BEGIN:VCALENDAR VERSION:2.0 PRODID:-//The Open Road: a learning community - ECPv6.15.3//NONSGML v1.0//EN CALSCALE:GREGORIAN METHOD:PUBLISH X-WR-CALNAME:The Open Road: a learning community X-ORIGINAL-URL:https://openroadpdx.com X-WR-CALDESC:Events for The Open Road: a learning community REFRESH-INTERVAL;VALUE=DURATION:PT1H X-Robots-Tag:noindex X-PUBLISHED-TTL:PT1H BEGIN:VTIMEZONE TZID:America/Los_Angeles BEGIN:DAYLIGHT TZOFFSETFROM:-0800 TZOFFSETTO:-0700 TZNAME:PDT DTSTART:20200308T100000 END:DAYLIGHT BEGIN:STANDARD TZOFFSETFROM:-0700 TZOFFSETTO:-0800 TZNAME:PST DTSTART:20201101T090000 END:STANDARD BEGIN:DAYLIGHT TZOFFSETFROM:-0800 TZOFFSETTO:-0700 TZNAME:PDT DTSTART:20210314T100000 END:DAYLIGHT BEGIN:STANDARD TZOFFSETFROM:-0700 TZOFFSETTO:-0800 TZNAME:PST DTSTART:20211107T090000 END:STANDARD END:VTIMEZONE BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210415 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210515 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/Unknown.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210415 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210429 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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:20260425T195131 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:20260425T195131 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/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/04/Unknown-9.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210328 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210411 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Unknown-3.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210318 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210401 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/0-6-3.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210317 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210401 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/a20001cb2b68f953d80eefbf5b93567339b41dfc-e1658164852536.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210317 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210322 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/unnamed.png END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210315 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210415 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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 END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210314 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210328 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210304 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210318 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210228T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210228T180000 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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:20260425T195131 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/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210215 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210315 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/02/Unknown-7.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210214 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210228 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/PaoloefrancescaCrop.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210204 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210218 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210201 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210301 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210131T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210131T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 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 END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210118 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210204 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20210118T191251Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T122654Z UID:1706-1610928000-1612396799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 1/21/21 DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJanuary 21\, 2021 \n  \nMartin Luther King was born on January 15\, 1929. This year\, Martin Luther King Day is celebrated on January 18th. He believed in the power of Love to change our world. Here is one of his sermons: \n  \nLoving Your Enemies \nSo I want to turn your attention to this subject: “Loving Your Enemies.” It’s so basic to me because it is a part of my basic philosophical and theological orientation: the whole idea of love\, the whole philosophy of love. In the fifth chapter of the gospel as recorded by Saint Matthew\, we read these very arresting words flowing from the lips of our Lord and Master: “Ye have heard that it has been said\, ‘Thou shall love thy neighbor\, and hate thine enemy.’ But I say unto you\, Love your enemies\, bless them that curse you\, do good to them that hate you\, and pray for them that despitefully use you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven.” \nCertainly these are great words\, words lifted to cosmic proportions. And over the centuries\, many persons have argued that this is an extremely difficult command. Many would go so far as to say that it just isn’t possible to move out into the actual practice of this glorious command. They would go on to say that this is just additional proof that Jesus was an impractical idealist who never quite came down to earth. So the arguments abound. But far from being an impractical idealist\, Jesus has become the practical realist. The words of this text glitter in our eyes with a new urgency. Far from being the pious injunction of a utopian dreamer\, this command is an absolute necessity for the survival of our civilization. Yes\, it is love that will save our world and our civilization\, love even for enemies. \nNow let me hasten to say that Jesus was very serious when he gave this command; he wasn’t playing. He realized that it’s hard to love your enemies. He realized that it’s difficult to love those persons who seek to defeat you\, those persons who say evil things about you. He realized that it was painfully hard\, pressingly hard. But he wasn’t playing. And we cannot dismiss this passage as just another example of Oriental hyperbole\, just a sort of exaggeration to get over the point. This is a basic philosophy of all that we hear coming from the lips of our Master. Because Jesus wasn’t playing; because he was serious. We have the Christian and moral responsibility to seek to discover the meaning of these words\, and to discover how we can live out this command\, and why we should live by this command. \nNow first let us deal with this question\, which is the practical question: How do you go about loving your enemies? I think the first thing is this: In order to love your enemies\, you must begin by analyzing self. And I’m sure that seems strange to you\, that I start out telling you this morning that you love your enemies by beginning with a look at self. It seems to me that that is the first and foremost way to come to an adequate discovery to the how of this situation.  \nNow\, I’m aware of the fact that some people will not like you\, not because of something you have done to them\, but they just won’t like you. I’m quite aware of that. Some people aren’t going to like the way you walk; some people aren’t going to like the way you talk. Some people aren’t going to like you because you can do your job better than they can do theirs. Some people aren’t going to like you because other people like you\, and because you’re popular\, and because you’re well-liked\, they aren’t going to like you. Some people aren’t going to like you because your hair is a little shorter than theirs or your hair is a little longer than theirs. Some people aren’t going to like you because your skin is a little brighter than theirs; and others aren’t going to like you because your skin is a little darker than theirs. So that some people aren’t going to like you. They’re going to dislike you\, not because of something that you’ve done to them\, but because of various jealous reactions and other reactions that are so prevalent in human nature. \nBut after looking at these things and admitting these things\, we must face the fact that an individual might dislike us because of something that we’ve done deep down in the past\, some personality attribute that we possess\, something that we’ve done deep down in the past and we’ve forgotten about it; but it was that something that aroused the hate response within the individual. That is why I say\, begin with yourself. There might be something within you that arouses the tragic hate response in the other individual. \nThis is true in our international struggle. We look at the struggle\, the ideological struggle between communism on the one hand and democracy on the other\, and we see the struggle between America and Russia. Now certainly\, we can never give our allegiance to the Russian way of life\, to the communistic way of life\, because communism is based on an ethical relativism and a metaphysical materialism that no Christian can accept. When we look at the methods of communism\, a philosophy where somehow the end justifies the means\, we cannot accept that because we believe as Christians that the end is pre-existent in the means. But in spite of all of the weaknesses and evils inherent in communism\, we must at the same time see the weaknesses and evils within democracy. \nDemocracy is the greatest form of government to my mind that man has ever conceived\, but the weakness is that we have never touched it. Isn’t it true that we have often taken necessities from the masses to give luxuries to the classes? Isn’t it true that we have often in our democracy trampled over individuals and races with the iron feet of oppression? Isn’t it true that through our Western powers we have perpetuated colonialism and imperialism? And all of these things must be taken under consideration as we look at Russia. We must face the fact that the rhythmic beat of the deep rumblings of discontent from Asia and Africa is at bottom a revolt against the imperialism and colonialism perpetuated by Western civilization all these many years. The success of communism in the world today is due to the failure of democracy to live up to the noble ideals and principles inherent in its system. \nAnd this is what Jesus means when he said: “How is it that you can see the mote in your brother’s eye and not see the beam in your own eye?” Or to put it in Moffatt’s translation: “How is it that you see the splinter in your brother’s eye and fail to see the plank in your own eye?”3 And this is one of the tragedies of human nature. So we begin to love our enemies and love those persons that hate us whether in collective life or individual life by looking at ourselves. \nA second thing that an individual must do in seeking to love his enemy is to discover the element of good in his enemy\, and every time you begin to hate that person and think of hating that person\, realize that there is some good there and look at those good points which will over-balance the bad points.  \nI’ve said to you on many occasions that each of us is something of a schizophrenic personality. We’re split up and divided against ourselves. And there is something of a civil war going on within all of our lives. There is a recalcitrant South of our soul revolting against the North of our soul. And there is this continual struggle within the very structure of every individual life. There is something within all of us that causes us to cry out with Ovid\, the Latin poet\, “I see and approve the better things of life\, but the evil things I do.” There is something within all of us that causes us to cry out with Plato that the human personality is like a charioteer with two headstrong horses\, each wanting to go in different directions. There is something within each of us that causes us to cry out with Goethe\, “There is enough stuff in me to make both a gentleman and a rogue.” There is something within each of us that causes us to cry out with Apostle Paul: “I see and approve the better things of life\, but the evil things I do.” \nSo somehow the “isness” of our present nature is out of harmony with the eternal “oughtness” that forever confronts us. And this simply means this: That within the best of us\, there is some evil\, and within the worst of us\, there is some good. When we come to see this\, we take a different attitude toward individuals. The person who hates you most has some good in him; even the nation that hates you most has some good in it; even the race that hates you most has some good in it. And when you come to the point that you look in the face of every man and see deep down within him what religion calls “the image of God\,” you begin to love him in spite of. No matter what he does\, you see God’s image there. There is an element of goodness that he can never slough off. Discover the element of good in your enemy. And as you seek to hate him\, find the center of goodness and place your attention there and you will take a new attitude. \nAnother way that you love your enemy is this: When the opportunity presents itself for you to defeat your enemy\, that is the time which you must not do it. There will come a time\, in many instances\, when the person who hates you most\, the person who has misused you most\, the person who has gossiped about you most\, the person who has spread false rumors about you most\, there will come a time when you will have an opportunity to defeat that person. It might be in terms of a recommendation for a job; it might be in terms of helping that person to make some move in life. That’s the time you must do it. That is the meaning of love. In the final analysis\, love is not this sentimental something that we talk about. It’s not merely an emotional something. Love is creative\, understanding goodwill for all men. It is the refusal to defeat any individual. When you rise to the level of love\, of its great beauty and power\, you seek only to defeat evil systems. Individuals who happen to be caught up in that system\, you love\, but you seek to defeat the system. \nThe Greek language\, as I’ve said so often before\, is very powerful at this point. It comes to our aid beautifully in giving us the real meaning and depth of the whole philosophy of love. And I think it is quite apropos at this point\, for you see the Greek language has three words for love\, interestingly enough. It talks about love as eros. That’s one word for love. Eros is a sort of\, aesthetic love. Plato talks about it a great deal in his Dialogues\, a sort of yearning of the soul for the realm of the gods. And it’s come to us to be a sort of romantic love\, though it’s a beautiful love. Everybody has experienced eros in all of its beauty when you find some individual that is attractive to you and that you pour out all of your like and your love on that individual. That is eros\, you see\, and it’s a powerful\, beautiful love that is given to us through all of the beauty of literature; we read about it. \nThen the Greek language talks about philia\, and that’s another type of love that’s also beautiful. It is a sort of intimate affection between personal friends. And this is the type of love that you have for those persons that you’re friendly with\, your intimate friends\, or people that you call on the telephone and you go by to have dinner with\, and your roommate in college and that type of thing. It’s a sort of reciprocal love. On this level\, you like a person because that person likes you. You love on this level\, because you are loved. You love on this level\, because there’s something about the person you love that is likeable to you. This too is a beautiful love. You can communicate with a person; you have certain things in common; you like to do things together. This is philia. \nThe Greek language comes out with another word for love. It is the word agape\, and agape is more than eros. Agape is more than philia. Agape is something of the understanding\, creative\, redemptive goodwill for all men. It is a love that seeks nothing in return. It is an overflowing love; it’s what theologians would call the love of God working in the lives of men. And when you rise to love on this level\, you begin to love men\, not because they are likeable\, but because God loves them. You look at every man\, and you love him because you know God loves him. And he might be the worst person you’ve ever seen. \nAnd this is what Jesus means\, I think\, in this very passage when he says\, “Love your enemy.” And it’s significant that he does not say\, “Like your enemy.” Like is a sentimental something\, an affectionate something. There are a lot of people that I find it difficult to like. I don’t like what they do to me. I don’t like what they say about me and other people. I don’t like their attitudes. I don’t like some of the things they’re doing. I don’t like them. But Jesus says love them. And love is greater than like. Love is understanding\, redemptive goodwill for all men\, so that you love everybody\, because God loves them. You refuse to do anything that will defeat an individual\, because you have agape in your soul. And here you come to the point that you love the individual who does the evil deed\, while hating the deed that the person does. This is what Jesus means when he says\, “Love your enemy.” This is the way to do it. When the opportunity presents itself when you can defeat your enemy\, you must not do it. \nNow for the few moments left\, let us move from the practical how to the theoretical why. It’s not only necessary to know how to go about loving your enemies\, but also to go down into the question of why we should love our enemies. I think the first reason that we should love our enemies\, and I think this was at the very center of Jesus’ thinking\, is this: that hate for hate only intensifies the existence of hate and evil in the universe. If I hit you and you hit me and I hit you back and you hit me back and go on\, you see\, that goes on ad infinitum. It just never ends. Somewhere somebody must have a little sense\, and that’s the strong person. The strong person is the person who can cut off the chain of hate\, the chain of evil. And that is the tragedy of hate\, that it doesn’t cut it off. It only intensifies the existence of hate and evil in the universe. Somebody must have religion enough and morality enough to cut it off and inject within the very structure of the universe that strong and powerful element of love. \nI think I mentioned before that sometime ago my brother and I were driving one evening to Chattanooga\, Tennessee\, from Atlanta. He was driving the car. And for some reason the drivers were very discourteous that night. They didn’t dim their lights; hardly any driver that passed by dimmed his lights. And I remember very vividly\, my brother A. D. looked over and in a tone of anger said: “I know what I’m going to do. The next car that comes along here and refuses to dim the lights\, I’m going to fail to dim mine and pour them on in all of their power.” And I looked at him right quick and said: “Oh no\, don’t do that. There’d be too much light on this highway\, and it will end up in mutual destruction for all. Somebody got to have some sense on this highway.” \nSomebody must have sense enough to dim the lights\, and that is the trouble\, isn’t it? That as all of the civilizations of the world move up the highway of history\, so many civilizations\, having looked at other civilizations that refused to dim the lights\, and they decided to refuse to dim theirs. And Toynbee tells that out of the twenty-two civilizations that have risen up\, all but about seven have found themselves in the junkheap of destruction. It is because civilizations fail to have sense enough to dim the lights.8 And if somebody doesn’t have sense enough to turn on the dim and beautiful and powerful lights of love in this world\, the whole of our civilization will be plunged into the abyss of destruction. And we will all end up destroyed because nobody had any sense on the highway of history. Somewhere somebody must have some sense. Men must see that force begets force\, hate begets hate\, toughness begets toughness. And it is all a descending spiral\, ultimately ending in destruction for all and everybody. Somebody must have sense enough and morality enough to cut off the chain of hate and the chain of evil in the universe. And you do that by love. \nThere’s another reason why you should love your enemies\, and that is because hate distorts the personality of the hater. We usually think of what hate does for the individual hated or the individuals hated or the groups hated. But it is even more tragic\, it is even more ruinous and injurious to the individual who hates. You just begin hating somebody\, and you will begin to do irrational things. You can’t see straight when you hate. You can’t walk straight when you hate. You can’t stand upright. Your vision is distorted. There is nothing more tragic than to see an individual whose heart is filled with hate. He comes to the point that he becomes a pathological case. For the person who hates\, you can stand up and see a person and that person can be beautiful\, and you will call them ugly. For the person who hates\, the beautiful becomes ugly and the ugly becomes beautiful. For the person who hates\, the good becomes bad and the bad becomes good. For the person who hates\, the true becomes false and the false becomes true. That’s what hate does. You can’t see right. The symbol of objectivity is lost. Hate destroys the very structure of the personality of the hater. And this is why Jesus says hate [does damage to the self]… [Recording interrupted.] \n…The way to be integrated with yourself\, and the way to be integrated with yourself is be sure that you meet every situation of life with an abounding love. Never hate\, because it ends up in tragic\, neurotic responses. 9Psychologists and psychiatrists are telling us today that the more we hate\, the more we develop guilt feelings and we begin to subconsciously repress or consciously suppress certain emotions\, and they all stack up in our subconscious selves and make for tragic\, neurotic responses. And may this not be the neuroses of many individuals as they confront life that that is an element of hate there. And modern psychology is calling on us now to love. But long before modern psychology came into being\, the world’s greatest psychologist who walked around the hills of Galilee told us to love. He looked at men and said: “Love your enemies; don’t hate anybody.” It’s not enough for us to hate your friends because—to to love your friends—because when you start hating anybody\, it destroys the very center of your creative response to life and the universe; so love everybody. Hate at any point is a cancer that gnaws away at the very vital center of your life and your existence. It is like eroding acid that eats away the best and the objective center of your life. So Jesus says love\, because hate destroys the hater as well as the hated. \nNow there is a final reason I think that Jesus says\, “Love your enemies.” It is this: that love has within it a redemptive power. And there is a power there that eventually transforms individuals. That’s why Jesus says\, “Love your enemies.” Because if you hate your enemies\, you have no way to redeem and to transform your enemies. But if you love your enemies\, you will discover that at the very root of love is the power of redemption. You just keep loving people and keep loving them\, even though they’re mistreating you. Here’s the person who is a neighbor\, and this person is doing something wrong to you and all of that. Just keep being friendly to that person. Keep loving them. Don’t do anything to embarrass them. Just keep loving them\, and they can’t stand it too long. Oh\, they react in many ways in the beginning. They react with bitterness because they’re mad because you love them like that. They react with guilt feelings\, and sometimes they’ll hate you a little more at that transition period\, but just keep loving them. And by the power of your love they will break down under the load. That’s love\, you see. It is redemptive\, and this is why Jesus says love. There’s something about love that builds up and is creative. There is something about hate that tears down and is destructive. So\, love your enemies. \nI think of one of the best examples of this. We all remember the great president of this United States\, Abraham Lincoln—these United States rather. You remember when Abraham Lincoln was running for president of the United States\, there was a man who ran all around the country talking about Lincoln. He said a lot of bad things about Lincoln\, a lot of unkind things. And sometimes he would get to the point that he would even talk about his looks\, saying\, “You don’t want a tall\, lanky\, ignorant man like this as the president of the United States.” He went on and on and on and went around with that type of attitude and wrote about it. Finally\, one day Abraham Lincoln was elected president of the United States. And if you read the great biography of Lincoln\, if you read the great works about him\, you will discover that as every president comes to the point\, he came to the point of having to choose a Cabinet.10 And then came the time for him to choose a Secretary of War. He looked across the nation\, and decided to choose a man by the name of Mr. Stanton. And when Abraham Lincoln stood around his advisors and mentioned this fact\, they said to him: “Mr. Lincoln\, are you a fool? Do you know what Mr. [Edwin M.] Stanton has been saying about you? Do you know what he has done\, tried to do to you? Do you know that he has tried to defeat you on every hand? Do you know that\, Mr. Lincoln? Did you read all of those derogatory statements that he made about you?” Abraham Lincoln stood before the advisors around him and said: “Oh yes\, I know about it. I read about it. I’ve heard him myself. But after looking over the country\, I find that he is the best man for the job.” \nMr. Stanton did become Secretary of War\, and…later\, Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. And if you go to Washington\, you will discover that one of the greatest words or statements ever made by\, about Abraham Lincoln was made about this man Stanton. And as Abraham Lincoln came to the end of his life\, Stanton stood up and said: “Now he belongs to the ages.” And he made a beautiful statement concerning the character and the stature of this man. If Abraham Lincoln had hated Stanton\, if Abraham Lincoln had answered everything Stanton said\, Abraham Lincoln would have not transformed and redeemed Stanton. Stanton would have gone to his grave hating Lincoln\, and Lincoln would have gone to his grave hating Stanton. But through the power of love Abraham Lincoln was able to redeem Stanton. \nThat’s it. There is a power in love that our world has not discovered yet. Jesus discovered it centuries ago. Mahatma Gandhi of India discovered it a few years ago\, but most men and most women never discover it. For they believe in hitting for hitting; they believe in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; they believe in hating for hating; but Jesus comes to us and says\, “This isn’t the way.” \nAnd oh this morning\, as I think of the fact that our world is in transition now. Our whole world is facing a revolution. Our nation is facing a revolution\, our nation. One of the things that concerns me most is that in the midst of the revolution of the world and the midst of the revolution of this nation\, that we will discover the meaning of Jesus’ words.  \nHistory unfortunately leaves some people oppressed and some people oppressors. And there are three ways that individuals who are oppressed can deal with their oppression. One of them is to rise up against their oppressors with physical violence and corroding hatred. But oh this isn’t the way. For the danger and the weakness of this method is its futility. Violence creates many more social problems than it solves. And I’ve said\, in so many instances\, that as the Negro\, in particular\, and colored peoples all over the world struggle for freedom\, if they succumb to the temptation of using violence in their struggle\, unborn generations will be the recipients of a long and desolate night of bitterness\, and our chief legacy to the future will be an endless reign of meaningless chaos. Violence isn’t the way. \nAnother way is to acquiesce and to give in\, to resign yourself to the oppression. Some people do that. They discover the difficulties of the wilderness moving into the promised land\, and they would rather go back to the despots of Egypt because it’s difficult to get in the promised land. And so they resign themselves to the fate of oppression; they somehow acquiesce to this thing. But that too isn’t the way because non-cooperation with evil is as much a moral obligation as is cooperation with good. \nBut there is another way. And that is to organize mass non-violent resistance based on the principle of love. It seems to me that this is the only way as our eyes look to the future. As we look out across the years and across the generations\, let us develop and move right here. We must discover the power of love\, the power\, the redemptive power of love. And when we discover that we will be able to make of this old world a new world. We will be able to make men better. Love is the only way. Jesus discovered that. \nNot only did Jesus discover it\, even great military leaders discover that. One day as Napoleon came toward the end of his career and looked back across the years\, the great Napoleon that at a very early age had all but conquered the world. He was not stopped until he became\, till he moved out to the battle of Leipzig and then to Waterloo. But that same Napoleon one day stood back and looked across the years\, and said: “Alexander\, Caesar\, Charlemagne\, and I have built great empires. But upon what did they depend? They depended upon force. But long ago Jesus started an empire that depended on love\, and even to this day millions will die for him.” \nYes\, I can see Jesus walking around the hills and the valleys of Palestine. And I can see him looking out at the Roman Empire with all of her fascinating and intricate military machinery. But in the midst of that\, I can hear him saying: “I will not use this method. Neither will I hate the Roman Empire.” [Recording interrupted.] \nAnd I’m proud to stand here in Dexter this morning and say that that army is still marching. It grew up from a group of eleven or twelve men to more than seven hundred million today. Because of the power and influence of the personality of this Christ\, he was able to split history into A.D. and B.C. Because of his power\, he was able to shake the hinges from the gates of the Roman Empire. And all around the world this morning\, we can hear the glad echo of heaven ring:  \n  \nJesus shall reign wherever sun  \nDoes his successive journeys run;  \nHis kingdom spreads from shore to shore\,  \nTill moon shall wane and wax no more. \n  \nWe can hear another chorus singing: “All hail the power of Jesus name!” \nWe can hear another chorus singing: “Hallelujah\, hallelujah! He’s King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Hallelujah\, hallelujah!” \n  \nWe can hear another choir singing:  \nIn Christ there is no East or West.  \nIn Him no North or South\,  \nBut one great Fellowship of Love  \nThroughout the whole wide world.  \n  \nThis is the only way. \nAnd our civilization must discover that. Individuals must discover that as they deal with other individuals. There is a little tree planted on a little hill and on that tree hangs the most influential character that ever came in this world. But never feel that that tree is a meaningless drama that took place on the stages of history. Oh no\, it is a telescope through which we look out into the long vista of eternity\, and see the love of God breaking forth into time. It is an eternal reminder to a power-drunk generation that love is the only way. It is an eternal reminder to a generation depending on nuclear and atomic energy\, a generation depending on physical violence\, that love is the only creative\, redemptive\, transforming power in the universe. \nSo this morning\, as I look into your eyes\, and into the eyes of all of my brothers in Alabama and all over America and over the world\, I say to you\, “I love you. I would rather die than hate you.” And I’m foolish enough to believe that through the power of this love somewhere\, men of the most recalcitrant bent will be transformed. And then we will be in God’s kingdom. We will be able to matriculate into the university of eternal life because we had the power to love our enemies\, to bless those persons that cursed us\, to even decide to be good to those persons who hated us\, and we even prayed for those persons who despitefully used us. \nOh God\, help us in our lives and in all of our attitudes\, to work out this controlling force of love\, this controlling power that can solve every problem that we confront in all areas. Oh\, we talk about politics; we talk about the problems facing our atomic civilization. Grant that all men will come together and discover that as we solve the crisis and solve these problems—the international problems\, the problems of atomic energy\, the problems of nuclear energy\, and yes\, even the race problem—let us join together in a great fellowship of love and bow down at the feet of Jesus. Give us this strong determination. In the name and spirit of this Christ\, we pray. Amen. \n  \nSermon Delivered at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church\, Montgomery\, Alabama\, November 17\, 1957 \n* \n  \nBy some miracle\, someone recorded this thrilling moment at the birth of the modern Civil Rights Movement\, four days after the arrest of Rosa Parks. Here’s a link to an audio recording (with text) of King’s “Address to the First Montgomery Improvement Association Mass Meeting” at the Holt Street Baptist Church\, on December 5\, 1955: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGtp7kCi_LA&t=53s \n  \nAnd here’s a link to a video of the famous “I Have a Dream” speech\, given in Washington D.C. on August 28\, 1963: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smEqnnklfYs \n  \npeace\, love & justice \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-21-21/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210117T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20210117T180000 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20210101T011709Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210117T011058Z UID:1666-1610895600-1610906400@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! A PLAY READING with Howard\, Alan & Andy 1/17/21 DESCRIPTION:  \nOn Sunday\, January 17\, 2021\, at 3 p.m.\, Bibliophiles Unanimous! will feature a SPECIAL EVENT: A PLAY READING with Howard Thoresen\, Alan Benditt and Andy Larkin! I can’t say too much about it\, but it’s going to be FUN! Here’s the Zoom link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/81054571039 \n  \nDON’T MISS THIS!!! \n  \npeace\, love & happiness \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-a-play-reading-with-howard-alan-andy-1-17-21/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/image-2-scaled.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210115 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210215 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20210115T175427Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210321T232230Z UID:1702-1610668800-1613347199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 1/15/21 DESCRIPTION:Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nJanuary 15\, 2020 \n  \nWelcome to our fifth meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. (JS) \n* \n  \nWITHOUT \n  \nPicture nothing. \n  \nNothing is pictured. \n  \nAnd then everything food sex stoplight \nyoga mat grocery bag little gnat— \n  \nas through a valve \nin the middle of that pictured \nnothing: \n  \nit all comes rushing \nlike sparks \njetting in the void. \n  \nThe ocean goes back in the bottle \nonly when you ignore it. \n  \nI flit from station to station\, \nknowing nothing of meditation. \n  \nAnd I seek out mute buttons \nas if there are more than one\, \nas if it is something that exists \n  \nwithout. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nMr. Barnes\, in the December issue you said you wrote the paper (letter) six times over\, but know\, more times than not\, the first writing is always the best\, since when re-written over and over you can lose the essence of your writing. Don’t overthink it. The first edition was your rawest\, which tends to be most true and to the heart. I find that in journaling\, when I go back to read previous entries\, I think I should have said it this way or that\, but in reality it is its most true and rawest\, honest to who you are. \n  \nI also would give you this thought in regards to what you wrote about how we all were born upon a set of scales that started to tip in one direction or the other since our birth. I understand your concept of the scale relating to one side being good\, while the other is bad. But… Have you considered that there is no scale? In reading #312 None Other Than Enlightenment in Your True Home it seemed to me that the basic premise is that through enlightenment there is no scale. You can see the truth in all things\, that truth being the good and bad in all things. Good and bad are one thing: the flower in the garbage and the garbage in the flower. \n  \nMr. Gilbert\, so many things this year have showed us that society is in dire need of a change\, and that we all need a little more enlightenment. There is a lot of me me me\, hate\, blame for this or that\, or: since you don’t believe what I believe I hate you. I briefly touched on this in November’s issue of M & M\, but I will write a little more. On 11/2/20 I read #346 What Separates Us in our book Your True Home. In the message\, it talks about labels. Putting labels on people is hurtful and destructive. Labels are what’s currently wrong in society. It’s us vs. them. Labels are something that hurts every one of us. Society uses labels  to dehumanize\, to separate us into groups\, and if we can eliminate labels there can be peace in the world. We are all people on this planet\, one society\, one human race\, and until we get that our society will not be able to heal. Be the one! On society\, one human race\, one world together. \n  \nWhat I want to write about for myself is about something that really affected me to the point of tears forming when I started journaling. I debated even writing this in the newsletter because of how it affected me and how personal it is to me\, but after writing to my friend Jacob Green about what happened\, I started to feel empowered to include what happened for everyone in the newsletter. On 12/2/20 I read #316 The Smile of Nonfear in Your True Home. This passage for some reason stirred something inside me. It’s the word “afflictions” that woke this thought\, but really the whole bottom half spoke to me. Afflictions have been something I have been struggling with for a large part of my prison sentence. I’ve seen that what I had done to land me in prison these 18 years was an affliction. I concentrated on that “perceived” affliction for those first years\, trying to correct where I went wrong. It took many many years to find my path to better and correct who I am\, and to this point I\, in some ways\, didn’t know how I got there\, or where I am today. But now\, in reading #316\, I may have a little more of an idea. I recognized early on that a big part of what I did was founded on a deluded mind and thought pattern that needed correcting if I was to live a life outside these fences. If I couldn’t succeed in correcting my deluded mind\, thought pattern and affliction\, I didn’t deserve a life outside the fence\, or maybe even a life at all. What I saw in myself was only a deluded mind and thoughts\, and in doing so I could only see the afflictions within myself.  \n  \nSomehow\, over the years\, a slow chip away happened. I found my true mind\, and in doing so I no longer only saw my afflictions\, but saw much more. Call it enlightenment. I no longer concentrated on my deluded mind or thoughts\, which in turn\, I suppose\, allowed me to truly heal my affliction that got me here to prison. I am still not perfect by far\, none of us are\, but I truly believe I have healed enough now to start my next chapter in life. A life outside these fences. A life as me and who I am. A life that will allow me to continue to heal and better who I am\, the person I know I am and want to be. \n  \nAbove is what I wrote in my journal. I know that many guys in prison struggle with their afflictions that caused and/or contributed to their incarceration. Some feel they don’t deserve forgiveness\, and forgiveness from those you hurt may never come\, but forgiveness of yourself is possible. It happens with internal healing and the enlightenment that you don’t need to run away from your afflictions\, because with a true mind the afflictions are no longer there. And without afflictions there is only enlightenment; through enlightenment you will see much more within yourself. \n  \nThanks for listening. May peace\, love\, harmony and mindfulness be with you all. \n  \n—Joshua Underhill \n* \n  \nA meditative mind is silent. It is not the silence which thought can conceive of; it is not the silence of a still evening; it is the silence when thought—with all its images\, its words and perceptions—has entirely ceased. This meditative mind is the religious mind—the religion that is not touched by the church\, the temple or by chants. \n  \nThe religious mind is the explosion of love. It is this love that knows no separation. To it\, far is near. It is not the one or the many\, but rather the state of love in which all division ceases. Like beauty\, it is not of the measure of words. From this silence alone the meditative mind acts. \n  \nfrom Meditations by J. Krishnamurti \n* \n  \n(Here are a few of Michel Deforge’s many meditations from December:) \n  \nDecember 2  #47  The Mind of Enlightenment \n  \nIt is amazing what a few days of not mindfully breathing\, or purpose (practicing) can do to my mental state—more mercurial and more affected by influences. (grrr) It’s my own doing. I can’t blame anyone. Maybe…I can just relax\, breathe; and let it be what it is…? (Breathing…) How funny. Today is about bodhichitta and a “goal” of practice—to\, ultimately\, be able to aid/relieve the suffering of others. Wow! It’s funny because I see myself\, right now\, being very deep in my own mud/suffering. Getting better\, or anything positive\, is so far from my experience of now. And\, forget about being of help or benefit …Yet\, even now\, I may learn\, and from my learning\, another may derive a benefit. If I waste my “now” on later—how/if I’ll be anything—then I’ll miss my lesson on how perfect today’s “mud”-bath really is. (I don’t know why I’m “in” mud today. It’s a metaphor for suffering\, being human—made of the same mud as all other humans.) Even when I don’t “like” my now\, it really is perfect. Now\, where’s my snorkel? I think I lost a shoe! Oh well. It’s perfectly placed for now. (Better?) (Yes!) \n  \nDecember 3  #48  Enjoy a Moment of Nothing \n  \n(Taking a moment…) This is the essence of Buddhism\, for me. To sit and enjoy doing “nothing.” But\, it’s not nothing—(I’m channeling my inner Pooh Bear)—it’s a very wonderful something. It’s sitting. It’s being. It’s breathing. It’s often mind wandering and coming back; then wandering off again. It’s learning to enjoy me\, now\, in this moment. Breathing and existing (being) in a mindful moment/experience of each now\, as the moments pass. Enjoying nothing can allow all the moments of something a little more presence and mindful enjoyability\, if I want. \n  \nDecember 7  #49  What is a Leaf? \n  \nThây points out how everything\, including me and you\, is made from other things. A leaf is composed of so many things\, and so many things were critical to the growth of a particular leaf. Life is interdependent. When some say\, “We’re all in this together\,” I believe this is a deeper meaning behind a rallying cry for some cause. We do all exist in the same world. We share the same air\, the same soil\, the same clouds\, rain\, etc. We’re all made of the same elements—reduced to base elements\, carbon\, nitrogen\, oxygen\, etc. With so much sameness\, how can I accept you as different from me? I do… \n  \nThis is where I see the ego come in. Something tells me that I am special\, unique\, and unlike everyone and everything else; that there’s no connection whatsoever to anything or anyone else. Yet\, if I take away all the parts of me (good or bad) that come from someone else or something else\, “I” cease to exist entirely. Without you\, there is no me: both in the realm of duality and\, also\, in the realm of inter-dependence. “I” also can’t continue to exist (survive) without “you.” Too often I attempt to behave as if I am all that is. I think that it is only when I embrace otherness (or others) that I truly begin to live. This is not easy. It requires compassion for weaknesses\, mine too. It requires seeing “other” as same—not different or separate from. \n  \nHere on paper it is so easy to lay out\, contemplate and visualize. In the realm of action/reaction (reality?)—ego\, fear\, duality\, separateness—disconnect happens. I become guarded from you\, forgetting how much I need each and every other “you” out there\, so “I” can survive too. That’s my journey: finding my way to compassion\, vulnerability and interdependence (not co-dependence…). \n  \nDecember 10  #51  Subtle Gestures \n  \nI find myself slowing down while reading and snacking—mindlessly. Yet\, as I read\, and felt my breath I un-deliberately (un-intentionally) slowed down and savored my moments… The sensations aren’t profound\, but noticing them seems slightly so. That’s kinda neat; catching all the subtleties\, flavor\, muscles working\, crunching\, tasting\, breathing\, hearing…and then…like that *! (snap) It’s all over. I often find that life’s “best” moments come from those subtle gestures\, and they’re often done without guile or deliberateness—they have intent of kindness\, but it is a life state not as much as an effort to set out to do a kind act. Words fail to describe ideas fully\, the thought carries on all the same. \n  \nDecember 16  #54  Rites of Life \n  \n….I have experienced a few of those key moments—ones where flow happened\, or where I was perfectly attuned (although I do not recall them\, due to lacking focused awareness.) I imagine that by having awareness I could experience the moments completely as they exist in time—maybe learn a lesson of life from the moment\, create a deep etched memory\, or simply exist in the perfection of that moment\, watching as it passes to the next perfect moment—maybe even departing from “time.” \n  \nIs life a string of moments haphazardly strung together with no rhyme or reasoning? Can there be more than that\, accessed by simply being mindful and aware? I don’t think it needs to be a BIG production\, or some fantastic event(s). I like the idea of simple awareness\, exercised through each moment—not just on the cushion…. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n#314  Melt the Ice of Knowledge \n  \nOften in my experience of living in prison there have been “rules” or “discriminating views” on this or that person. There is an atmospheric influence that enforces racial segregation and fuels hate amongst others. It’s follow the rules\, or the road. (As of late\, the Road is wide open and lovely. Join me?) Harboring one train of thought as truth\, and not having an open heart and open mind\, blurs the hidden beauty of truth in others—obstructed by societal upbringings\, social media\, and other major influences. Abandonment of views\, or opinions\, is an ice pick of relief\, chipping away the cold ice of hate\, oppression\, single-mindedness\, and when you can finally free yourself from the icy blur of lies and deceit\, you will find that what you thought was truth was an obstacle holding you from seeing the beauty in the soul of everyone/everything. Having an open heart\, open mind\, and leaving the views you’ve been taught\, you will learn so much\, and be able to see life\, and live life\, with deeper meaning\, and understanding. \n  \nI send all the Open Road/M & M family and the world Peace Love Happiness and Good Vibes. You all are beautiful and deserve the most! \n  \nTill next time \n  \nJake Green \n* \n  \nPhone Call to Ancient Times  \n  \nOut on the lawn\, under the aspen tree \nwhere I can get good cell reception\,  \nI took a call from Johnny\, who began  \ntelling about a friend in prison\, in \nthe hole again for some infraction\, \nand I stood so still\, listening\, from \nthe blackberry thicket a rabbit \ncrept under the fence to nibble grass \nat my feet\, a lolloping fist of fur  \nwith whiskers and little ears\, with  \nan inquisitive tremble\, amiable ghost  \nfrom the lost world we shared  \nwhen there was enough for all. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nI have some thoughts about the “perfect moments” Michel wrote about in his meditations on December 14th and 16th. He mentioned slowing down. I have found that when I’m preparing a meal\, if\, instead of doing it fast\, I slow down\, I get great pleasure from cutting the vegetables. This is true for eating the meal\, doing the dishes—for any activity\, even walking across the room. \n  \nJoseph Campbell and many others say that eternity is not a long time\, it’s timelessness. We have all experienced countless perfect moments. We don’t remember most of them because they leave no trace. It’s not a problem. We don’t need to remember them. The next one is coming soon. Maybe this is it. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \n#361: Offering Flowers to the Buddha \n  \nThis is about impermanence and how we should and should not view it. Impermanence is constant. Often viewed as negative\, as decay and death\, as loss\, and T N Hanh tells us we should enjoy things in their present moment instead of bemoaning their impermanence. \n  \nAgreed. But I take it a step further. Impermanence is death in one sense\, but also seeds of life in another. Let’s look at nature\, my favorite example for everything. \n  \nMost people see spring as birth\, rebirth\, life\, growth; summer as lushness\, abundance\, profusion\, light\, sun…life.  \n  \nThey tend to view fall as one of dying\, decay\, shutting down\, going dark. And winter? Ah\, the ultimate death: dark\, cold\, still…hibernation (from hibernus\, Latin for wintry. And  ‘hiver\,’ French for winter\, etc.) \n  \nBut when fall comes\, I feel most alive\, alert\, sharp\, eager\, ready to get-to-work. Nature agrees: bushy\, brilliant trees shed their leaves exposing lean\, bare\, shining\, black limbs\, looking like they’ve pushed up their sleeves to get ready to work. Their lean or muscular trunks stand sturdily in agreement. And now\, without all that busy foliage\, we have views beyond\, to the hills\, the sky. Views ahead. And what lies ahead? More life! Bare limbs\, branches\, and twigs house and host hundred of birds\, perching\, hopping about\, twittering\, swooping down to fetch seeds\, insects\, worms… Worms! What’s going on in all those fallen leaves\, anyway? Life\, in the form of worms! Millions of dark red\, wriggling creatures burrowing\, chomping\, aerating their way into and through piles of leaves. Creating mulch! And mulch = life! My garden loves that decayed\, death-like stuff. It eats it up! It brings me the biggest\, leafiest\, fattest\, brightest vegetables you can imagine.  \n  \nWhat else is happening when all the extravagance of spring and summer is gone? I’ll tell you what: Fungi\, that’s what!  \n  \nWhoa\, that creepy\, sneaky dark stuff that smells funky and looks weird? You bet!  \n  \nMushrooms\, lichens\, molds\, all sorts of fungi = Life! Look at bread\, wine\, beer\, cheese. All created with the indispensable help of fungi. (And what’s pizza without mushrooms\, anyway?) And look at penicillin and other antibiotics; ergot\, or LSD; fungi chemicals that produce statins! Life savers!  \n  \nFinally\, is winter really death-like? Is it the end of life? Well\, are we dead when we sleep each night? Of course not. A good night’s sleep is purely restorative\, and a good winter is nothing less. Can you imagine never sleeping but just going full-bore 24/7? Day in/day out\, year in/year out? You wouldn’t make it past day two or three. Seasons are nature’s parallel; fall and winter are rest and sleep\, but always with restoration and life at the core. \n  \nAnd then we die. Is that the end of it all? Not on your life! I will be cremated and my daughter knows just which mountain wildflower  meadow to scatter me in. I will be bone meal for the Avalanche lilies\, the valerian\, the paintbrush\, and they will love me for the strength and life I’ve brought to them. \n  \nSo (really) finally\, all these things produced by the ostensible death of stuff are nothing less that LIFE for the world.  \n  \n—Jude Russell (alive and well) \n* \n  \nThe Hsin Hsin Ming reminds me of the Dhammapada\, a collection of poetry that summarizes early Buddhist teachings. I find the Dhammapada to be very inspirational. \n  \nTaking ownership for my biases\, I do not understand the representation of Zen Buddhism as it appears in American culture. The Buddha gifted us with clear and concise instructions for training the mind\, often referred to as the Noble Eightfold Path. Meditation\, lifestyle changes\, and challenging our beliefs about “how the world works.” If you read the Buddha’s sermons in a “thematically progressive” order\, a very clear instruction manual emerges. Personally\, I need that. I’ve never really had a mind for philosophy or theology. But American Zen really advocates this message of “do nothing.” Don’t meditate. Don’t make lifestyle changes. Don’t challenge your beliefs\, because all beliefs are false. It is as though the Eightfold Path was completely cancelled out by Zen masters several hundreds of years ago. But I have a friend who ordained and studied at Venerable Thay’s Plum Village\, that is a very rigorous study and meditation practice. And people who went to study Chan in China also report: “study and meditation.” I visited a traditional Japanese Zen monastery in Washington\, and the monastics there lived and practiced in a very similar manner to the Ajahn Chah monasteries I am familiar with. So\, my bias\, my prejudice\, is I don’t understand American Zen. Traditional Zen uses the same meditation “manual” as my Vipassana meditation practice\, the Satipatthana Sutta\, “The Four Bases of Mindfulness.” Venerable  Thay [Thich Nhat Hanh] is an expert scholar of the Satipatthana Sutta in all of the ancient languages in which it was preserved\, and I have a lot of respect for his teaching. End of the day\, “their” practices are more similar than dissimilar to what I’m familiar with. \n  \n—Shad Alexander \n* \n  \nThank you Thich Nhat Hanh\, Johnny Stallings \nand your wonderful friends!  \n  \nI am here \nI see (or hear or touch) some thing \nI know it  \nYes (tiny smile) I am meditating \nMy knowing it \nMy seeing \nand my being here \nare somehow  \nrelated Yes (chuckle to myself) I am ok \nsomehow divisions \nare eased \ncan I “feel” \nhow you also \nare breathing \ncan I deeply  \nunderstand \nthat the  \nwater from a \ncloud \nis my relation? \nthe light and gray \ncolors from \nthat cloud \ncome all the \nway here \nluminous here \ncan these hard \nlines \nthese \nseeming forever \nwalls \nbe continually \n“eased” “understood” \n“held” like a child \nI am dissatisfied \ncrying inside like \na wailing child \nor a crazy politician \ncan I remember \nwhat I said \nabove \nI am here \nmy fear my dissatisfaction \nis here also \nbut I am holding (embracing) it \nlike my own mother \nlike my own niece \nlike my own beloved lover \nI am not \nkilling my fear my dissatisfaction \nmy crying child \nI am embracing them \nbreathing a long side \nbelly and fear \nare not unrelated \nare they? \nForever \nsmile \nlaugh (to yourself – don’t let them \nknow you are crazy) \nI can even \nstart to \nthink of your \nbreathing your \nthinking \nyour pain \nas my relation \nalthough these sentences are calming \ncan you \nsit here \nfor a few seconds \nor a short time \nwithout reading \nthese sentences \njust sit here \nwith the satisfaction \nbreathing \nthen with the dissatisfaction \nbreathing \nthe pain of the \nworld is also \nyours \nsmile you are Good \ncontinue forever \nmake up your \nown writing your own \nsong of the open \nlet it in form us and \nyou \nhow to dance our \nloving meditating  \n  \n—Alan Benditt  \n(roughly November 14\, 2020)  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-1-15-21/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/Unknown.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210107 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210121 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20210107T174225Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T122545Z UID:1692-1609977600-1611187199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 1/7/21 DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nJanuary 7\, 2021 \n  \nI sent some of Thomas Traherne’s poems to Alex Tretbar\, who was inspired by the poem “Wonder” to write “DUST.” First Traherne\, then Tretbar: \n  \nWonder \n  \n    How like an Angel came I down! \n         How bright are all things here! \nWhen first among His works I did appear \n    O how their Glory me did crown! \nThe world resembled His Eternity\, \n         In which my soul did walk; \n    And every thing that I did see \n         Did with me talk. \n  \n    The skies in their magnificence\, \n         The lively\, lovely air; \nOh how divine\, how soft\, how sweet\, how fair! \n    The stars did entertain my sense\, \nAnd all the works of God\, so bright and pure\, \n         So rich and great did seem\, \n    As if they ever must endure \n         In my esteem. \n  \n    A native health and innocence \n         Within my bones did grow\, \nAnd while my God did all his Glories show\, \n    I felt a vigour in my sense \nThat was all Spirit. I within did flow \n         With seas of life\, like wine; \n    I nothing in the world did know \n         But ’twas divine. \n  \n    Harsh ragged objects were concealed\, \n         Oppressions\, tears and cries\, \nSins\, griefs\, complaints\, dissensions\, weeping eyes \n    Were hid\, and only things revealed \nWhich heavenly Spirits\, and the Angels prize. \n         The state of Innocence \n    And bliss\, not trades and poverties\, \n         Did fill my sense. \n  \n    The streets were paved with golden stones\, \n         The boys and girls were mine\, \nOh how did all their lovely faces shine! \n    The sons of men were holy ones\, \nIn joy and beauty they appeared to me\, \n         And every thing which here I found\, \n    While like an angel I did see\, \n         Adorned the ground. \n  \n    Rich diamond and pearl and gold \n         In every place was seen; \nRare splendours\, yellow\, blue\, red\, white and green\, \n    Mine eyes did everywhere behold. \nGreat wonders clothed with glory did appear\, \n         Amazement was my bliss\, \n    That and my wealth was everywhere: \n         No joy to this! \n  \n    Cursed and devised proprieties\, \n         With envy\, avarice \nAnd fraud\, those fiends that spoil even Paradise\, \n    Flew from the splendour of mine eyes\, \nAnd so did hedges\, ditches\, limits\, bounds\, \n         I dreamed not aught of those\, \n    But wandered over all men’s grounds\, \n         And found repose. \n  \n    Proprieties themselves were mine\, \n         And hedges ornaments; \nWalls\, boxes\, coffers\, and their rich contents \n    Did not divide my joys\, but all combine. \nClothes\, ribbons\, jewels\, laces\, I esteemed \n         My joys by others worn: \n    For me they all to wear them seemed \n         When I was born. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne  (1636-1674) \n* \n  \nDUST \n  \nI came down like an angel \nfrom a gestative mountain \n  \nI have no memory \nof \n  \nSince then loved \nones have told me \n  \nAbout the two \na.m. arrival \n  \nThe usual bawling \n& slap-shock of the other \n  \nSide of eternity \nsince then there have been \n  \nSo many thens that now \nseem second-hand \n  \nLike universal lullabies \nwhispered into the unconscious \n  \nEars of babies my life \nis just a transparent bead \n  \nOn an endless \nabacus \n  \nBut you are there too \n& you & you & you \n  \nAnd it seems fitting to me now \nthat abacus comes from the Hebrew word \n  \nFor dust \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nPoetry Lovers: On Sunday\, January 3rd\, Katie Radditz and Deborah Buchanan hosted a Zoom gathering on the theme of “Favorite Women Poets.” Here’s a link to the web page on the Open Road website\, where you will find poems to inspire you and whet your appetite for more: \n  \nhttps://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-favorite-women-poets-with-deborah-katie/ \n  \nIn the last Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue\, Joshua Barnes wrote about duality and oneness. He got me thinking about different things\, including Plato’s Allegory of the Cave\, from Book VII of The Republic. Socrates is doing most of the talking. The other speaker is Glaucon. You may be familiar with it\, but it’s one of those things that is worth revisiting and pondering from time to time. So\, here it is (in the Benjamin Jowett translation): \n  \nBOOK VII. \n  \nAnd now\, I said\, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened:—Behold! human beings living in an underground den\, which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their childhood\, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move\, and can only see before them\, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. Above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance\, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see\, if you look\, a low wall built along the way\, like the screen which marionette players have in front of them\, over which they show the puppets. \nI see. \nAnd do you see\, I said\, men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels\, and statues and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials\, which appear over the wall? Some of them are talking\, others silent. \nYou have shown me a strange image\, and they are strange prisoners. \nLike ourselves\, I replied; and they see only their own shadows\, or the shadows of one another\, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave? \nTrue\, he said; how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads? \nAnd of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only see the shadows? \nYes\, he said. \nAnd if they were able to converse with one another\, would they not suppose that they were naming what was actually before them? \nVery true. \nAnd suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the other side\, would they not be sure to fancy when one of the passers-by spoke that the voice which they heard came from the passing shadow? \nNo question\, he replied. \nTo them\, I said\, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images. \nThat is certain. \nAnd now look again\, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are released and disabused of their error. At first\, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the light\, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him\, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive some one saying to him\, that what he saw before was an illusion\, but that now\, when he is approaching nearer to being and his eye is turned towards more real existence\, he has a clearer vision\,—what will be his reply? And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the objects as they pass and requiring him to name them\,—will he not be perplexed? Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him? \nFar truer. \nAnd if he is compelled to look straight at the light\, will he not have a pain in his eyes which will make him turn away to take refuge in the objects of vision which he can see\, and which he will conceive to be in reality clearer than the things which are now being shown to him? \nTrue\, he said. \nAnd suppose once more\, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent\, and held fast until he is forced into the presence of the sun himself\, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled\, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities. \nNot all in a moment\, he said. \nHe will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And first he will see the shadows best\, next the reflections of men and other objects in the water\, and then the objects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of the sun by day? \nCertainly. \nLast of all he will be able to see the sun\, and not mere reflections of him in the water\, but he will see him in his own proper place\, and not in another; and he will contemplate him as he is. \nCertainly. \nHe will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the years\, and is the guardian of all that is in the visible world\, and in a certain way the cause of all things which he and his fellows have been accustomed to behold? \nClearly\, he said\, he would first see the sun and then reason about him. \nAnd when he remembered his old habitation\, and the wisdom of the den and his fellow-prisoners\, do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change\, and pity them? \nCertainly\, he would. \nAnd if they were in the habit of conferring honours among themselves on those who were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them went before\, and which followed after\, and which were together; and who were therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the future\, do you think that he would care for such honours and glories\, or envy the possessors of them? Would he not say with Homer\, \n‘Better to be the poor servant of a poor master\,’ \nand to endure anything\, rather than think as they do and live after their manner? \nYes\, he said\, I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false notions and live in this miserable manner. \nImagine once more\, I said\, such an one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness? \nTo be sure\, he said. \nAnd if there were a contest\, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows with the prisoners who had never moved out of the den\, while his sight was still weak\, and before his eyes had become steady (and the time which would be needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be very considerable)\, would he not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was better not even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose another and lead him up to the light\, let them only catch the offender\, and they would put him to death. \nNo question\, he said. \nThis entire allegory\, I said\, you may now append\, dear Glaucon\, to the previous argument; the prison-house is the world of sight\, the light of the fire is the sun\, and you will not misapprehend me if you interpret the journey upwards to be the ascent of the soul into the intellectual world according to my poor belief\, which\, at your desire\, I have expressed—whether rightly or wrongly God knows. But\, whether true or false\, my opinion is that in the world of knowledge the idea of good appears last of all\, and is seen only with an effort; and\, when seen\, is also inferred to be the universal author of all things beautiful and right\, parent of light and of the lord of light in this visible world\, and the immediate source of reason and truth in the intellectual; and that this is the power upon which he who would act rationally either in public or private life must have his eye fixed. URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-1-7-21/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210103 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210117 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20201229T185731Z LAST-MODIFIED:20210107T180118Z UID:1641-1609632000-1610841599@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Favorite Women Poets with Deborah & Katie DESCRIPTION:  \nDear Bibliophiles \nOn Sunday\, January 3rd\, Deborah Buchanan and Katie Radditz hosted a conversation about Favorite Women Poets on Zoom. We had a good turnout. It’s a big subject! They began talking about Japanese women poets: \n  \nTankas from 4th – 19th century Japan \nOno no Komachi \n     While\, waiting for you\,\n     My heart is filled with longing\,\n     The autumn wind blows— \n     As if it were you— \n     Swaying the bamboo blinds of my door. \n  \nTanka stresses the beauty of life and nature\, but there is a strong feeling of yearning in many tanka. The shortness of life\, the transient nature of seasons and love. \nFirst known poetry perhaps is the tanka written as letters between women in Japan who were basically imprisoned at home.   They started writing letters to one another in simple haiku with hidden messages\,  the recipient would write back in two lines. Forming a tanka from the Haiku.  \nIzumi Shikibu. author of The Diary of Izumi Shikibu and was considered to be the finest poet of the time. She also wrote The Tale of Genji  considered the first novel. It is full of hundreds of Tankas.   \n  \n“To the lonely nights \n when a robe comes between us\, \nwould you then\, you say\, \n have me add more layers yet \nto keep us further apart?” \n  \n“Without showing a change in colour \nThe thing that fades \nIn this world \nIs the flower \nCalled the human heart.” \n  \n“The colour of the cherry blossom \nHas faded vainly \nIn the long rain \nWhile in idle thoughts \nI have spent my life.” \n  \n“Without a thought \nFor my black hair’s disarray \nI throw myself down\, \nAlready longing for the one \nWho ran his fingers through it.“ \n  \n“On the bamboo leaves \nA fine ice fall \nPatters and patters. \nHow bitter \nTo try to sleep alone!” \n  \nThen\, Deborah and Katie talked about Emily Dickinson. They read this poem: \n  \nTell all the Truth but tell it slant –\nSuccess in Circuit lies\nToo bright for our infirm Delight\nThe Truth’s superb surprise \nAs Lightning to the Children eased\nWith explanation kind\nThe Truth must dazzle gradually\nOr every man be blind – \n  \nJohnny recited one of his favorite Emily Dickinson poems: \n  \nThe Infinite a sudden Guest \nHas been assumed to be — \nBut how can that stupendous come \nWhich never went away? \n  \nDeborah talked about Diane Di Prima and read this poem by her: \n  \nPoem in Praise of My Husband\n  \nI suppose it hasn’t been easy living with me \neither\, \nwith my piques\, and ups and downs\, my need for \nprivacy \nleo pride and weeping in bed when you’re \ntrying to sleep \nand you\, interrupting me in the middle of a \nthousand poems \nin the middle of our drive over the nebraska \nhills and \ninto colorado\, odetta singing\, the whole world \nsinging in me \nthe triumph of our revolution in the air \nme about to get that down\, and you \nyou saying something about the carburetor \nso that it all went away \nbut we cling to each other \nas if each thought the other was the raft \nand he adrift alone\, as in this mud house \nnot big enough\, the walls dusting down around us\, a fine dust rain \ncounteracting the good\, high air\, and stuffing \nour nostrils \nwe hang our pictures of the separate worlds: \nnew york college and san francisco posters \nset out our japanese dishes\, chinese knives \nhammer small indian marriage cloths into \nthe adobe \nwe stumble thru silence into each other’s gut \nblundering thru from one wrong place to the \nnext \nlike kids who snuck out to play on a boat \nat night \nand the boat slipped from its moorings\, and \nthey look at the stars \nabout which they know nothing\, to find out \nwhere they are going. \n  \nDeborah and Katie shared this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye:  \n  \nShoulders\nA man crosses the street in rain\,\nstepping gently\, looking two times north and south\,\nbecause his son is asleep on his shoulder. \nNo car must splash him.\nNo car drive too near to his shadow. \nThis man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo\nbut he’s not marked.\nNowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE\,\nHANDLE WITH CARE. \nHis ear fills up with breathing.\nHe hears the hum of a boy’s dream\ndeep inside him. \nWe’re not going to be able\nto live in this world\nif we’re not willing to do what he’s doing\nwith one another. \nThe road will only be wide.\nThe rain will never stop falling. \n  \n Nancy Yeilding read this poem by Barbara Crooker: \n  \nIt’s Monday Morning \n  \nmid-November\, the world turned golden\, \npreserved in amber. I should be doing more \nto save the planet—plant a tree\, raise \na turbine\, put solar panels on the roof \nto grab the sun and bring it inside. Instead\, \nI’m sitting here scribbling\, sitting on a wrought \niron chair\, the air cold from last night’s frost\, \nthe thin sunlight sinking into the ruined \nAppalachians of my spine. I know it’s all \nabout to fall apart; the signs are everywhere. \nBut on this blue morning\, the air bristling \nwith crickets and birdsong\, I do the only thing \nI can: put one word in front of the other\, \nand see what happens when they rub up against \neach other. It might become something \nthat will burst into flame.  \n  \nDave Duncan read the first two stanzas of “The Cry of the Children” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning: \n  \n\n\n\nDo ye hear the children weeping\, O my brothers\, \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEre the sorrow comes with years ? \n\n\n\n\n\n\nThey are leaning their young heads against their mothers\, — \nAnd that cannot stop their tears. \nThe young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; \nThe young birds are chirping in the nest ; \nThe young fawns are playing with the shadows ; \nThe young flowers are blowing toward the west— \nBut the young\, young children\, O my brothers\, \nThey are weeping bitterly ! \nThey are weeping in the playtime of the others\, \nIn the country of the free. \n  \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDo you question the young children in the sorrow\, \nWhy their tears are falling so ? \nThe old man may weep for his to-morrow \nWhich is lost in Long Ago — \nThe old tree is leafless in the forest — \nThe old year is ending in the frost — \nThe old wound\, if stricken\, is the sorest — \nThe old hope is hardest to be lost : \nBut the young\, young children\, O my brothers\, \nDo you ask them why they stand \nWeeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers\, \nIn our happy Fatherland ? \n\n\n\n  \nHere’s a poem from Wisława Szymborska that Katie and Deborah chose: \n  \nPossibilities\n I prefer movies.\nI prefer cats.\nI prefer the oaks along the Warta.\nI prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.\nI prefer myself liking people\nto myself loving mankind.\nI prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand\, just in case.\nI prefer the color green.\nI prefer not to maintain\nthat reason is to blame for everything.\nI prefer exceptions.\nI prefer to leave early.\nI prefer talking to doctors about something else.\nI prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.\nI prefer the absurdity of writing poems\nto the absurdity of not writing poems.\nI prefer\, where love’s concerned\, nonspecific anniversaries\nthat can be celebrated every day.\nI prefer moralists\nwho promise me nothing.\nI prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.\nI prefer the earth in civvies.\nI prefer conquered to conquering countries.\nI prefer having some reservations.\nI prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.\nI prefer Grimms’ fairy tales to the newspapers’ front pages.\nI prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.\nI prefer dogs with uncropped tails.\nI prefer light eyes\, since mine are dark.\nI prefer desk drawers.\nI prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here\nto many things I’ve also left unsaid.\nI prefer zeroes on the loose\nto those lined up behind a cipher.\nI prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.\nI prefer to knock on wood.\nI prefer not to ask how much longer and when.\nI prefer keeping in mind even the possibility\nthat existence has its own reason for being. \n  \nAnd here’s a poem by Wisława Szymborska that Jude Russell read: \n  \nThe Three Oddest Words \n  \n\n\n\nWhen I pronounce the word Future\,\nthe first syllable already belongs to the past. \nWhen I pronounce the word Silence\,\nI destroy it. \nWhen I pronounce the word Nothing\,\nI make something no non-being can hold. \n\n\n\n  \nJeffrey Sher read a poem by Mary Oliver: \n  \nWild Geese\n  \nYou do not have to be good. \nYou do not have to walk on your knees \nfor a hundred miles through the desert repenting. \nYou only have to let the soft animal of your body \nlove what it loves. \nTell me about despair\, yours\, and I will tell you mine. \nMeanwhile the world goes on. \nMeanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain \nare moving across the landscapes\, \nover the prairies and the deep trees\, \nthe mountains and the rivers. \nMeanwhile the wild geese\, high in the clean blue air\, \nare heading home again. \nWhoever you are\, no matter how lonely\, \nthe world offers itself to your imagination\, \ncalls to you like the wild geese\, harsh and exciting — \nover and over announcing your place \nin the family of things. \n  \nHere a poem by Ada Limon: \n  \nThe Raincoat \n  \nWhen the doctor suggested surgery\nand a brace for all my youngest years\,\nmy parents scrambled to take me\nto massage therapy\, deep tissue work\,\nosteopathy\, and soon my crooked spine\nunspooled a bit\, I could breathe again\,\nand move more in a body unclouded\nby pain. My mom would tell me to sing\nsongs to her the whole forty-five minute\ndrive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-\nfive minutes back from physical therapy.\nShe’d say\, even my voice sounded unfettered\nby my spine afterward. So I sang and sang\,\nbecause I thought she liked it. I never\nasked her what she gave up to drive me\,\nor how her day was before this chore. Today\,\nat her age\, I was driving myself home from yet\nanother spine appointment\, singing along\nto some maudlin but solid song on the radio\,\nand I saw a mom take her raincoat off\nand give it to her young daughter when\na storm took over the afternoon. My god\,\nI thought\, my whole life I’ve been under her\nraincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel\nthat I never got wet. \n  \nNancy Yeilding didn’t know if she could get through this poem by Denise Levertov without crying. She was encouraged to give it a try: \n  \nThe Fountain \n\nDon’t say\, don’t say there is no water\nto solace the dryness at our hearts.\nI have seen\n \nthe fountain springing out of the rock wall\nand you drinking there. And I too\nbefore your eyes \nfound footholds and climbed\nto drink the cool water.\n \nThe woman of that place\, shading her eyes\,\nfrowned as she watched-but not because\nshe grudged the water\, \nonly because she was waiting\nto see we drank our fill and were\nrefreshed. \n Don’t say\, don’t say there is no water.\nThat fountain is there among its scalloped\ngreen and gray stones\, \n it is still there and always there\nwith its quiet song and strange power\nto spring in us\, \n up and out through the rock. \n  \nHere’s a poem by Gabriela Mistral\, the first Latin American to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature: \n  \nRiches \n\nI have a faithful fortune\nand a fortune lost.\nOne’s like a rose\,\nthe other a thorn.\nWhat was taken from me\nI still possess:\nthe faithful fortune\nand the fortune lost\,\nand I’m rich in purple\nand unhappiness.\nOh how I love the rose\nand how the thorn loves me!\nLike round twin apples\nafter the frost:\nthe faithful fortune\,\nthe fortune lost. \n  \n(tr. Ursula K. Le Guin) \n  \nHere’s a poem by our current national Poet Laureate\, Joy Harjo: \n  \nPerhaps the world ends Here \n  \nThe world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what\, we must eat to live. \n  \nThe gifts of earth are brought and prepared\, set on the table. So it has been since creation\, and it will go on. \n  \nWe chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.  \n  \nIt is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it\, we make women. \n  \nAt this table we gossip\, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. \n  \nOur dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. \n  \nThis table has been a house in the rain\, an umbrella in the sun. \n  \nWars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. \n  \nWe have given birth on this table\, and have prepared our parents for burial here. \n  \nAt this table we sing with joy\, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. \n  \nPerhaps the world will end at the kitchen table\, while we are laughing and crying\, eating of the last sweet bite. \n* \n  \nNancy Yeilding also recommends: \n  \n“Late August” by Mary Chivers \n“For a Friend Lying in Intensive Care Waiting for Her White Blood Cells to Rejuvenate After a Bone Marrow Transplant”  by Barbara Crooker \n“A Gift” and “Witness” by Denise Levertov \n  \nDeborah and Katie also recommend: \n  \n“A New National Anthem” by Ada Limon \n“Sweetness\,”  “Give Me Your Hand” and “Song of Death” by Gabriela Mistral \n“Some People” by Wisława Szymborska \n“The Burying Beetle” by Ada Limon \n  \nDeborah asked me to add this: \n  \n\nAlso please add that we only skimmed the wealth of African American poets:\nGwendolyn Books (first black woman to win the Pulitzer)\, Lucille Clifton\, June Jordan and now a whole bevy of current ones: Tracy K. Smith\, Nikki Finney\, Claudine Rankin\, Natasha Tretheway. \n\n\n\nAnd for American Indian women poets\, there are\, in addition to the stellar Joy Harjo: \nNatalie Diaz (her breakout book\, When My Brother Was an Aztec)\, and Oregon’s own Elizabeth Woody. \n\n  \nThere were lots more poems! You shoulda been there! Maybe you were. \n  \nDeborah recently published three books of poetry: The World A Well\, Layers of Sediment and Moment Before. You can order them from her at: dlbadger@gmail.com.  \n  \nWe ended our Zoom gathering with Deborah reading one of her unpublished poems: \n  \nUnannounced \n  \nThe grass moved \ninhalation exhalation \nas the animal slept \nstill but for breath \ncovered by the sky’s night \nwind in the orchard \ndeeper shadows under dark firs \n  \nWe find the grass bowl \nin early morning\, still warm \nstalks flattened not by wind \nbut impress of being \na nest one might say \nyet in soil not air \na vibrant emptiness \n  \nWhile we slept unaware \nanother life another world \npassed by \ninextricably connected \nyet unknown \nhow many each moment \nthese transparent threads \n  \nBreathing the same air \nwalking so closely \n  \n  \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-favorite-women-poets-with-deborah-katie/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/deb_bucanan.600x400.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20201225 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20201226 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20201225T194243Z LAST-MODIFIED:20201225T194315Z UID:1633-1608854400-1608940799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Yes\, Virginia\, there is a Santa Claus DESCRIPTION:DEAR EDITOR:  \nI am 8 years old.\nSome of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.\nPapa says\, ‘If you see it in THE SUN it’s so.’\nPlease tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus? \n  \nVIRGINIA O’HANLON.\n115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET. \n  \n  \nVIRGINIA\, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds\, Virginia\, whether they be men’s or children’s\, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect\, an ant\, in his intellect\, as compared with the boundless world about him\, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. \n  \nYes\, VIRGINIA\, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist\, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then\, no poetry\, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment\, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. \n  \nNot believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus\, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down\, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus\, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not\, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. \n  \nYou may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside\, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man\, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived\, could tear apart. Only faith\, fancy\, poetry\, love\, romance\, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah\, VIRGINIA\, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. \n  \nNo Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives\, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now\, Virginia\, nay\, ten times ten thousand years from now\, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. \n  \n—Francis Pharcellus Church\, Editor of The Sun\, September 21\, 1897 URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/yes-virginian-there-is-a-santa-claus/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/images-2.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20201224 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210107 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20201224T181622Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T122403Z UID:1620-1608768000-1609977599@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 12/24/20 DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nDecember 24\, 2020 \n  \nI believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps… \n  \n—Walt Whitman\, from Song of Myself \n* \n  \nSince water still flows\, though we cut it with swords\, \nAnd sorrow returns\, though we drown it with wine\, \nSince the world can in no way satisfy our cravings\, \nLet us loosen our hair tomorrow and go fishing. \n  \n—Li Po  (701-762 A.D.) \n* \n  \nFound Kin \n  \nArdent champions of comradery\, \nour found kin hold a cherished place \ninside the chest cavity. \nStumble into our lives when we \nneed you most. \nBattle back the self-doubt with \nDeeds\, Words\, Actions\, Presence. \nBlood being equally without consequence \nor measured sacred. \nEmbrace me found kin with gentle \nacts of friendship. \nKeep the wolves at bay\, my hearth fire \nheart stoked. \nAgainst the oppressing laden storm of \nBreathing upon this mortal stage \nFound kin\, I love you. \n  \n—Jeff Kuehner \n* \n  \nElemental Thoughts \n  \nStorm grey clouds frequent windy days\, \nShedding their sadness on the land \nBefore moving on. \nI watch them through my window pane\, \nWishing they would stay awhile \nor maybe take me with them; \nFor a storm grey cloud at heart I’ve become\, \nIn need of a good wind to push me— \nUntil I too shed my sadness. \n  \n—Joshua Barnes \n* \n  \nTHE MEANING OF THIS \n  \nWe are a feather \nmade of wings made of birds \n  \nNo boos \ncheers or other \ninterruptions \n  \nOn our way up \n  \nYes our body has fallen \napart \n  \nBut finally we are floating \n  \nLike this & this \nis what we wished for \nrelishing in our not \nexpecting it \n  \nHere is the inverted valley \n& every blade \nof grass on the godhead asking \n  \nWhat are you \n& who is your name \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nI do hope you enjoyed my depressing poem. Here is another attached to this letter. It’s a piece I’m working on\, but it has been hiding from my attempts at trying to bring it to paper. Where do all these words hide\, anyway? Maybe it really is in between the blank spaces of every page and sentence. I wish I knew! \n  \nHindsight (2020) \n  \nHold your breath a little while \nThe reaper’s hounds are on the loose\, \nTrailing along their invisible chains \nExtinguishing life like a hangman’s noose. \n  \nHindsight: Speaking of history\, history’s made \nThough the irony remains in man’s surprise; \nFor we’ve opened the door to find again \nA trojan horse in a man disguise. \n  \nThe questions now—Will we learn? \nWill these lessons keep and pass? \nOr will the hounds come again \nWhen comfort blinds us of our past? \n  \nBut worry not\, just hold your breaths\, \nFor now just try to dodge the noose; \nAnd watch the hounds’ chains grow taut \nWhen pharma bears its golden goose. \n  \n—Joshua Barnes \n* \n  \nThink Twice \n  \nIf you think once\, that’s good— \nyou’re ahead of the game. But do \nyourself a favor\, and think again. \n  \nThink for yourself\, for number 1. \nThen think for others\, and see \nhow you are woven into we. \n  \nThink for today\, necessity. \nThen think for what comes soon\, \nand after\, all that rich unfolding. \n  \nThink for your allies\, then for “enemies.” \nThink for the human\, then for Earth. \nThink for comfort\, then for deepening spirit. \n  \nWhen anyone demands an answer\, say\, \n“I am of two minds. Give me a moment.” \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n  \nYour Sovereignty \n  \nBy law\, your house is your castle—unless they have \na warrant to enter\, sift through your stuff\, is your \nfortress\, unless the bank holds the deed\, or you rent \nat a landlord’s whim\, unless it’s a tent by the river \nwaiting for the sweep\, a doorway with a blanket\, \na place to stand by the road with your sign\, a park \nbench bed claimed at dusk\, unless you are an inmate \nin solitary concrete cell with stories behind closed eyes \nyour treasure\, unless you flee\, a refugee running by night \nwith only your coat and muttered clutch of words for \nwater\, please\, bread\, prayer\, brother\, sister\, home\, \nunless you are a tribe\, your usual and accustomed places \ntorn away by someone’s treaty\, one who never saw \ndawn come over a prairie\, forest\, camas meadow\, \nunless you are a wren\, your home thickets \nskinned\, plowed\, paved\, and you are made \nto move\, adapt\, or die\, so just before you fly\, \non a wire you sing a last ravishing run\, \nthe song your shred of sovereignty. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nWinter Feet \n  \nEarly morning walk \nDown Broadway \nInner city sidewalk \nStill dark \nStill cold \n  \nEzra\, a man I’ve come to know\, \nSleeps in a doorway \nHis blue tennis shoes neatly placed \nNext to his head \n  \nHis bare feet \nExtend out from the heavy blanket \n  \nI walk on \nThen turn around \nGently pull the blanket over his feet \n  \nEzra whispers a sleepy thank you \nI start to leave \nHe kicks the blanket off \n  \nFeet once again bare \nTo the bitter cold \nLife as he lives it \nExposed \n  \n—Esther Elizabeth \n  \nDaily Bread \n  \nAnother Vet with little means \nhas found ways to appreciate slices of life \nHe goes by many names \nI call him Joseph \nHe waits outside the café in his \nelectric wheel chair \nwith his dog Buffy snuggling on his lap\, \nfour stuffed animals in the basket behind him— \ntwo dogs\, one monkey\, one cat \nOn each side two \ndecorative colorful wind whirls \n  \nI leave the café with leftovers \nWhat do you have for me today \nHash browns\, chicken sausage\, \nwhole wheat toast \n  \nThis is better than last week’s donut\, \nlaughs Joseph \nThis is a real feast\, thank you \nNow let me offer you a blessing \nbefore you walk on \n  \nI weep now remembering his words\, the \nsincerity with which they were spoken \n  \nDear God as I know you \nBless this servant— \nAs she offers me this day my daily bread \nI ask you to offer her whatever she needs\, \nfor we are all in these troubling times together \nserving one another in love \nAmen \n  \nAmen Joseph \nAmen indeed \n  \n—Esther Elizabeth\, two poems from Encounter: Poems of Engagement \n  \nEsther asked me to include her email address. Here it is: \n  \nestherwelizabeth@gmail.com \n* \n  \nWhat Issa Heard \n  \nTwo hundred years ago Issa heard the morning birds \nsinging sutras to this suffering world. \n  \nI heard them too\, this morning\, which must mean\, \n  \nsince we will always have a suffering world\, \nwe must also always have song. \n  \n—David Budbill \n* \n  \nI hope these poems keep you warm. \n  \nMay all people be happy. \nMay we live in peace & love. \n  \nJohnny \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-24-20/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20201220T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20201220T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20201213T000937Z LAST-MODIFIED:20201219T193721Z UID:1604-1608476400-1608483600@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Poetry's Task with Kim Stafford 12/20/20 DESCRIPTION:  \nDear Bibliophiles! \n  \nOn December 20th\, at 3 pm\, our Zoom gathering will be hosted by Kim Stafford\, who recently completed two years as Oregon’s Poet Laureate. Here’s the (new) link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/81054571039 \n  \nDecember 12\, 2020 \n  \nAs I sat still this morning at my writing desk\, before turning on the light\, in the darkness and silence the weather in my mind began to clear from yesterday’s worries and conundrums\, something began to come into focus. In time\, I turned on the light\, and wrote down this thought:  \n  \nA loss is first a pang\, then a memory. Then \, by writing or telling\, it may become a story. Then\, if told with curiosity and courage\, the sorrow becomes a possession\, an element of identity\, and finally a treasure\, a smudge of wisdom. \n  \nThen\, as my habit each morning early\, I explored this thought by shaping it into something like a poem: \n  \n               Schooling Sorrow  \n  \nWhen a sorrow’s young\, it’s pure—stunned  \npang at breakup\, betrayal\, failure\, death.  \nYou weep\, rant\, brood\, slump. And then   \n  \nin the morning\, sorrow starts its epic  \njourney into memory\, becomes an island  \nin your archipelago of sufferings.  \n  \nThen\, if you are strong\, and lucky to have  \na listener—you begin to apprehend its quirks\,  \nto tell it\, shape it\, watch it grow into a story.  \n  \nAnd if you tell your story well\, with curiosity \nand courage\, it then becomes a possession\, \nand in time a treasure\, a smudge of wisdom.  \n  \nThis can be your gift\, your offering—but \nif you don’t school your sorrow into story \nit can never be your friend. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-poetrys-task-with-kim-stafford-12-20-20/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/IMG_1670.jpg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20201215 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210115 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20201216T011440Z LAST-MODIFIED:20201216T011440Z UID:1614-1607990400-1610668799@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 12/15/20 DESCRIPTION:Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nDecember 15\, 2020 \n  \nWelcome to our fourth meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. (JS) \n* \n  \nDear M & M Dialogue\, \n  \nGreetings to all the mindful ones and those learning the art of being mindful. And don’t worry if you are new to mindfulness\, even the ones who have been practicing mindfulness for awhile are still learning to be mindful. \n  \nI am no expert in mindfulness\, but reading a message a day from Your True Home has been a wonderful experience and ritual\, which in itself has brought me joy and mindfulness. Then Johnny suggested that I journal my thoughts\, feelings and whatnot on my daily reads\, so I have started doing just that\, which has brought me a new level of mindfulness and joy. \n  \nAt first I thought I would have little to say\, if anything at all\, for most of the daily messages\, but I have found that to be a wrong assumption. Some of them are only one or two lines\, although I try to keep them short in order to be sure I get my point across and so that others can understand what I’m saying. Anyway\, here are a few excerpts from my journal: \n  \n10/25/20  #354 The Energy of Love: Love yourself! Without that first\, there can be no true love in your life. You cannot love another\, nor they love you without truly loving yourself first. This reminds me of a saying I found that takes today’s love and yesterday’s suffering (10/24/20  #355 Your Suffering Needs You) and puts them together. \n  \n“To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering\, one must not love. But then\, one suffers from not loving. Therefore\, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy\, then\, is to suffer\, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore\, to be happy\, one must love or love to suffer\, or suffer from too much happiness.” (By unknown.) \n  \nOnce you have mastered self-love\, love of another will find you and satisfy your need to be loved. To master that will make not only them happy\, but you will be happy too. I’d rather suffer with love than suffer without love\, and suffering from too much happiness sounds wonderful to me. \n  \n10/27/20  #352 No Enemy\, No Savior: I honestly struggle with the meaning of the words “self” and “nonself.” Does it mean self is like yourself and nonself is like other people? I that is the case\, I think of neither. We are all part of humanity. There is no self or nonself\, there is one. One planet\, one society\, one humanity\, one human race\, and one love which is love for all. \n  \nThat is it for me this month. I could write more\, but Johnny said he can’t publish all my journal entries\, as he has to leave room for others. Upon my release\, I plan to loan my journal to Johnny to read and publish the entries he sees merit in. Peace\, love and happiness to you all. \n  \n—Josh Underhill \n* \n  \n(Michel is keeping a meditation journal on an almost daily basis. He sent a treasure trove of meditations. Here are the first three of twenty. Hopefully\, we’ll be able to do a special edition of the Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue that features more of Michel’s meditations.) (JS) \n  \nNovember 5  AWARENESS OF BODY \n  \nThây spoke first of sitting meditation; which reminds me of Zen—always the “sitting\,” “just sitting” (shikantaza). I’ve been told that this act of simply sitting (or sitting simply?) is the foundation of all mindfulness practice. While this may be true\, I found value and calm from sitting. In the Zen class here at TRCI\, pre-COVID\, that is what I experienced: sitting for no reason but to just sit (simply). I often struggle to make time for this in-cell. A book\, recently gifted to me\, talks about healing past traumas through several steps; the first involves an awareness of body. The author’s idea is that one effect of childhood trauma (no matter the intensity/severity) is the disconnect from body awareness. There are times when I would rather not be so aware of this body’s goings on. There are other times when I wish I could be more tuned-in to what is happening with my body. I guess I’ll be thankful for the times I am aware—pay more attention—and learn to “lean in” to the less aware times: hoping that paying attention when I’m more aware will leak over and affect the not-so-aware times. The body is always present. It is easy to become numb or ignore whatever is being experienced as common. I think by not being mindful of the “common” it is more challenging to become (or be) mindful for the extra-ordinary. It looks like I access the parts of life I think I’m missing out by paying better attention to the ordinary ones. \n  \nNovember 6  CONSTANT TRANSFORMATION \n  \nIMPERMANENCE: Thây’s first word today. Ouch! One of my biggest life challenges has been accepting the reality of change—nothing in my world can conquer impermanence\, it’s all subject to change at some point in some way (even if it is just how I “see” it). I used to hate change. I still am not very fond of it; changes have often caught me unawares and have seemed to my small mind like “BIG” upheavals and trauma in life. \n  \nAs I review my history: the problem was my efforts to fight for permanence\, resisting entropy. Maybe\, one day\, there will occur a major change\, where we all get nirvana\, paradise\, heaven\, or whatever\, and this place of “perfection” might be permanent. I am beginning to wonder if that would be “good.” I recall a saying Jake and Sara used with us last year on Julius Caesar: “‘Perfection’ is boring.” It’s true. For my experience to be “alive” it has to be imperfect\, mutable\, transient\, “impermanent.” The alternative is a kind of “Groundhog Day” sort of life\, where it is always the same\, predictable\, “Boring!” It is hard for me to not desire to be “safe.” Predictable is safe. Reliable seems safe. Change is not\, because I may not know something\, or how to do something. So\, I’m weak. I’m vulnerable. I’m not safe. That place can be scary and difficult to live in\, without some level of fear (“concern”). \n  \nLearning to be comfortable with “me” and what I can do helps\, as I learn to be comfortable with IMPERMANENCE. Thây had two more words which stood out for me today. Within each\, separately or together\, I may find an answer: SELFLESSNESS\, INTERDEPENDENCE. (hmmm….) \n  \nNovember 9   THE GREAT INSIGHT \n  \nI like\, and I’m even attracted to the idea that we all can become a buddha—fully enlightened being. Further\, while “becoming\,” we are all already Bodhisattvas on the journey; aiding and benefitting others’ journey. I am also aware\, and like the idea\, that we are all already buddhas and have only to discover the buddha within. Both of these line up in agreement\, as the second describes what I see/understand as the journey. Isn’t that always the challenge?: Getting out of the way of reality as it is\, not as ego (“I”) tells a story to convince the self that reality is something totally different. I see ego as the source of duality and suffering—the idea of a separate “self” identity. I don’t have confirmation (complete)\, but this seems to be a portion of the truth. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n“Teaching is not done by  teaching alone. It is done by how you live your life My life is my teaching. My life is my message.”  Thich Nhat Hanh \n  \nThis is not in the book Your True Home\, but it is by TNH\, and when I read it I thought of my parents.  \n  \nMy parents lived the life they loved. They hiked and backpacked and climbed mountains; they played the violin\, viola\, piano and harpsichord\, and welcomed twice weekly chamber music gatherings in our home. They read for hours everyday; the library and bookstores were constant haunts. And art\, all the time. They were nerds. They caused me constant embarrassment as a teenager. \n  \nOver dozens of years my mother took in friends of theirs and friends of ours who were struggling in life – for weeks\, months\, sometimes years. This was often to our young and selfish consternation: “Why do the Jacksons have to come again for Thanksgiving? Their kids always have snotty noses!”  \n  \nEvery two months\, my mom and dad donated blood. “Why in Heaven’s name wouldn’t we?” my puzzled mother mused.  \n  \nThere were vegetable gardens and flower gardens and small tree farms. I smacked my lips waiting for blueberry pie\, then watched as my mom picked and gave away our entire crop most years. “What about your own family’s needs?” we whined. Dad joined in on that one\, but he also grew and gave away every fir seedling he nurtured to Christmas tree size. One year he said\, “Don’t worry\, I’m planting a new crop and I’ll make sure to save you one.” Good luck\, he was 90 years old at the time. \n  \nSo their lives were their teaching. There was no didactic teaching\, no conscious ‘modeling’ to achieve ‘results’ in their daughters. They just lived life with passion and dedication.  \n  \nOf course now I donate blood every two months\, and am hitting 150+ units drained from my system\, having started when I was 18 yrs. old. (“Why in Heaven’s name wouldn’t I?” when someone asks me why.) And hiking\, backpacking and wildflowers are my passion. I have huge gardens so I can give away baskets of golden raspberries and strawberries\, and yes\, blueberries. I grow way too many peonies and iris so I can cut huge bouquets to give away. I read\, read\, read\, and do art\, art\, art.  \n  \nAnd if I’m not mentoring\, tutoring\, or otherwise being engaged in connection with others not like me\, I am at a loss for meaning in my life. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \n138   I Think\, Therefore… \n  \nThis insightful page has inspired my Yoga routines lately! When I do this form of Yoga\, I treat it like meditation. For me\, it’s been a struggle my whole life to just “sit there” and not “be” with so many things constantly on my mind. It’s been nice to just be in the moment and focus on form\, breathing and not everything else. For me to truly be there in that moment I cease all those fleeting thoughts for those 30 minutes every other day. Then\, when I’m done\, I enjoy the practice so much I begin doing stretches while practicing mindfulness. This has become my favorite part of my days lately\, and it’s very peaceful. I encourage everyone to\, at the very least\, stretch and practice just being. \n  \n—Jeff Kuehner \n* \n  \nWandering Thoughts \n  \nMy friends\, I must be honest. I have written this paper six times over! \n  \nI started out writing about good and evil\, page 156. Setting out\, I had in mind an ideal of vanquishing good\, evil and the universal duality….But I lost! \n  \nDuality has successfully wriggled its little fingers into every last nook and cranny; it won’t be going anywhere soon. And after thwarting my attempts at the highest level\, it opened my eyes. \n  \nI’ve realized my “Not Sowing Karma” theme is wrong. Let me elaborate; we all were born upon a set of scales that started to tip in one direction or the other since our birth. There will come a time when we all will make a choice to either live with balance\, or not. Without balance you can only tilt in one direction\, until eventually you fall. With balance you will never fall\, you only have to get there. Only then is there a chance of escape. Escape. Everyone seems to think there are a variety of ways to escape\, but true escape is when you live in every moment and every thing is balanced. \n  \nDuality seems to offer a reasonable solution\, and offers the key to any that seek. \n  \nCould co-existing be the harmony we seek\, could it shine light on the hidden path? The wonder of wonders keeps me wondering still… \n  \nWell guys\, those are this month’s thoughts. Let me apologize if it seems a little screwy. To be honest\, I didn’t think something that seemed so simple would really be complex. Maybe it’s both! \n  \nAhhhh\, I’ll sign off now\, before I have to re-write it all. \n  \npeace & love & everything else \n  \n—Joshua Barnes \n* \n  \nFrom Thich Nhat Hanh’s book Be Free Where You Are\, pages 37-40. \n  \nBeing able to practice mindful breathing under duress\, in an emotional state\, or any unhealthy mindset. This is most likely a life long journey of practice and patience. “An emotion is only and emotion\, we are much more than an emotion.” If we can recognize an emotion before it gets us on to becoming a wreck\, then we can put it under a mindful breathing exercise and meditate on it\, “you will see that you are strong—strong enough to withstand the storm.” \n  \nBut\, “don’t wait until you have a strong emotion to practice. If you do\, you will not remember how to practice. You have to practice now\, today\, while you are feeling fine.” \n  \nI will speak for myself. So often when an emotion arises that I don’t want to have I bury it. But what happens when there is no more room for them? \n  \nThis practice of mindful breathing to calm the storm or just wait it out without incident is the key\, for me\, to getting through many a bad day. \n  \nThere are many forms of breathing. The point I am trying to make is: let’s just take a look at what is going on in the inside of us\, grab ahold of it and examine it under a practice of mindfulness\, calm breathing\, and then maybe we can get a better understanding of what it is that makes us tick…or get ticked off. \n  \nThanks to everyone who writes in the M & M dialogue. This is fun. \n  \n—Brandon Gillespie \n* \n  \n#89 An Invitation from the Buddha \n  \nMr. Underhill\, I am really glad to hear you have started your countdown. I think that reading a passage a day is a good way to finish your set. I know you as a very good\, caring guy and I wish you all the success in the future. Never forget all you have learned these last years and the good people you have met along the way \n  \nThe first line of this—“We live in a time when everyone is too caught up in the preoccupations of everyday life\,…”—how true this is for this year! It seems everywhere we turn there is nothing but blame for this or that\, or: you don’t believe the things I believe\, so I hate you. I believe our differences should be the thing that makes us love and understand each other all the more. Our uniqueness is one of the most special gifts we have. \n  \nI think taking the time to discover who we are\, really down deep\, is the true essence of life. When we start to understand ourselves more deeply\, we can then open our eyes to the way others feel and have compassion for their ideas. We must remember that we are all brothers and sisters on this earth. It doesn’t matter what geographical location you come from\, or the shade of your skin. These things have nothing to do with a person’s character. If we could stop and tell someone hello\, give them an honest smile when we see they have a frown on their face\, or\, if you have to\, tell a corny joke. I am sure\, if the response isn’t immediate\, that they will think about it later and hopefully have a moment of joy—that some stranger would say something so stupid to them. These little things we can do for one another to me are the true nature of life. \n  \n—Aaron Gilbert \n* \n  \nThanks to everyone who wrote last month. It is very moving to read about your experience of meditation and of Thich Nhat Hanh’s writing.  \n  \nJohnny asked if I might write about some of my experiences hearing Thich Nhat Hanh speak. I have heard him several times\, but the only time I remember the content of the talk was the first time\, on the eve of the first Iraq war in 2003. He began by saying\, “Bodhisattva George Bush and Bodhisattva Sadham Hussein had a quarrel.” And in my heart I did a little bow and thought\, “You’re a better man than I am!” He explained that a Bodhisattva is responsible for many beings\, which\, certainly\, Bush and Hussein were. Thây (that’s what his students call him) said that the United States had barely begun to recover from the psychic damage of the Vietnam war\, and there we were embarking on another. He spoke about the young men\, the soldiers in both countries\, whose lives would be wounded by their experiences\, and the pain this would inflict on both countries after the war had ended. I don’t suppose he could have foreseen all the little wars to come\, including Afghanistan\, the longest war in our history; twice as long as the Vietnam war\, and counting. The other night I heard that Trump’s vaunted withdrawal of troops on the ground in Afghanistan only means that there will be more bombing\, hence less targeted violence\, hence more civilian casualties. Thây said\, “I have not practiced enough\, I have not practiced deeply enough…” and then he began a kind of litany: “you who are a teacher\, you who are a student\, you have to practice with us; you who are an artist\, you who are a filmmaker\, you have to practice with us…”and so on. This wasn’t really his talk\, which he also gave… it was his response to the news of the day.  \n  \nThây suggested that each one of us in the audience could adopt a veteran\, a young person who had been damaged by their experience of war and who could be helped to heal by being befriended. We could invite them into our homes\, break bread with them\, become real friends. I haven’t done this\, I confess\, although I have attempted to “adopt” some people who have been hurt by other circumstances of life. I’ve talked with many veterans who are on the streets\, and\, of course\, the healing is mutual. It’s not a question of one helping the other–if a connection is made one can be a friend\, even if the encounter is only for a few minutes. Johnny has embodied this approach to life as fellowship.  \n  \nThere were many other things in this talk–a lot of the breathing exercises in his book The Blooming of a Lotus were given that night. He told a story about his own war experience as a monk in Vietnam\, counting bodies of bombing victims and the song they sang about the beauty of the sky and earth to keep themselves in remembrance of the gifts of life. He talked about someone bringing him food and he said\, “I got enlightened” which is to say it awakened him to the blessing of preparing food\, serving it\, enjoying taste\, even in these circumstances. He said\, “Enlightenment is always about something. Buddhist enlightenment is about the nature of the self.” \n  \nSo what is the nature of the self? If you practice with Thich Nhat Hanh and sit quietly you see that the self is always changing. It has no permanent identity. In the image of Suzuki Roshi\, “I” is like a swinging door that comes in and goes out with the breath. A swinging door is not a fortress. It has a relative amount of importance\, but not much; certainly not enough to start a war over.   \n  \nAs I look over what I have written\, one thing that I notice is the absence of self-cultivation. Meditation is not about getting better. “Meditation” has been co-opted by the American religion of self-enhancement: we want to be better\, thinner\, stronger\, more beautiful\, wealthier\, and we also want to be smarter and calmer and wiser\, and we think of these properties as products that we can purchase for money or time. The meditation salespeople tell us that “practice” is a good tool to put in our shopping basket along with face cream and exercise and vegan or paleo diet and vitamins\, eight glasses of water\, and all the rest of it. But in Thây’s “Buddhist enlightenment” we meditate to end suffering\, to see clearly\, to meet life in all its beauty and horror as it is\, to get over ourselves and befriend our fellow creatures. We don’t need years of practice and we don’t need to cultivate special psychological states; right now in this very moment\, breathing in and breathing out\,  looking into the eyes of the veteran\, or the neighbor (who well may be a veteran) or the cashier or our partner\, we can be present\, awakened\, kind. I have arrived! says Thich Nhat Hanh; we have already arrived in our own true home.  \n  \n—Howard Thoresen \n* \n  \nMy homework for today: study my distress and dissatisfaction. Doctors\, nurses\, and therapists use this format to diagnose physical/mental ailments\, the SOAP format. Bhikkhu Analayo recommends applying the same format to our distress. Identify the problem by its (S) subjective and (O) objective components\, (A) assess the cause\, and then make a (P) plan. My problem today and every day is that I WANT THINGS TO BE DIFFERENT than they actually are. That person shouldn’t be rude. The rules shouldn’t be so arbitrary. The soup should not be so hot\, and it definitely should never be cold. The subjective is my experience of distress/dissatisfaction/discontentment. The objective\, the cause of my distress\, is my desire for things to be different. (Notice the cause is NOT the “errant” situation!) The assessment is that I really need to learn how to accept things as they are OR be more effective in making necessary changes (complaining is not changing). The plan\, using the jargon of this meditation tradition\, is the Eightfold Path\, or learning to behave differently\, shift my mental focus\, and learn to understand how the world actually works\, as opposed to how I fantasize it works. YTH #7\, 19\, and 317 relate to this. \n  \n—Shad Alexander \n* \n  \nAs I sat still this morning at my writing desk\, before turning on the light\, in the darkness and silence the weather in my mind began to clear from yesterday’s worries and conundrums\, something began to come into focus. In time\, I turned on the light\, and wrote down this thought:  \n  \nA loss is first a pang\, then a memory. Then \, by writing or telling\, it may become a story. Then\, if told with curiosity and courage\, the sorrow becomes a possession\, an element of identity\, and finally a treasure\, a smudge of wisdom. \n  \nThen\, as my habit each morning early\, I explored this thought by shaping it into something like a poem: \n  \n               Schooling Sorrow  \n  \nWhen a sorrow’s young\, it’s pure—stunned  \npang at breakup\, betrayal\, failure\, death.  \nYou weep\, rant\, brood\, slump. And then   \n  \nin the morning\, sorrow starts its epic  \njourney into memory\, becomes an island  \nin your archipelago of sufferings.  \n  \nThen\, if you are strong\, and lucky to have  \na listener—you begin to apprehend its quirks\,  \nto tell it\, shape it\, watch it grow into a story.  \n  \nAnd if you tell your story well\, with curiosity \nand courage\, it then becomes a possession\, \nand in time a treasure\, a smudge of wisdom.  \n  \nThis can be your gift\, your offering—but \nif you don’t school your sorrow into story \nit can never be your friend. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nDear Johnny \n  \nThank you for your continued support and love through all you do. I have very much enjoyed (and do continue to enjoy) your recent newsletters. Funny thing\, to me at least\, is I keep feeling like I want (almost to a need) to give you something profoundly insightful to share and lately felt at a loss\, as I’ve read so many things (in your publications) that seem to already say what I would say. So I keep trying to think of something new and exciting—still\, to no avail. Then\, recently (last week)\, not trying to think of anything\, a concept occurred to me on the subject of fate and “predestiny.” \n  \nThroughout my life I’ve pondered fate\, choice and destiny. There have been many times in my life when I’ve wondered about the “what ifs.” What if I had made a different choice at any number of crossroads in my life? Would I still be the same person with the same resolve? At times the “could have beens” seem whelming\, at best. Recently\, the idea occurred to me that maybe both fate\, that you make choice\, and predestiny both exist simultaneously. The example\, or visualization\, that came to me is that maybe life\, our experience\, is like a long\, vast river filled with twists\, turns\, smooth parts\, rapids\, falls\, obstacles\, and that our “fateful” choices steer us around or into these\, yet we still eventually arrive at the same “pre”destination\, no matter what course we take in this river. \n  \nAnyway\, it’s a concept I’ve been mulling over lately. \n  \n—Joseph Opyd \n* \n  \nI’m interested in co-creating “culture that nurtures” with you\, my friends. In #214\, “I Don’t Need These Things\,” Thich Nhat Hanh says: “…negative forces are everywhere. When you turn on the television\, for instance\, you run the risk of ingesting harmful things\, such as violence\, despair\, or fear.” Elsewhere\, he talks about “mental junk food”—ideas and images which don’t nurture us. \n  \nIt’s not possible to avoid mental junk food\, but it’s unhealthy as a regular diet. Where is healthy food to be found? Everyone gets to figure this out for themselves. I’m prejudiced\, but I think our monthly meditation and mindfulness dialogue is healthy food. Many of the people participating in this dialogue are currently living in prison—an environment which has a lot of negativity in it. Whether we are living inside or outside of prison walls\, it’s important to choose wisely what we read\, what we think about\, how we spend our time. Life is short. Each day is precious. \n  \nBecause most television fare feels unwholesome to me\, I’m trying to create my own culture\, my own world—one I want to live in. I make an effort to create an inner world that is rich in meaning\, that makes me happy\, broadens my understanding\, nurtures peace and love in my heart. For me\, certain writers are very reliable in this regard. And I’m always on the lookout for the next book that will teach me something new\, delight me\, give me a fresh perspective\, open my mind and heart. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nTo: The Open Road & all its Travelers! \n  \nHsin Hsin Ming is fantastic. It’s odd\, your choice of subject\, as this is exactly what I’ve been thinking about. \n  \nIt’s funny\, because while I’ve been trying to untangle my own gordian knot\, the answers I sought were in front of me the whole time; but\, unlike the hero in the story\, I used a different way of slicing through my knot. Though I will admit\, the process was much the same. \n  \nI believe one purpose of that story was to show that when we conform to a certain belief\, or thought process\, we are limiting ourselves\, and in doing so will only fail. \n  \nI have been limiting myself for a very long time\, but\, thankfully\, we all can change! \n  \nAs I said in my last letter\, I’ve come to the conclusion that indifference will never do. Balance\, on the other hand\, is a very different story. When using both the positive and the negative\, you allow them to cancel each other out. The same goes for weights and counterweights. This\, when done correctly\, would leave you floating happily in between\, neither drifting to one side or the other\, but in the middle…Balanced. \n  \nThe Hsing Hsin Ming said: “…Make the smallest distinction and heaven and earth are far apart…” and “…If you want to experience it\, don’t be for or against anything…” \n  \nThe only way I can see this working is by achieving balance\, and\, like I said before\, there is only one way to balance the scales. \n  \nThis led me to my next thought and another very helpful piece: “…Caught in duality\, how can you know oneness?” \n  \nYou know\, I puzzled over this for a long time\, and then\, when reading the next line\, found a wonderful answer staring up at me from the page….Unity and understanding. Two beautiful words. Unity is balance and understanding is realizing there can be no balance when striving towards any one thing alone. \n  \nI don’t think the texts are about condemning duality or escaping it\, I believe they speak of duality being the weight and counterweight\, the true keys to achieving balance\, “oneness\,” in order to escape the samsara. We are caught in duality and must make it work. Duality is in man’s nature for a reason\, and like the wise words on page three say: “…following our nature\, we are in harmony with the way\, wandering freely\, without a care…” \n  \nAnd here is where I’ll make my last stand with a final quote: “…to accept everything is to be enlightened…” \n  \nPeace & love \n  \n—Joshua Barnes \n* \n  \nToday\, December 13\, is Bodhi Day\, the Buddhist holiday that commemorates the day that the historical Buddha\, Siddhartha Gautama\, experienced enlightenment. In Thailand\, where my youngest son has lived for the past eight years\, there are numerous temples that display the key moments in the Buddha’s life in a frieze that goes around the inner walls. So that we might step into the scene along with his disciples and remember the teachings.  \n  \nI thought it would be a good time to tell the story of the Buddha’s awakening and the happiness derived from following his teachings. It may be familiar to most of you but worth hearing over and over. I have studied with Thich Nhat Hanh for many years and taught classes with Rev. Bob Schaibly. These teachings are for all; there is no reason to be a Buddhist or practice Buddhism as a religion. But it is good to know the essence of what we are talking about and to honor the original source.   \n  \nBodhi Day is observed in the Buddhist traditions in Asia from India and Japan to Thailand and Vietnam. Bodhi Day serves as a reminder of the wisdom that is naturally available to us all\, the wisdom that comes from looking deeply in the present moment\, of cultivating our minds\, and recognizing that everything is interconnected.   \n  \nSiddhartha\, was born around 530 BC. He grew up in India\, as a Prince born and raised into a wealthy family\, who lived surrounded by beautiful gardens in a spacious palace.  When he was born his parents were told that their son’s destiny was to be a great warrior or he would become a great spiritual teacher. His parents wanted him to carry on with their established life\, they wanted a warrior. Like all parents they also wanted their son to be safe and grow up satisfied. So they tried to isolate and protect him from the world and meet his every need and desire. But as he grew into his teenage years and adulthood he felt like he was imprisoned. Sound familiar!? \n  \nOne night Siddhartha and a servant went out of the palace gates into the surrounding villages.  \n  \nThey first came upon an old man who was stooped over\, using a walking stick\,  and balding.  \n  \nSiddhartha asked\, what does this mean?  His servant explained that this is Old Age.   \n  \nThey went on and came upon an ill person with sores who was in terrible discomfort.  The servant explained to Siddhartha again\, this is Illness.   \n  \nThey then came to a corpse in the road.  And Siddhartha was shocked and asked again.  \n  \nAnd his servant said\, All living things pay a price for life and this is Death.  Siddhartha was frightened by all this suffering. \n  \nThen they came upon a simple ascetic carrying a begging bowl\, who did not want anything to do with commerce and the travails of the modern world.   We too recognize this.  \n  \nSiddhartha soon decided to leave the palace and follow the path of the ascetic to see if he can find release from his fears and this suffering.   He went out into the world dressed in his servant’s clothes\, an 18 year old young man. He went in search of knowledge with this group of poor and dedicated ascetics.   He fasts to the point of exhaustion and realizes ultimately that this will not work for him.    \n  \nThe life of hedonism in a palace as a prince and a life of starvation are not giving him any more understanding about the world.  So he adopts what is called The Middle Way.    \n  \nHe sits\, determined to pay attention to what is happening.   He sits under the Bodhi tree\, meditating until he comes to some wisdom.   He overcomes all temptations after a period like 40 days and 40 nights.   He realizes enlightenment and in the moment of touching the earth he takes it as his witness.   He finds that concentrating on our breath we can be happy in the present moment.  One of his most important teachings is about calming the mind so that we are not overwhelmed by our emotions of fear and anger.  From that day on he started teaching the eight-fold path to inner peace.  \n  \nCompassion and understanding are what comes from mindfulness and meditation  and the practice of looking deeply at our and others’ suffering.  Compassion then can come about and one can move from being to acting without being overcome.  Without compassion fatigue.  This story is related to the western story of the Good Samaritan who helped another without worrying about the consequences from the rules of his religion or culture.   \n  \nThe Buddha in his enlightenment came up with an eight-fold path to follow for living with awareness and happiness for ourselves and others. The essence of the teachings are based on the  five remembrances of the human condition that is a reality for each of us:  \n\nI am of the nature to grow old.\n\nOh how we try in vain to keep our youthful looks.  We even find it hard to believe we are not still our younger selves when we look in the mirror.  Even in our seventies we can feel close to those young adult years.   \n\nI am of the nature to become ill.  \n\nIf we live a healthy life we often feel it is not fair if we get sick\, as though it was a justice issue. We all will become ill as life goes on. \n\nI am of the nature to die.     \n\nThis is something live most of our lives in denial about.  In our culture especially we keep death hidden away.  \n\nEverything that I care about will pass away.\nThis is the teaching of impermanence. Everything changes. We will lose those we love\, and our possessions\, and even our ideas and ideals.\nOnly my deeds will survive me.   \n\nMay I act well to make a world that is lovely and loving. What we do\, and how we do thing things makes a difference.  This is the secret of  peace and happiness and freedom.   \n  \nRemember to pass it on\, pay it forward\, even with a smile\, but especially with our stories. \n  \nI’m so glad you all are enjoying our monthly sharing of Mindfulness and Meditation!  \n  \nPeace and love\, I miss everyone in person. Be well.     \n  \n—Katie Radditz URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-12-15-20/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/Unknown.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20201210 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20201224 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20201210T215757Z LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T122134Z UID:1565-1607558400-1608767999@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding 12/10/20 DESCRIPTION:  \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nDecember 10\, 2020 \n  \n  \n  \n \nAristotle and Phyllis by Rick Bartow \n  \n  \n \nCharles Erickson \n  \n  \n \nAndrew Larkin \n  \n  \n \nHugo Anaya \n  \n  \n \nfrom Jake Scharbach’s sketchbook \n  \n  \npeace & love \n  \nJohnny \n  \n  \n  \n  \n  URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-12-10-20/ END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20201206T150000 DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20201206T170000 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20201205T190417Z LAST-MODIFIED:20201205T191037Z UID:1550-1607266800-1607274000@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous! MYTHOLOGY with Will Hornyak 12/6/20 DESCRIPTION:On Sunday\, December 6th\, storyteller Will Hornyak will lead a lively Zoom conversation about MYTHOLOGY at 3 pm. Don’t miss this!!! Here’s the link: \n  \nhttps://us02web.zoom.us/j/82169567543 \n  \nInto the Mythic! \n     The world’s oldest stories are like venerable ancestors whose voices still speak\, offering insights and strategies for dealing with  contemporary issues and predicaments. Because myths describe great times of upheaval and change\, they are especially relevant to us during times of radical change in our own world.  Storyteller Will Hornyak will consider some ideas from mythologists Lewis Hyde\, Joseph Campbell\, Martin Shaw and Michael Meade about the vital nature of mythology and a “mythic sensitivity” to the world.  We’ll discuss how various myths have shaped our lives and our own personal connection to mythology. URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-mythology-with-will-hornyak-12-6-20/ ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/1503909239806647-605174-2-.jpeg END:VEVENT BEGIN:VEVENT DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20201203 DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210131 DTSTAMP:20260425T195131 CREATED:20201202T231009Z LAST-MODIFIED:20201205T193845Z UID:1541-1606953600-1612051199@openroadpdx.com SUMMARY:COLLISION REPAIR: Jake Scharbach at Froelick Gallery DESCRIPTION:Sisyphus\, Titian 1548\, painting by Jake Scharbach\, oil on canvas\, 60″ x 48″\n  \nDear Friends of the Open Road \n  \nNancy’s nephew\, Jake Scharbach\, has a show at the Froelick Gallery from December 1\, 2020 – January 30\, 2012. \nHere’s a link to the exhibit: \n  \nhttps://privateviews.artlogic.net/2/1cdd977e49691fb0c6d57e/ \n  \nIf you live in the Portland area\, be sure to see the show! Froelick Gallery is open by appointment\, Tuesday – Saturday\, from 11 am to 5:30 pm. \n  \nHere is a link to a conversation with Jake about his art: \n  \nhttps://youtu.be/cbVVcRRxU2A \n  \npeace & love \nJohnny URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/collision-repair-jake-scharbach-at-froelick-gallery/ END:VEVENT END:VCALENDAR