-discipline.  Another common thread I’ve noticed is using one’s breath to help focus on the here and now. Just notice\, your breath. Be with it\, and in essence become your breath. In and out. In and out. Calmly. Mindfully. Affectionately. It is the energy from your breath that keeps your heart beating and the blood circulating. Be mindful of that going on.  Part of mindfulness or “being here now” includes body awareness – pains and pleasures\, strains and pressures. How fully can you be with your breath and your body?  If you can be simply present for what’s going on within you\, the chances are good that you will be able to be present and available to what arises in the world around you. \nSitting meditation is not for everyone.  Sometimes in the case of trauma survivors\, sitting and observing one’s thoughts can be too triggering.  The state and fruits of “Meditation\,” as discussed above\, can be attained not only through sitting\, but also if done whole-heartedly through\, among others things – walking\, running\, dancing\, drawing\, singing\, cooking\, conversing\, writing\, communing with nature\, laughing\, sharing affection\, or simply taking a moment to feel comfortable in one’s own skin and feel open to what arises. Then the practice becomes to be prepared to treat everything which arises (within and without) with generosity\, uprightness\, patience\, enthusiasm\, concentration\, and  wisdom. \nFinally\, coming back to my Grandguru’s instruction to “meditate on the world without you in it\,” years later a Zen teacher of mine\, with whom I sat periods of zazen\, described meditation as “cutting the storyline of your own inner narrative.”  My and Johnny’s Guru\, Nitya\, sometimes described meditation as shifting one’s identity from the ego-center to the spirit-center. The ego is our self with a small “s” and revolves around uniqueness\, what separates us from others. Whereas the spirit-center is our Self with a large “S” and revolves around that inner spirit which ignites and unites us. When we forget or transcend our smaller self and slip into a flow state\, there arises within us an identity or belongingness with the world around us. It’s a state of both peacefulness and vibrance. All of this is what I have come to know as a meditative state. \nI invite and welcome any additions\, corrections\, questions or comments from the sangha. I will be happy to respond and continue the conversation. With Love and Best Wishes to all…… \n  \n—Peter Oppenheimer \n* \n  \n[Peter is inviting people to have a dialogue with him. Feel free to use the monthly Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue as a place to have conversation\, and respond to what others have written. If people inside or outside the prison walls want to be pen pals with others in this “sangha\,” let me know. I can help with that. JS]
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-3-15-21/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/0.jpeg
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210314
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210328
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210304T200600Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210316T172028Z
UID:1833-1615680000-1616889599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Poems\, Songs & Stories About Work  3/14/21
DESCRIPTION:Greetings\, O Bibliophiles! \n  \nOn Sunday\, March 14th\, our topic was POEMS\, SONGS & STORIES ABOUT WORK. Jeffrey Sher\, Martha Ragland\, Dave Duncan and Todd Oleson joined the conversation. \n  \nWe talked about Antler’s poem “Factory\,” which we read together on February 28th\, and regaled each other with stories about jobs we’ve worked at. We talked about work that is fulfilling\, and work that isn’t. \n  \nTodd Oleson read “After Apple Picking” by Robert Frost. Johnny read “The Right to Grief” by Carl Sandburg. \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-poems-books-about-work-3-14-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210304
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210318
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210304T192518Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123217Z
UID:1818-1614816000-1616025599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/4/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nMarch Forth! (2021) \n  \nThe world is so full of a number of things. \nI’m sure we should all be as happy as kings. \n  \n—“Happy Thought\,” by Robert Louis Stevenson\, from A Child’s Garden of Verses \n  \n  \nAmong the great works of imaginative literature\, along with The Odyssey of Homer\, Dante’s Divina Commedia\, Cervantes’ Don Quixote\, Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov\, we must place Crockett Johnson’s Harold and the Purple Crayon. As a philosophical vision\, it stands beside The Bhagavad Gita\, Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave\,” and Wittgenstein’s Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung. When we think of works of visual art to which we might compare it\, several come to mind: “The Adoration of of the Mystic Lamb” by Hubert and Jan van Eyck (1432)\, “The Garden of Earthly Delights” by Hieronymus Bosch (1510)\, Michelangelo’s fresco on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel (1512)\, “The Isenheim Altarpiece” by Nikolaus of Haguenau and Matthias Grünewald (1516)\, and perhaps Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica” (1937). \n  \nIn Crockett Johnson’s masterpiece\, young Harold\, dressed in those kind of flannel pajamas into which you put your feet (“onesies”)\, sets out like Parsifal on an epic journey\, armed only with a purple crayon. As he goes\, he creates the world in which he lives. He makes a moon\, so he will have moonlight to light his way. He terrifies himself with a monster from his own id. He falls into a sea of his own making\, but saves himself from drowning by drawing a boat with his purple crayon and climbing into it. I’ll say no more of what befalls our youthful protagonist on his quest. Suffice it to say that\, as in the archetypal Hero’s Journey\, he returns home with a Treasure\, and bestows it upon Humanity. The Treasure is of course the slender tome: Harold and the Purple Crayon. \n  \nAnother Bold Young Explorer is Alice. We empathize with the indomitable Alice\, who has adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass\, because we once shared her plight—the plight of the child trapped in a world of Bossy Adults\, who are irrational and/or completely insane. Here’s an example of what she has to endure: \n  \n  \n \n  \nCHAPTER VII. \nA Mad Tea-Party \n  \n     There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house\, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them\, fast asleep\, and the other two were using it as a cushion\, resting their elbows on it\, and talking over its head. “Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse\,” thought Alice; “only\, as it’s asleep\, I suppose it doesn’t mind.” \n     The table was a large one\, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: “No room! No room!” they cried out when they saw Alice coming. “There’s plenty of room!” said Alice indignantly\, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. \n     “Have some wine\,” the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. \n     Alice looked all round the table\, but there was nothing on it but tea. “I don’t see any wine\,” she remarked. \n     “There isn’t any\,” said the March Hare. \n     “Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it\,” said Alice angrily. \n     “It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited\,” said the March Hare. \n     “I didn’t know it was your table\,” said Alice; “it’s laid for a great many more than three.” \n     “Your hair wants cutting\,” said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity\, and this was his first speech. \n     “You should learn not to make personal remarks\,” Alice said with some severity; “it’s very rude.” \n     The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said was\, “Why is a raven like a writing-desk?” \n     “Come\, we shall have some fun now!” thought Alice. “I’m glad they’ve begun asking riddles.—I believe I can guess that\,” she added aloud. \n     “Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?” said the March Hare. \n     “Exactly so\,” said Alice. \n     “Then you should say what you mean\,” the March Hare went on. \n     “I do\,” Alice hastily replied; “at least—at least I mean what I say—that’s the same thing\, you know.” \n     “Not the same thing a bit!” said the Hatter. “You might just as well say that ‘I see what I eat’ is the same thing as ‘I eat what I see’!” \n     “You might just as well say\,” added the March Hare\, “that ‘I like what I get’ is the same thing as ‘I get what I like’!” \n     “You might just as well say\,” added the Dormouse\, who seemed to be talking in his sleep\, “that ‘I breathe when I sleep’ is the same thing as ‘I sleep when I breathe’!” \n     “It is the same thing with you\,” said the Hatter\, and here the conversation dropped\, and the party sat silent for a minute\, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks\, which wasn’t much. \n     The Hatter was the first to break the silence. “What day of the month is it?” he said\, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket\, and was looking at it uneasily\, shaking it every now and then\, and holding it to his ear. \n     Alice considered a little\, and then said “The fourth.” \n     “Two days wrong!” sighed the Hatter. “I told you butter wouldn’t suit the works!” he added looking angrily at the March Hare. \n     “It was the best butter\,” the March Hare meekly replied. \n     “Yes\, but some crumbs must have got in as well\,” the Hatter grumbled: “you shouldn’t have put it in with the bread-knife.” \n     The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea\, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark\, “It was the best butter\, you know.” \n     Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. “What a funny watch!” she remarked. “It tells the day of the month\, and doesn’t tell what o’clock it is!” \n     “Why should it?” muttered the Hatter. “Does your watch tell you what year it is?” \n     “Of course not\,” Alice replied very readily: “but that’s because it stays the same year for such a long time together.” \n     “Which is just the case with mine\,” said the Hatter. \n     Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter’s remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it\, and yet it was certainly English. “I don’t quite understand you\,” she said\, as politely as she could. \n     “The Dormouse is asleep again\,” said the Hatter\, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. \n     The Dormouse shook its head impatiently\, and said\, without opening its eyes\, “Of course\, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.” \n     “Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said\, turning to Alice again. \n     “No\, I give it up\,” Alice replied: “what’s the answer?” \n     “I haven’t the slightest idea\,” said the Hatter. \n     “Nor I\,” said the March Hare. \n     Alice sighed wearily. “I think you might do something better with the time\,” she said\, “than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.” \n     “If you knew Time as well as I do\,” said the Hatter\, “you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. It’s him.” \n     “I don’t know what you mean\,” said Alice. \n     “Of course you don’t!” the Hatter said\, tossing his head contemptuously. “I dare say you never even spoke to Time!” \n     “Perhaps not\,” Alice cautiously replied: “but I know I have to beat time when I learn music.” \n     “Ah! that accounts for it\,” said the Hatter. “He won’t stand beating. Now\, if you only kept on good terms with him\, he’d do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance\, suppose it were nine o’clock in the morning\, just time to begin lessons: you’d only have to whisper a hint to Time\, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one\, time for dinner!” \n     (“I only wish it was\,” the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) \n     “That would be grand\, certainly\,” said Alice thoughtfully: “but then—I shouldn’t be hungry for it\, you know.” \n     “Not at first\, perhaps\,” said the Hatter: “but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.” \n     “Is that the way you manage?” Alice asked. \n     The Hatter shook his head mournfully. “Not I!” he replied. “We quarrelled last March—just before he went mad\, you know—” (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare\,) “—it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts\, and I had to sing \n  \n     ‘Twinkle\, twinkle\, little bat! \n     How I wonder what you’re at!’ \n  \nYou know the song\, perhaps?” \n     “I’ve heard something like it\,” said Alice. \n     “It goes on\, you know\,” the Hatter continued\, “in this way:— \n  \n     ‘Up above the world you fly\, \n     Like a tea-tray in the sky. \n                    Twinkle\, twinkle—’” \n  \n     Here the Dormouse shook itself\, and began singing in its sleep “Twinkle\, twinkle\, twinkle\, twinkle—” and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. \n     “Well\, I’d hardly finished the first verse\,” said the Hatter\, “when the Queen jumped up and bawled out\, ‘He’s murdering the time! Off with his head!’” \n     “How dreadfully savage!” exclaimed Alice. \n     “And ever since that\,” the Hatter went on in a mournful tone\, “he won’t do a thing I ask! It’s always six o’clock now.” \n     A bright idea came into Alice’s head. “Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?” she asked. \n     “Yes\, that’s it\,” said the Hatter with a sigh: “it’s always tea-time\, and we’ve no time to wash the things between whiles.” \n     “Then you keep moving round\, I suppose?” said Alice. \n     “Exactly so\,” said the Hatter: “as the things get used up.” \n     “But what happens when you come to the beginning again?” Alice ventured to ask. \n     “Suppose we change the subject\,” the March Hare interrupted\, yawning. “I’m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.” \n     “I’m afraid I don’t know one\,” said Alice\, rather alarmed at the proposal. \n     “Then the Dormouse shall!” they both cried. “Wake up\, Dormouse!” And they pinched it on both sides at once. \n     The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. “I wasn’t asleep\,” he said in a hoarse\, feeble voice: “I heard every word you fellows were saying.” \n     “Tell us a story!” said the March Hare. \n     “Yes\, please do!” pleaded Alice. \n     “And be quick about it\,” added the Hatter\, “or you’ll be asleep again before it’s done.” \n     “Once upon a time there were three little sisters\,” the Dormouse began in a great hurry; “and their names were Elsie\, Lacie\, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well—” \n     “What did they live on?” said Alice\, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. \n     “They lived on treacle\,” said the Dormouse\, after thinking a minute or two. \n     “They couldn’t have done that\, you know\,” Alice gently remarked; “they’d have been ill.” \n     “So they were\,” said the Dormouse; “very ill.” \n     Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like\, but it puzzled her too much\, so she went on: “But why did they live at the bottom of a well?” \n     “Take some more tea\,” the March Hare said to Alice\, very earnestly. \n     “I’ve had nothing yet\,” Alice replied in an offended tone\, “so I can’t take more.” \n     “You mean you can’t take less\,” said the Hatter: “it’s very easy to take more than nothing.” \n     “Nobody asked your opinion\,” said Alice. \n     “Who’s making personal remarks now?” the Hatter asked triumphantly. \n     Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter\, and then turned to the Dormouse\, and repeated her question. “Why did they live at the bottom of a well?” \n     The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it\, and then said\, “It was a treacle-well.” \n     “There’s no such thing!” Alice was beginning very angrily\, but the Hatter and the March Hare went “Sh! sh!” and the Dormouse sulkily remarked\, “If you can’t be civil\, you’d better finish the story for yourself.” \n     “No\, please go on!” Alice said very humbly; “I won’t interrupt again. I dare say there may be one.” \n     “One\, indeed!” said the Dormouse indignantly. However\, he consented to go on “And so these three little sisters—they were learning to draw\, you know—” \n     “What did they draw?” said Alice\, quite forgetting her promise. \n     “Treacle\,” said the Dormouse\, without considering at all this time. \n     “I want a clean cup\,” interrupted the Hatter: “let’s all move one place on.” \n     He moved on as he spoke\, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse’s place\, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before\, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. \n     Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again\, so she began very cautiously: “But I don’t understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?” \n     “You can draw water out of a water-well\,” said the Hatter; “so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well—eh\, stupid?” \n     “But they were in the well\,” Alice said to the Dormouse\, not choosing to notice this last remark. \n     “Of course they were\,” said the Dormouse; “—well in.” \n     This answer so confused poor Alice\, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. \n     “They were learning to draw\,” the Dormouse went on\, yawning and rubbing its eyes\, for it was getting very sleepy; “and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—” \n     “Why with an M?” said Alice. \n     “Why not?” said the March Hare. \n     Alice was silent. \n     The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time\, and was going off into a doze; but\, on being pinched by the Hatter\, it woke up again with a little shriek\, and went on: “—that begins with an M\, such as mouse-traps\, and the moon\, and memory\, and muchness—you know you say things are “much of a muchness”—did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?” \n     “Really\, now you ask me\,” said Alice\, very much confused\, “I don’t think—” \n     “Then you shouldn’t talk\,” said the Hatter. \n     This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust\, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly\, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going\, though she looked back once or twice\, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them\, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. \n     “At any rate I’ll never go there again!” said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. “It’s the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!” \n     Just as she said this\, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. “That’s very curious!” she thought. “But everything’s curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.” And in she went. \n     Once more she found herself in the long hall\, and close to the little glass table. “Now\, I’ll manage better this time\,” she said to herself\, and began by taking the little golden key\, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and then—she found herself at last in the beautiful garden\, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. \n  \n  \nOh dear! I wanted to talk about some more books for children of all ages. Another day\, perhaps. Stay tuned. \n  \nMay all people be happy. \nMay we live in peace & love. \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-4-21/
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DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210228T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210228T180000
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210221T183547Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210221T223635Z
UID:1800-1614524400-1614535200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: A Group Reading of the poem "FACTORY" by Antler  2/28/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nDear Bibliophiles!  \n  \nWe’re going to have a Group Reading of the poem “FACTORY” by Antler\, on Sunday\, February 28th at 3 pm. Here’s the link:  \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/81054571039 \n  \nThis is an amazing poem! It can change the way you see and feel and understand our world. I first read an abridged version in the Winter 1979/80 Issue (No. 24) of the CoEvolution Quarterly. I got a copy of the complete poem from City Lights Books\, which published it as a separate volume.\n \nIt’s a long poem. It’s progenitors include Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself\,” the Chicago poems of Carl Sandburg\, and Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl.”  I have abridged it for this event.\n\n\nHere’s something brief about the poet from Wikipedia:\n\n\n\n  \nAntler (born Brad Burdick); 1946 in Wauwatosa\, Wisconsin\, is an American poet who lives in Wisconsin. \nAmong other honors\, Antler received the Whitman Prize from the Walt Whitman Association\, given to the poet “whose contribution best reveals the continuing presence of Walt Whitman in American poetry\,” in 1985. Antler also was awarded the Witter Bynner prize in 1987. Antler was the poet laureate of the city of Milwaukee\, Wisconsin\, for 2002 and 2003. He is also an advocate for wilderness protection. \n\n  \nHere are just a few passages from the poem to entice you to join us on the 28th: \n  \nThe machines waited for me. \nWaited for me to be born and grow young\, \nFor the totempoles of my personality to be carved…. \n  \nThis is the hall big as a football field…. \nMachines large as locomotives\, \n        louder than loudest rockgroup explosions… \n  \nFrom my work alone 280\,000 lids each day…. \n14 million cans each day \n        from a single factory!…. \n  \nHow can I apologize to primeval shorelines cluttered with beercans? \nShould I say I needed the money? \n….Should I say I’m a spy behind enemy lines….? \nShould I say here’s a free pass \n        to the antique beercan collector’s convention?…. \n  \nI should be paid for wondering if I’m only a defect \n        in the mass-production of zombies!…. \nHow much do I get for watching the sunrise? \nHow much do I get for sleeping under the stars? \n  \nBefore I said—“I will never cringe under the crack \n        of the slavedriver’s whip!” \nNow my job is to murder the oceans! \nNow my job is to poison the air! \nNow my job is to chop down every tree!…. \n  \n….I should be paid to say everyone’s job is enlightenment! \nI should be paid to run naked through the sprinkler \n        the hottest day of summer! \nI should be paid to lie in a canoe \n        and drift over the lake all day!…. \n  \nAll I have to do is stand here \n        and package factories as they come from the press— \nFactories that make cans. \nFactories that make the machines that make cans. \nFactories that make the machines that make the machines \n        that make cans. \nFactories that make factories…. \n  \nFactories that make cuckoo-clock canaries. \nIndustries of canned laughter\, canned applause\, \n        canned music. \nTelephone factories\, television factories\, \n        radio\, stereo\, tape recorder factories\, \n        refrigerator\, stove and toilet factories. \nTelescope factories\, microscope factories\, \n        film\, camera\, movie screen factories\, \n        jukebox\, roulette wheel and slot machine factories. \nIndustries of nuts! Industries of bolts! \nIndustries of bulldozers\, roadgraders\, steamshovels\, \n        cement mixers\, steamrollers\, jackhammers\, \n        pile drivers and wrecking cranes!…. \n  \nWorking your way up to foreman in the insecticide factory! \nWorking your way up to employment manager in the squirtgun factory! \nWorking your way up to the top in the pay toilet factory! \n  \n  \nWell\, that should give you a feeling for the poem. There’s much much more!  \n  \nDON’T MISS THIS!!!   \n  \npeace & love   \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-2-28-21/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210218
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210304
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210218T180103Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123033Z
UID:1794-1613606400-1614815999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  2/18/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 18\, 2021 \n  \nFebruary 14th was Valentine’s Day. Our Bibliophiles Unanimous Zoom gathering celebrated by reading love poems. Here are some of the poems we shared and some we didn’t. But first\, some wisdom from the tag on my Yogi Tea bag\, and then a story of young love: \n  \nYou don’t need love\, you are love. \n  \n—anonymous sage employed by the Yogi Tea Company \n* \n  \nIn fifth grade I developed this major crush on a sixth-grader named Wendy. She always had the prettiest face and the nicest smile; everybody thought so. So I started kissing rocks and throwing them at her. \n  \n—John\, Connecticut\, b. 1959\, from Up To No Good: the rascally things boys do\, edited by Kitty Harmon \n* \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n  \n  \n—William Blake  (1757-1827) \n* \n  \nTHESEUS \n  \nLovers and madmen have such seething brains\, \nSuch shaping fantasies\, that apprehend \nMore than cool reason ever comprehends. \nThe lunatic\, the lover\, and the poet \nAre of imagination all compact. \nOne sees more devils than vast hell can hold: \nThat is the madman. The lover\, all as frantic\, \nSees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt. \nThe poet’s eye\, in a fine frenzy rolling\, \nDoth glance from heaven to earth\, from earth to heaven. \nAnd as imagination bodies forth \nThe forms of things unknown\, the poet’s pen \nTurns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing \nA local habitation and a name. \nSuch tricks hath strong imagination\, \nThat if it would but apprehend some joy\, \nIt comprehends some bringer of that joy. \nOr in the night\, imagining some fear\, \nHow easy is a bush supposed a bear? \n  \n—William Shakespeare (1564-1616)\, from A Midsummer Night’s Dream\, Act V\, scene i. \n* \n  \ni carry your heart with me(i carry it in \nmy heart)i am never without it(anywhere \ni go you go\,my dear;and whatever is done \nby only me is your doing\,my darling) \n                                                      i fear \nno fate(for you are my fate\,my sweet)i want \nno world(for beautiful you are my world\,my true) \nand it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant \nand whatever a sun will always sing is you \n  \nhere is the deepest secret nobody knows \n(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud \nand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows \nhigher than soul can hope or mind can hide) \nand this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart \n  \ni carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) \n  \n—e. e. cummings (1894-1962) \n* \n  \nI Loved You Before I Was Born \n  \nI loved you before I was born. \nIt doesn’t make sense\, I know. I saw your eyes before I had eyes to see. \nAnd I’ve lived longing  \nfor your ever look ever since. \nThat longing entered time as this body. And the longing grew as this body waxed. \nAnd the longing grows as the body wanes. \nThe longing will outlive this body. I loved you before I was born. \nIt doesn’t make sense\, I know. Long before eternity\, I caught a glimpse \nof your neck and shoulders\, your ankles and toes. \nAnd I’ve been lonely for you from that instant. \nThat loneliness appeared on earth as this body.  \nAnd my share of time has been nothing  \nbut your name outrunning my ever saying it clearly.  \nYour face fleeing my ever \nkissing it firmly once on the mouth. In longing\, I am most myself\, rapt\, \nmy lamp mortal\, my light  \nhidden and singing.  I give you my blank heart. \nPlease write on it \nwhat you wish.   \n  \n—Li-Young Lee – 1957-  \n* \n  \nThe Song of Wandering Aengus \n  \nI went out to the hazel wood\, \nBecause a fire was in my head\, \nAnd cut and peeled a hazel wand\, \nAnd hooked a berry to a thread; \nAnd when white moths were on the wing\, \nAnd moth-like stars were flickering out\, \nI dropped the berry in a stream \nAnd caught a little silver trout. \n  \nWhen I had laid it on the floor \nI went to blow the fire a-flame\, \nBut something rustled on the floor\, \nAnd someone called me by my name: \nIt had become a glimmering girl \nWith apple blossom in her hair \nWho called me by my name and ran \nAnd faded through the brightening air. \n  \nThough I am old with wandering \nThrough hollow lands and hilly lands\, \nI will find out where she has gone\, \nAnd kiss her lips and take her hands; \nAnd walk among long dappled grass\, \nAnd pluck till time and times are done\, \nThe silver apples of the moon\, \nThe golden apples of the sun. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats  (1865-1939) \n* \n  \nThis Is Just To Say \n  \nI have eaten \nthe plums \nthat were in \nthe ice box \n  \nand which \nyou were probably \nsaving \nfor breakfast \n  \nForgive me \nthey were delicious \nso sweet \nand so cold \n  \n–William Carlos Williams  (1883-1963) \n* \n  \nWhat We’re Doing Here  \n  \nThis is why we are here— \nnot merely to survive \nbut to fall in love \nwith the white-breasted hawk \nand the rainbow fish\, \nwith the lonely sidewalk \nand the shadows of ourselves\, \nfall in love with the hands \nof the woman wearing yellow \nand the girl who loves chocolate \nand the boy who loves cars \nand the man who makes us want to be \na better version of ourself. \n  \nWe are here to fall into unmanageable love— \nto love beyond reason\, beyond \nfact\, beyond certainty. We are here \nto lose all our ideas about love \nand know it as the next choice \nwe make\, the next word \nwe say\, the next invitation \nwe offer ourselves. \n  \nWe are here to love \nthe world and each other \nthe way whales love water\, \nthe way blue loves a peacock\, \nthe way night blooming jasmine \nloves night. \n  \n–Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer \n* \n  \nI Knew a Woman \n  \nI knew a woman\, lovely in her bones\, \nWhen small birds sighed\, she would sigh back at them;    \nAh\, when she moved\, she moved more ways than one:    \nThe shapes a bright container can contain! \nOf her choice virtues only gods should speak\, \nOr English poets who grew up on Greek \n(I’d have them sing in chorus\, cheek to cheek). \n  \nHow well her wishes went! She stroked my chin\,    \nShe taught me Turn\, and Counter-turn\, and Stand;    \nShe taught me Touch\, that undulant white skin;    \nI nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;    \nShe was the sickle; I\, poor I\, the rake\, \nComing behind her for her pretty sake \n(But what prodigious mowing we did make). \n  \nLove likes a gander\, and adores a goose: \nHer full lips pursed\, the errant note to seize; \nShe played it quick\, she played it light and loose;    \nMy eyes\, they dazzled at her flowing knees;    \nHer several parts could keep a pure repose\,    \nOr one hip quiver with a mobile nose \n(She moved in circles\, and those circles moved). \n  \nLet seed be grass\, and grass turn into hay:    \nI’m martyr to a motion not my own; \nWhat’s freedom for? To know eternity. \nI swear she cast a shadow white as stone.    \nBut who would count eternity in days? \nThese old bones live to learn her wanton ways:    \n(I measure time by how a body sways). \n  \n–Theodore Roethke  (1908-1963) \n * \nOn Valentine’s Day\, Jude Russell played Offenbach’s Barcarolle for us\, sung by Anna Netrebko & Elīna Garanča\, from Tales of Hoffmann. Here’s a link: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0u0M4CMq7uI \n* \n  \nVII \n  \nI don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt\, topaz\, \nor an arrow of carnations that propagates fire: \nI love you as certain dark things are loved\, \nsecretly\, between the shadow and the soul. \n  \nI love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom\, \nbut carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; \nthanks to your love\, a certain dense fragrance\, \nrisen from the earth\, lives darkly in my body. \n  \nI love you without knowing how\, or when\, or from where; \nI love you simply\, without problems or pride: \nI love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving \n  \nbut this\, where there is no I or you— \nso close that your hand on my chest is my hand\, \nso close that when I fall asleep\, it is your eyes that close. \n  \n—Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)\, from One Hundred Love Sonnets \n* \n  \nRe-Statement of Romance \n  \nThe night knows nothing of the chants of night. \nIt is what it is as I am what I am: \nAnd in perceiving this I best perceive myself \n  \nAnd you. Only we two may interchange \nEach in the other what each has to give. \nOnly we two are one\, not you and night\, \n  \nNor night and I\, but you and I\, alone\, \nSo much alone\, so deeply by ourselves\, \nSo far beyond the casual solitudes\, \n  \nThat night is only the background of our selves\, \nSupremely true each to its separate self\, \nIn the pale light that each upon the other \nthrows. \n  \n–Wallace Stevens  (1879-1955) \n* \n  \nWe 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  (1819-1892) \n* \n  \nWhen they first meet\, these two amazing young lovers spontaneously compose a sonnet–a sure sign that they are well-matched: \n  \nROMEO \nIf I profane with my unworthiest hand \nThis holy shrine\, the gentle sin is this: \nMy lips\, two blushing pilgrims\, ready stand \nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. \nJULIET \nGood pilgrim\, you do wrong your hand too much\, \nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this; \nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch\, \nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. \nROMEO \nHave not saints lips\, and holy palmers too? \nJULIET \nAy\, pilgrim\, lips that they must use in prayer. \nROMEO \nO then\, dear saint\, let lips do what hands do– \nThey pray; grant thou\, lest faith turn to despair. \nJULIET \nSaints do not move\, though grant for prayers’ sake. \nROMEO \nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take. \n[He kisses her.] \nThus from my lips\, by thine\, my sin is purged. \nJULIET \nThen have my lips the sin that they have took. \nROMEO \nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! \nGive me my sin again. \n[She kisses him.] \nJULIET \n                                            You kiss by th’ book. \n  \nAnd…Juliet’s love is absolute: \n  \nJULIET \nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea\, \nMy love as deep. The more I give to thee\, \nThe more I have for both are infinite. \n  \n–William Shakespeare (1564-1616)\, from Romeo and Juliet \n  \nWell\, that’s it for now. \n  \nMay we live in love. \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210215
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210315
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210217T032953Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211130T014826Z
UID:1781-1613347200-1615766399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  2/15/21
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nI find it interesting how my mind works. \n—Michel Deforge \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2020 \n  \nWelcome to our sixth meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. The tag on my Yogi Tea bag says: “Compassion will make you beautiful.” (JS) \n* \n  \nHey guys\, I hope you enjoy this M & M submission. \nYou are all great & I hope you’re well. \nI’m looking forward to reading your submissions. \n  \n#95  What Is Your True Face? \n  \nAn answer from the face of ages. \n  \nWhat was my face you’ve queried\, and although I know what it is\, I can’t say it ever was. \nChange…  As far as I can tell my face has never changed. \nOnly the great multitude of masks I don in a moment’s notice can be defined as change\, and only then in a second’s split. \nUnderneath my face remains the same\, frozen\, pursed in the seeker’s scowl as it journeys through the ages. \nWhat was my face? \nMy face always is\, and in always being never was\, for the pulse of life is too strong to resist\, & the change of masks a familiar constant. \nRemember\, how could I forget? \nI still remember them all\, whether gilded\, plain\, or in between\, I still remember. \nMaybe it’s time for a change… \n  \n—Joshua Tyler Barnes \n* \n  \nI’m 25 wisdoms into Your True Home\, and so far what has occupied my thinking most is the apparent (to my novice understanding) conflict for an artist (specifically writers) trying to practice mindfulness and meditation. My struggle with meditation is that I start to have good ideas! Then\, I don’t want to forget them\, so I either A) begin ruining the meditation by trying not to forget the good idea\, or B) stop meditating so I can write down the good idea before I forget it. Also\, as a writer\, I am always applying words & labels & categories to everything I see\, thereby denying the essential emptiness of everything\, which my heart & mind both know to be true. But there is an everpresent pull\, a wish\, to exist without the endless desire to write about\, catalog\, chronicle the act of existence. This isn’t a unique torment. It’s actually something a lot of writers write about\, especially poets: “I throw my quill into the sea\, and burn my parchments\,” etc. There’s an excellent little monograph by Ben Lerner called “The Hatred of Poetry” that I recommend you read. In it\, he talks about this strange inclination\, as evidenced in the renunciations of writing by legends such as Rimbaud & Oppen. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nNot Thinking While Writing \n  \nBefore I write in the early morning\, I sit in the dark for a time\, breathing\, resisting thought but welcoming wondering\, sensation\, and the simple ache of being that is more primordial than regret or fear\, the pleasure of some hunger\, some cold. I’m in the shed\, after all\, in my chair with the strips of rug on the runners because it once lived in the fire station\, where the card players did not want to disturb the sleepers. \n  \nWhen I write\, do I want to disturb the sleepers? No\, I want to sidle into their dreams and tell them how beautiful they are\, give them wishes\, provide them with stories of simple triumph that hurts no one\, so when they wake\, life will be a little easier. So we all may be more curious than afraid. \n  \nIn 1913\, the Russian futurist poet Aleksei Kruchenykh created the word zaum\, which means ‘beyond or behind the mind.’ He sought an experimental poetic language characterized by indeterminacy: ‘beyonsense.’ \n  \nThe geese are shouting as they fly north \nso they will not be encumbered by all those \nextra syllables\, can concentrate on the magnetic \ntug toward the far beyond. \n  \nThe river leaves its shouting in the mountains  \nso in the valley it can depend on wink and whisper  \nto convey its learning\, its salmon home scent \nfor anyone alert enough to notice. \n  \nShall I throw my pen into the sea? Shall I take  \na vow of silence in order to be worthy of this  \nexistence? How many trees did my poems have to  \nkill\, anyway\, to gather these pages? Just enough. \n  \nI plant seeds of silence\, syllable by syllable. \nMy greatest gift for you is the space between words \nwhere my code tells the secrets of our oldest kinship\, \nand all my love in the silence after the last breath. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nKim also sent this poem by Chuang Tzu\, along with a writing prompt: \n  \nThe Woodcarver \n  \nKhing\, the master carver\, made a bell stand \nOf precious wood. When it was finished\, \nAll who saw it were astounded. They said it must be \nThe work of spirits. \nThe Prince of Lu said to the master carver: \nWhat is your secret? \n  \nKhing replied: I am only a workman: \nI have no secret. There is only this: \nWhen I began to think about  \nthe work you commanded \nI guarded my spirit\, did not expend it \nOn trifles\, that were not to the point. \nI fasted in order to set \nMy heart at rest. \nAfter three days fasting\, \nI had forgotten gain and success. \nAfter five days \nI had forgotten praise or criticism. \nAfter seven days I had forgotten my body \nWith all its limbs. \n  \nBy this time all thought of your Highness \nAnd of the court had faded away. \nAll that might distract me from the work \nHad vanished. \nI was collected in the single thought \nOf the bell stand. \n  \nThen I went to the forest \nTo see the trees in their own natural state. \nWhen the right tree appeared before my eyes\, \nThe bell stand also appeared in it\, clearly\,  \nbeyond doubt. \nAll I had to do was to put forth my hand \nand begin. \n  \nIf I had not met this particular tree \nThere would have been  \nNo bell stand at all. \n  \nWhat happened? \nMy own collected thought \nEncountered the hidden potential in the wood; \nFrom this live encounter came the work \nWhich you ascribe to the spirits. \n  \n—Chuang Tzu (translated by Thomas Merton) \n  \nChuang Tzu\, or Zhuang Zhou\, or Zhaungzi…was an influential Chinese philosopher who lived around the 4th century B.C.\, during the Warring States period\, a time corresponding to the summit of Chinese philosophy\, the Hundred Schools of Thought. He is credited with writing…one of the foundational texts of Taoism… He is described as a minor official from the town of Meng\, in the state of Song. (Wikipedia) \n  \nWriting prompt: Tell the story  of something you did purely for beauty\, for essence\, in response to a call that reached your heart… \n* \n  \n(Some excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal:) \n  \nJanuary 24\, 2021 \n  \n#69 Suddenly You Are Free \n  \nIt may happen like that—suddenly. Two days ago\, I was uprooted and moved from my place of comfort and peace (complacency?)\, to a new unit. I tested positive for COVID-19 on 1/14. The DOC response was to take all positives and cohort us in one unit. There was little communication and much chaos and anxiety for all affected staff. Many of my fellow prisoners are also stressed out beyond their limits\, or at the very fringe of their coping. I too was initially anxious. Because I was the only one leaving my unit and I didn’t know where I was moving or why. As soon as I learned it was not a move to the DSU/“Med” iso wing and that the goal was a conversion of a regular incentive unit into a COVID isloation/quarantine unit\, I was able to release my tensions. I hate moving!…. \n  \nYet\, somehow\, amidst all the chaos\, my stress settled quickly and I stumbled across peace\, acceptance and understanding—suddenly. I’m no great success with mindfulness and meditation. But\, sometimes it works! \n  \nIn some ways\, I see the truth of Thây’s thought in the experience\, and in some ways I wonder if he is speaking of a more deliberate and permanent result of all the work—suddenly finding freedom after looking for so many years. I do think that for something appearing suddenly\, it can also disappear just as suddenly. If I relax into the appearance and don’t grasp it tightly\, then\, maybe\, I won’t get hurt so much when it goes away just as suddenly. \n  \nJanuary 25\, 2021 \n  \n#70   Miraculous Smile \n  \nWriting here\, I am also looking at my first lines from January 1. So much has happened since then. Yet\, it is still true. Life is really “perfect” just the way it happens—whether I “like” it or not is irrelevant. Today’s writing reminds me of how easy it can be to feel better. As Thây puts it\, knowing (how) to breathe\, we can find our peace and our smile. (I wonder if I really know how to breathe.) I have had times when finding my smile has helped someone else relax a little. I have read before that faking a genuine smile will cause a shift of hormones and thoughts\, leading to having a genuine smile—I think it works. Whatever the case\, I can stop…breathe…smile at myself (or what/whom ever)…and carry on with my day. It may or may not be a grand “miracle.” It will be a smile and a moment of breathing mindfully. It will be a break\, no matter how brief\, from whatever else is competing for my life’s energy. And\, it is a moment I can control in a world of chaos. \n  \n9:00 pm Update: \n  \nHaving been awoken for mail delivery…(normally\, this would be grounds for great upset by any prisoner)\, I came to realize this poor fella (PM-swing CO) running this unit is having to keep up with a “COVID-POSITIVE” unit—with showers\, phone calls\, access to ice and water and whatever other services he must provide—like mail\, meals\, call-outs—alone… It is hard to not have compassion for anyone subjected to such work-conditions\, (or\, it’s relatively “easy\,” especially since he has been positive and generally conciliatory in the performance of his duties). I find it interesting how my mind works. A staff person whom I don’t know\, and with whom I haven’t had much contact\, comes in\, working alone\, with a positive attitude\, doing all he (or she) can to keep abreast of the daily duties\, and is doing so in a manner which does not put any of that burden upon us prisoners—is one to applaud. It is easy to feel compassion\, almost automatically\, for this person. Random thoughts at 10 pm. \n  \nJanuary 27\, 2021 \n  \n#71  Habit Energy \n  \n….I see this same pattern in my life—OLD HABIT energy holding me back or weighing me down. When I can\, I let it go. Sometimes I need to go through a challenging learning process to do this. In the end I grow. Thây doesn’t teach a technique for letting go\, but a gentle awakening to an awareness of exploration into the habit energy I do have—be it of my own creation\, or inherited. Having come to an awareness\, I then have a choice about what I do with that energy—keep\, change\, or Let Go. I have power. \n  \nJanuary 28\, 2021 \n  \n#72  You Are Safe Now \n  \nThis is not a phrase I hear here in prison often. Yet\, it’s timely. I just had a cellie on a previous unit—(they’re bouncing the COVID POSITIVES – PRE/POST CLEARANCE all over)—who was told he was to move to an unknown cell with high probability of mortal danger. Through timely machinations by kind staff he was allowed to stay put—he’s safe. That same night I got word of my immanent reassignment. I am back “home” on Unit 13. I too am safe now. I wonder how often we fail to recognize this truth in our day-to-day ordinary lives. If I never hear this\, or tell myself this\, will I be able to recognize when a crisis is over and I am again safe? My guess is: no. I wonder how many of life’s challenges became traumas simply because I didn’t know I was now “safe.” And\, maybe I never knew “safe” as part of my reality growing up\, but\, I can learn that now and maybe even offer this bit of help to another in saying\, “You’re safe now.” (Mantra exercise\, with breath.) \n  \nJanuary 29\, 2021 \n  \n#73  The Anchor \n  \nOnce again I am brought back and reminded that my breath is my connection to life. “Well\, sure\, silly! Of course it is. Everyone has to breathe to stay alive.” It is true. To live is to breathe. If I stop breathing\, I stop living. It’s an unavoidable technicality. I am\, however\, looking through Thây’s lens. When I am disconnected from my breath and breathing\, life just sort of happens without my conscious involvement—which is most often the case for me. I can’t say that anything mystical or magical happens if and when I’m alert to my breathing—connected. But\, when stressed\, if I focus on my breath and pray\, (contemplate the Infinite\, if you will)\, then I am calmed\, eventually\, and able to be more present and rational\, or in control of much of my actions and words. \n  \nMy breath becomes my “still point” (anchor)\, from which I can move out into the world around me\, regardless of events (or chaos) within it. \n  \nJanuary 30\, 2021 \n  \n#74  Caught in the Idea of a Self \n  \nThis idea of no-self (integrating self and non-self) has been a focus of mine\, off and on. I don’t know where it will lead me\, or how far I am along a path to understanding or embracing such an idea. So far\, I have learned (?) that we are all inter-related and not separate from any thing or anyone—even if our experience and sense of self-identity suggest otherwise…. \n  \nWhat I do know matters is learning to connect fully to this “life.” I can only do this through breath\, and intent. We’ve been calling this “mindfulness.” I think (it’s my guess\, mind you) that the Buddha (and all his progeny)\, Jesus and others\, are fundamentally striving to explain this very simple idea—living a complete\, whole life\, connected to reality as it is\, not as ego manufactures it to be through stories to convince the self of it being a hero of its story. I’m probably off base on this… But\, I’ll keep breathing to find out. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n#46  Deep Listening and Loving Speech \n  \nDeep listening and loving speech are wonderful instruments to help us arrive at the kind of understanding we all need as a basis for appropriate action. You listen deeply for only one purpose—to allow the other person to empty his or her heart. This is already an act of relieving suffering. To stop any suffering\, no matter how small\, is a great action of peace. The path to end suffering depends on your understanding and your capacity to act without causing harm or further suffering. This is acting with compassion\, your best protection. \n  \nI wanted to write out TNH’s piece on this\, because my thoughts follow his thought\, but his are integral to mine. I keep trying to articulate what I mean when I say that relationships/understanding/connection are what give life meaning to me. But without going deeper\, those words don’t mean much. Or else they mean too much! \n  \nThich Nhat Hanh opens it up for me\, with Deep Listening and Loving Speech. Before relationship\, understanding and connection can happen\, I must listen deeply\, intently\, slowly\, and respond by speaking with love. My life is at its fullest\, its richest\, when I am listening so deeply to someone that they feel loved enough to open their heart. Listening to someone who is normally unheard\, derided\, discounted\, debased—a prison inmate; an unwed\, pregnant mom; a vet with PTSD; an angry teenager; a woman living on the edge in Meridian\, Mississippi; an Hispanic worker trying to learn English…all those who are suffering in whichever myriad ways one suffers. \n  \nA corollary to deep listening and loving speech is—time. Deep listening and deep response that lead to understanding\, relationship and connection requires years to achieve. I have always said I give everything ten years—ten years for my stepchildren to love me\, my wisteria to bloom\, my body to shed 5 pounds. I am patient. After ten years\, I re-evaluate and might give it (whatever “it” is) another ten years. In relationships time is important. Trust doesn’t happen immediately. One who is suffering has built up sturdy walls of protection\, and only time\, deep listening and loving speech can build trust and break down walls. And when those walls come down\, oh man! the richness that pours forth is a gift—the gift of life\, and relief from suffering\, the gift of peace and joy. All those things for both the person suffering and for me. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nI once lived in a small cabin and wrote small poems. Here are some of them: \n  \na bowl of oatmeal \nand a cup of coffee \ndid you think heaven was up in the sky somewhere? \n  \nlet go of thought \nand see what happens \n  \nall these people walking around  \nimagining that the ideas in their heads \nmake them different from each other \n  \nsitting here \nwith a cup of green tea \nI forget what it was \nthat I was so worried about \n  \ndo you imagine \nthere is some other day? \n  \nthe things we think we know \nare the stones of the prison \nin which we live \n  \nsay “I am” \nand leave it at that \n  \nwhen you see how simple it is to be happy \nyou’ll kick yourself \nfor spending so much time being miserable \n  \nwhat Reason has rent asunder \nthe Heart will make whole \n  \neverything I touch \ntouches me \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMeditation\, it seems to me\, is like detox for the mind.  Similar to the way our bodies need detoxing when we’ve indulged in too much for too long\, our minds can become saturated with noise to the point where an intervention is required.  The remedy is the same for both the body and the mind: let go of the indulgence.  Quit drinking.  Quit thinking.  Keep still.   \n  \nThe uncluttered awareness of the meditative mind reconnects us with the elemental beauty of life.  Clarity returns.  The painful sense of isolation diminishes.   How can we not feel gratitude for such an exquisite and accessible way to restore ourselves? \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \n#45  The Bridge \n  \nBreath is the bridge to life; in sleep or awake\, we cross the bridge always. We also share and build bridges with others by breathing in their love\, dreams\, needs and respect. Breaths & Bridges are more than air. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-2-15-21/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210214
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210228
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210209T225318Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210219T164629Z
UID:1753-1613260800-1614470399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! Valentine's Day Special: LOVE POEMS
DESCRIPTION:Paolo and Francesca by Anselm Feuerbach \n  \nValentine’s Day Special! LOVE POEMS.  \n  \nWe read love poems. Joining our merry band of lovers were Jude Russell\, Martha Ragland\, Nancy Scharbach\, Jeffrey Sher\, Dave Duncan\, Ken Margolis and Johnny Stallings. Katie Radditz couldn’t come\, but she sent some poems. Jeffrey got the ball rolling with a poem by Theodore Roethke\, and later added one by William Carlos Williams: \n  \nI Knew a Woman \n\n\n\n  \nI knew a woman\, lovely in her bones\, \nWhen small birds sighed\, she would sigh back at them;    \nAh\, when she moved\, she moved more ways than one:    \nThe shapes a bright container can contain! \nOf her choice virtues only gods should speak\, \nOr English poets who grew up on Greek \n(I’d have them sing in chorus\, cheek to cheek). \n\n  \nHow well her wishes went! She stroked my chin\,    \nShe taught me Turn\, and Counter-turn\, and Stand;    \nShe taught me Touch\, that undulant white skin;    \nI nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;    \nShe was the sickle; I\, poor I\, the rake\, \nComing behind her for her pretty sake \n(But what prodigious mowing we did make). \n\n  \nLove likes a gander\, and adores a goose: \nHer full lips pursed\, the errant note to seize; \nShe played it quick\, she played it light and loose;    \nMy eyes\, they dazzled at her flowing knees;    \nHer several parts could keep a pure repose\,    \nOr one hip quiver with a mobile nose \n(She moved in circles\, and those circles moved). \n\n  \nLet seed be grass\, and grass turn into hay:    \nI’m martyr to a motion not my own; \nWhat’s freedom for? To know eternity. \nI swear she cast a shadow white as stone.    \nBut who would count eternity in days? \nThese old bones live to learn her wanton ways:    \n(I measure time by how a body sways). \n\n  \n–Theodore Roethke \n\n\n  \nHere’s Theodore Roethke reading the poem: \n  \n \n  \n\n\n\n* \nThis Is Just To Say \n\n\n\n  \nI have eaten \nthe plums \nthat were in \nthe ice box \n  \nand which \nyou were probably \nsaving \nfor breakfast \n  \nForgive me \nthey were delicious \nso sweet \nand so cold \n  \n–William Carlos Williams \n* \nJude played Offenbach’s Barcarolle for us\, sung by Anna Netrebko & Elīna Garanča\, from Tales of Hoffmann: \n  \n \n  \n* \nDave read “Re-Statement of Romance” by Wallace Stevens: \n  \nRe-Statement of Romance \n  \nThe night knows nothing of the chants of night. \nIt is what it is as I am what I am: \nAnd in perceiving this I best perceive myself \n  \nAnd you. Only we two may interchange \nEach in the other what each has to give. \nOnly we two are one\, not you and night\, \n  \nNor night and I\, but you and I\, alone\, \nSo much alone\, so deeply by ourselves\, \nSo far beyond the casual solitudes\, \n  \nThat night is only the background of our selves\, \nSupremely true each to its separate self\, \nIn the pale light that each upon the other \nthrows. \n  \n–Wallace Stevens \n* \nMartha read “Wish in a War Zone” by Amy Gerstler\, from Bitter Angel\, published in 1990\, and “The Shirt” by Jane Kenyon: \n  \nWish in a War Zone \n  \nSomewhere under the weather \nsnores our drugged hero: \na gladiator or astronaut\, \nlying in a fringed hammock \nin his mother’s garden\, \nwaiting to be wakened \nand loosed upon the world. \nQuick\, into my arms before \nthe next tremor hits. \nJust beneath these monsoons\, \nan aurora borealis trembles. \nTucked into its luminous \ngunbelt\, a change of luck\, \nan abrupt windfall tunes up\, \njust for us. Soon\, \ninstead of zinging bullets \nwe’ll find ourselves drenched \nin concertos. I have no \nauthority to comfort \nyou\, though I try. \nIf all this is to vanish\, \nIf you and I are lost\, \nset loose\, wounded\, \nto wander among uncomplaining \ntrees\, fingering their lightly \nhaired\, sticky little leaves\, \nthen hand me my camera. \nI must take pictures. \n  \n–Amy Gerstler \n* \nThe Shirt \n  \nThe shirt touches his neck \nand smooths over his back. \nIt slides down his sides. \nIt even goes down below his belt— \ndown into his pants. \nLucky shirt. \n  \n—Jane Kenyon \n* \nKen read a section of a poem by Bertolt Brecht. \n* \nKatie sent these poems: \n  \nCome to the orchard in Spring. \nThere is light and wine\, and sweethearts \nin the pomegranate flowers. \n  \nIf you do not come\, these do not matter. \nIf you do come\, these do not matter. \n  \n–Rumi \n* \n  \ni carry your heart with me(i carry it in \nmy heart)i am never without it(anywhere \ni go you go\,my dear;and whatever is done \nby only me is your doing\,my darling) \n                                                      i fear \nno fate(for you are my fate\,my sweet)i want \nno world(for beautiful you are my world\,my true) \nand it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant \nand whatever a sun will always sing is you \nhere is the deepest secret nobody knows \n(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud \nand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows \nhigher than soul can hope or mind can hide) \nand this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart \ni carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) \n  \n—e. e. cummings \n* \nI Loved You Before I Was Born \nI loved you before I was born.\nIt doesn’t make sense\, I know.  \nI saw your eyes before I had eyes to see.\nAnd I’ve lived longing \nfor your ever look ever since.\nThat longing entered time as this body.  \nAnd the longing grew as this body waxed.\nAnd the longing grows as the body wanes.\nThe longing will outlive this body.  \nI loved you before I was born.\nIt doesn’t make sense\, I know.  \nLong before eternity\, I caught a glimpse\nof your neck and shoulders\, your ankles and toes.\nAnd I’ve been lonely for you from that instant.\nThat loneliness appeared on earth as this body. \nAnd my share of time has been nothing \nbut your name outrunning my ever saying it clearly. \nYour face fleeing my ever\nkissing it firmly once on the mouth.  \nIn longing\, I am most myself\, rapt\,\nmy lamp mortal\, my light \nhidden and singing.   \nI give you my blank heart.\nPlease write on it\nwhat you wish.   \n  \n–Li-Young Lee \n* \n  \nWhat We’re Doing Here \n\nThis is why we are here—\nnot merely to survive\nbut to fall in love\nwith the white-breasted hawk\nand the rainbow fish\,\nwith the lonely sidewalk\nand the shadows of ourselves\,\nfall in love with the hands\nof the woman wearing yellow\nand the girl who loves chocolate\nand the boy who loves cars\nand the man who makes us want to be\na better version of ourself.\n \nWe are here to fall into unmanageable love—\nto love beyond reason\, beyond\nfact\, beyond certainty. We are here\nto lose all our ideas about love\nand know it as the next choice\nwe make\, the next word\nwe say\, the next invitation\nwe offer ourselves.\n \nWe are here to love\nthe world and each other\nthe way whales love water\,\nthe way blue loves a peacock\,\nthe way night blooming jasmine\nloves night.\n\n—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer\n*\n\nI read “The Sun Rising” and the last part of “To His Mistress Going to Bed” by John Donne. And “We Two\, How Long We Were Fool’d” by Walt Whitman. And this gem from William Blake:\n\n\nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n  \n—William Blake \n* \nAnd my own poem\, “wake up\, heart!”: \n\n  \nwake up\, heart! \n  \nwake up\, heart! \nwake up and love everyone and every thing \nlove the unlovable \nthe unhappy old men who start the wars \nthe geniuses who collapse the economy \nthe heads of the big corporations who ruin the earth \nthey need love\, too \nwhy else would they do stuff like that? \n  \nwe all want to love and be loved \nwe all need to love and be loved \nlove everything that moves \nand everything that won’t budge \nlove the person who is reading or listening to this poem \n  \nyou might start with the easy ones \npassing dogs \nlaughing children \nfluffy white clouds \nall the spring flowers shouting “love me!” \npractice on the easy ones \nuntil you get so good at it that you accidentally love the weird and scary homeless people\,  \nthe criminals\,  \nthe people whose views differ from yours \n—before you have time to think about it \n  \nheart\, you were born for love \nmr. brain sometimes tells you not to \n“don’t love that one\,” he says\, “that one doesn’t deserve it” \n“don’t be a fool” \nforgive mr. brain \nhe can’t help it \nhe’s always making distinctions between this and that \nhe needs a hug \n  \nyou know better \nyou know that the thing to do is just to love \nto wake up and love without limit \n  \n–Johnny Stallings \n  \nAt the end I talked a bit about Romeo and Juliet. When they first meet\, these two amazing young lovers spontaneously compose a sonnet–a sure sign that they are well-matched: \n  \nROMEO \nIf I profane with my unworthiest hand \nThis holy shrine\, the gentle sin is this: \nMy lips\, two blushing pilgrims\, ready stand \nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. \nJULIET \nGood pilgrim\, you do wrong your hand too much\, \nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this; \nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch\, \nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. \nROMEO \nHave not saints lips\, and holy palmers too? \nJULIET \nAy\, pilgrim\, lips that they must use in prayer. \nROMEO \nO then\, dear saint\, let lips do what hands do– \nThey pray; grant thou\, lest faith turn to despair. \nJULIET \nSaints do not move\, though grant for prayers’ sake. \nROMEO \nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take. \n[He kisses her.] \nThus from my lips\, by thine\, my sin is purged. \nJULIET \nThen have my lips the sin that they have took. \nROMEO \nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! \nGive me my sin again. \n[She kisses him.] \nJULIET \n                                            You kiss by th’ book. \n  \nAnd…Juliet’s love is absolute: \n  \nJULIET \nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea\, \nMy love as deep. The more I give to thee\, \nThe more I have for both are infinite. \n  \n–William Shakespeare \n\nWell\, that’s it for now. \n  \nMay we live in love. \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-valentines-day-special-love-poems/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210204
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210218
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210204T170141Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T122900Z
UID:1729-1612396800-1613606399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  2/4/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 4\, 2021 \n  \nTwo weeks ago\, at the Presidential Inauguration\, Amanda Gorman\, America’s first Youth Poet Laureate recited her poem “The Hill We Climb.” (Read it aloud.): \n  \nThe Hill We Climb \n  \nMr. President\, Dr. Biden\, Madam Vice President\, Mr. Emhoff\, Americans and the world:  \n  \nWhen day comes we ask ourselves where can we find light in this never-ending shade? The loss we carry a sea we must wade. We’ve braved the belly of the beast. We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace. In the norms and notions of what just is isn’t always justice. And yet\, the dawn is ours before we knew it. Somehow we do it. Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken\, but simply unfinished. We\, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president only to find herself reciting for one. \n  \nAnd yes\, we are far from polished\, far from pristine\, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t striving to form a union that is perfect. We are striving to forge our union with purpose. To compose a country committed to all cultures\, colors\, characters\, and conditions of man. And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us\, but what stands before us. We close the divide because we know to put our future first\, we must first put our differences aside. We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another. We seek harm to none and harmony for all. Let the globe\, if nothing else\, say this is true. That even as we grieved\, we grew. That even as we hurt\, we hoped. That even as we tired\, we tried that we’ll forever be tied together victorious. Not because we will never again know defeat\, but because we will never again sow division. \n  \nScripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree and no one shall make them afraid. If we’re to live up to our own time\, then victory won’t lie in the blade\, but in all the bridges we’ve made. That is the promise to glade\, the hill we climb if only we dare. It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit. It’s the past we step into and how we repair it. We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation rather than share it. Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy. And this effort very nearly succeeded. \n  \nBut while democracy can be periodically delayed\, it can never be permanently defeated. In this truth\, in this faith we trust for while we have our eyes on the future\, history has its eyes on us. This is the era of just redemption. We feared it at its inception. We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour\, but within it\, we found the power to author a new chapter\, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves so while once we asked\, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe? Now we assert\, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us? \n  \nWe will not march back to what was\, but move to what shall be a country that is bruised\, but whole\, benevolent\, but bold\, fierce\, and free. We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation. Our blunders become their burdens. But one thing is certain\, if we merge mercy with might and might with right\, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright. \n  \nSo let us leave behind a country better than one we were left with. Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one. We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the West. We will rise from the wind-swept Northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution. We will rise from the Lake Rim cities of the Midwestern states. We will rise from the sun-baked South. We will rebuild\, reconcile and recover in every known nook of our nation\, in every corner called our country our people diverse and beautiful will emerge battered and beautiful. When day comes\, we step out of the shade aflame and unafraid. The new dawn blooms as we free it. For there is always light. If only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it. \n  \n—Amanda Gorman  January 20\, 2021 \n  \nHere’s a link to a video of her reciting the poem: \n  \nhttps://www.nytimes.com/video/us/politics/100000007561374/poet-amanda-gorman-inauguration.html?searchResultPosition=1 \n* \n  \nPrabu sent me his thoughts on Tolstoy’s last novel\, Resurrection.: \n  \nTolstoy’s final novel opens in a courtroom\, where Dmitri Nekhlyudov\, a landowning aristocrat\, called onto jury service\, finds out that Katusha\, his teenage love\, is among the three accused of a murder and theft. Katusha used to be a maid at his aunt’s estate when Nekhlyudov first met her. They fell in love and she eventually became pregnant with his child. \n  \nIn 19th century Russia\, it was not uncommon for an aristocrat to impregnate a maid. Tolstoy himself had a similar affair with one of his household servants before his marriage. Nekhlyudov doesn’t feel any moral obligation for Katusha or the child. He moves forward with his aristocratic life—becomes a soldier\, returns to the civil society\, drinks\, has affairs with married women\, and courts a young princess for marriage. \n  \nKatusha’s journey\, however\, takes a different turn. Who wants a pregnant maid in the staff quarters\, after all? She gets kicked out of her job in the estate. She finds several jobs\, but repeatedly gets molested at work. She gives birth to a son and leaves him in a  orphanage. Circumstances get her into prostitution. She accepts her condition and gets a legal permit from the government. One day a wealthy client of hers\, who torments her for a whole evening\, gets killed in the hotel room. She is accused of the murder and ends up in the courtroom. She even gets wrongly convicted and sentenced to hard labor in Siberia\, due to some petty negligence of the men on the jury and the judge.  \n  \nFor Nekhlyudov\, the truth that his actions lead to Katusha’s ill fate starts to sink in. His Christian conscience seeks pardon for his sins. He immediately approaches a lawyer and appeals for a hearing of her case in the Senate. He also decides to marry her\, if she consents.  \n  \nHas Nekhlyudov turned into a moral human? Where was this conscience all these years?  Why was he able to go on living without thinking about the consequences of his actions? These aren’t my questions. Tolstoy’s protagonist questions himself along these lines. The answer\, as Nekhlyudov and Tolstoy would discover\, is somewhere hidden in the values of landowning in feudal Russian society.  \n  \nNekhlyudov’s abandonment of love for the pursuit of pleasure and status was the injustice which occurred in the spiritual realm. In the worldly realm\, the feudalistic idea of treating land and earth simply as a property that certain privileged humans can own and control at the expense of other humans\, like farmers and peasants\, is the underlying crime. In the novel Nekhlyudov realizes this and seeks remedies for it by distributing most of his estates to the peasants and keeping only what is essential to support a simple life for himself. \n  \nThe Senate rejects Katusha’s case and she\, along with other prisoners\, begins walking on the 3000 mile journey to Siberia. He writes to the Tsar\, explaining the jury’s mistake in her case\, and decides to follow her to Siberia. Through his interaction with some of the other prisoners\, he discovers that there are several innocent people among them. He tries to help them by all possible means\, but often comes up against the power and wealth of his old aristocratic way of living. At times it even allures him to retreat into it.  His conscience  resists. He can seek cure for his own past mistakes\, but how much can he change the injustices in society? Would his well-intended actions lead to any fruitful results? What is one to do with evildoers\, like those who murder someone? \n  \nTolstoy concludes by reflecting on the centuries old practice of punishing criminals: \n  \n“For many centuries people who were considered criminals have been tortured. Well\, and have they ceased to exist? No; their numbers have been increased not alone by the criminals corrupted by punishment but also by those lawful criminals\, the judges\, procureurs\, magistrates and jailers\, who judge and punish men. Nekhlyudov now understood that society and order in general exists not because of these lawful criminals who judge and punish others\, but because in spite of men being thus depraved\, they still pity and love one another. \n  \nDoesn’t the Gospel tell the same in the Sermon on the Mount?—that man should not only not demand an eye for an eye\, but when struck on one cheek should hold out the other\, should forgive an offence and bear it humbly\, and never refuse the service others demand of him.” \n  \nLike Nekhlyudov\, I also lay silent in my bed on this rainy night\, waiting for the first light of dawn to touch my window and imagining a society where these principles were carried out in practice. Only a century has passed between us. \n  \n—Prabu Muruganantham \n* \n  \nThe conclusion of Prabu’s essay reminds me of William Blake’s words: \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlwasy is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n* \n  \nMay all people be happy. \nMay we live in love. \n—Johnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-2-4-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210201
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210301
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20200316T045437Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210318T175319Z
UID:585-1612137600-1614556799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Metropolitan Opera: Nightly Met Opera Streams
DESCRIPTION:A new opera is shown every day\, starting at 4:30 pm (PST). Each opera Met streams for 20 hours.\nHere’s the link to the Metropolitan Opera.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/https-www-metopera-org-about-press-releases-met-to-launch-nightly-met-opera-streams-a-free-series-of-encore-live-in-hd-presentations-streamed-on-the-company-website-during-the-coronavirus-closure/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210131T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210131T170000
DTSTAMP:20260425T182648
CREATED:20210118T205626Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210130T172304Z
UID:1715-1612105200-1612112400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Identity & Mythos--The Stories We Tell Ourselves
DESCRIPTION:Don Quixote by Gustave Doré \n  \nOn Sunday\, January 31\, at 3 pm (PST)\, the theme for our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering will be Identity & Mythos: The Stories We Tell Ourselves. Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/81054571039 \n  \nI’m using the word “identity” to refer to the stories we tell ourselves about who we are\, and “mythos” to refer to the stories we tell ourselves about the world in which we live. \nWhere do our stories come from? How are we\, individually and collectively\, shaped by our stories? Can stories hurt us? Help us? \nLots to talk about!  \nI hope you’ll join the conversation! \npeace & love \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-identity-mythos-the-stories-we-tell-ourselves/
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/Unknown-5.jpeg
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