peace, love, happiness & understanding 8/19/21
2021-08-19 - 2021-09-02
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

August 19, 2021

Thou shalt not kill.

—God
*

In this world
Hate never yet dispelled hate.
Only love dispels hate.
This is the law,
Ancient and inexhaustible.

—Buddha
*

Why, of course, the people don’t want war. Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece? Naturally, the common people don’t want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship….All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country.

—Hermann Göring
*

War: What is it good for?
Absolutely nothin’!….
Peace, love and understanding, tell me
Is there no place for them today?
They say we must fight to keep our freedom
But lord knows there’s got to be a better way.

—from the song “War,” written by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong
*

Every month, Michel Deforge sends me between 8 and 16 pages from his meditation journal, from which I select some excerpts for the monthly Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue. For this issue of peace, love, happiness & understanding, I want to reply to his entry for July 6th. In it, he responds to Kim Stafford’s poem “Old Glory’s New Red, Black, and Blue,” from his book Singer Come from Afar and refers to Charles Busch’s “A Promise to Our Children.” Here’s what Michel wrote:

July 6, 2021 OLD GLORY’S NEW RED, BLACK, AND BLUE—KIM STAFFORD

Yesterday I struggled with lethargy and lost. During a few spare lucid moments, I pondered my July 4 thoughts, Kim’s poem, and the poem Johnny shared in the June edition of THE OPEN ROAD—A PROMISE TO OUR CHILDREN. I’ll pause while you review the poems (or Johnny may re-share).

[I’ll include Kim’s poem later. For “A Promise to Our Children,” see the June 24th issue of peace, love, happiness & understanding. Kim introduced me to Charles Busch, from Fields of Peace. In his letter, he gives the names and ages of 69 Palestinian and Israeli children who had been recently killed. He suggests that people make this promise:

I will not be a part of the killing
of any child,
no matter how lofty the reason.
Not my neighbor’s child.
Not my child.
Not the enemy’s child.
Not by bomb. Not by bullet.
Not by looking the other way.
I will be the power that is peace.

And now, back to Michel’s journal…]

I am definitely not for changing the flag; yet, there is something there we could get a spinnin’ round about over as we explore the idea. Does the Red, White and Blue still mean what it did 245 (!!) years ago? Does it still need to, or can we find new meanings, new depth, or do we even care to look?

I don’t know that my thoughts solidified toward any one direction, other than to want to get something down before I forget and move on to bigger prizes, if any exist. I definitely do not want to be party to killing any child, “no matter how lofty the reason.” At the same time I see myself as impotent to act, powerless to affect change (even the faintest glimpse of a beginning). That letter [“To the Mothers and Fathers of Palestine and Israel”] said more, in a more eloquent manner, than I could hope to muster. All I could do was cry for the loss of all those precious children. And what about the ones who think they’re “all grown up” just because they’ve passed through a myriad of solar-year cycles? (Johnny still sees the child in each of us! How could we imagine these little boys and girls going to play at war being any different? They’re still mommy’s and daddy’s little bundle of joy; they’re still mourned when shot or killed or bombed or stabbed.)

And then my mind drifts to all the little boys and little girls playing at being grown-ups. Having babies of their own as babies themselves. Or, heaven forbid, falling victim to the drug dealing predators—(who, by the way, are still somebody’s little boys or girls)—or the lure of sex and/or alcohol. Each one a precious being. Sometimes killed by bullets of war and hate, sometimes for other “lofty reasons.” Sometimes by their simple naïveté.

What can any of us do more than we do already? More laws won’t help. Look at the “War on Drugs,” or “against gang violence”? No victories there.

I saw an advert for a show coming up where the brewery hired Bloods and Crips to work at the same factory and participate in the same “program”. I think it was a success, for some; thus, the show. Is it a cause for hope? Do we (I) have grounds to look for hope in prison, as well as for life post-prison? May it be so, a thousandfold!

And so I part, once again, with more pain reviewed and few answers to eschew, having just re-read Kim’s OLD GLORY’S NEW RED, BLACK, AND BLUE. (It leads to rhyming.) As I go, I still can’t help but wonder: What can I do, where do I fit in? Am I fodder for the cannons of the nightly news, or some other “frontline” war on humanity’s failings and weaknesses? I don’t rightly know.

What about you? Where do you fit in? To my world or my life—better yet, to our world and our lives—each one of them does MATTER! It’s not something to frame a political slogan or program around. How do we pursue an end of killing children for any reason—lofty or not?

—Michel Deforge
*

I’d like to say a few words to Michel, and to whoever else is reading this, about pacifism. I became a pacifist while I was in high school. It was simple: I didn’t want to kill anyone. (And I didn’t want to hire other people to kill for me, or on my behalf.) It seemed wrong to me that I was required by law to join an organization whose purpose was to kill people.

I think most people are already “almost pacifists.” They know that in war lots of people are killed and that is somehow “bad.” But, many people would add, “Sometimes it’s necessary.” In order to avoid some arguments, I say that I am not for or against any past wars. They are over. It’s absurd to protest against something that has already happened. I am against all present and future wars. Anyone got a problem with that?

(Here is an interesting statistic from the Fields of Peace website, fieldsofpeace.org: During World War I, the ratio of soldier to civilian deaths was 9 to 1. In World War II, it was 1 to 1. In today’s wars, for every soldier killed, nine civilians are killed. Most of them are children. Watch the two-minute video on the Home Page.)

(Strictly speaking, a pacifist is not necessarily opposed to all acts of violence, just organized, large-scale killing: war.)

Michel, I think that if you weren’t already a pacifist, you became one in the act of pondering and writing your journal entry. You say:

I definitely do not want to be party to killing any child, “no matter how lofty the reason.”

That’s all it takes. You’re in the club. Welcome.

It’s a fun club to be in. Kim and I are in it. Kim’s dad William is in it. Their friend and neighbor Hideo Hashimoto is in it. The Dalai Lama is in it. So is Jesus. And Martin Luther King and Coretta Scott King and Mahatma Gandhi and Leo Tolstoy and Helen Keller and Dorothy Day and Albert Einstein and Bertrand Russell and Sigmund Freud and Helen Caldicott and Alice Walker and Howard Thoresen and Alan Benditt and Thich Nhat Hanh… It’s quite a long list. Made up mostly of people whose names we don’t know.

In his poem, Kim refers to the problem of war and violence, but the primary focus is on questions raised by the Black Lives Matter movement of injustice and systemic racism. His poem is both playful and serious. It is the job of wise people to encourage us to perform thought experiments, to challenge things we take for granted, to imagine in new ways. Here’s the poem:

Old Glory’s New Red, Black, and Blue

Cue the anthem, slide down the flag
that flew through World Wars I and II,
then assailed Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq,
and now a hundred nameless places where drones
look down on weddings to seek out villains known
or guessed—old wars and new, the flag flown high
to woo our crew to action for our banner blue, our
devotion true—until money tattered it as inequality
grew, and drew us, first a few, then more, to view
in new light the plain hue of white one clue
a change was due—so beat the drum’s
tattoo and raise anew our flag
of red, black, and blue.

Sunset red, shadows blue and black, indigo
and scarlet deja vu when dew falls heavy
in the grass to strew starlight in diamonds
through the dusk. No stew of sorrow at our
rendezvous. No one to misconstrue this change
as anything but patriotic on the avenue of many colors
hitherto passed over when some hullabaloo, some retinue
of old privilege and this fresh generation’s overview
began to see a world askew and must eschew
old privations and renew our love of freedom
to pursue our happiness and make taboo how
certain citizens because of color were subdued,
so bring forth now the red, black, and blue.

Brew a bold libation, fire up the barbecue,
and offer feasting cordon bleu to celebrate
what no judicial revue, no internal revenue, no
voodoo Waterloo from here to Timbuktu can make
untrue, what no zoo of caged freedoms can deny
some citizens have been held second class in lieu
of rights by law but yet false in fact. We say
adieu to that. We’re all in one canoe, our ship
of state that flies the banner red, black, and blue.

Now we must interview each other, give our leaders
one stern talking-to, root out each residue of prejudice,
outdo old talk with questions and with follow-through,
hew the righteous line and find in black all colors joined,
all ethnicities of shade and blend and flavor, so may good
accrue. For we were gathered from one Genesis when God
threw galaxies together spinning with diversity beaucoup.
In keeping with that old creation, we must now imbue
our politics (that have been one big bugaboo) with kindness
to us all at last, undo each miscue that slew our honor
so may ensue a tart fondue of plenty. We stir
the roux of flavors in our bold debut: Old Glory
dressed up now in red, black, and blue.

Blue and black—this the color of a bruise: no news
to those who made the Blues, and something no-one could
confuse with anything but hurt. So set the Statue of Liberty
at Standing Rock to face down opposition to democracy,
wealth flowing corrosive through pipes of steel to spew
into the river collateral trouble for the Water Keepers
who knew Pilgrims were first refugees, seeking freedom
for faith first welcome to these shores. Does our dream
arc toward justice still? Can we call that effort true,
supreme, or is our legacy sunk to pay-per-view?
We must fly the red, the black, and blue.

This mighty woman, mother of exiles with a torch
who lifts her lamp beside the golden door shall dress
her copper in these colors now to call this century’s
huddled masses in. Her beacon-hand reveals that
at our best we are the watershed where myriad
streams are harvested, rivulets gathered into one:
Asian, Eurasian, African, Bedouin, Islander, Blue-
Blood Black, and every lovely shade of brown,
from dark dusk to sand, and every hue of Wanderer
or Fugitive from darkness seeking light, every Indian
to this ground restored by right, for this we fight,
for this democracy our aspiration’s light, for this
to be true, we will pledge allegiance now
to the red, the black, the blue.

—Kim Stafford
*

Here’s a link to Edwin Starr’s 1969 version of “War”:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01-2pNCZiNk

And in 1985, The Boss:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mn91L9goKfQ

Peace, love and understanding

—Johnny

Bibliophiles Unanimous! 8/22/21
2021-08-22 15:00 - 17:00 (America/Los_Angeles)
Beloved Bibliophiles!

On Sunday, August 22, at 3 pm (PDT) the theme for our Zoom gathering is:
What Do You Read? How Do You Read? & Why Do You Read?

Here’s the link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/83135193074

Should be fun!
I hope to see you there.

peace & love
Johnny

peace, love, happiness & understanding 9/2/21
2021-09-02 - 2021-09-15
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly.

—Martin Luther King, “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” April 16, 1963

September 2, 2021

World War II was the deadliest military conflict in history. An estimated 70-85 million people were killed in the war, or died from war-related disease and famine. Of those who died, it is estimated that 50-55 million were civilians.

Near the end of the war, humans got together—in the hope of preventing future wars—and founded the United Nations. The idea is simple: use diplomacy, rather than weapons, to solve problems. In the original charter—which was adopted in June of 1945 and took effect in October of that year—the member nations took on some other big jobs, in addition to maintaining peace: protecting human rights, delivering humanitarian aid, promoting sustainable development, and upholding international law. At present, the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR) says there are 82.4 million “forcibly displaced people” on our planet. The United Nations is the primary organization which provides food, shelter, clothing, safety and medical care for refugees, and helps them to find a permanent home.

One of the most important achievements of the United Nations is the creation, in 1948, of the Universal Declaration of Human rights. I like to read it from time to time. These are our legally established rights—yours, mine, everyones!:

Universal Declaration of Human Rights

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) is a milestone document in the history of human rights. Drafted by representatives with different legal and cultural backgrounds from all regions of the world, the Declaration was proclaimed by the United Nations General Assembly in Paris on 10 December 1948 as a common standard of achievements for all peoples and all nations. It sets out, for the first time, fundamental human rights to be universally protected and it has been translated into over 500 languages. The UDHR is widely recognized as having inspired, and paved the way for, the adoption of more than seventy human rights treaties, applied today on a permanent basis at global and regional levels (all containing references to it in their preambles).

Preamble
Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,
Whereas disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind, and the advent of a world in which human beings shall enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear and want has been proclaimed as the highest aspiration of the common people,
Whereas it is essential, if man is not to be compelled to have recourse, as a last resort, to rebellion against tyranny and oppression, that human rights should be protected by the rule of law,
Whereas it is essential to promote the development of friendly relations between nations,
Whereas the peoples of the United Nations have in the Charter reaffirmed their faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person and in the equal rights of men and women and have determined to promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom,
Whereas Member States have pledged themselves to achieve, in co-operation with the United Nations, the promotion of universal respect for and observance of human rights and fundamental freedoms,
Whereas a common understanding of these rights and freedoms is of the greatest importance for the full realization of this pledge,
Now, therefore,
The General Assembly,
Proclaims this Universal Declaration of Human Rights as a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations, to the end that every individual and every organ of society, keeping this Declaration constantly in mind, shall strive by teaching and education to promote respect for these rights and freedoms and by progressive measures, national and international, to secure their universal and effective recognition and observance, both among the peoples of Member States themselves and among the peoples of territories under their jurisdiction.

Article 1
All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

Article 2
Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status. Furthermore, no distinction shall be made on the basis of the political, jurisdictional or international status of the country or territory to which a person belongs, whether it be independent, trust, non-self-governing or under any other limitation of sovereignty.

Article 3
Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.

Article 4
No one shall be held in slavery or servitude; slavery and the slave trade shall be prohibited in all their forms.

Article 5
No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.

Article 6
Everyone has the right to recognition everywhere as a person before the law.

Article 7
All are equal before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to equal protection of the law. All are entitled to equal protection against any discrimination in violation of this Declaration and against any incitement to such discrimination.

Article 8
Everyone has the right to an effective remedy by the competent national tribunals for acts violating the fundamental rights granted him by the constitution or by law.

Article 9
No one shall be subjected to arbitrary arrest, detention or exile.

Article 10
Everyone is entitled in full equality to a fair and public hearing by an independent and impartial tribunal, in the determination of his rights and obligations and of any criminal charge against him.

Article 11

Everyone charged with a penal offence has the right to be presumed innocent until proved guilty according to law in a public trial at which he has had all the guarantees necessary for his defence.
No one shall be held guilty of any penal offence on account of any act or omission which did not constitute a penal offence, under national or international law, at the time when it was committed. Nor shall a heavier penalty be imposed than the one that was applicable at the time the penal offence was committed.

Article 12
No one shall be subjected to arbitrary interference with his privacy, family, home or correspondence, nor to attacks upon his honour and reputation. Everyone has the right to the protection of the law against such interference or attacks.

Article 13

Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.

Article 14

Everyone has the right to seek and to enjoy in other countries asylum from persecution.
This right may not be invoked in the case of prosecutions genuinely arising from non-political crimes or from acts contrary to the purposes and principles of the United Nations.

Article 15

Everyone has the right to a nationality.
No one shall be arbitrarily deprived of his nationality nor denied the right to change his nationality.

Article 16

Men and women of full age, without any limitation due to race, nationality or religion, have the right to marry and to found a family. They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage, during marriage and at its dissolution.
Marriage shall be entered into only with the free and full consent of the intending spouses.
The family is the natural and fundamental group unit of society and is entitled to protection by society and the State.

Article 17

Everyone has the right to own property alone as well as in association with others.
No one shall be arbitrarily deprived of his property.

Article 18
Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.

Article 19
Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.

Article 20

Everyone has the right to freedom of peaceful assembly and association.
No one may be compelled to belong to an association.

Article 21

Everyone has the right to take part in the government of his country, directly or through freely chosen representatives.
Everyone has the right of equal access to public service in his country.
The will of the people shall be the basis of the authority of government; this will shall be expressed in periodic and genuine elections which shall be by universal and equal suffrage and shall be held by secret vote or by equivalent free voting procedures.

Article 22
Everyone, as a member of society, has the right to social security and is entitled to realization, through national effort and international co-operation and in accordance with the organization and resources of each State, of the economic, social and cultural rights indispensable for his dignity and the free development of his personality.

Article 23

Everyone has the right to work, to free choice of employment, to just and favourable conditions of work and to protection against unemployment.
Everyone, without any discrimination, has the right to equal pay for equal work.
Everyone who works has the right to just and favourable remuneration ensuring for himself and his family an existence worthy of human dignity, and supplemented, if necessary, by other means of social protection.
Everyone has the right to form and to join trade unions for the protection of his interests.

Article 24
Everyone has the right to rest and leisure, including reasonable limitation of working hours and periodic holidays with pay.

Article 25

Everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of himself and of his family, including food, clothing, housing and medical care and necessary social services, and the right to security in the event of unemployment, sickness, disability, widowhood, old age or other lack of livelihood in circumstances beyond his control.
Motherhood and childhood are entitled to special care and assistance. All children, whether born in or out of wedlock, shall enjoy the same social protection.

Article 26

Everyone has the right to education. Education shall be free, at least in the elementary and fundamental stages. Elementary education shall be compulsory. Technical and professional education shall be made generally available and higher education shall be equally accessible to all on the basis of merit.
Education shall be directed to the full development of the human personality and to the strengthening of respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms. It shall promote understanding, tolerance and friendship among all nations, racial or religious groups, and shall further the activities of the United Nations for the maintenance of peace.
Parents have a prior right to choose the kind of education that shall be given to their children.

Article 27

Everyone has the right freely to participate in the cultural life of the community, to enjoy the arts and to share in scientific advancement and its benefits.
Everyone has the right to the protection of the moral and material interests resulting from any scientific, literary or artistic production of which he is the author.

Article 28
Everyone is entitled to a social and international order in which the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration can be fully realized.

Article 29

Everyone has duties to the community in which alone the free and full development of his personality is possible.
In the exercise of his rights and freedoms, everyone shall be subject only to such limitations as are determined by law solely for the purpose of securing due recognition and respect for the rights and freedoms of others and of meeting the just requirements of morality, public order and the general welfare in a democratic society.
These rights and freedoms may in no case be exercised contrary to the purposes and principles of the United Nations.

Article 30
Nothing in this Declaration may be interpreted as implying for any State, group or person any right to engage in any activity or to perform any act aimed at the destruction of any of the rights and freedoms set forth herein.

Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Women's Liberation!!! 9/5/21
2021-09-05 15:00 - 17:00
Beloved Bibliophiles

For Sunday, September 5th at, 3 pm, the theme for our Zoom gathering is: WOMEN’S LIBERATION!!! We will talk about Women’s Literature, and about Patriarchy, Goddesses, Women’s History, Misogyny, Mythology, Spirituality, et cetera. Here’s the link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/83135193074

I hope to see you there.

peace, love & liberation

Johnny

Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 9/15/21
2021-09-15 - 2021-10-14
Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

I find it interesting how my mind works.
—Michel Deforge

September 15, 2021

The Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue is one year old! Our first dialogue came out on September 15, 2020. Happy Birthday to us! Nancy had the lovely idea of looking back over the last year, and remembering together some of what we’ve shared. Here goes!:

In segregation we have paintings of different scenes….since putting this wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh in perspective you see more than a painting. For it opens my eyes to the time, the painter, the painter’s years of art skills, everything down to what makes paint…paint. There are so many miracles that came together to make these paintings! It’s amazing. Now I try to be mindful of what miracles come into place to make people I meet, foods I eat….

Often 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.

I 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!

—Jake Green
*

I am the good man.
I am the good decisions that I make.
I am compassion, I do not fake.
I am kindness, I am love.
I am by choice, not by chance.
I am intent, not happenstance.
I am in servitude of good.
I am alive and I am living.
I am grateful I am.

—Joseph Opyd
*

By being mindful I have learned that there is value in all situations. While I suffer I learn, while I’m happy I learn. Mindfulness is our tool to dig through the layers of our minds and be really truly in the moment, allowing us to remove reaction and embrace each event for what it is truly worth, “good,” or “bad.”

—Cody Dalton
*

I find myself, my soul, my beliefs and my being saturated in belonging—belonging to a love so deep, so real, so unreal. Coming from a life of nothing and going to a life full of love I never knew I could be a part of. A love that I knew was there, there for others, but for me…well, it was only window shopping.

Now I long to be drenched in the core of my soul, always and forever drowning in this love, this love that has pierced my cosmic veil. This love for all, for beauty, for the ones who opened so many doors into and onto the mind, heart and truth that dwells within my being….

Blessings,
Peace,
Joy,
Unconditionally
Love
All
There is in Life

—Rocky Hutchinson
*

The most important thing about life–greater than any discovery, creation, or attainment—is the simple fact that we are alive….If we open our eyes and ears we can remember how fantastic it is, how precious, how exciting, how beautiful, how crazy it is that we are here. We have arrived. We are not only alive but we can be aware of our life and we can appreciate our life. Meditation practice is taking time to appreciate this amazing fact….

When 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?….

The 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.

In Buddhism they say the first prerequisite for enlightenment is a human birth.

There’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.

What is purity?—what is purification? Meister Eckhart said, “To be pure is to have no thoughts.”

How to have no thoughts? Listen, listen, listen.

I 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.

If I listen, I can sleep when I am tired and eat when I am hungry.

—Howard Thoresen
*

I do truly believe that all humans are worthy of being loved, so I guess that includes myself. Dang it! I know the best thing I can do for myself is continue to live a healthy clean life, love others, and surround myself with like-minded people….My hope is that someday I will be a successful productive member of society, and when that child inside comes calling I can reassure him that we have the tools to live a healthy life, and everything is going to be okay….

Love can come from some very unexpected places when you least expect it and you may need it the most. It is an amazing thing that people are out there that care for their fellow humans. Even when the love might not be directed at you personally, to see others loving others can have a huge impact on people. Reading all of your words and the newsletters has been great. When I see that type of thing it makes me want to be a better, more loving and compassionate person. It is infectious.

I recently lost my father who was killed in a tragic motor vehicle accident. He was my rock and I was so looking forward to spending time with him when I got home. I tried to be strong at first, but I started to slip into a very lonely dark place within a month. Nothing made sense and I felt fearful. Then I started to get unexpected support from the community where I grew up. A friend from the past reached out to me and we have been speaking ever since. Their love and support has seen me through the worst of it, and I am feeling excited again about going home and continuing my father’s legacy. Love is a beautiful thing and it knows when you need it most, how others’ compassion and understanding can bring you through dark times and make you feel hopeful again. Neat! Let’s all keep loving one another for the sake of those that may not know they need it.

—Aaron Gilbert
*

I have taken up golf in my old age, just by accident, since I live a few blocks from a golf course, I thought I would try it just to see what it was like. That was last spring. I quickly found that I loved the game. It is a practice of putting mind and body together in a challenging physical ritual, and at it’s best there is a mystical experience to be had….fleetingly.

Yesterday I played 18 holes particularly badly and came home feeling very frustrated. Of course I went out this morning and practiced, and did a little better, almost certainly because I wasn’t trying too hard to do well.

Then I came home, turned on my computer, and read Beginner’s Mind. It came like a ray of light that if I can play with beginner’s mind, I will no longer get frustrated. I will probably play better too, although that won’t matter any more (yes it will).

—Ken Margolis
*

All life, particularly including prison life, is often filled with ambiguities and heartfelt remorse for past actions and a need for new beginnings.

Zen philosophy speaks to this concept: Always be a beginner, always start with a fresh mind. Few concepts may be as important to success in prison reform as new beginnings.

Peace and Love,

—Jerry Smith
*

Once again, Thây emphasizes that now is all that is and everything I need is already present, here in and/or with me now. When I go looking out there (outside myself)—to others, to the past, to any possible future, to things to places—I can never find peace, whatever I am seeking. When I begin to turn inward, embracing what is within me already, I find peace, freedom, happiness: nirvana. It’s all right there, just waiting for me to find it, as it always was….

It 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….

Wouldn’t that be wonderful? If we could get many to meditate and peace were to spontaneously erupt. Then, as a result of all the peaceful people and the contagious nature of peace, that Peace broke out all over the world. What would that world look like? Would it be astonishing or amazing? Or, would we all, as active meditators, know it was what we expected to occur?

—Michel Deforge
*

All My Relations

I want to thank all my relations
for this chance to be on Earth
in her time of flourishing; to thank
the First People of this place, the
Multnomah people, the Clackamas,
Molalla, Tualatin, & Chinook, to honor
their sovereignty in long and continuing
relation, still teaching us how we might
be here together; to thank my mother and father,
moon and sun, for setting me forth before
their own passing on; to thank my grandmother
who listened to me so eloquently I learned
to listen to my own heart and mind, to find
stories and songs there; to thank my family
and friends, and all citizens and travelers
who study and work for deeper kinship
in this place, with one another, and with
all creatures, one Earth, visible, palpable,
fragile, intricate, resonant, in need of our
better stories. I want to thank you
who have gathered to receive what I have
carried here — in hope that something
I have may meet something you need,
so all our relations may be strengthened
for the life we live together.

—Kim Stafford
*

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.

—Jeff Kuehner
*

My friends, I must be honest. I have written this paper six times over!

I 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!

Duality 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….

Duality seems to offer a reasonable solution, and offers the key to any that seek.

Could co-existing be the harmony we seek, could it shine light on the hidden path? The wonder of wonders keeps me wondering still…

I have been limiting myself for a very long time, but, thankfully, we all can change!

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….

I’ll make my last stand with a final quote from the Hsin Hsin Ming: “…to accept everything is to be enlightened…”

peace & love & everything else

—Joshua Barnes
*

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?

This 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.

There 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.

—Brandon Gillespie
*

My 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.

—Shad Alexander
*

WITHOUT

Picture nothing.

Nothing is pictured.

And then everything food sex stoplight
yoga mat grocery bag little gnat—

as through a valve
in the middle of that pictured
nothing:

it all comes rushing
like sparks
jetting in the void.

The ocean goes back in the bottle
only when you ignore it.

I flit from station to station,
knowing nothing of meditation.

And I seek out mute buttons
as if there are more than one,
as if it is something that exists

without.

Happy early 70th birthday! As my present to you, I’ve written a poem in your honor:

AFTER

And you may find that you have nothing
to say, and that’s okay. The bird

you pictured now because that’s the way
the brain works

and the concentric circles of its song—
they are always there. Jung defined

the unconscious as everything
you have forgotten, everything

you’re not currently thinking about,
and everything you do not know.

That narrows it down.
So the conscious mind is really

only very little of what goes on—
like a lightbulb compared to the dawn.

—Alex Tretbar
*

I so desire to be one with nature, to be in the woods, smell the fresh air and hear only nature. To touch Mother Earth and for her to touch me, feeling her embrace. It has been way too long for me feeling pure nature, and reading #358 at first made me feel sad for what I have been missing, but then I read it again, seeing that “Whenever she sees us suffering, she will protect us.” In this moment I am in now, she is protecting me with the knowledge that soon I will have the chance to feel the woods and her embrace once again. I cannot wait for that day….

Somehow, 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.

—Joshua Underhill
*

I am here
I see (or hear or touch) some thing
I know it
Yes (tiny smile) I am meditating
My knowing it
My seeing
and my being here
are somehow
related Yes (chuckle to myself) I am ok
somehow divisions
are eased
can I “feel”
how you also
are breathing
can I deeply
understand
that the
water from a
cloud
is my relation?
the light and gray
colors from
that cloud
come all the
way here
luminous here
can these hard
lines
these
seeming forever
walls
be continually
“eased” “understood”
“held” like a child
I am dissatisfied
crying inside like
a wailing child
or a crazy politician
can I remember
what I said
above
I am here
my fear my dissatisfaction
is here also
but I am holding (embracing) it
like my own mother
like my own niece
like my own beloved lover
I am not
killing my fear my dissatisfaction
my crying child
I am embracing them
breathing a long side
belly and fear
are not unrelated
are they?
Forever
smile
laugh (to yourself – don’t let them
know you are crazy)
I can even
start to
think of your
breathing your
thinking
your pain
as my relation
although these sentences are calming
can you
sit here
for a few seconds
or a short time
without reading
these sentences
just sit here
with the satisfaction
breathing
then with the dissatisfaction
breathing
the pain of the
world is also
yours
smile you are Good
continue forever
make up your
own writing your own
song of the open
let it in form us and
you
how to dance our
loving meditating

—Alan Benditt
*

Meditation, 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.

The 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?

—Bill Faricy
*

Everyone 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….

—Andy Larkin
*

In 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.

Learning To Smile

Without a smile, I walk a mile
Smilin’ just not my style
I miss my friends, I miss my wife
I miss my outside life

But there’s beauty to see
Air to breathe
Thoughts to think and hear and be

A smile overcomes all grief and pain
It takes me home again
So I force a smile, walk that mile
Smilin’ might become my style

Because there’s beauty to see
Air to breathe
Thoughts to think and hear and be

So, check out this smile, it’ll be here a while
It helps me through this trial
My spirit lifts, the smile grips
My mood and won’t let go

So there’s beauty to see
Air to breathe
Thoughts to think and hear and be

I’m alive, I’m headed home
When I smile I’m free

—T. String Clements
© 2019
*

Greetings to this worthy sangha….

There can be many ways to meditate, but the paths all converge at the same goal. What is that goal?

An 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….

Sitting 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” 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.

I 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…

—Peter Oppenheimer
*

Meditation 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….

Last week, I went to Walla Walla to help take care of my grand kids while their parents worked there for a few days. It was joyful and freeing to be out after covid vaccines, no masks necessary in the outdoors. The bare hills and the towering rock walls with giant wind mills are a huge contrast to our home landscape in Portland in the cedar trees and lush spring greens and reds of rhododendrons, yellow tulips, orange poppies. I hadn’t been on I-84 going East for more than a year. The last time was visiting at Two Rivers. On our return we came past the prison. And I was filled with the feeling of being home and homesick at the same time. It was hard not to be able to come inside. So we stopped, went down to the river and I meditated with you, just breathing the same air. Being at ease. And I pictured the banner that hangs in the trees at Plum Village when one arrives on retreat. It blows gently in the breeze with Thay’s calligraphy that says, “You have arrived. You are home.” It was a wonderful moment of being home. We are always arriving, right here, right now. This was most refreshing, and I felt grateful for having been welcomed there always, in that magical, loving dialogue group.

—Katie Radditz
*

white orchid
Waxy petals unfurl slowly against the tropical earth pale insects burrow in drawn by fragrance escaping molecule by molecule through soft loam surrounding the tendril of whitened stem piercing soil branching off a flower then another creeping underground this life unseen unheeded above ground our life drawing sustenance from the dark explosion

—Deborah Buchanan
*

Walking is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. But we often find it difficult or tedious. We drive a few blocks rather than walk in order to “save time.” When we understand the interconnectedness of our body and our mind, the simple act of walking like the Buddha can feel supremely easy and pleasurable. (Thich Nhat Hanh, from Your True Home)

Let’s start with that first sentence: “Walking is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other.” I said I was not going to dwell on my foot surgery any longer, but this short passage just spoke to me with force.

This ‘recovery’ from a supposedly minor operation is taking much longer, with a few more uncertain results possible, than I was led to expect. Complications, infection, antibiotics, more doctor appointments and different approaches have been accompanied by a range of emotions on my part. Eager anticipation, determination, trust, puzzlement, frustration, doubt, fear, elation, discouragement, encouragement—you name it, I’ve felt it. Acceptance hasn’t yet set in…

So since February 25, “walking is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other” has been a dream—and a mockery. I dream of the moment I can get my swollen foot into a shoe and then put one foot in front of the other, but the result is that I treasure the thought of that simple act. Is that what it takes to treasure life? Why is it that we have such difficulty appreciating these present moments, these simple acts, and just hurry through them to get to the ‘next thing?’

The gift in all of this is that I have slowed down, learned deep appreciation for the simple act of walking (and plenty of other things), learned thoughtfulness, awareness and appreciation, and come to cherish the interconnectedness of my mind and body, which this situation has certainly amplified.

Thay likes to invite people to smile and appreciate a non-toothache. A simple practice. Thank you for reminding us.

—Jude Russell
*

Takes a heap of meaning to make a body happy

There have been complaints these days about meaninglessness.

The spiritual end of our civilization seems to have broken down. We were originally set up to be monotheistic, and not polytheistic. The gods were banished and all space taken by Jehovah on his golden throne. That worked through the Middle Ages, but the Industrial Revolution put a spoke in the wheel. Almost unnoticed, the gods started coming back.

There are those who would turn Jehovah out and bring the gods back. Monotheism, polytheism, whatever. The important thing is to live a meaningful spiritual life. But a lot of Christians, Muslims and Jews are invested in monotheism, which is the idea that if there is one god there can’t be many. Logic won’t allow it. Others say that religion needs to be founded on paradox, in which case, there can be one god or many, depending on your visionary angle.

—Charles Erickson
*

let’s pretend

instead of pretending that we are afraid
that we must improve
that we have enemies
that the future will arrive someday

let’s pretend everything is sacred
pretend this is Paradise
pretend every moment is precious
pretend we love everyone

pretend our joy knows no bounds
pretend we are the whole wide world

—Johnny Stallings
*

Rhyming With Thich Nhat Hanh

Once upon a cloudy day
a wandering poet lost his way
a busy yard-sale he passed by
drew him back, he wondered why
Browsing through a battered trunk
he found a book by a Buddhist monk
Thich Nhat Hanh was the writer’s name
interconnection, his basic game
the young man skimmed in search of clues
a garden of thoughts, so many to choose
the path being offered was simple but steep
and spelling that name, a Grand Canyon leap…

—short excerpt from a poem by Nick Eldredge
*

Mindful
Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for—
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world—
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these—
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

—poem by Mary Oliver, shared by Ronni Lacroute
*

These days I practice my mindfulness most often out in nature where I’ve come to realize all things carry the same spark I carry in my own heart and each thing I observe becomes “the best part.” There are no saints…or sinners, no self-righteous…no condemned, everything is on equal terms. I’ve concluded not only do I belong to the human tribe, I also belong to the life tribe, and strive to conduct myself accordingly.

I thank all who have touched my life in such a positive, kind, and loving way—you now live in me!

And I will not forget you.

Peace and love
—Abe Green
*

You are equally as beautiful as the universe.
—tag on a Yogi Tea bag

(Friends on “the outside” can access the complete archive of Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogues on the Open Road website by clicking on “EVENTS.” Then, keep clicking on “Previous Events.” You can also access the peace, love, happiness & understanding archive in this way.)

peace, love, happiness & understanding 9/16/21
2021-09-16 - 2021-09-29
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

Yet Another So-called Humor Issue

September 16, 2021

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To give the poor dog a bone:
When she came there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.

She went to the baker’s
To buy him some bread;
When she came back
The dog was dead!

She went to the undertaker’s
To buy him a coffin;
When she came back
The dog was laughing.

She took a clean dish
to get him some tripe;
When she came back
He was smoking his pipe.

She went to the alehouse
To get him some beer;
When she came back
The dog sat in a chair.

She went to the tavern
For white wine and red;
When she came back
The dog stood on his head.

She went to the fruiterer’s
To buy him some fruit;
When she came back
He was playing the flute.

She went to the tailor’s
To buy him a coat;
When she came back
He was riding a goat.

She went to the hatter’s
To buy him a hat;
When she came back
He was feeding her cat.

She went to the barber’s
To buy him a wig
When she came back
He was dancing a jig.

She went to the cobbler’s
To buy him some shoes;
When she came back
He was reading the news.

She went to the sempstress
To buy him some linen;
When she came back
The dog was spinning.

She went to the hosier’s
To buy him some hose;
When she came back
He was dressed in his clothes.

The Dame made a curtsy,
The dog made a bow;
The Dame said, Your servant;
The dog said, Bow-wow.

This wonderful dog
Was Dame Hubbard’s delight,
He could read, he could dance,
He could sing, he could write;
She gave him rich dainties
Whenever he fed,
And erected a monument
When he was dead.
*

Jeffrey Sher sent us this joke:

Q: What did the Buddhist tell the door-to-door salesperson who came to his home selling vacuum cleaners?
A: Too many attachments!
*

Will Hornyak sent this one:

Mahatma Gandhi traveled through India barefoot as a young man, meditating, praying, fasting and meeting his countrymen. His thickly calloused feet carried him from village to village where he begged for food, often eating rotten scraps. “My health suffered, I became weak, my breath was foul.”

Gandhi carried with him only one book throughout his travels: Mary Poppins. “I was inspired by the word “Super-calla-fragalistic-expialadoscious” since I was a Super Calloused Fragile Mystic with a case of Halitosis.”
*

A penguin walked into a bar and said, “Has my father been in here today?”
The bartender said, “ I don’t know. What does he look like?”

A man walked into a bar and sat down next to a man with a dog at his feet. “Does your dog bite?” he asked. “No,” was the reply. So he reaches down to pet the dog, and the dog bites him. “I thought you said your dog doesn’t bite!” he said. “That’s not my dog.”

When I was younger, I felt like a man trapped inside a woman’s body. Then I was born.

What is the last thing that goes through a bugs mind as it hits a windshield?
His butt.

What kind of coffee was served on the Titanic?
Sanka.

How many performance artists does it take to change a lightbulb?
I don’t know. I left at intermission.

How many Unitarians does it take to change a lightbulb?
We believe that incandescent, fluorescent, tinted, or three-way are equally valid paths to light, and if, in your journey, you have felt the need to change your lightbulb, we are holding a lightbulb service on Sunday at which you’re welcome to recite a poem or perform a dance about luminescence.

“Hello! Is this the fire department?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, my house is on fire! You’ve got to come right away! It’s terrible!”
“Okay, how do we get to your house?”
“You don’t have those big red trucks anymore?”

I failed my driving test today. The instructor asked me, “What do you do at a red light?”
I said, “I usually check my emails and see what people are up to on Facebook.”
*

Well, that’s about it for now. Just remember why birds fly south for the winter…
It’s too far to walk.

May all people be happy!

Bibliophiles Unanimous!: BOOKS WITH PICTURES IN THEM 9/19/21
2021-09-19 15:00 - 17:00
Beloved Bibliophiles

For Sunday, September 19th, at 3 pm (PDT), the theme for our Zoom gathering is: BOOKS WITH PICTURES IN THEM.

Here’s the (new) link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/86949399028

Our Special Guest will be Professor Andrew D. Larkin. Should be edifying.

We hope to see you there.

Peace, Love & Beauty

Johnny

peace, love, happiness & understanding 9/30/21
2021-09-30 - 2021-10-13
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of….We know the truth not only by the reason, but by the heart.

—Blaise Pascal (1623-1662)

September 30, 2021

Rocky sent this contribution to “peace, love, happiness & understanding” from segregation:

HEART!

Hey, I’ve been thinking a lot of the heart and trying to determine why it has so much control over each of us. Scientifically, I understand how the influx of adrenaline and hormones—either oxytocin or testosterone—affect the heart chemically.

What I want to find out is why it is the place where love, joy, pain, fear, sorrow and tears seem to come from. Is the heart a doorway to where we come from before we are born? Or is it a keyhole where we (“our soul”) goes? If our heart is filled with only love, it feels like what heart should feel like.

I feel in my heart all the people I love, loved, or will love. Is it strange that when I place the ones I love or despise in my heart I envision them all in robes, with no shoes? My heart is a sacred place. I assume it looks much like a battlefield, scarred, broken, scorched earth, with spots of pure beauty. What does your heart look like in your mind?

The depiction of R. W. Emerson’s “oversoul” has stitched its image upon my soul. I can feel my life and all of its emotions flowing into me from that other, unknown place. But it flows into my heart, not my eyes, not my poor wounded mind. No, my oversoul is flooded into my heart. Those of you who have this ailment will be of like-minded understanding. Our tears come from our heart, the heart being our center of…all of us.

I feel that under the right circumstances I could live well without my mind, among others that are willing to be of like-heartedness. The ancient Chinese believed that the heart was the source of all our cognition. I do not think they were wrong. Albert Einstein believed our heart was where mankind would find true timelessness, or a wormhole into time/space—much like my thought of the keyhole to heaven.

When we truly, deeply love each other, I feel we are as close to a heaven on earth as we’re ever going to get, and, with that said, the reverse could be said—that to hate is hell on earth. I would prefer to love everyone, and not allow the poison of hate to stain any more of my being—to live in love, joy, and, yes, I consider even some pain and suffering to be alive in love, in life, to accept the duality of all things and understand that we love the circle of all things.

I honestly believe my heart is a hobo, a vagabond, a transient. My heart is happiest homeless. I do want love and am good at loving…too good, though. Too deep and too long. I keep the love for others long after they have forgot to love me. Which means my heart is at home in the gutter, or dog house, or kicked. That is why it is a battlefield of life.

Howard brought up Knausgaard’s epic My Struggle, and “the body’s gentleman’s agreement with death,” and the steps of irrevocability with the pooling of blood in the heart. Dying of a broken heart was also discussed by us, which in a morbid way is in my top 3 ways to go now. The love and passion of it brings tears from my heart to my eyes. To love someone so much that you follow them into death…very romantic. Pure love.

I once read somewhere, or perhaps someone told me, that Shakespeare wrote the great works with one hand upon his heart. So I tried it…well, this all came out. So, does it work to write to the rhythm of a beating heart? I feel that it is in the eye of the beholder, or in the sinews of how a writing touches your heart.

What touches your heart to tears? The vision of a single mom or dad weeping over the gift of a fine meal for kids? Or the fact that you’ve stopped shooting H, and it’s been a year? You were tempted and walked away. Or those last few moments so precious you did not get to spend with a loved one who died of cancer? What touches your heartstrings? Don’t be afraid…let it touch them.

Let us all speak of the heart, here, now, with those we love.

—Rocky Hutchinson 9-19-21
*

wake up, heart!

wake up, heart!
wake up and love everyone and every thing
love the unlovable
the unhappy old men who start the wars
the geniuses who collapse the economy
the heads of the big corporations who ruin the earth
they need love, too
why else would they do stuff like that?

we all want to love and be loved
we all need to love and be loved
love everything that moves
and everything that won’t budge
love the person who is reading or listening to this poem

you might start with the easy ones
passing dogs
laughing children
fluffy white clouds
all the spring flowers shouting “love me!”

practice on the easy ones
until you get so good at it that you accidentally love the weird and scary homeless people,
the criminals,
the people whose views differ from yours
—before you have time to think about it

heart, you were born for love
mr. brain sometimes tells you not to
“don’t love that one,” he says, “that one doesn’t deserve it”
“don’t be a fool”
forgive mr. brain
he can’t help it
he’s always making distinctions between this and that
he needs a hug

you know better
you know that the thing to do is just to love
to wake up and love without limit

—Johnny Stallings
*

This is a slightly edited transcription from an interview with Alokananda Roy, who has choreographed large dance productions in Indian prisons, which then toured the country!:

Love Therapy in My Second Home

When a child is born, he or she is like a fresh flower. No child is born a criminal or an offender. Things happen for various reasons. Who are we to judge? We have not been in that situation. I have been through a journey with such people, and all I did was treat them like a human being and not an untouchable. The rest is history.

I was walking into a man’s world. Girls are fewer in number. I have never planned anything in my life. Honestly speaking, I never felt I have to achieve anything. I just followed my heart. I went in as a guest to the jail, which is now called a “correctional home.” I couldn’t imagine it will transform me, and I never thought my spirit will find its freedom in the jail.

In every adverse period of my life, dancing rejuvenated me. That’s what I wanted to share with them—to be involved in something creative. But it is a fact that at other times it is very depressing in a place like jail. You cannot be happy in a jail. Nobody wants to stay there.

It was on the International Women’s Day, and I was invited as a guest. The girls wanted to learn dance, and I readily agreed, because I love challenges, because I didn’t know what it was like to be with these people who are shunned by the society.

When I was coming out, I noticed the boys, and I really felt sorry for their mothers—being a mother myself. I felt any one of them could have been my child, and I wanted to do something.

Jail is basically a place of curiosity for people outside. It’s a very intriguing place, very different from the outside world. When I first went in I was equally curious, like others. I never thought I will be so emotionally involved—not to this extent. Instinctively, I asked Mr. Sharma, “Can I also teach the boys?” He was surprised, because people are afraid to go there, or to interact with them. Many go there out of curiosity, but dance is something which is unheard of and unthinkable in the jail. I have to admit that Mr. Sharma was a great, great, great support.

The energy was not only the physical energy—when we are dancing, it affects our body and mind and soul. We don’t do it consciously, it just happens. While teaching them, I realized why we feel good when we dance.

Although the girls were very excited, the boys were not. They thought dancing was being feminine. And I did think that they would feel this way, so I started with martial dance, and I told them that it was like karate, kung fu. So, probably they could relate to that. We started with martial dance, and then the vibrant folk dances of India. And they started enjoying it, because the rhythm they had lost in life was coming back, in their body, their mind, their soul, their thoughts. And not only the boys who first came in, others started joining in, and I had a team of 60 boys and 10 girls.

While they were rehearsing for these dances—the folk dances, the martial dances—they started making the props, the costumes, which they never thought they could. So, all their latent talents, which were lying submerged, were surfacing. All their artistic talents were coming out. They didn’t even know that they had an artist in them.

Whatever they wish to convey, they write it down on a piece of paper. Once a boy wrote, “I don’t remember my mother so much, but now when I shut my eyes and think of her I see your face.” I was so touched. I did nothing special for him. Just that little bit made such a difference.

Tell me who has not made any mistake in life, big or small. There are so many offenders walking free in our society. Nobody points a finger at them. The moment you walk into the jail, you are stamped, and you have to live with that stigma.

As they were changing their attitude, their body language, I thought of doing Valmiki Pratibha, because it was their story: the transformation of a criminal into a sage. And I found all my Valmikis there, and it has created history.

When somebody dies in the family of one of them, we all sit around and pray for the departed soul. We don’t even know who they are, but they’re all brothers, sisters, and they’re my children. So, we all sit together and pray. They have also learned to share the sorrows of others. It’s all a bonding, a brotherhood beyond boundaries. Never ever, anywhere in the world, as far as I know—I may be wrong—do prisoners go out of the prison, perform all over the country, and they come back to the jail. Nobody has ever even imagined to escape, although they had every opportunity to do so.

And gradually, with time, there was a peculiar bonding, when I started becoming a mother figure to them, and they called me “Ma,” or “Mother.” It was such a beautiful feeling, because there was so much innocence, so much love, so much sincerity in that bonding, that connection that we had. And gradually they became a part of my life. I realize why. They also told me nobody touches them. They always said, “Ma, you do what you want, but don’t leave us. Be with us always, all our life.”

You see, all I did was channelize their energy—the unused youthful energy that they had—in a positive way. And it worked. They were doing so well, that I thought: “Why don’t we have a little performance within the walls of the jail?” Because I never ever imagined—we never imagined—they will go and conquer the whole country.

Within the jail, there are boys and girls from different religious backgrounds. After doing Valmiki Pratibha, and when they all actually became brothers, there was no barrier, no religious barrier. Each one was celebrating the others’ festivals together.

Since we started this journey, many boys and girls have been released, and they’re all in touch with me. Many of my boys come to meet me with the produce of their farms. And believe me, none of them—not one—have gone back to the dark world. They’re all well settled in their own way. Many of them do not come from privileged backgrounds, but they’re all settled happily with their families. Sometimes they call me when they get a new job. Sometimes the call me, even send a train ticket, when they get married. They’ll call me when they have a child. I have a very happy family all around me, and I’m a proud mother of hundreds of children.

When you have children, you also have grandchildren. There are so many children who live with their mothers in the jails, because they have nowhere to go, nobody to take care of them at home. Such children live like prisoners as well.

It is so unfortunate! I feel like a criminal myself: “Aren’t we crushing their childhood? Aren’t we killing their growth, the normal growth of a child?” They call me “Grandmother”: “Didun.” I felt it was my responsibility to at least try and give them some kind of a normal childhood—where they will go to school in uniform, they will have proper classes, extracurricular activities, they will see cartoons, they will have a library, they will have toys and a playground to play around, like any other child. Is it too much to ask for, for a child who has not sinned, to have a normal childhood? That’s how Heart Print was born.

First it was just boarding, where I had brought some of them whose parents were in jail. Now some of them go to an English Medium school. And the others, who live with their mothers till age six, have a little Montessori which is called Heart Print. Their mothers have their fingerprints there. My little grandchildren will leave their heart print behind when they go to a better place, a better school, after age six. That is also our responsibility: that they go to a place where they can adjust themselves like any other child, outside.

On 7th of January, 2018, early morning, my boys from the prison crossed another milestone in life. I think they created another history. For the past ten years they have been performing in public auditoriums, where they were onstage and the audience was in the auditorium. There was still a fine line. But that morning they mingled with 12,000 marathon runners, and they ran the marathon with them. There was no wall, no barrier. It was pure joy of inclusiveness.

So, I’m proud to be their mother. I’m proud of them, because they have not only made a difference to my life. I think if the society really highlights their transformation, many people in the world will want to be transformed, and see the light.

—Alokananda Roy
*

Here’s a link to the YouTube video, which gives a more vivid picture of Alokananda and what she has done in Indian prisons:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OspzzO7gAiw
*

Like Rocky, Kim wants us to share our stories:

Splinters

It’s the little things that get you. Me? Everything’s going
great—except I have this splinter at the tip of my index finger
I can’t get out. Whatever I do I get this twinge that stops me.
I meet the world with pain.

Do you carry festering sorrow, a weight of guilt, a habit of fear,
invisible anguish darkening days? On the street we pass not
knowing, not showing, nursing all our precious troubles, humming
as we hide splinters at the heart.

I have an idea: let’s tell how it is and why, stories of how we came
to carry what we carry, how we suffer what we must. And hey,
look up there, where the tops of the trees are all
reaching for the sky.

—Kim Stafford

Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Looking Glass Bookstore 10/3/21
2021-10-03 15:00 - 17:00
Beloved Bibliophiles

For Sunday, October 3rd, at 3 pm (PDT), Bill Kloster and Katie Radditz will guide us on a magical mystery tour of Portland’s legendary Looking Glass Bookstore. This is a SPECIAL EVENT!

Don’t miss it!

Here’s the (new) link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/86949399028

peace & love

Johnny

peace, love, happiness & understanding 10/14/21
2021-10-14 - 2021-10-27
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

The Ethiopians say that their gods are flat-nosed and black,
While the Thracians say that theirs have blue eyes and red hair.
If cattle or horses or lions had hands and could draw,
And could sculpt like men, then the horses would draw their gods
Like horses, and cattle like cattle; and each would shape
Bodies of gods in their own likeness.

― Xenophanes (c. 570-478 B.C.E)

October 14, 2021

Johnny’s Brief Guide to Ancient Greece

WARNING!: My mind tends to meander. This essay might do likewise.

About five years ago, or so, I chanced to read “The Suppliants” by Aeschylus. Written about 463 B.C.E., it is one of the earliest plays there is. In it, a group of women have come from North Africa to Argos, in Greece, seeking asylum, to escape being forced into marriages against their will. When I read it, I thought: “Wow! That’s still happening: women are coming to Greece as refugees from North Africa to escape from forced marriages—among other things.” And I thought it would be cool to do a production of “The Suppliants” in one of those big amphitheaters that you see pictures of.

It was one of those fantasies that last for a while, until other ideas come along and crowd it out.

Then, earlier this year, a Greek actor and director named Stratis Panourios was a guest speaker for the Shakespeare in Prisons Conference. I saw his talk online,
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BuKvkE_cZDk&t=32s),
and a week later participated in an online conversation with him. He had directed a production of Shakespeare’s play “The Tempest” at a prison in Greece. He is smart, funny, engaging—I liked him immediately.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zMZaUUW_Xs&t=64s.)
I emailed him my idea about doing “The Suppliants” of Aeschylus and including stories of contemporary refugee women in the performance. He sent me a “call for submissions” form from an arts festival: 2023 Eleusis European Capital of Culture.

We submitted a proposal, along with three other collaborators: Zeina Daccache, Vassiliki Katrivanou and Alokananda Roy. Some prison friends will remember Zeina. She is a drama therapist who came to our production of “Twelve Angry Men” at Two Rivers prison, in 2012. Zeina had directed a production of the same play at Roumieh prison, and made a great documentary film about it called “12 Angry Lebanese.”
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tf5akVvHhx4&t=29s.)
Vassiliki lives in Athens and has worked on refugee issues as a member of the Greek Parliament. She currently works for the Greek Council on Refugees.
(https://openroadpdx.com/team/vassiliki-katrivanou/.)
She made a documentary film with Bushra Azzouz called “Women of Cyprus.” She came to our production of “Midsummer Night’s Dream” at Two Rivers in 2010, and took photos for the film Bushra was shooting. (That film is nearing completion, and should be released in 2022.) I met Alokananda Roy in 2018 at the Shakespeare in Prisons Conference in San Diego. She had directed big dance-theater productions at a prison in India, and the performers had taken the shows on tour to theaters in many Indian cities.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OspzzO7gAiw&t=1s.)
Our Dream Team is still waiting to hear if we will be included in the festival. Keep your fingers crossed!

I got very excited about going to Greece. When acting in or directing a play, I like to do research on the background of the story—the time and place when the play was written, and also the time and place in which the story is set. Ancient Greece is a treasure trove! For the past several months I’ve been reading about Greek Drama and Philosophy and Culture and Religion and Literature and Mythology—everything written by a Greek or about the Greeks that I can get my hands on.

The Western tradition of Literature begins with the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. In Athens, in the Fifth Century B.C.E, the poets Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and Aristophanes began our tradition of theater. Our philosophical tradition begins with the Greeks, notably Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, in Athens. The Athenians were the first city-state to attempt Democracy as a form of government. And then there are all those strange myths that have inspired poets, painters, playwrights and psychiatrists since the Renaissance. Shakespeare wrote a long poem called “Venus and Adonis.” “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” is set in Athens, just before the wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta. Botticelli painted “The Birth of Venus”!
(https://www.uffizi.it/en/artworks/birth-of-venus.)
Yeats and Rilke both wrote poems about Leda and the Swan. Homer’s Odyssey inspired James Joyce’s Ulysses and Nikos Kazantzakis’ epic The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel. Stephen Berkoff’s 1980 play “Greek” is a modern re-telling of Sophocles’s “Oedipus Tyrannus.” Lee Breuer’s 1989 musical “The Gospel at Colonus” is based on Sophocles’ “Oedipus at Colonus.”
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZyQP_zrD2U.)
In 2017, Nancy and I saw a great production of Mary Zimmerman’s play “The Odyssey” at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, in Ashland. Sigmund Freud postulated an “Oedipus Complex” to explain why human life is such a tragedy. Et cetera. Et cetera.

At a tender age, I got involved in Theater and also I went off to India to study Philosophy, so I have always been intrigued with Greece, where these things began in the West. I fell in love with Socrates, and sat in on classes taught by the great Greek scholar-philosopher Gregory Vlastos at the University of California at Berkeley, when he was giving lectures in preparation for writing his book Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher. I got a CETA grant back in 1977, and the first play I ever directed was Choēphór0i, “The Libation Bearers,” of Aeschylus. I’ve played the part of the blind seer Tiresias in “The Bacchae” of Euripides twice!—directed by Keith Scales for the Classic Greek Theater of Oregon, and directed by choreographer Bill T. Jones, for a dance-theater workshop production at Columbia University.

Philosophy has become an academic subject, taught by Philosophy Professors to Philosophy Students in Universities. Mostly, they read the writings of the most famous philosophers in the Western Philosophical tradition, and discuss their ideas. For Socrates and Plato, philosophia, the love of wisdom, was something quite different. They wanted to know: how should we live? Life is short—what is the best way to spend the brief time we have? When I went to India, I didn’t go in order to become a scholar of Indian Philosophy. I wanted to get enlightenment! The gurus I studied with taught what might be called “The Art of Living,” which included Philosophy, Psychology and Religion—as it did for Socrates and Plato. I read Plato and Walt Whitman not because I want to impress people at cocktail parties, but because I want to live a meaningful life. I want to be wiser, kinder, happier, more free. I want to better understand what’s going on here!

The word theos, “god,” had a different meaning for the Greeks in those days than it does for those of us who grew up with a monotheistic worldview. Instead of saying “God is Love,” it would have made more sense to say “Love is a god.” Anything eternal was a god or a goddess—Earth, Sky, Night, Day, Evening, Sleep, Dreams, Madness, Desire, Violence, Friendship, Fate, Chaos, Death—all were holy. The Greeks lived in a sacred landscape, where mortal women gave birth to children whose fathers were gods—or even rivers!

The performances of Greek tragedies were sacred rites. The “City Dionysia” was a festival in Athens dedicated to the god Dionysus. The god was believed to be present for the performances. Just as New England Puritans were required to go to church, Athenians were required to attend the plays. It was a religious duty. Everyone was expected to honor the gods and goddesses by making sacrifices and performing sacred rites. One thing you definitely didn’t want to do was anger the gods. The plays told stories sacred to the Greeks, including stories about the Trojan War and its aftermath. If you’ve read the Iliad, you will remember that the gods and goddesses of Olympus took sides, and got very involved.

Most of the stories that the Greek playwrights told were tragedies—so much so, that we might get the impression that the Greeks in those days had a “tragic worldview.” But trying to understand how people in Athens at the time of Socrates understood the world and their place in it is extremely challenging. Maybe even a Herculean labor! It’s mind-boggling! So much was going on! And they were going through big changes—thanks in no small part to the philosophers and playwrights.

There were three kinds of plays: tragedies, comedies and satyr plays. We have only seven of the seventy to ninety plays that Aeschylus wrote, seven of the more than 120 plays that Sophocles wrote, eighteen of the ninety or so plays that Euripides wrote, and eleven of the forty comedies that Aristophanes wrote. One satyr play survives, “The Cyclops” by Euripides. Every year at the City Dionysia Festival three playwrights would be invited to present four plays each—three tragedies and one satyr play. It’s interesting that after watching three tragedies, full of suffering—Oedipus’ mother hangs herself and he gouges out his own eyes—the mood would shift to a knockabout comedy, full of bawdy humor. (Satyrs spent their time getting drunk and having sex. Greek vases give us ample evidence that ancient Greeks were definitely not Puritans.)

The chorus was an essential part of all Greek plays. In an early play like “The Suppliants,” the chorus of Egyptian women, “Danaïdes,” is the protagonist of the drama. (Lots of words we use today come from the Greek: protagonist, antagonist, drama, tragedy, chorus, catharsis, nemesis, hubris, myth, psyche, eros, idea, and on and on.) Most modern plays don’t have a chorus, but most operas do, and lots of dance productions and musicals do. The Greek chorus didn’t just speak their lines, they sang them. And they danced. Among the many challenges for our production will be integrating music and movement into the performance. Fortunately, one of our collaborators is a dancer-choreographer.

There are a lot more books and essays about Greek Tragedy than about Greek Comedy, but I’d like to say a word or two about Aristophanes. He boldly made fun of the most powerful (and dangerous) men in the city—and they were in the audience! He made fun of everyone and everything, including tragic playwrights, philosophers, gods and goddesses. Most remarkably, he wrote anti-war plays, like Lysistrata—where the women refuse to have sex with their husbands until they end the war—and he did this while his country was at war! It’s a credit to the people of ancient Athens that he got away with it!

I hope we get the grant! For me, going to Greece will be a kind of pilgrimage. I want to see the places where Zeus hit people with lightning bolts, places where gods and goddesses were born, where heroes performed their mighty deeds. I want to walk around the agora, where Socrates spent his days asking his fellow citizens about the meaning of Justice and Virtue. He was sentenced to death for corrupting the youth with his philosophizing. He calmly drank the poison after explaining to his friends why he was completely unafraid to die.

Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 10/15/21
2021-10-15 - 2021-11-14
Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

October 15, 2021

Meditation is Not Solemn #291

“Meditation is to be aware of what is going on—- in our body, in our feelings, in our mind, and in the world. Each day, nine thousand children die of hunger. The superpowers have more than enough nuclear warheads to destroy our planet many times. Yet the sunrise is beautiful, and the rose that bloomed this morning along the wall is a miracle. Life is both dreadful and wonderful. To practice meditation is to be in touch with both aspects. Please do not think we must be solemn in order to meditate. In fact, to meditate well, we have to smile a lot.” –Thich Nhat Hanh, from Your True Home

And life is not solemn—-at least not all the time. Admittedly, I spend a fair amount of time worrying about the world—pandemic, the Taliban, voter suppression, Texas, climate, wildfire smoke…the neighbors’ barking dogs…

But invariably I get caught, snagged, by beauty:

My dog’s little fur body, impossibly soft and sweet-smelling.
The bouquet of sweet peas, smelling like my dear grandmother’s garden.
The moon gleaming in the black sky.
Erik Satie’s, Gymnopédie floating up from downstairs.
Garden tomatoes and golden raspberries heavy on their vines, red and gold.

And that’s all within a 100’ radius! And all right now, at this moment! Just think of what’s to come—fall leaves! snow on the mountain! pumpkin pie!

Beauty must trump pain, mustn’t it? I believe so. In meditation some of all these aspects of life, good and bad, float in and out, up and down. Just let them be. But beauty rises to the top.

—Jude Russell (September 15)
*

(Here are some excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to meditations from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh.)

September 2, 2021 #171 PRECIOUS GIFTS

Being fully present: there was nothing I wanted more, as a child, from my father, but it wasn’t until I became an adult that I learned the language to identify my need. Now, I’m confined in a box and I always wonder: when will I lose him? I’m scheduled to be released when he is 102⅔….

I can do something for myself now—breathe, and learn to do what he didn’t know then….I can continue to practice the gift of being fully present whenever I get time with others: parents by phone, or friends in person.

It’s odd that as humans we forget how much we value and cherish someone until they are nearly gone. A rare exception, which I would not advise anyone to pursue, is the “near-death experience.” Yet, it is after these moments of being shook awake from our casual stupor in life that, for many of us, we finally begin to give our full attention—at least for a while.

Yet, all it requires of us to give “precious gifts” is to breathe on purpose, mindfully aware of each passing moment while we are in it. There’s nothing more to do. There’s nothing complicated about breathing. It can help one to practice this skill, the mindful part at least, so when the “important” moments do arrive I can be present and aware. They’re all important when we pay attention to them. I just hope that paying attention can help recall the sensation of a past moment with my dad, mother, uncle, or dear friends—when all are gone from my now. It can be nice to visit a moment or two, before the mind goes.

(I’m including the next meditation Michel talks about, because it’s short and sweet.)

# 175 Let Your Heart Bloom

In the Springtime, thousands of different kinds of flowers bloom. Your heart can also bloom. You can let your heart open up to the world. Love is possible—do not be afraid of it. Love is indispensable to life, and if in the past you have suffered because of love, you can learn how to love again. —Thich Nhat Hanh

September 22, 2021 #175 LET YOUR HEART BLOOM

This is a challenging proposition in this setting—not impossible, just a challenge. So maybe the challenge becomes cultivating a safe haven—a garden of sorts. It is still many weeks away—seemingly an eternity—but, eventually, the few of us still remaining from Theatre and Dialogue groups will be allowed to assemble once again as a community of friends I rarely, if ever, see as I go about my cyclical movements. Once in a while I do see an old friend; we greet and pass along, as required. It’s pleasing to have those moments. I doubt things are any easier in the “free world.” So, until we can once again convene in our little haven at TRCI together, we’ll need to be “open”—letting our hearts bloom where we are—so when we do meet an old friend, or gather as a group, we can be ready with a heart open to the possibility of love, when ever and where ever it may happen upon us. I think I like this idea: being ready for life wherever it may happen.

September 30, 2021 #176 TRAINING FOR HAPPINESS

This sounds like a fun training! Happiness is something I’ve learned, slowly, to be (mostly) a choice. At first the struggle was to identify when I was happy. It was a tough time for me and this seems to be over-simplified. Another truth about happiness I learned: it’s not dependent on anything or anyone outside of me. Happiness, (like love), when dependent on external causes will cease when the causes evaporate—they always do….I’ve also learned that a happy-sad balance exists along a continuum; also, that without other “negative” (so-called) emotions the enjoyment of happiness is less, because of lack of contrast.

(You may also find value at PositivePsychology.com. It is relevant and related. (M.D.))

Once again, I suspect, this training brings me back to recall that I will be of more constant states when I resume deliberate, daily breathing practices—meditation…. Happiness, as a practice, is going to require some practice from me, if for no other reason than that I will know I’m happy when it happens! This sounds really silly to my mind’s ear, but I think the breathing practice and, possibly, a focus on things I am happy about or happy to see and do. Maybe others have ideas for how to “TRAIN FOR HAPPINESS.” It could be a great value to those of us struggling with finding it. How do you TRAIN FOR HAPPINESS? Do you just prepare to “be” happy? Or is there a deliberate mantra or slogan you practice with? How does one TRAIN FOR HAPPINESS? I’d like to know.

—Michel Deforge
*

(Michael’s last question is a good one to ponder. John Paisley once asked some of his friends to write about happiness. I wrote the poem “Eudæmanology.” It’s not the final or definitive word on the subject, but might (I hope) provide some clues for our ongoing quest. (J.S.))

Eudæmonology*

well, right off I’d better say
happiness is an art, not a science

it helps if you start out deliriously happy
some kids hesitate
others run right at life, full-speed, with wide-open arms
if they trip and fall flat on their face
they get up and keep charging

if you weren’t one of those kids
I don’t know what to tell you
maybe you’ll always hesitate

and if you were one of those wildly happy ones
you already know the secret
learned it without being taught
knew it before you knew you knew it
no anamnesis required
because you never forgot who you are

of course between then and now something could have happened
something relentless like family, school, television, job
duties, obligations, commitments, tragedies even
the car accident, the cancer

there are parts of the world—big parts—where tragedy is the dirty air you can’t avoid breathing
places where food is scarce and machine guns are plentiful
if you don’t live in one of those places you’re damn lucky

so, the conclusion so far seems to be that happiness is a matter of luck

but there’s more to it

where I live many young women could easily go to the store and get food
but instead they get so thin they look scary

um, so the question is: what is required for happiness?
well, it starts with the basics: food, shelter, clean water to drink
then, other stuff comes into it: love, affection, friendship

and the art of not making yourself miserable

the Buddha said craving is the source of suffering
and cessation of craving is liberation

bear that in mind

I think a big problem is that people forget that thoughts are just thoughts
it’s as if all the ideas, opinions, beliefs they have accumulated are the world in which they live
rather than the filter through which they see the world

so, the secret of happiness?
maybe something like this…
seeing through the spell of thought and language
coming again and again
wide awake
to the silence
that knows
nothing

* A neglected branch of Philosophy, the study of happiness.

—Johnny Stallings
*

Weary of those who come with words, words but no language,
I make my way to the snow-covered island.
The untamed has no words.
Its blank pages spread out in all directions.
I come across the tracks of some deer in the snow—
Language, but no words.

—Tomas Tranströmer (March, 1979), from Bill Faricy
*

#3 Miracles

Life and all that it is , is a miracle. Our very decision to take a path can be a miracle, or it could be a curse, but even a curse could be a miracle. So many of life’s mishaps or follies turn out to be miracles in disguise. A good one to consider is Prometheus’ plight: he bequeathed the fire of the gods to man. Man got fire and the big bird got his liver for a meal every day. Prometheus will never die. There are three miracles in that story.

Those of us within the walls of a prison can choose to be miracles to those we love and for those who are lost—because they need love, too. We can, with a full heart of humbleness, help them to find their path. I ask many the same question that a great man once asked me when I needed it most: “Who are you, really?”

Most people want to do good and be good and I’ve noticed that most just want to live a simple life—a job, wife, home, car, etc.—to accomplish that, to them would be a miracle. To walk away from the life that put us in prison and reform ourselves is a miracle. To say “no” to addiction and “yes” to life is a miracle.

So, I call you to be the miracle for yourself and then look to your left and to your right and tell each person that they are a miracle too. Hug, touch, laugh, glow in the light of inner love you have. Radiate the light of goodness inside, for that is the spark that is a beacon to all who need a focal point to see that the miracle of change is real.

—Rocky Hutchinson
*

(Thich Nhat Hanh turned 95 on October 11th. He is known as Thây, which means “teacher,” by many people. In 1982, he established the Plum Village Monastery in the south of France. In November of 2014, he had a major stroke, and has been unable to speak since that time. In November of 2018, he returned to Vietnam. Katie has been to Plum Village many times. She sent us this newsletter, which I’ve edited a bit:) (J.S.)

Dear Beloved Community,

Warm greetings from Plum Village, France

Peaceful dwelling

As we approach Thầy’s 95th birthday this week, we would like to share with our international community how Thầy and our sangha at Từ Hiếu Temple in Huế, Vietnam have been doing…..We are deeply grateful for the love and dedication of the team of people taking care of our teacher.

Over the last year, Thầy’s health has weakened. The autumn rains have always been challenging for Thầy’s lungs and health, and continue to be so. This spring Thầy was not able to go outside to visit the temple grounds as much as he could last year. Nevertheless, the sangha was delighted that, when the Từ Hiếu Temple renovation was finished, Thầy was well enough to make a tour of the temple to visit the completed works. In recent months, Thầy has been resting for most of the day with his eyes closed, yet he is often very alert, present and at peace. When the weather is fine, the attendants help Thầy to go out onto the veranda of the Deep Listening Hut to enjoy the sun.

We are here for you

With the great challenges of the Covid-19 pandemic in Vietnam, both Từ Hiếu Root Temple and our Diệu Trạm nunnery have been mostly closed to visitors. Fortunately, Huế has been spared the major outbreak that Ho Chi Minh City has endured….Many people in Vietnam have been without food or work. With the help of our international sangha friends, as part of our Love and Understanding social work program, our monastics in Vietnam have been doing their best to supply oxygen, food, medicine and donations at the roadside food banks helping those most in need.

We are deeply aware that the pandemic has brought great suffering to countless people all around the world. We continue to do our best to practice diligently with stability and compassion, so we can be a refuge for you all, now and in the future. It is our deep wish to open Plum Village in France again as soon as possible.

New ways to practice together

….Finding ways to support one another as we integrate mindfulness practice more deeply into daily life has been a powerful collective journey.

This month, a small delegation of monastics representing Thầy will be traveling from Plum Village to Scotland to participate in the TED Countdown conference ahead of the COP26 climate talks. They will be sharing Thầy’s teachings on ethics and awakening with leaders, scientists, activists and businesspeople; and they will also teach practices of mindful walking, mindful breathing, mindful eating, and the art of deep listening. Thầy always hoped that mindfulness retreats could be organized ahead of political summits, and it’s wonderful to have the chance to contribute towards his vision.

The gift of listening

For Thầy’s birthday this year, we’re inviting our whole community to offer Thầy the gift of our practice: in particular, the collective practice of deep listening to ourselves, our loved ones, and the Earth. Our own practice of mindfulness is the most powerful gift we can offer to continue Thầy’s teachings and legacy in the world.

Thank you for being there, and for walking this path with us. We are deeply grateful for your continued support and generosity for our monastic community as we carry Thầy’s legacy forward into the future.

With love, gratitude, and trust,

The Monks and Nuns of Plum Village

—Katie Radditz
*

72

All my errors made me who I am—
that set-back quickened my epiphany,
that detour brought me to the way,
catastrophe was cradle to awakening,
disaster kindled the great shazam.

You young folks, take a lesson
from one humbled by attrition:
may you relish revelation born
of every kink in your intention
as required by your formation.

Very Local Weather

The forecast is moderate, but significant—
at least to me: the little storm my body builds
passing through this world. Light breezes
of the breath inhaled become variable winds,
enough to stir a drifting feather, or puff some
thistledown, my sigh slight, but bold, compared
to a bird’s whisper stirring a thicket, or wisplet
of the butterfly, flaring wings through golden light.
A warming trend imbues the damp stump I sit on,
then I disturb the air by stepping the stony path.
And don’t forget the spate of yellow rain spent
from my cloudy soul onto dry leaves. And
don’t forget how my habits change the climate,
my light, my speed, my hurricane of acquisition
melting ice, raising seas, burning mountains—
I and you and all of our tornado transformations.

—Kim Stafford
*

Today is a happy day: Josh Underhill got out of prison this morning. Christine Darnell forwarded me a picture from Josh’s mom. He has a big smile on his face. Christine informed me that “he finished off his chicken fried steak, hash browns and gravy with no problem.” I’m looking forward to having pizza with Josh on Sunday, in two days.

I met Josh on a Wednesday evening, June 3, 2009, and spent three hours with him every week for six years. And then, Nancy and I saw him once a month for five more years. We did a lot of plays together: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Twelfth Night, Twelve Angry Men, King Lear, Winter’s Tale, Hamlet. We have a lot of shared memories, a lot of the same friends.

Nancy and I had the good fortune to watch Josh grow up—become wiser, and more self-confident. He has always been very thoughtful of others. A gentle soul.

Yesterday was overcast and rainy. Today the sky is bright blue. I can’t imagine what it must feel like for Josh today—not surrounded by concrete walls, seeing so much, experiencing so much, getting to spend the day with his loved ones. Might be a bit of a “sensory overload,” and somewhat overwhelming emotionally. There will be challenges ahead, but he’s going to do well. He’s been on a good trajectory for a long time. I’m grateful to have him as my friend.

Dear Josh:
A lot of people love you and wish you well.

—Johnny Stallings
*

(Note to readers: Please contribute to our dialogue as writers as well as readers.)

peace, love, happiness & understanding 10/28/21
2021-10-28 - 2021-11-10
photos by Kim Stafford

THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

October 28, 2021

Poems from the past five days…where do they come from?

by Kim Stafford

For some years now, I’ve started each day with a walk before dawn, then sitting with my breath, then coffee, then something like a poem—that is, an exploratory utterance rising from recent experience in the world, and in thought.
For what it’s worth, in response to Johnny’s invitation, here are the most recent five adventures into my realm of scribbling…

16 October

At the coast for my birthday, we went to the turnout south from Depot Bay to watch a whale out beyond the breakers breach and roll. My poem the next day tried to honor this encounter. As often happens, though, I got a little preachy toward the end, with my “So we must…” conclusion. This is my failing: loving Earth, hoping for the future, seeking to honor the miracles that come tug our sleeves…

At Rocky Creek We Watch the Whale

Out beyond the heave and shattered roll of waves
we see the puff, the plume, breath burst, the back’s
dark gleam sliding down into the massive deep.

That’s about how much we know of everything—
dreams of wheeling birds, the swell and fade of seasons—
a glimpse gone down, a gasp, and the rest is guessing.

Precious Earth, leviathan—the visible we see, and say
we know, while the hidden will be what we need.

17 October

At the coast, we rose at 5a.m. for low tide to gather mussels from wave-pummeled rocks—the errand of a fool, or in our case, the dedicated gourmand. While wrestling in the dark with waves to our knees, I found myself wondering if there might be a phrase in French to describe a gourmet so dedicated, no danger was too great in the pursuit of fine flavor. Thus, this adventure came to the page…

Campagne Extrême du Gourmet

At the darkest episode of night
we strode by wave-bashed rocks
in thunder din of the rising tide
to address the wall of blue shell
mussels pried by headlamp flicker
into the pail for our planned repast
with butter, lemon, and white wine,
as the sea surge wrapped our knees
until we shuddered as the dark tug
and thrash from out beyond our faint
periphery demanded utter surrender
to be swept, to be stumbled into ocean’s
hungry pot, to be stirred into torn asunder,
to be atomized, to be distilled
into the flavor salt.

18 October

Our daughter knows the sommelière at a local winery, and he generously invited us to come sip. By the third vintage I was feeling no pain, and the next morning composed a blessing in his honor and sent it off…

A Sip Serene

Up from stone and earth
by the vine-root clench
drought-flavored rain
rises into stem, leaf, bud,
and tendril to spangle in sun
along the row hung heavy
with fisted clusters to be
crushed, then cherished
into wine, the whole hill
shimmered in this scent
that fills the mind, and
then this sip of honor.

19 October

This really big crow landed on the lintel above our garden gate, and started strutting back and forth. I enjoyed the spectacle…and then next morning, writing, started by trying to describe his imperious presence. But once I had that, I thought, “That’s cool, but so what?” I realized he reminded me of certain Type-A males who lord it over the rest of us (Jeff B., Elon M., Mark Z.), and so they got into the opening lines…

King Crow
When some fat cat, filthy rich, swaggers
and proclaims—you know, the ones with
yachts, trophy homes, and bizarre opinions,
the ones who clearly never learned to practice
basic human etiquette—I see our king crow,
the heavy one swooping low to settle and command
the lintel board above the gate, to strut and brag,
his bead black eyes glinting dire fire, his seesaw
rocking tossing shouts to the sky, flexing his sheen
of rainbow black, burning the air with sheer bravado
as he disdains his craven clan below, all small crows
bowing and scraping, thrusting their beaks for pickings.

Above it all, his highness pivots, shrugs, and shouts:
Show me something worth my time—then it’s mine.

20 October

I’ve been going through old letters, and as I work my way back into the 1970s I come to the time I was preparing, foolishly, to become a scholar. I compiled vast bibliographies, and worked my way through a slew of books chosen—not because they were good, but because they were essential to my chosen field of study. Then I remembered the scholarly exercise of the “Abstract,” that paragraph at the head of a formal article, distilling the import of what was to follow. Then out of nowhere—my favorite source for writing—I thought of the phrase “It takes one to know one…,” and I started wondering who first said that…and soon I was back to our primitive forebears. Then I started having fun…

Innocent Words of Ancient Import
by Hector Persimian, Ph.D., DMD, ABC, DVD

Abstract: This paper charts new ground in phase archeology—as a complement to genetic investigations into the origin of human species—through an examination of indicator phrases like “you scratch my back, I scratch yours,” a clear reference to primordial grooming rituals (Baker, 1987); “takes one to know one,” a key to solidarity among rival Homo dejectus hunting bands (Spice, 1993); and “one may smile and smile and yet may be a villain,” a phrase long attributed to a particular writer, but clearly originating in the confrontational grin display of our simian forebears (Jekyll and Hyde, 2001). We will conclude with a close study of the phrase “Yes and no,” a tantalizing remnant of our ancestors’ philosophical struggle with their existential conundrum: should we come down from the trees?

21 October

Yesterday, our son told us of the disastrous new computer system at work, causing all kinds of disruption and despair. On my morning walk, I got to thinking about other kinds of dysfunction. Both Capitalism and the avoidance of Climate Crisis came to mind. In my walking meditation, the words “glitch” and “triage’ came to mind, and I had to write the poem to find out what these two words might want to say to one another.

Remedy for Glitch
When things go crazy haywire—
computer crash, capitalism cheats, oil
burns us all—it’s time for triage. So,

choose one: (1) How did this happen?…
or (2) Whose fault is this?…or
(3) What’s to be done?

Screen in my face, money in hand,
and a hard look at my habits:
reboot…learn thrift…simplify.

I can make no claim for the value, the “success,” of these humble poems. But I do believe in the practice of making them. By sitting each morning with my thoughts, wonderings, intuitions, struggles, and obsessions, I write in order to honor our perennial opportunity when faced with trouble: There might be another way.

—Kim Stafford

Bibliophiles Unanimous! 10/31/21
2021-10-31 - 2021-11-13
Beloved Bibliophiles

(Apologies Everyone. I’m having problems with the formatting on this page. Everything below is squashed together. I’ll see if some tech support people can help me get this fixed soon.)

Jude recommended NATURE as the topic Bibliophiles Unanimous! on Sunday, October 31st. Here’s her recap, with a few things added by Johnny at the end:

Hi Johnny,

Here are some notes on our very fun BiblioUn. yesterday:

First of all, the Japanese term I couldn’t dredge up was ‘shinrin yoku,’ or ‘forest bathing.’ My friend, Yasuko, and I are glad that our belief that ‘bathing in nature’ is actually beneficial is now validated by the Japanese term, ‘shinrin yoku.’ It means ‘making contact with and taking in the atmosphere of the forest,’ and it is something the Japanese take seriously (as do I!). And remember I said that this not-so-common term and its meaning were inscribed on a large reader board at the not-so-prominent Little Zigzag Falls near Zigzag and Government Camp, OR. What are the chances of that?!?!

Whew! one or two sentence summary of the books I mentioned:

The Overstory – Richard Powers – A novel with 9 main characters about our treatment of and relationship with the environment, specifically trees, forests…Nine very different characters and nine very different stories, but all pulled together in the end.

Underland– Robert MacFarlane – Nonfiction telling of explorations under the earth’s surface. MacFarlane studies the fungi that create a cooperative system below forest floors, with the plant scientist, Merlin Sheldrake. (I had totally forgotten his romp with Sheldrake the whole time I was later reading Entangled Life by..Merlin Sheldrake!) The book also looks at burial and darkness and deep time…

The Lost Words-Robert MacFarlane – Beautiful art in a large book depicting one hundred words in middle schoolers’ dictionaries that have been deemed obsolescent and have been replaced, mostly by computer related terms (byte, etc.). Because most children no longer get out in nature much anymore (hence the nauseating term ‘Nature Deficit Disorder’), most or all of the words are related to nature: wren, bramble, dandelion, weasel, etc. MacFarlane writes a poem for each lost word, and each is accompanied by a gorgeous watercolor.

The Invention of Nature – Andrea Wulf – Story of Alexander von Humboldt, early to mid-19th century Prussian explorer and naturalist who understood nature as an interconnected global force. He discovered the similarities in climate zones across the world at different elevations and different latitudes, and also predicted human-caused climate change.

The Brother Gardeners – Andrea Wulf – In the 18th century, wealthy estate owners in England sought to expand their properties from the rigid, formal privet/lawn/columnar conifer forms to include exotic, floriferous plants from around the world. Captain Cook, Captain Bligh,Erasmus Darwin (grandad of Chuck), Benjamin Franklin and others figure into this plant frenzy.

The Wild Trees – Richard Preston – About the scaling and mapping of the tallest trees in the world (350′-400′!) , found in the California Redwoods. The discovery of another plant world, hundreds of feet up in the trees, figures into this; compacted soil, ferns, moss, huckleberry bushes, even crustaceans live and thrive in this ‘deep canopy.’ You can walk around up there. Wow!

Braiding Sweetgrass – Robin Wall Kimmerer – Author is a professor of botany and of Potawatomi heritage. She ‘braids’ together indigenous wisdom and scientific knowledge and gives equal importance to each. She convinced me.

The Botany of Desire – Michael Pollan – Author picks four plants (potato, marijuana, tulip and apple) to show how plants create desire in humans, thereby assuring (in very different ways) their (continued) survival. The potato (control), marijuana (intoxication), tulip (beauty), and apple (sweetness). He posits that plants control us rather than us controlling plants.

Thanks for yesterday and all other Biblio days!

Jude

Jude also held up a copy of The Entangled Web by Merlin Sheldrake.

Martha talked about A World on the Wingby Scott Weidensaul.

Johnny Scharbach spoke of The Secret Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben and mentioned Chris Maser, who wrote many books, including Forest Primeval. He also talked about a book he’s reading titled The Web of Meaning.

Katie told us a little about what her son Abel and his wife Tao are doing. They are both ecologists, and are currently helping teach a Permaculture course through Oregon State University. Katie: please remind me what books you talked about.

Todd talked about the New England Transcendentalists and read this poem that he wrote:

Half Dome, Autumn

I can never get over the notion
that fall trees are old ladies and gents
strutting across the green:
ladies, in their elaborate turn-of-the-century hats
floppy brims and trailing dresses
men, all spiffy in top hats and spats
pin-striped pants, tails lopping in the breeze.

All through the winter
they reach into bare sky
their feathers banished by stripping winds;
stopped like dancers on a music box.
Rain lashes their trunks black
then quietly encases them in silver and glass.

But suddenly, the miracle of spring.
Their glass shells shatter to the ground.
Green emerges and reaches from their bodies.
All summer it reaches out to the edge of shadow.

But, like I say,

it’s in the fall these ladies and gents start their promenade
and they keep walking right up to the last feather.

–Todd Oleson

I mentioned a couple books by David Abram: The Spell of the Sensuous & Becoming Animal. And a couple films: “Fantastic Fungi” and “Winged Migration.”

peace & love

Johnny

peace, love, happiness & understanding 11/11/21
2021-11-11 - 2021-11-24
Four bodhisattvas!: Brenda Erickson, Dick Willis, Jude Russell & Jack Baird

THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

November 11, 2021

Beginning My Studies

Beginning my studies the first step pleas’d me so much,
The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,
The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,
The first step I say awed me and pleas’d me so much,
I have hardly gone and hardly wish’d to go any farther,
But stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs.

—Walt Whitman

My Recipe for Living a Life Rich in Meaning

What I would like to do in this essay is to provide some clues as to how to find your way to the Golden World, and live there. This is my recipe. You have to create your own. That’s part of the fun. Make the most of the fact that there has never been and will never be another you.

To live a life rich in meaning, the first thing is to have that as an aspiration. A much more common goal in our society is simply to get rich. Rich in money and rich in meaning are not the same thing. My basic idea is: Since life is short and each day is precious, I want to BLESS THIS DAY.

There is not some other day to be happy. Today is the day.

Some of the ingredients that make my life rich in meaning include: love, silence, books, friends, creativity, gratitude and being helpful to others.

We all need to love and be loved. One of my constant aspirations is to become a more loving person. We learn to love by loving and being loved. I have the extreme good fortune to be living with Nancy, who loves me and who I love. We’ve been living together for 15 years. We’re nuts about each other. Every day together is a good day.

Nancy and I got together when I was 55 years old. Since I was single at the time, it means that all of my previous efforts to be in a loving relationship had not worked out, and yet I learned a lot about loving from each of them.

There is also Big Love—unconditional love for everyone and everything. Being in a loving relationship is one aspect of living in love. It nurtures and strengthens the bigger project of loving everyone, of loving life. I don’t know exactly how or why it worked out this way, but having a three-hour meaning-of-life dialogue every week for many years with a dozen or more friends in prison did a lot to open my heart. It made me softer. I cry more than most men do. In those prison circles, we opened ourselves to each other. This gave everyone in the circle many blessings. We humans need each other more than we know. Our potential for loving has no limit.

Peace is something that is not given much attention in our society. By “peace” I mean here “inner peace”—what the Bible calls “the peace which passeth understanding.” My introduction to peace as a value to aspire to came from Indian yogis. First from books by J. Krishnamurti and Paramanhansa Yogananda, then from spending time with two teachers I had when I was in my twenties, Nataraja Guru and Nitya Chaitanya Yati.

Meditation and mindfulness are essential ingredients in my recipe for living a life rich in meaning—the most essential. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without them. More miserable, for sure. They provide the foundation for whatever peace and love and happiness and freedom I have. It feels to me like I have a lot of those things. Every day of my life is filled with blessings. As I look around, everything appears miraculous to me. I am thankful for my human life on earth.

My Paradise is a library. I live surrounded by books. Each one is a world. Some of the authors and even some of the fictional characters are among my closest friends. I love Walt Whitman and Alice, who has adventures in Wonderland and through the Looking-Glass. I hated school. As soon as I dropped out of college, I began to read whatever I wanted to. I read widely, going from subject to subject and author to author as the mood strikes me. I get endless pleasure from this. As for living a life rich in meaning, there is no building more packed with meaning, from floor to ceiling, than a library. My own library contains a lot of books by people who are especially good on the subject of living a meaningful life. Some of my favorites, to whom, I return again and again, include: Thich Nhat Hanh, Susan Griffin, Joseph Campbell, Wendell Berry, Walt Whitman, J. Krishnamurti, Alan Watts, Hafiz, William Shakespeare, Ramana Maharshi, Shunryu Suzuki, Lao Tzu, Thomas Traherne, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Han Shan. It’s a much longer list, but these are some of the people whose writings most reliably enrich my life.

Friends enrich my life. If I look at my life, it appears that my vocation is gathering people together. For many years, I would make waffles at my house (or apartment) every Sunday and have somewhere around 2o people come over. For thirteen years I had a weekly dialogue group at a prison with around 16 people sitting in a circle and talking about—guess what!—how to live a life rich in meaning. The original title of the dialogue group was: The Stories We Tell Ourselves: How Our Thinking Shapes Our Lives. I love this kind of deep dialogue. I like to get together with friends for coffee or tea—often one-on-one—and talk about everything under the sun, but especially about what is most important, or essential, or meaningful to us in that moment. During the current pandemic, when it has been harder to get together with others, I’ve done a lot of videoconferencing on Zoom.

There are well-worn roads of religious belief and practice that one might go down, but the only way I know through first-hand experience, is to create your own path by following your heart’s desire. I suspect that even if one chooses one of those well-travelled roads, each person must find their own unique way of knowing, believing and practicing that tradition.

In addition to religious belief and practice, some people live lives rich in meaning by devoting themselves to Art: theater, music, poetry, dance, painting—not to mention other arts, like gardening, cooking, woodworking, knitting, filmmaking, et cetera. My friend Abe goes hiking, skiing and camping in the Montana wilderness. He takes beautiful photos of some of the things he sees. He reports that his journeys give him great joy.

Creativity enriches our lives in mysterious ways. Theater is a realm in which I have had many adventures, as an actor and director. I haven’t given myself fully to an art form in the way that some of my art heroes have: Bill T. Jones, Ushio Amagatsu, Peter Schumann, Wes Anderson, Tom Waits, Susan Griffin, Rick Bartow—to name a few. One of my current role models is the fictional character Ted Lasso. I want to be more like him!

I’ve done some writing, and would like to do more. I’ve written some essays, poems, short stories and theater pieces. I’ve kept a journal for fifty years. The journal has helped me to better understand my life journey. I also use it as a tool to help me find my way to the Golden World every morning.

Helping others is another thing that enriches our life and gives meaning to it. Life is short. It often seems to me that the world’s problems are large, I am puny, and whatever I do won’t make much of a difference in the Big Picture. One of the things I tell myself when I’m having those thoughts, is that one kind act makes a whole life worthwhile. Everyone enjoys being helpful, when an opportunity arises. I know some people who don’t wait—they are always finding ways to help someone. I’m thinking of Brenda Erickson, Dick Willis, Jude Russell and Jack Baird. Bodhisattvas all!

Following your heart’s desire may sound selfish, but it’s important to distinguish between selfishness and self-care. I have often reminded my friends in prison that self-care is Job One. I remind them of this when they get out of prison, for there are many challenges outside prison walls as well. Because our life is short and each day is precious, we should be able to bless each day—to be thankful that we have a human life on earth. That’s another not-so-secret ingredient in my recipe for living a life rich in meaning: gratitude. At the most basic level, the difference between complaining and giving thanks is the difference between Hell and Heaven.

Which brings me to another important thing that I wanted to include in my recipe—coming to understand that every day, from moment to moment, we create the world in which we live. The stories we tell ourselves are our world. It’s important to distinguish between the world and my world, as Wittgenstein pointed out long ago. The world includes everything that has ever happened, and everything that is happening right now. It is beyond our ken, not only because it is so vast, but because it is changing from moment to moment. My world is the world as I experience it and understand it and know it and feel it, from moment to moment. At times, I may feel powerless to change the world, but I can be sovereign of my inner world and how I process my experience. A happy person lives in a friendly world. An angry person lives in a world full of assholes. A person who lives in love, lives in love.

This is not to deny or minimize, even for a moment, the vast amount of injustice and suffering that is always going on in the world. Right now, there are many places in our world where food is scarce and machine guns are plentiful. This is not acceptable, since all children are our children. Each of us must do what we can to make this world a better place for all our human, animal and plant friends, for all the rivers and forests and ecologies of every kind.

Peace and love and joy and freedom and gratitude and beauty and wisdom are all intrinsically good for us. Where self-care comes in is by nurturing these qualities in ourselves, so that we can bring them to every encounter we have with each other, with all beings and with our Mother Earth.

Well, that’s about what I’ve got this morning as far as a recipe goes for living a life rich in meaning. I have a very limited repertoire. Apologies to pen pals, readers of this journal, and other friends who have heard me say all this before.

—Johnny Stallings

Otherworlds and Underworlds: Will Hornyak Storytelling Nov 13
2021-11-13 19:00 - 21:00
Otherworlds and Underworlds

November 13th
In honor of the Day of the Dead and the Celtic New Year of Samhain, storyteller William Kennedy Hornyak weaves Irish, Greek, Mexican and Brazilian myths, poems and tales into harrowing descents and festive romps through the legendary landscapes of death and rebirth alongside Coyote, Orpheus, Yemanja and Finn Mac Cool.
For audiences 14 and over.

Saturday November 13 7:00 p.m. Pacific STANDARD TIME
We will open the waiting room @ 20 minutes prior to each show
Zoom Link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/81949258717?pwd=[REDACTED]

Meeting ID: 875 6423 8789
Passcode: [REDACTED]
Cost: There are no tickets or admission costs but donations of gold bullion, mining claims, motorcycle parts, PayPal funds(hornyak.will@gmail.com) or checks are appreciated: Will Hornyak 11375 SE 33rd Ave. Milwaukie, OR 97222

Bibliophiles Unanimous! 11/14/21
2021-11-14 15:00 - 17:00
Beloved Bibliophiles! On Sunday, November 14th, at 3 pm (PST), our theme will be NATURE POETRY. Here’s the link to the Zoom gathering:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/86949399028

I hope to see you there!

peace, love & happiness
Johnny

Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 11/15/21
2021-11-15 - 2021-12-14
photo by Kim Stafford

Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

November 15, 2021

In childhood, you could look miles across a cookie, and never see the other side.

—William Stafford
*

(This poem by Alex Tretbar is part of a much longer poem called “Cat’s Game.”) (JS)

INDRA’S NET

Even gods & holy
men have their toys
& tools of trade:

Hermes the caduceus
& Jehova His burning bush
& Odin his ravens
& the Buddha a stone himself.

And there is elephant-throned Indra
with his jewel-bedecked net.

What does he catch with it?

Nothing (everything), actually.
The net lies draped in the air
around his castle, and all matter
reflects & refracts
through the facet clusters stationed
at every X of the mesh—infinite gems,

all of which link to the others.
Peer into one & peer into all:
see your face
as though through a fly’s
composite eyes, see your face
superimposed over
every human face to grow
& fade, all faces of clock & moon,
surface of all waters
both quiet & vengeful
the original

drop

of cytoplasm
from every star’s vantage—
all of the brittle cosmos
caught up in a fractal
self-repeating, coiling
without pause within
your eye.

No one is to blame.

—Alex Tretbar
*

(Katie Radditz sent this story from Loren Eiseley, author of The Immense Journey.) (JS)

While wandering a deserted beach at dawn, stagnant in my work, I saw a man in the distance bending and throwing as he walked the endless stretch toward me. As he came near, I could see that he was throwing starfish, abandoned on the sand by the tide, back into the sea. When he was close enough I asked him why he was working so hard at this strange task. He said that the sun would dry the starfish and they would die. I said to him that I thought he was foolish. There were thousands of starfish on miles and miles of beach. One man alone could never make a difference. He smiled as he picked up the next starfish. Hurling it far into the sea he said, “It makes a difference for this one.” I abandoned my writing and spent the morning throwing starfish. — Loren Eiseley

(Katie adds:)

It’s a fabulous reminder when we feel guilty that we are not doing more to help. What’s important is to do what we love—for those who come along our path. This is a tale for living a magical life, just appreciating that we and all these amazing beings are alive.

—Katie Radditz
*

(Here are some excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to sections from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh.) (JS)

October 10, 2021 #177 THE INDIVISIBLE BODY OF REALITY

….I have learned sometime back—how far, I don’t recall—that everything is part of the whole. Some may say, “I see a unified reality,” as in, “We’re all in this together.” And I agree. For me, this goes deeper. Since I adopted a view of the original cause of all things as GOD—(drawing deeply from Jewish sources, along with an Evangelical Protestant Christian upbringing)—I perceive this omnipresent Being (God is everywhere at all times—beyond time, even) of infinite power created, first, a space in infinite reality for this reality to exist. Many traditions have looked for explanation of whys and wherefores. I’ve learned to accept some of what I can’t know—hoping benevolence over malevolence.

By retracting some of the infinitude of GOD, GOD made space for me—or even for “me,” with all the so-called negatives (“bad”) and positives (“good”) I may bring forth in this world. I see this world as a creation to allow the Infinite-All-That-Is (unity) to experience relationship, which requires “other.” I base this on: If GOD is ALL, then there is no…thing else. Any other would be subsumed into GOD’s ALL—as a candle’s light is subsumed by the sun, yet even more so. What this contraction of All-That-Is idea does for me is to create a space for “me” to exist, along with my present “reality,” and I am able to experience relationships to other people, to other beings (sentient or not), and to All-That-Is. Under all this is an interconnection between all things. We may not see it, or even want to do so—that’s okay. This connection informs, for me, that were GOD to reveal the infinite to man, we would cease to exist as individuals, and interdependence would meld back into the Ultimate Unity, as all “things” once again became The One, Source-of-All.

Interconnectedness is probably easier to contemplate than my personal glimpse of reality. Sadly, the view doesn’t always hold to the forefront of my mind, and so I “fall” victim to interpreted reality (based on Ego), losing sight of just how deeply interconnected we all are in this “now” moment, and I see myself as independent and alone.

This “alone”-ness is just a fabrication of mind attempting to assert a control over reality, claiming independence from “others,” and forgetting the value of a reality where “We’re all in this present moment together.” The Buddha taught “the three poisons” as his way of explaining in simple human terms what he came to see as the Ultimate Reality (he named “Nirvana”-paradise). However we learn to label and accept reality as it is—(exploring Ultimate Reality at times)—we can eventually learn to see a connection to all other “beings” and “things” within this reality. It isn’t easy to explain and/or wrap a mind around. Forgive me my simple fallibility, as I am also part of you, as much you are a precious part of my being too.

October 14, 2021 #181 A BABY CRIES

I wonder, how many of us are scared of babies in some fashion—their neediness we can’t meet, their fragility we may fracture, their delicate frame, or emotional state, and more? Learning to see and embrace our emotional state of anger (or any emotional state) as our suffering baby within, holding and comforting him or her: this seems foreign to me, yet it also makes some sense in the world of mindfulness. When we engage our playful side, and imagine emotional states, such as anger, as fragile, delicate babies in much need of gentleness and loving care—then, maybe, we can also imagine ourselves giving loving tender care as we hope we might, instead of what we fear we might do as an alternative. Maybe I’m the only one (not likely) to have trepidation when it comes to babies in general, and, specifically, to holding or comforting one. It has been many years since I’ve been around a baby. It can’t be too “hard” to do. I can imagine, pretend doing what I want, even now, when I feel distressed and upset. And in doing so I’m imagining what I can do for that core expression of my emotional state. That would be mindfulness.

October 26, 2021 #188 IDEAS OF HAPPINESS

This one is so very true. I have seen this in my own life, as well as numerous others. There is an oblivion we develop around ideas of happiness: If only…when I get/do/become…etc….then I’ll be happy. Yet, how often do we find ourselves in the “ideal” and still not happy! Have you ever noticed this in your own life, or that of others? (Sometimes I can see my own challenges more clearly when they are part of someone else’s life challenges.)

So, what does it really take for us to be truly happy? How do we get there? Or is it, like many lessons I’ve learned, already present fully developed and waiting to be “let out”? What do you think? Is this plausible? What’s your experience of this?

At one point I had to learn (again?) what happiness was—an absence of sadness. Thankfully, I had a great friend to help me talk my way out of the morass I had put myself into. (A story for another day.) It was the oddest idea at the time: If I wasn’t “sad,” then I must be feeling happy! There’s lots of books and ideas about finding your happiness. Thây offers the simplest and easiest path to realize the happiness present already.

October 28, 2021 #189 THE APPLE TREE

The first part of this reminds me of the Gravenstein apple tree in my grandparents’ back yard. The apples were great for applesauce. I loved them best when they were underripe—tart and yet sweet, with a crisp crunch. They never became mealy, like red or yellow Delicious. They were also good for pies! But I digress. Thây’s point was about paying attention—being mindful of living beings: (entities, not all of which are sentient). It’s not hard to do, just pay attention and act on what you observe in the moment; no grand schemes or plans required. Just be in the now….

I haven’t seen a tree in over 14 years. Not up close or on any sort of regular basis. But I am surrounded by plenty of beings in need (?) of my attentive presence in the now. I can give that to them, and myself too, by remembering to breathe and not attach to what happens—what I hear, or what others do. I can set an intention to be, to be present, to be attentive (as needed), to respond (as needed), and to offer compassion for that being. Maybe that’s your Apple Tree too?! Watch ‘em grow.

—Michel Deforge
*

Each leaf of grass, each single spear, whether it be green blade or brown blade, is the resting place of each night’s dreams that turn into mist and dew.

Some of the dreams grow into the ground to grow once again more loves to hold more dreams, while some evaporate into sky and return to the lakes, rivers and seas, and become dreams once again.

On a full-moon night, when all is covered in mist and dew, upon the grass a million drops will rest like shivering diamonds twinkling in the moonlight. The grass in a small patch could hold the dreams of the whole world for us to behold.

—Rocky Hutchinson
*

Reflections in the Heart (#332)

“Everything—the trees, the wind, the birds, the mountains, everything inside us and around us—wants to reflect itself in us. We don’t have to go anywhere to obtain the truth. We only need to be still, and things will reveal themselves in the still water of our heart.” (from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh)

Thank goodness! Is this telling me that I don’t have to apologize for, or explain, or defend my lack of desire to travel??? To be somewhere else—some exotic, exciting, stimulating somewhere else? Everybody I know loves and lives for travel: Italy, Argentina, Croatia, Greece… And as soon as they return, they’re planning for the next great adventure. And I’m sure they all are ‘great adventures.’ They say to me, “You have the time, you have the money, why don’t you just go?” But… I love being here, right here, at home.

Here is my thought: we moved away from Portland fourteen years ago. Ever since then, when people ask me what’s our next travel plan, what’s our next destination, I reply, “Here. Right here. We are the destination! Nowhere to go. This is it.”

And there is a delicious stillness to it. People say, “But don’t you feel isolated up there? Don’t you feel alone?” Isolated, no. Alone— deliciously, yes. And some people say, “Isn’t it…boring? Sometimes?” No way. Why, just the other day, while walking Lolo up on the canal, I encountered a pickup truck with two young guys. They hopped out and asked if I had seen a couple of cows wandering around loose. “Why no,” I said, “I haven’t. Where did they wander away from?” “Oh, from the Mountain Meat Packing Company up there on Miller Road.” I burst out laughing and said, “Well, friends, if I see them I’m going to round them up and hide them in my back yard!” So in that random encounter I sure wouldn’t call any part of it boring. Would you? I thought not. And moreover, if I don’t want to feel alone, I can drive two miles up to Parkdale, population 430—a bustling metropolis—and hang out at the post office.

When I am alone, when things are in their stillness, I can—as I call it—ponder and wander. It is when my thoughts can have the space to be the most creative, and ‘productive,’ (e.g. thoughts becoming material for a short story), or when things just settle into quietude. I am not isolated. I am not alone.

My heart is in my home; my home is in my heart.

—Jude Russell
*

A humble recent poem in case it might be useful.

I woke up with the phrase in mind, “Friendly corner.” What that mean? I asked this in my mind, and into my mind came the image of a great old tree…so I wrote the poem to learn the story of this good thing:

Friendly Corner

People use it to give directions. For neighbors,
it’s the nexus. If we had no church or school,
this is where we’d gather, for it’s all about
the great old tree—that’s why children come.
For the wee ones, a root hump throne makes you
queen of all you see. A little older, you can ride
the long low limb for horse, and race the wind.
Older yet, climb ladder branches to find the hollow
house for dreams. Is it any wonder mothers meet
to share their joys and sorrows? Sometimes fathers,
too. Is this where you want to live, and what you
want to see? There’s just one way: plant the tree.

—Kim Stafford
*

With our thoughts we create worlds, then live in them. Each day, sometimes from one moment to the next, we might find ourself in a Hell. Or a Paradise. Once we get the hang of it, perfect happiness can be ours in the blink of an eye. Our life is short. This day is precious. There is no other.

A few days after I wrote the previous brief meditation, I was inspired by Michel’s meditation, A BABY CRIES. Thich Nhat Hanh had written that we should treat our anger the way a mother would treat a crying baby, by holding it tenderly. In his meditation, Michel begins by saying: “I wonder, how many of us are scared of babies in some fashion—their neediness we can’t meet, their fragility we may fracture, their delicate frame, or emotional state, and more?” In the July issue, I proposed that people try a baby meditation: imagining being a baby, looking out at the world without language, concepts, identity, regrets, or problems. Michel’s meditation made me imagine another meditation. Here it is:

When you are by yourself, and no one is watching, cross your arms across your chest and imagine that you are holding a newborn baby against your body. Really feel it! Okay, now imagine that the baby is you. Hold your baby self tenderly in your arms and love your baby self with all your heart.

That’s the meditation. We all need to love ourself. For many people this is difficult. For some, it feels almost impossible. We all started our life journey as tiny babies. That innocent, fragile, perfect being is who we are. I’m hoping that this meditation will help us to feel deeply the truth of this.

This might also be a healing exercise for those who, like Michel, have not been around a baby for many years.

—Johnny Stallings
*

Not long ago I came across a poem that Jack Kerouac wrote to his former wife (Kerouac being the beat-era writer who inspired many of us to lead FULL lives, no matter what). His poem includes this little passage that I’ve been savoring since I read it:

Practice kindness all day to everybody
and you will realize you’re already
in heaven now.

Thanks Jack, and thanks Johnny.

love,

—Bill Faricy
*

(As I was putting the finishing touches on this dialogue, I discovered a fresh new poem on Kim’s FaceBook page. It’s perfect for our Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue.) (JS)

My Infrastructure

That gate latch—loose.
Shovel and hoe—dull.
Dripping faucet—priority.
Frayed shoelace—on the list.
Connectivity—upgrade overdue.
Basement storage—disaster.
Eyes, teeth, weight, feet—
years of deferred maintenance.
Preparation for the big one—a joke.
Grasp of reality—in shambles.
So—where to begin?

—Kim Stafford

peace, love, happiness & understanding 11/25/21
2021-11-25 - 2021-12-08
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

November 25, 2021

This is a theater piece I wrote a while back. I performed it once, at the First Unitarian Church of Portland. (J.S.)

Goldfinches!
a theatrical monologue

this is a story about stories

and about something that we might call “the storyless state”

joseph campbell wrote a book called the hero with a thousand faces about a kind of story that is found throughout history and all over the world that he called “the hero’s journey”

we can use the hero’s journey as a metaphor for our life

and i would like to use it as the structure for this evening’s entertainment

the hero’s journey begins with the call to adventure

we have all already answered the call to adventure by coming here tonight

we could have stayed home and watched tv

but instead we left the comfort and safety and security of our homes—for what?

we don’t know

and that is where the hero journeys: into the unknown

into a dark wood, or a cave, or to the bottom of the sea

one of the main things about the unknown is that you don’t know what you will find

i answered the call to adventure by deciding to write and perform a theatrical monologue

why would i want to undertake such a thing?

that brings me to a little story about my life…

when i graduated from high school, i went to college just like i was supposed to

but i had never liked school

it always felt like a prison to me

one day i realized that going to school was optional

and i could opt not to go

which i did

now that is the age when you are supposed to choose a career and get with the program

but i graduated from maui high school in 1969, during the hippie era

we are very prone to conformity at that age—maybe throughout life—and somehow i found myself conforming to the hippie form of “non-conformity”

with long hair and oddball clothing and bare feet and all that

that was how i wanted to present myself to the world

i felt more at home in this costume than in a white shirt, suit and tie

now, “hippie” is not really a career choice and in fact, i neglected to choose an occupation

i’ve held a variety of odd jobs—i once spent 18 months testing beet pulp pellets for hardness, durability and fine particle content

for many years i found the familiar question “what do you do?” to be difficult to answer

now that i’m old, i can look back on my life and ask: “what is my job?”

or, better yet, “what did i come here to do?”

and the answer, i think—or at least one answer is: to gather people together

and so that is why i had the hare-brained idea of writing and performing a theatrical monologue

it’s a trick to get people to gather together

and here we are

so, what happens after the hero answers the call to adventure?

he or she goes into the wilderness—the unknown—on a quest for something

and sometimes you know what you are seeking and sometimes you don’t

but in the unknown you always find something

and typically, the hero encounters obstacles or difficulties

and meets magic helpers

and finds a treasure—which is probably guarded by a dragon or something

and the hero kills the dragon or at least tricks it

and steals the treasure

and returns home with something of value—not just for himself or herself—but for everyone

now here’s an interesting thing: each one of us has treasure within

each one of us is the treasure

so, why do we have to go down into a cave or to the bottom of the sea to find it?

well, that’s a good question

here’s a story that is found in many cultures:

before we are born, we have a special gift

and in the process of being born, we lose the gift

and it is our task to find out what our gift is and then give it to everyone

for example, you might have a gift of music

and not know it

and you need to discover that you have it before you can share it with others

but if you do, your gift blesses everyone

another version of this story is:

when we are born, we forget who we are

and who we are is god

and we have to re-discover this

we have to remember what has been forgotten

the greek word for this is “anamnesis”—remembering what has been forgotten

so that is one version of our hero’s journey—we have to go to the bottom of the sea, or to the first unitarian church, or wherever, to remember who we are

and we have to do this every day

going to sleep every night is like dying

and every morning we wake up and it’s a new day

we have been reborn

and it’s great if we were happy yesterday, but it doesn’t really help us to be happy today

and we need to find happiness today

and what worked yesterday will not work today

we have to try something new

and where is the new found?

in the unknown

and so, in a way, we all may have thought we were coming here just to entertain or be entertained, but actually we came here because we have to save our own life

we have to be reborn

now, as the storyteller, or entertainer, i guess it’s supposed to be my job to come up with something really fantastic

you know, the greatest theatrical monologue you’ve ever heard, or whatever

but i’m not too worried about that, because, as far as i’m concerned, i’ve already done my job, which is to gather us together

and i don’t have to bring a great treasure, because you are, we are, the treasure

and i have a kind of foolproof method of creating a magical, fantastic, wonderful experience, which is: at the end of my monologue, we will have a dialogue

and a dialogue circle cannot fail to be a perfect thing

and so i’d like to reassure anyone who is worried that this evening will be something less than perfect—that is not gonna happen!

it’s gonna be perfect

because however lame or inadequate my “entertaining” monologue is, we will all have an opportunity to remedy that together in the dialogue circle

okay, back to our hero’s journey, which is our journey into story and storylessness

william butler yeats said that each person has their own myth and that one of your jobs as a poet, or just as a human being, is to find out what your myth is

that goes back to the idea of remembering what has been forgotten

i’d like to talk about a couple kinds of stories, which i call:

identity and mythos

identity refers to the stories we tell ourselves about who we are

and mythos refers to our stories about the world

now i am going to tell you a little story about my mythos

many years ago, when i was young, i read a story by fyodor dostoevsky called “the dream of a ridiculous man”

i loved the story

it really resonated with me, as they say

here’s the story:

there’s a guy who is depressed

life has no meaning for him

he feels that nothing makes any difference

he decides to kill himself

he buys a gun

he’s just waiting for the right moment to do the deed

and he’s walking home and he sees a star in the sky and decides: “tonight is the night”

but then a little girl comes up to him and wants his help

her mother is dying or is in some very bad situation and the little girl is crying and trying to get this guy to come with her

but he doesn’t help the little girl

he goes home so that he can commit suicide

but he can’t get the little girl out of his mind

and he feels like he has to figure something out before he dies

and while he’s sitting there, trying to figure it all out he falls asleep and dreams a dream

and this is his dream:

he dreams that he kills himself

and he goes to another planet, which is like earth, except that it is paradisal

there is no fear or war or hatred

it is a world where everyone lives in love

and in his dream he ruins everything in this perfect world

he brings about a fall, very much like what happens in the story of adam and eve

and the love planet gets worse and worse until it resembles our own

and then he wakes up

and he has a very strong feeling that he has seen the truth—that our life could be completely transformed, it could be perfect, if only we would love each other

so that’s dostoevsky’s story

and i liked it so much that i decided to perform it

but it seemed too short for an evening in the theater, so i added a piece that i had written called “columbus”

i wrote columbus in 1992, for the 500th anniversary of columbus’ first voyage to the western hemisphere

i grew up with the story that columbus was a great hero who had discovered america

in my version there’s this guy who is drunk and he claims to be christopher columbus

and it isn’t explained whether this man is delusional, or if he is the spirit of christopher columbus, back from the dead, or whatever

anyhow, this christopher columbus is self-medicating with alcohol because he is in a lot of pain

in his version, he didn’t discover anything—people already lived here

and they were a beautiful people—the taino—and they lived without war, in a kind of paradise

and he brought about a fall

the taino are no more

and my blubbering drunken christopher columbus wanted everyone to know that he had seen and understood something—that people can be beautiful and innocent and loving

he had seen it with his own eyes

and it was only after i had put these two pieces together that i realized that they had the same theme:

paradise, fall, and a vision of a possible return to paradise

and i thought: “maybe this is my myth”

people tend to think of paradise as something that may have existed in the past, or which might exist in the future—maybe even after we die

but paradise is this world in which we live—just as it is

this gathering is paradise

and everyone sitting here is perfect

is paradise

so it seems to me

this is my mythos—the story i tell myself about the world

now it may be objected: “how can this world be paradise when it is obviously all screwed up?”

good question

instead of arguing whether the world is in fact perfect or whether it is all screwed up, i would like to explore the sense in which it seems to me that the world is perfect

imagine, for a moment, a goldfinch

a goldfinch is perfect

a goldfinch does not need to be improved

the very idea is absurd

everything is like the goldfinch

each one of us is a goldfinch

perfect

this is my thesis

my mythos

um, so where are we on our hero’s journey this evening?

okay, so you answered the call to adventure by coming here

and your guide, your magic helper, on this journey through the dark wood of this evening is me

an unreliable guide!

and now we’re lost!

but according to the unreliable guide, the trickster-helper, that’s okay

according to me, getting lost is a perfectly acceptable variant of the hero’s journey

let’s take an example from alice in wonderland

alice says that she feels like maybe she’s lost and wonders which path she should take

and the cheshire cat asks her where she is going

and she replies that she doesn’t know

and he says: “then it doesn’t matter which path you take”

and that’s kind of like us

except that we don’t need to get anywhere, because we are already here

that’s another common story theme

the bold adventurer travels the world and ends up returning home and finding the treasure under his or her own hearth

hearth equals heart

that’s where our treasure is

not far away

and what is the point of this theatrical monologue?

it is to go forth and return home

to the silence which preceded the story

the world is always larger than our picture of the world

our descriptions and explanations are like cartoons

it’s like the difference between looking at a postcard of multnomah falls and standing in front of multnomah falls

or as mark twain said: the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning

in this analogy, my “entertaining” theatrical monologue is the lightning bug

and what is the lightning?

you are the lightning

i am the lightning

the lightning is us—just as we are

words are useful in reminding us of the inadequacy of words

the gold that each of us came here to find, whether we knew it or not, is each other

we tend to believe that the stories we tell ourselves are true

the friendly person lives in a friendly world

the fearful person lives in a dangerous world

we imagine a world and then we live in that world

and who is the person who lives in this imagined world?

i think it works something like this:

when we are born, we cannot speak or understand what people are saying to us

but very quickly we get the hang of it, and by the time we are four—even earlier—we are quite fluent in speaking and understanding the language that our parents speak

as we grow up we learn whether we are a boy or a girl, whether we are smart or stupid, whether we are beautiful or unattractive, whether great things are expected of us, or whether we’ll never amount to much

by our early twenties we should have everything figured out:

we might be a beautiful republican woman

or an angry environmentalist

we could be a skater, a scientist, or a sinner

a buddhist, a baptist, an atheist, a plumber, a poet, or a certified public accountant

we might be fat, depressed, friendly, ambitious, lazy, sexy, shy, anxious, optimistic, pessimistic

but whatever we have become, whatever we believe, we are sort of stuck with it

it’s impressive and amazing that we can create an identity and a mythos

it’s absolutely necessary that we do this

but it becomes a kind of prison, from which it seems there is no escape

we are fictional characters, living in fictional worlds of our own creation

end of story?

well, sort of

because this is prelude to the storyless state

in addition to our very impressive ability to think and to speak, we have the wonderful ability to be still

to be awake and alert

each one of us is nourished by a silence that has no beginning or end

not confined within our descriptions, explanations, thoughts, memories, stories and imaginings

fearless, loving, carefree

not in the world, we are the world

a world beyond our ken

where everything and everyone is miraculous

perfect

like a raincloud, a stone

a goldfinch

thank you

—Johnny Stallings

Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Mythology 11/28/21
2021-11-28 15:00 - 17:00
Beloved Bibliophiles!

Todd suggested MYTHOLOGY as our topic for Sunday, November 28th, at 3 pm (PST). Here’s the link to the Zoom gathering:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/86949399028

I hope to see you there!

peace, love & happiness
Johnny

peace, love, happiness & understanding 12/9/21
2021-12-09 - 2021-12-22
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

December 9, 2021

Some stories get better with each telling. This is one of those stories. Charles Dickens used to do public readings of an abridged version of “A Christmas Carol” at this time of year. This is based on his abridged version. On Sunday, December 12th, at 3 pm (PST) our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering will feature a Group Reading of this version of A Christmas Carol. Here’s the link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058

It’s gonna be fun! I hope you can join us! Merry Christmas! God Bless Us Every One! (J.S.)

A Christmas Carol

Storyteller: Marley was dead. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner, Ebenezer Scrooge.
Old Marley was dead as a doornail.
Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for…I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole friend, his sole mourner.
Scrooge never painted out old Marley’s name, however. There it yet stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door—Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge “Scrooge,” and sometimes “Marley.” He answered to both names. It was all the same to him.
O, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone—a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! External heat and cold had little influence on him. No warmth could warm, no cold could chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he. No falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.
Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place of Scrooge. Even the blindmen’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways.
But what did Scrooge care?! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance.
Once upon a time of all the good days of the year, upon a Christmas eve, old Scrooge sat busy in his countinghouse. It was cold, bleak, biting weather, and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already.
The door of Scrooge’s countinghouse was open, that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who, in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn’t replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with his shovel the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed.
Scrooge’s Nephew: A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!
Scrooge: Bah! Humbug!
Scrooge’s Nephew: Christmas a humbug, uncle?! You don’t mean that, I am sure.
Scrooge: I do. Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in ‘em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I had my will, every idiot who goes about with “Merry Christmas” on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!
Scrooge’s Nephew: Uncle!
Scrooge: Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.
Scrooge’s Nephew: Keep it? But you don’t keep it.
Scrooge: Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!
Scrooge’s Nephew: There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest. I have always thought of Christmas time as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-travelers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good: and I say, God bless it!
(Clerk claps.)
Scrooge: Let me hear another sound from you and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your situation! You’re quite a powerful speaker, sir. I wonder you don’t go into Parliament.
Scrooge’s Nephew: Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.
Scrooge: I’ll see you…in hell first.
Scrooge’s Nephew: But why? Why?
Scrooge: Why did you get married?
Scrooge’s Nephew: Because I fell in love.
Scrooge: Because you fell in love! Good afternoon!
Scrooge’s Nephew: Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?
Scrooge: Good afternoon!
Scrooge’s Nephew: I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?
Scrooge: Good afternoon!
Scrooge’s Nephew: I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel. But I’ll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So, a Merry Christmas, uncle!
Scrooge: Good afternoon!
Scrooge’s Nephew: And a Happy New Year!
Scrooge: Good afternoon!
Scrooge’s Nephew: (Leaving. To Bob Cratchit.) Merry Christmas.
Cratchit: Merry Christmas.
Scrooge: There’s another fellow, my clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. He’ll retire to Bedlam.
(Two portly gentlemen enter.)
First Gentleman: Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?
Scrooge: Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years. He died seven years ago, this very night.
Second Gentleman: We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner. At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.
Scrooge: Are there no prisons?
First Gentleman: Plenty of prisons. But under the impression that they scarcely furnish cheer of mind or body to the unoffending multitude, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth.
Second Gentleman: We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?
Scrooge: Nothing!
First Gentleman: You wish to be anonymous?
Scrooge: I wish to be left alone. Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas, and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the prisons and the workhouses—they cost enough—and those who are badly off must go there.
Second Gentleman: Many can’t go there.
First Gentleman: Many would rather die.
Scrooge: If they had rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.
Second Gentleman: (Leaving.) Good day, sir.
First Gentleman: Merry Christmas.
Scrooge: Bah! Humbug!
Both Gentlemen: (To Cratchit.) Merry Christmas.
Cratchit: Merry Christmas.
(Scrooge and Cratchit return to their work. Scrooge is very pleased with himself. Some time goes by. Scrooge gets off his stool, which means that it’s time to close up shop. Cratchit snuffs his candle and puts on his hat.)
Scrooge: You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?
Cratchit: If it’s convenient.
Scrooge: It’s not convenient, and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half a crown for it, you’d think yourself mightily ill-used. And yet you don’t think me ill-used when I pay a day’s wages for no work.
Cratchit: It’s only once a year, sir.
Scrooge: A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December! But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here early the next morning.
Cratchit: I will.
(Scrooge goes out with a growl, followed by Bob Cratchit.)
Storyteller: The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk went down a slide, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of its being Christmas eve, and then ran home as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s bluff.
Scrooge took his usual dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s book, went home to bed. He double-locked the door, took off his coat, put on his nightshirt, slippers and cap, and sat down before the fire. It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He had to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel.
Then there came a clanking noise, deep down below, as if some person were dragging a heavy chain. Then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight toward his door.
Scrooge: It’s humbug! I won’t believe it.
Storyteller: His color changed, though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, “I know him; Marley’s Ghost!” and fell again.
The same face, the very same. Marley in his usual waistcoat, tights and boots. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound around him like a tail; it was made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent, so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind.
Though he looked the phantom through and through, and saw it standing before him—though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes, he was still incredulous.
Scrooge: How now?! What do you want with me?
Marley: Much!
Scrooge: Who are you?
Marley: Ask me who I was.
Scrooge: Who were you then?
Marley: In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.
Scrooge: Can you…can you sit down?
Marley: I can.
Scrooge: Do it, then.
Marley: You don’t believe in me.
Scrooge: I don’t.
Marley: What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?
Scrooge: I don’t know.
Marley: Why do you doubt your senses?
Scrooge: Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of the grave about you, whatever you are!
Marley: Ahhhhhhh! Man of the worldly mind! Do you believe in me, or not?
Scrooge: I do! I do! I must! But…dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me? Why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?
Marley: It is required of every man, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness! Oh, woe is me!
Scrooge: You are fettered. Tell me why.
Marley: I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you? Or would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It is a ponderous chain!
Scrooge: Jacob, Old Jacob Marley, tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob!
Marley: I have none to give. I cannot tell you what I would. A very little more is all that is permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond our countinghouse—mark me!—in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our money-changing hole; and weary journeys lie before me! Oh blind man, blind man! Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one’s life’s opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Such was I!
Scrooge: But you were always a good man of business, Jacob!
Marley: Business? Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence, were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business! Hear me! My time is nearly gone. I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer.
Scrooge: You were always a good friend to me.
Marley: You will be haunted by Three Spirits.
Scrooge: Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob? I…I think I’d rather not.
Marley: Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Look to see me no more. And look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us.
Storyteller: It walked backward from him, and at every step it took, the window raised itself a little, so that, when the apparition reached it, it was wide open, and it floated out upon the bleak, dark night.
Scrooge closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. Scrooge tried to say “Humbug!” but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the invisible world, or the lateness of the hour, much in need of repose, he went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep on the instant.
When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark that, looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his chamber—until suddenly the church clock tolled a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE.
Light flashed up in the room, and a strange figure appeared: like a child, and like an old man. Its hair was white, as if with age, and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand, and yet its dress was trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible, and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher cap, which it now held under its arm.
Scrooge: Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me.
Ghost of Christmas Past: I am.
Scrooge: Who and what are you?
Ghost of Christmas Past: I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Scrooge: Long past?
Ghost of Christmas Past: No. Your past.
Scrooge: Would you mind putting on your cap?
Ghost of Christmas Past: What?! Would you so soon put out the light I give?
Scrooge: No, no. Of course not. What business brings you here?
Ghost of Christmas Past: Your welfare. Rise, and walk with me! (Takes Scrooge by he hand, leads him to the open window, and prepares to fly out.)
Scrooge: I am a mortal, and liable to fall!
Ghost of Christmas Past: Bear a touch of my hand upon your heart, and you shall be upheld in more than this!
Storyteller: They flew through the air until they came to a country road, with fields on either side. The city had entirely vanished. It was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground.
Scrooge: Good Heaven! I was bred in this place. I was a boy here!
Ghost of Christmas Past: You remember the way?
Scrooge: Remember it? I could walk it blindfolded.
Storyteller: They walked along the road—Scrooge recognizing every gate, and post, and tree—until a little market town appeared in the distance. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music that the crisp air laughed to hear it.
Ghost of Christmas Past: These things are but shadows of the things that have been; they will have no consciousness of us.
Storyteller: But Scrooge knew and named them, every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them? Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them wish each other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for their several homes? What was merry Christmas to Scrooge? Out upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done him?
Ghost of Christmas Past: The school is not quite deserted. A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.
Storyteller: They went to a door at the back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by the lines of plain desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire. Scrooge sat down and looked at his poor forgotten self as he used to be.
Scrooge: Poor boy. I wish…but it’s too late now.
Ghost of Christmas Past: What is the matter?
Scrooge: Nothing, nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something: that’s all.
Ghost of Christmas Past: Let us see another Christmas! (The boy Scrooge stands up and is now some years older. Scrooge’s younger sister comes in.)
Scrooge’s Sister: Dear, dear brother! I have come to bring you home, dear brother! To bring you home, home, home! Home, for good and all. Home, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home’s like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home. And he said “Yes!,” you should. And he sent me a coach to bring you, and you are never to come back here. And we’ll be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world!
Ghost of Christmas Past: Always a delicate creature, your sister, whom a breath might have withered. But she had a large heart!
Scrooge: So she had.
Ghost of Christmas Past: She died a woman, and had, as I think, children.
Scrooge: One child.
Ghost of Christmas Past: True, your nephew!
Scrooge: Yes.
Storyteller: They were now in the busy thoroughfare of a city, and it was Christmas time again, but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up. The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door.
Ghost of Christmas Past: Do you know this place?
Scrooge: Know it?! I was apprenticed here! (They go in. Fezziwig sits at his desk.)
Scrooge: Why, its old Fezziwig! Bless his heart, it’s Fezziwig, alive again!
Fezziwig: (Gets up.) Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick! (Dick Wilkins and young Scrooge come in.)
Scrooge: Dick Wilkins, to be sure. My old fellow-‘prentice, bless me. Yes, there he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear!
Fezziwig: Yo ho, my boys! No work tonight. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let’s have the shutters up, before a man can say Jack Robinson! Clear away, my lads, and let’s have lots of room here! (They bustle about. The room fills up with guests, including Mrs. Fezziwig and their three daughters. Maybe the piano player could play a tune, while a lively dance is improvised.)
Storyteller: There were more dances, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there were mince-pies and plenty of beer. When the clock struck eleven this domestic ball broke up. (Everyone says “Merry Christmas” to the Fezziwigs as they leave.)
Ghost of Christmas Past: A small matter, to make these silly folks so full of gratitude.
Scrooge: Small?
Ghost of Christmas Past: He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money—three or four, perhaps.
Scrooge: It isn’t that, Spirit.He has the power to render us happy or unhappy, to make our service light or burdensome, a pleasure or a toil. The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.
Ghost of Christmas Past: What is the matter?
Scrooge: Nothing particular.
Ghost of Christmas Past: Something, I think.
Scrooge: No, no. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. That’s all.
Ghost of Christmas Past: My time grows short. Quick! (The young Scrooge comes back in and sits next to a young woman.)
Young Woman: (Tears in her eyes.) It matters little to you. Another idol has displaced me. If it can comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.
Scrooge: What idol has displaced you?
Young Woman: A golden one. You fear the world too much. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you.
Scrooge: What then? Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you. Have I ever sought release from our engagement?
Young Woman: In words, no. Never.
Scrooge: In what, then?
Young Woman: In a changed nature.If you were free today, can I believe that you would choose a poor girl? Or that you would not repent that choice? And so, I release you. With a full heart, for the love of him you once were. May you be happy in the life you have chosen. (She leaves.)
Scrooge: Spirit, show me no more! Take me home. Why do you delight to torture me?
Ghost of Christmas Past: I told you these were shadows of the things that have been. Do not blame me that they are what they are.
Scrooge: Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!
Storyteller: Scrooge seized the extinguisher cap and pressed it down upon the Spirit’s head. The flame went out. The Spirit dropped down.
Scrooge was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness. He was back in his own bedroom. He fell into a heavy sleep.
When the clock struck again, Scrooge was suddenly wide awake: waiting for the next Spirit to appear. After a while, when a Spirit failed to materialize, he notice a great light coming from the adjoining room. He shuffled in his slippers into the next room and saw that it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that it seemed like a grove. Leaves of holly, mistletoe and ivy reflected the light, as if many little mirrors had been scattered there. A mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney: a blaze never known in Scrooge’s time!
Heaped upon the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, great joints of meat, sucking pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince pies, plum puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-night cakes, and great bowls of punch. In easy state upon this couch there sat a Giant, glorious to see, who bore a glowing torch, shaped like Plenty’s horn, that shed its light upon Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door.
Ghost of Christmas Present: Come in! Come in and know me better, man! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me!
Storyteller: He was clothed in a simple green robe, bordered with white fur. His feet were bare, and on his head he wore a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. He had a genial face, sparkling eyes, and a joyful disposition.
Ghost of Christmas Present: You have never seen the like of me before!
Scrooge: Never.
Ghost of Christmas Present: Have never walked forth with the members of my family who came before me?
Scrooge: I don’t think so. I’m afraid not. Have you many brothers, Spirit?
Ghost of Christmas Present: More than eighteen hundred.
Scrooge: A tremendous family to provide for!
Ghost of Christmas Present: Come! Touch my robe! (Scrooge does so.)
Storyteller: The room and all its contents vanished instantly. They stood in the city streets upon a snowy Christmas morning.
Scrooge and the Ghost passed on, invisible, straight to the home of Scrooge’s clerk, Bob Cratchit.
First they encountered Mrs. Cratchit, dressed in a simple gown, adorned with ribbons, which are cheap, but make a goodly show for sixpence. She was assisted in laying the cloth upon the table by her oldest daughter, Belinda Cratchit. Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes. And now two smaller Cratchits, a boy and a girl, came tearing in. They danced about the table while Master Peter blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.
Mrs. Cratchit: What has ever got your father? And your brother, Tiny Tim?
Two Young Cratchits: There’s father coming!
Storyteller: In came Bob, the father, with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for poor Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame! The two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim off to the wash-house that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.
Mrs. Cratchit: And how did little Tim behave?
Bob Cratchit: As good as gold, and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas day, who made the lame beggars walk and the blind see. He’s growing strong and hearty.
Storyteller: Tiny Tim came back in with his brother and sister. Bob compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer. Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds—a feathered phenomenon—and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the applesauce; Bob sat Tiny Tim beside him at the corner of the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast. But when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried:
Tiny Tim: Hurrah!
Storyteller: There never was such a goose! Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by applesauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family. Everyone had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in.
In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit returned, flushed, but smiling proudly, with the pudding, like a speckled cannonball, so hard and firm, blazing in half a quarter of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck on top.
O, a wonderful pudding! Everyone had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth was swept, and the fire made up.
Bob Cratchit: A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!
Tiny Tim: God bless us, every one!
Storyteller: He sat very close to his father’s side, upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.
Scrooge: Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live.
Ghost of Christmas Present: I see a vacant seat in the chimney corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.
Scrooge: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…
Ghost of Christmas Present: Man—if man you be in heart—forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is and where it is.
Bob Cratchit: (Toasting.) To Mr. Scrooge: the Founder of the Feast!
Mrs. Cratchit: The Founder of the Feast, indeed! I wish I had him here! I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it!
Bob Cratchit: My dear, the children! Christmas day!
Mrs. Cratchit: It should be Christmas day, I am sure, on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!
Bob Cratchit: My dear…Christmas day!
Mrs. Cratchit: I’ll drink his health for your sake and for the day’s, not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy New Year! He’ll be very merry and happy, I have no doubt!
Storyteller: The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness in it. Scrooge was the ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for a full five minutes.
But after it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round.
Tiny Tim: God Bless Us, Every One!
Storyteller: They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty. But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time. And when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit’s torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last.
Next, Scrooge was surprised to find himself at his nephew’s, in a bright, dry, gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability.
Fred: He said that Christmas is a humbug! He believed it, too!
Fred’s Wife: More shame for him, Fred.
Fred: He’s a comical old fellow: that’s the truth. I am sorry for him. I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. He takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won’t come and dine with us. What’s the consequence? He loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. But I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not.
Storyteller: Now the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by the nephew. Then Scrooge and the Spirit were again upon their travels.
Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes were visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital and jail, in misery’s every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts.
It was a long night, if it were only a night. It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older. Scrooge noticed that his hair was grey.
Scrooge: Are spirits’ lives so short?
Ghost of Christmas Present: My life upon this globe is very brief. It ends tonight at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near.
Scrooge: Forgive me, but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your robe. Is it a foot or a claw? Spirit, are they yours?
Ghost of Christmas Present: They are Man’s. And they cling to me. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both—but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.
Scrooge: Have they no refuge or resource?
Ghost of Christmas Present: Are there no prisons?
Storyteller: The clock struck the hour. Scrooge looked around him for the Ghost, and saw it no more. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley, and, lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground toward him.
The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. In the air through which this spirit moved, it seemed to spread gloom and mystery.
It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing visible save one outstretched hand. But for this, it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.
Its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. The Spirit neither spoke nor moved.
Scrooge: Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?
Storyteller: The Spirit pointed downward with its hand.
Scrooge: You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. Is that so, Spirit?
Storyteller: The Spirit inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.
Although well used to the ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it.
It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.
Scrooge: Ghost of the Future, I fear you more than any specter I have seen! But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?
Storyteller: It gave him no reply. The hand pointed straight before them.
Scrooge: Lead on! Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!
Storyteller: They scarcely seemed to enter the city, for the city rather seemed to spring up about them. But there they were in the heart of it, amongst the merchants, who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and so forth, as Scrooge had seen them often do.
The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of businessmen. (The Spirit points to them.)
First Businessman: No, I don’t know much about it. I only know he’s dead.
Second Businessman: When did he die?
First Businessman: Last night, I believe.
Third Businessman: Why, what was the matter with him? I thought he’d never die.
First Businessman: God knows.
Second Businessman: What has he done with his money?
First Businessman: I haven’t heard. Left it to the company, perhaps. He hasn’t left it to me. That’s all I know.
Third Businessman: It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral, for upon my life I don’t know of anybody to go to it. Shall we make up a party and volunteer?
Second Businessman: I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided. But I must be fed.
Storyteller: Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversation apparently so trivial. He looked about him in that very place for his own image, but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes.
Now he recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed: a bare uncurtained bed, on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of a man. (Phantom points to the head.)
The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge’s part, would have disclosed the face.
Scrooge: I understand you, and I would do it if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power. (Ghost continues to point at the head.) If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man’s death, show that person to me, Spirit, I beseech you.
Storyteller: The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment, like a wing, and, withdrawing it, revealed a room by daylight, where a woman waited.
She was expecting someone with anxious eagerness. At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door, and met her husband: a man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now; a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed, and which he struggled to repress.
Caroline: Is it good…or bad?
Husband: Bad.
Caroline: Then, we are quite ruined.
Husband: No, there is hope yet, Caroline.
Caroline: If he relents, there is. Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened.
Husband: He is past relenting. He is dead.
Caroline: I am thankful. God forgive me. I’m sorry…To whom will our debt be transferred?
Husband: I don’t know. But before that time we shall be ready with the money. We may sleep tonight with light hearts, Caroline.
Storyteller: The only emotion that the Ghost could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure.
Scrooge: Let me see some tenderness connected with a death, or that dark chamber which we left just now will be forever present to me.
Storyteller: The Ghost conducted him through several streets with which he was familiar, and as they went along Scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchit’s house, the dwelling he had visited before, and found the mother and the children seated round the fire.
Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in the corner, and sat looking up at Peter, who was reading a book. The mother and her daughter were engaged in sewing. But surely they were very quiet!
The mother laid her work upon the table, and put her hand up to her face.
Mrs. Cratchit: Your father should be home soon.
Peter: He’s late. But I think he has walked a little slower than he used to, these last few evenings, mother.
Mrs. Cratchit: When he walked with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, he walked very fast indeed. But he was very light to carry, and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble…no trouble. There’s your father now. (The family rushes to greet Bob Cratchit. He appears very cheerful.) You went today, then, Robert?
Bob Cratchit: Yes, my dear. I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there every Sunday. My little child! My little child! (Sobs.) However and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor Tiny Tim—shall we?—or this first parting that there was among us.
All: Never, father!
Bob Cratchit: And I know…I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was, although he was a little child, we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Tim in doing it.
All: No, never, father!
Bob Cratchit: I am very happy! I am very happy!
Scrooge: Specter, something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead.
Storyteller: The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed him to a dismal, wretched, ruinous churchyard. The Spirit stood among the graves and pointed down to one.
Scrooge: Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point, answer me one question: Are these shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be only?
Storyteller: Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.
Scrooge: Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me.
Storyteller: The Spirit was as immovable as ever.
Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went, and, following the finger, read upon the neglected grave his own name: EBENEZER SCROOGE.
Scrooge: Am I that man who lay upon the bed? (The Spirit points from the grave to him, and back to the grave.) No, Spirit! Oh no, no! Spirit, hear me! I am not the man I was. Why show me this if I am past all hope? Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life! I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. O, tell me I may erase the writing on this stone!
Storyteller: Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom’s hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into…a bedpost. Yes, and the bedpost was his own! The bed was his own!
Scrooge: I am here! The shadows of the things that would have been may be dispelled. They will be! I know they will! I will live in the past, the present and the future! The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees!
I don’t know what to do! (Laughing.) I am as light as a feather! I am as happy as an angel! I am as merry as a schoolboy! I am as giddy as a drunken man! A Merry Christmas to everybody! A Happy New Year to all the world!
There’s the door by which the Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There’s the corner where the Ghost of Christmas Present sat. It’s all right, it’s all true, it all happened! (He laughs.)
Storyteller: Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long line of brilliant laughs.
Scrooge: I don’t know what day of the month it is. I don’t know how long I’ve been among the spirits. I don’t know anything. I’m quite a baby. Never mind. I don’t care. I’d rather be a baby.
Storyteller: The church bells began ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever heard. Oh, glorious, glorious!
Running to the window, he opened it and put out his head. No fog, no mist, just clear, bright, jovial, stirring cold! Golden sunlight! Heavenly sky! Sweet fresh air! Merry bells! Oh, glorious, glorious!
Scrooge: What’s today?
Boy: Huh?
Scrooge: What’s today, my fine fellow?
Boy: Today?! Why, CHRISTMAS DAY!
Scrooge: It’s Christmas Day! I haven’t missed it! The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hello, my fine fellow!
Boy: Hello.
Scrooge: Do you know the Poulterer’s shop, over in the next street, on the corner?
Boy: Of course I do!
Scrooge: An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prize turkey… the big one?
Boy: The one as big as me?
Scrooge: What a delightful boy! It’s a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, the one as big as you!
Boy: It’s hanging there now.
Scrooge: Is it? Go and buy it.
Boy: What?!
Scrooge: Go and buy it and tell ‘em to bring it here. I’ll give them the directions where to take it. Come back with the man and I’ll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I’ll give you half a crown! (The boy runs off.)
I’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s! He won’t know who sent it. It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim! (The boy and the poulterer’s apprentice arrive.) Here’s the turkey! Hello! How are you? Merry Christmas!
Storyteller: It was a turkey! He never could have stood on his legs, that bird. They would have snapped off like sticks of sealing wax.
Scrooge: Why, it’s impossible to carry that to Camden Town. You must have a cab.
Storyteller: The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only exceeded by the chuckle with which he sat down, breathless, in his chair again, and chuckled till he cried.
Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much. And shaving requires attention, even when you don’t dance while you are at it. But if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a piece of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied.
He dressed himself all in his best, and at last got out into the streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, and Scrooge looked so irresistibly pleasant that three or four good-humored fellows said:
Good-humored Fellows: Good morning, sir. A Merry Christmas to you.
Scrooge: Merry Christmas!
Storyteller: And Scrooge said often afterwards, that of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears.
He had not gone very far, when he saw coming toward him the portly gentleman who had walked into his countinghouse the day before. It sent a pang across his heart to think how this old gentleman would look upon him when they met; but he knew what path lay straight before him, and he took it.
Scrooge: My dear sir (taking both his hands), how do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A Merry Christmas to you, sir!
First Gentleman: Mr. Scrooge?
Scrooge: Yes, that is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness…(Scrooge whispers in his ear.)
First Gentleman: Lord bless me! My dear Mr. Scrooge, are you serious?
Scrooge: If you please, not a farthing less. A great many back-payments are included in it, I assure you. Will you do me that favor?
First Gentleman: My dear sir, I don’t know what to say to so much munifence…
Scrooge: Don’t say anything. Please come and see me. Will you?
First Gentleman: I will!
Scrooge: Thank you. I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you!
Storyteller: Scrooge went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew’s house.
He passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and knock. But he made a dash, and did it:
Scrooge: Fred!
Fred: Who is it?
Scrooge: It’s I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, Fred?
Storyteller: Let him in?! It’s a mercy he didn’t shake his arm off! He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, wonderful happiness!
But he was early at the office the next morning! If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon.
And he did it. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. Bob was a full eighteen minutes and-a-half late. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come in.
Bob’s hat was off before he opened the door, his comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy, driving away with his pens, as if he were trying to overtake nine o’clock.
Scrooge: (Growling.) What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?
Cratchit: I’m very sorry, sir. I’m late.
Scrooge: Are you? Yes, I think you are. Come over here.
Cratchit: It’s only once a year, sir. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.
Scrooge: Now, I’ll tell you what, my friend. I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore…and therefore…I am going to raise your salary!
Storyteller: Bob trembled and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the court for help and a straight-jacket.
Scrooge: A Merry Christmas, Bob! A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I’ll raise your salary, and endeavor to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon over a bowl of hot wassail, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another coal scuttle before you dot another “i,” Bob Cratchit.
Storyteller: Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more. And to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough in the good old world.
And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge.May that be truly said of all of us! And as Tiny Tim would say:
Tiny Tim: God Bless Us, Every One!

—Charles Dickens

Bibliophiles Unanimous! 12/12/21
2021-12-12 15:00 - 17:00
Some stories get better with each telling. This is one of those stories. Charles Dickens used to do public readings of an abridged version of “A Christmas Carol” at this time of year. This is based on his abridged version. On Sunday, December 12th, at 3 pm (PST) our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering will feature a Group Reading of this version of A Christmas Carol. Here’s the link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058

It’s gonna be fun! I hope you can join us!

Merry Christmas!

God Bless Us Every One!

Meditation & Mindfulness 12/15/21
2021-12-15 - 2022-01-14
Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

December 15, 2021

(Andy Larkin made the design on the first page, inspired by a verse from the Ātmopadesha Śatakam of Narayana Guru. Below is an English translation of the verse, along with a brief commentary by Andy.)

Verse 83
Atmopadesha Satakam

To break, to exist and to come into being is the nature of bodies here-
one goes, another takes its place;
remaining in the highest, the Self that knows all these three,
the indivisible one, is free of modifications.

As people with minds conditioned by notions of “before” and “after”, and “here” and “there”, we cannot know what lies beyond the twin portals of birth and death, where such notions no longer apply. Are we confined here? The Guru wants to reassure us. Birth and death are not just gates, but are twin features of every instant of our lives. The knowing Self is the imperishable ground upon which all these transformations are enacted. The changes we experience, even those that bring us intense joy or grief, can actually become constant reminders of our original nature, the Changeless.

—Andy Larkin
*

Complaint, Compliant

Sometimes the fix is easy—a small
adjustment, and things start looking up,
the storm in you shot through with
sunlight, and you can be kind again.

Breath you used to snipe and slander
could be humming as you putter at some
healing task, raking leaves, making the dishes
gleam, jotting notes to friends.

You could trade in fear for a fare on the
love train. You could shun your trials
and follow trails into forest birdsong.
You could make bitterness into butterness,

and spread your love around.

—Kim Stafford
*

(Alex is Editor of Free Spirit, which is published at Deer Ridge Correctional Institution. This is his essay from the December issue.)

Heart of Snow

It is a simple word, “love,” and while it reverberates with pinks and sighs, I also hear the echo it contains: “of”—that fittingly nested rhyme employed “to indicate distance or direction from, separation, deprivation, etc.”1 That “etc.” wrecks me, as it seems to indicate that there is an infinite number of ways to be deprived of the people, places and things we love.

The complexities of love usually arise from our attempts to schematize, to understand love by way of language. For example, is it really true that a seemingly cold or unfeeling person has a “heart of ice”? Ice may be slow, ponderous and impermeable, but it does permit light, and in this way it is honest. It lasts. Conversely, a least on paper (poetically speaking), a person with a heart of snow seems more gentle, kind, capable of love. But snow is fragile, reflects light, and is easily muddied. It melts much faster than ice.

Language, an inherently inefficient technology (unlike a purely utilitarian engine, or sword, which has no extraneous parts), only hems love in, but we barrel ahead with letters and poems and avowals anyway. Nevertheless, I believe that love, as humans experience it, would be much less exhilarating without these passionate attempts to encapsulate and communicate it.

And our love, as it builds, as we ornament, qualify it with words, becomes a tangled thicket trailing behind us, a world whose heavy beauty, with each new annexation of the heart, becomes more capable of destroying us, until five words—which would have meant nothing before—suddenly mean a great deal: “I don’t love you anymore.” And yet heartbreak is ultimately something we do to ourselves, because we are its architect, and because we are blessedly doomed to remember. Love wallops all.

How many times have we wished to forget our greatest joys, simply because they no longer exist except in their capacity to haunt? And how many times have we outlasted our grief, and counted ourselves lucky to still possess those joys alive within us, so distant now that they can do us no harm? Daniel Kahneman proposes that “the time people spend dwelling on a memorable moment should be included in its duration.”2 If so, a kiss, even a meeting of eyes, can go on resolving for years, like a film frozen at its climax, and the lips finally part, the eyes look elsewhere, only as we draw our last breath and take leave of the earth.

Random House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, Second Edition, 2001.
Kahneman, Daniel, Thinking Fast and Slow, 2011.

—Alex Tretbar
*

The Gift
Life is a gift certificate,
many ways of spending it?
Do I
save it to use later,
but for when and what time?
Or do I
spend it little by little,
until it’s gone?
Or do I
throw it away,
knowing not what I spend it on?

It is something you cannot change,
after you have spent it all.

So think before you spend your gift,
you only have but one.

© December 14, 1996
Joshua Underhill
*

(Jude meditates on Thich Nhat Hanh’s meditation from Your True Home.)

#294 More Time for What Is Important

I have some principles I live by. Principles sounds too lofty; let’s say ideas. In no particular order they are:

Give everything ten years to work out—for my stepchildren to love me, to lose ten pounds, for my wisteria to bloom; after ten years, reevaluate and maybe give another ten years.
Whatever the question, trees are the answer.
Hate drains you, love fills you.
Be happy that you’re not easily offended but try not to be so obtuse to others’ sensitivities.
Less is more. Progress is overrated. Consumption sucks.

There are others to expand on at a later time, but there is one more to talk about in regard to #294: More Time for What Is Important. Every sentence resonates. My summation is Don’t Waste Life! When Thich Nhat Hanh says, “Time is very precious: every minute every hour counts. We don’t want to throw time away,” I remember what I say to others: I wish there were two more hours in a day, two more days in a week, two more weeks in a month! Think of the things I could do! Find more beautiful mountain meadows. Make more meals for the Ziegler family. Plant another sweet gum tree for fall. Sleep more nights in the playhouse. Invite little Lily Contreras again for milk and cookies in the playhouse. See, if I had more hours, more days, I could squeeze so much more out of life.

This idea is not just a recent Time-is-running-out-because-I’m-getting-older-by-the-minute thought; I have thought this for as long as I can remember.

Life is so short!

Live it!

—Jude Russell
*

(These are excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal. The numbers refer to meditations by Thich Nhat Hanh in Your True Home.)

November 3, 2021 #190 A Wonderful Opportunity

I enjoy the idea of being a refuge for others. It’s a way to help and to heal the world, which demands nothing more from me than I’m already doing for my own well-being. I can still develop a proactive aspect also, but by simply caring for the self—deliberate breathing practice, being happy, accepting the reality that is instead of focusing on what I may wish it to be—I can be a happy, peaceful haven for others around me, many of whom seem weary from all of their machinations and façade maintenance, which they believe will provide happiness and safety. I can simply “be” and allow peace to develop around me, as strife eventually falls away. I’m not being naïve about this. It takes a great deal of time to develop for/around anyone. At the same time, my efforts to not create my own strife will attract others seeking the same. As I create a world of peace through my choices, the world I live in will reflect that back to me, over time.

November 7, 2021 #191 Love is Understanding

I have experienced the truth of this teaching. Although I will add, it has not always been easy to see or accept the understanding. Other times it can be as easy as accepting the axiom: “hurt people, hurt people.” In this I can often see a (general) cause and from this arises acceptance, love and compassion….

I write this because to develop love from understanding is going to show, even if one doesn’t set out to do so. It just “leaks” out. Love can’t be contained. No matter how intensely or thoroughly one may attempt to hide or contain it, love will find its expression in this world. So, don’t fight it. Let it come out as you feel it is best to share. And rest knowing that: Love does indeed coquer all. A caveat is that it is genuine and altruistic, not the least bit self-serving, contrived, or stifled. Let it loose and let love reign.

November 17, 2021 #196 A Relaxation Practice

Everyone can appreciate one of these, right? It’s so simple and yet very rewarding to do. I only wish I could go to a park, or a lake, or a river or stream for a relaxing, mindful walk. I guess I can go in my mind through memory, reliving a moment, or just recalling the river, lake, park, etc., and recall the sights and sounds, while attending to how I experience them (anew) now. I could also relive that moment fully by recalling the physical sensations—the gentle touch of the breeze, the sounds of the birds in the trees, the gurgling river, the light softly filtered by the trees bathing my “moment,” the pungent aroma of nature, and even the body sensations that ground me in the moment. I wish I could share this memory with each one, but I’m certain that everyone has a relaxing memory to recall.

November 18, 2021 #197 Elegant Silence

I agree. I have had an experience of this. It’s calming. In a chaotic world, wherever one lives, having a retreat, of sorts, in the mind, where one may go to experience cessation of noise…can be very rewarding. Don’t take my word for it. Just start a daily practice, focus on the natural uncontrolled breath, and watch thoughts as they float by consciousness as clouds, without attaching or grasping onto them. With time, the mind quiets, after a habit is stabilized, and you’ll notice elegance. Don’t “look” for it. It may only be a glimpse. Or, something to notice after it happened. Seeking and finding aren’t the point. Being open and available to what “is” is the goal, and even that is not an “end,” but just a beginning of learning to just “be”—whatever may come. It’s a type of flow—like floating a river instead of resisting it.

November 25, 2021 Thanks Giving Day! #199 Driving Lesson

Today is an amazing day! I’m alive! I woke up again. I’m sort of like the rooster in the latest Peter Rabbit movie, exclaiming surprise and joy at being alive to see another day. I have much to be thankful for, such as: family and friends and comrades in the prison, too!….I’m housed in a safe, warm space where I can communicate with others for my needs, as well as for social contact and mental wellness. I have food to enjoy, and even “special” foods for today….

—Michael Deforge
*

(Last year about this time, my friend Rocky Hutchinson was in segregation. I wrote him a “meditation letter” in the hope that it would be helpful to him in getting through a difficult time. Here it is:) (JS)

December 26, 2020

Dear Rocky

Thinking of you this morning. I start each day with inner stillness. It seems to me that it would be good for you to start your day by being still. And throughout each day to find moments of peace and stillness.
This letter will be a kind of guided meditation.
Sit quietly. Comfortably. Eyes open. Notice breath. Body. See what’s around you, but don’t name it, or think about it. Just observe.
Breath. No past. No problems. No worries. No Rocky.
No past. No future. Breath.
The present moment is a wonderful moment. I am alive. I breathe. I see with my eyes.
When I close my eyes, the world disappears. When I open them, it reappears. Wonderful!
Calm. Peace. Quiet.
Thoughts arise. Say: “Thank you. No thank you.”
Back to stillness. Back to breath.
When you drop a pebble into a pool, it makes little ripples. After a while the surface of the pool is still. Thoughts are like those pebbles. Thoughts are not bad. All thoughts are just thoughts. Happy thoughts, sad thoughts, are just thoughts. In between the thoughts is perfect emptiness. Perfect fullness.
Sitting still, there are no problems. There are no worries. Each moment of stillness is a vacation from being Rocky. From the past. From guilt. From shame. From pride.
The future has not arrived. It never arrives. The future is uncertain. Everything is always changing. We don’t know what will happen. In this moment we can bless the day. Say thank you for our breath. For the gift of life. For the gift of awareness.
In silence, we are free. In silence, a feeling of boundless being. Even if the silence is just for a few seconds, it nourishes us. And so, we return to it again and again. Whenever we can.
Allow thought and language to fall away. Just be. Be without a boundary. Be without beginning or end. No past. No future. Awake. Aware.
Thoughts come and go. Observe them like clouds, floating by in the sky. The brain is used to being very active—to thinking and imagining one thing after another. Allow it to slowly, slowly quiet down. To have a rest.
Notice how stupid and repetitive all the thoughts are. How useless. The mind is like a noisy radio playing terrible music and dumb advertisements all day long. Gently turn down the volume. Gently turn it off. Breathe.
Awake. Aware. No boundary. No inside or out. No here or there. No ideas. No memories. No worries.
Everything, without exception, is miraculous. This moment, perfect. All my stories are just stories. All my thoughts are just thoughts. Watch the thoughts come and go, like clouds floating by in the sky. Return again and again to stillness. To the peace which passeth understanding.
Bless the day. The present moment is a wonderful moment. It has no beginning or end.
*
Well that’s about it for that.
I think it would also be good to read the Hsin Hsin Ming slowly every day, in a meditative way. It only makes sense in the context of meditation. You could learn it by heart. It is a doorway to freedom.
Meditation and mindfulness and silence are part of the dance of life. Without inner peace, life becomes confusing and overwhelming. All our fears become magnified. We torture ourselves. We become depressed. And anxious. Our thoughts drive us mad.
As you water the seeds of inner peace, it grows—and becomes stronger every day. With a sense of well-being and quiet joy you can face all the problems and challenges of life.
In silence, problems are dissolved. They don’t arise.
Please stay safe. Always choose the option that is the safest one.
Take good care of yourself. You are a good person. You have a loving heart.
Water the seeds of peace, love, happiness and understanding. Don’t water seeds of anger, hatred or fear.
This day is a perfect day. Don’t waste this precious day being miserable.
Practice the Metta Prayer for yourself and for others:
May I be happy.
May I be well in body and mind.
May I be peaceful and at ease.
May I live in love.

—Johnny Stallings
*

(Deborah sent two short pieces from Raids on the Unspeakable by Thomas Merton, and a poem she wrote.)

Rain and the Rhinoceros

Let me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for money. By “they” I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a festival, who do not appreciate its gratuity, who think that what has no price has no value, that what cannot be sold is not real, so that the only way to make something actual is to place it on the market. The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free, and I am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness.

The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and its porch with insistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize, rhythms that are not those of the engineer.

I came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the cornfield, said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in the forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!

Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen. (pp. 9-10)

Letter to an Innocent Bystander

The true solutions are not those which we force upon life in accordance with our theories, but those which life itself provides for those who dispose themselves to receive the truth. Consequently our task is to dissociate ourselves from all who have theories which promise clear-cut and infallible solutions, and to mistrust all such theories, not in a spirit of negativism and defeat, but rather trusting life itself, and nature, and if you will permit me, God above all. For since man has decided to occupy the place of God he has shown himself to be by far the blindest, the cruelest, and pettiest and most ridiculous of all the false gods. We can call ourselves innocent only if we refuse to forget this, and if we also do everything we can to make others realize it. (p. 61)

—Thomas Merton

What Do I Know?

Closing my eyes,
a silent darkness,
light
at the edges.
My breath moves
up and down,
holding each moment,
inhalation
then release.

The human heart
is quixotic,
malleable,
almost like a berry
in the palm of my hand.

In my ears,
a deeper space
that stretches out,
a disappearing
reverberation.

We touch nothingness.

—Deborah Buchanan
*

(Katie Radditz shares two poems and some of her thoughts:)

In Celebration of the Winter Solstice

Do not be afraid of the darkness.
Dark is the rich fertile earth
that cradles the seed, nourishing growth.
Dark is the soft night that cradles us to rest.
Only in darkness
can stars shine across the vastness of space.
Only in darkness
is the moon’s dance so clear.
There is mystery woven in the dark quiet hours.
There is magic in the darkness.

Do not be afraid.
We are born of this magic.
It fills our dreams
that root, unravel and reweave themselves
in the shelter of the deep dark night.
The dark has its own hue,
its own resonance, its own breath.
It fills our soul,
not with despair, but with promise.
Dark is the gestation of our deep and knowing self.
Dark is the cave where we rest and renew our soul.
We are born of the darkness,
and each night we return
to the deep moist womb of our beginnings.

Do not be afraid of the darkness,
for in the depth of that very darkness
comes a first glimpse of our own light,
the pure inner light of love and knowing.
As it glows and grows, the darkness recedes.
As we shed our light, we shed our fear,
and revel in the wonder of all that is revealed.

So, do not rush the coming of the sun.
Do not crave the lengthening of the day.
Celebrate the darkness.
Here and now. A time of richness. A time of joy.

—Stephanie Noble

Stephanie Noble is an insight meditation teacher, author and board member of the Buddhist Insight Network. Many resources are on her website.

Thay encourages us to nourish those seeds underground (he calls it, “our store consciousness”); look deeply and heal through touching those feelings you wish to grow. This is a good time to meditate, on Loving-Kindness, toward ourselves as well as others :

May I be at ease,
May I know the light of my True Nature
May I be healed
May I be a source of healing for All Beingss
May I be at Peace

This meditation can sooth, be repeated for “you” and “we.” Weekly, this past year, I have meditated with a small, open group and felt a shift in some of those blocked places within. Always, i feel connected with you all, my extended love-in community. In the dark time that is also the time of giving, may our hearts remain open!

love, katie

Here is a parting gift from poet Robert Bly, a poem that embraces grief as he embraces being alive.

KEEPING OUR SMALL BOAT AFLOAT

So many blessings have been given to us
During the first distribution of light, that we are
Admired in a thousand galaxies for our grief.

Don’t expect us to appreciate creation or to
Avoid mistakes. Each of us is a latecomer
To the earth, picking up wood for the fire.

Every night another beam of light slips out
From the oyster’s closed eye. So don’t give up hope
that the door of mercy may still be open.

Seth and Shem, tell me, are you still grieving
Over the spark of light that descended with no
Defender near into the Egypt of Mary’s womb?

It’s hard to grasp how much generosity
Is involved in letting us go on breathing,
When we contribute nothing valuable but our grief.

Each of us deserves to be forgiven, if only for
Our persistence in keeping our small boat afloat
When so many have gone down in the storm.

— Robert Bly, first Poet Laureate of Minnesota (December 23, 1926-November 21, 2021)

peace, love, happiness & understanding 12/23/21
2021-12-23 - 2022-01-05
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

December 23, 2021

Quite a long time ago, I adapted this short story by Fyodor Dostoevsky and performed it. I hope you enjoy it! (J.S.)

Dream of a Ridiculous Man

I’m ridiculous. Some people think I’m crazy. Which is better, in a way, except that they also think I’m ridiculous. But I don’t mind. I love everyone. I’ll tell you why. See, that’s what I want to talk to you about. About why I love you. Even though I don’t know you. Even if you laugh at me. I’d laugh too–not exactly at myself, but just to join in–but I feel so sad when I look at you. Because you don’t know the truth. And I do. It’s hard being the only one who knows the truth.

I used to feel depressed about seeming ridiculous. Not seeming. Being. I’ve always been ridiculous, and I think I’ve known it since the day I was born. Well, for sure by the time I went to school. The more I learned, the more I understood that I was ridiculous. Life was just like school in that respect. Everyone always laughed at me. But nobody ever suspected that if there was one person on earth who knew better than anybody else that I was ridiculous, it was me! And what really irritated me was that nobody knew that I knew. But that was my own fault. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone. I was too proud. My pride was so strong that if I had confessed to anyone that I was ridiculous, I think I would have blown out my brains the same evening. As a kid, I lived in constant fear that one day I would break down and tell one of the other kids. But as I got older I became a lot calmer for some reason. I don’t know… Maybe it was because I was becoming very disheartened about something that I couldn’t do anything about, which was that I was slowly but surely coming to the rather cheerless conclusion that nothing in the whole world made any difference. This idea had been creeping up on me for a long time, but I became fully convinced of it only last year. All of a sudden. I suddenly felt that it made no difference to me whether the world existed or whether nothing existed at all. I became acutely conscious that nothing mattered. I thought: probably things had mattered in the past. But as I thought about it more I realized that things had not really mattered in the past, they only seemed to. I became quite certain that nothing would matter in the future either. At that point I stopped being angry with people, and almost stopped noticing them altogether. I would be walking along and I would run into people! And not because I was lost in thought–what would I be…? I didn’t have anything to think about. I had more or less stopped thinking by that time. It made no difference. Not that I had everything figured out. Far from it. I had no idea what the hell was going on. I didn’t understand anything. But nothing made any difference and so all the things I used to worry about just sort of faded away.

And, well, it was only after that that I learned the truth. I learned the truth last November. The third of November, to be exact. It was a gray, depressing evening. Cold and rainy. I was walking home. It was late. And I remember thinking: “God, this is a miserable night.” The rain was that kind of rain that is hostile, the kind of rain that is deliberately trying to make you feel miserable. Then the rain stopped, but that was even worse because everything was just so soggy, and it seemed colder than when it had been raining. I was thinking that it wouldn’t be so depressing if the streetlights weren’t on. They only made it worse by illuminating everything.

I looked up at the sky. It was very dark. There were clouds that had torn wispy edges. The patches of sky between the clouds were deep black. All of a sudden I noticed a little star in one of those patches. I stopped walking and just stood there, looking at it. Because that little star gave me an idea: I made up my mind to kill myself that night.

I had been planning to kill myself for a couple of months. And even though I’m always broke I had bought a nice little gun and loaded it. But two months had gone by and it was still lying in the drawer. I was waiting for the right moment. I was completely indifferent to everything and I was waiting for a moment when I didn’t feel indifferent so I could kill myself. Yeah, I know…sounds stupid…

Okay. So…I was standing there looking at the sky. And all of a sudden this little girl grabbed me by the coat sleeve. She was, I don’t know, maybe about eight years old. She was completely soaked. She was pulling at my arm and trying to say something. But I couldn’t tell what because she was shivering and sobbing. You know how it is when kids try to talk when they haven’t finished crying yet? I looked down at her, but I didn’t say anything. Then I pulled my arm away and kept walking. But she ran after me and caught me and was pulling at my coat. She was very frightened about something…incoherent. All I could make out was something about her mother. Her mother was dying or was in some very bad situation. And the little girl had run out to find someone to help. But I didn’t go with her. At first I told her to go find a policeman. But she just held me tighter and wouldn’t let go. Then I got angry and shouted at her. And she let go of me and just stood there. I think she was too stunned to even cry. Then she saw someone coming across the street and ran to him.

I went back to my apartment. It’s pretty depressing. The wallpaper is this ugly color of green, but it’s so grimy you can hardly tell what color it’s supposed to be. It’s peeling off the walls. The carpet is filthy. Whoever lived there before me must have had a lot of cats, because the carpet and the furniture have the unmistakable smell of cat piss. Plaster is falling off the ceiling. The guy upstairs keeps having problems with his toilet. I don’t know what you’d have to do to get the landlady to fix anything. I mentioned to her once that the furniture smelled like cat piss, and she said: “If you don’t like it, you can move out.” And that was the end of that conversation. So, anyway, my apartment is pretty depressing. But it’s cheap. I sat down at my desk and lit a candle. I prefer candlelight. I don’t want to have to look at what a dump I live in. I sat there. Next door they were making lots of noise. As usual. The walls are paper thin. Sometimes I can hear my neighbors having sex. But my other neighbor is this big dirty guy with a beard. I think he sells drugs because people are always coming and going all night long. His regular friends like to drink beer. And they get into fights a lot. Usually they just shout at each other, but sometimes they get into real fights. One of them put his fist through the wall once, right into my apartment. The landlady doesn’t say anything because she’s afraid of him. I’ve seen this guy drunk on the street, asking people for money. But I don’t mind having him for a neighbor. He doesn’t bother me. I just ignore him. And he ignores me. I don’t care how many of them there are in that room or how much noise they make. I don’t even hear them after a while. I sit up all night in my armchair–doing nothing. I only read in the daytime. At night I just sit without even thinking about anything. Well, sometimes thoughts sort of wander in and out of my mind. By morning the candle has burned out.

So, I sat down at my desk and took the gun out of the drawer. I remember asking myself: “Is this it?” And I said to myself: “It is!” I was going to shoot myself. I knew for certain that I would shoot myself that night. The only thing I didn’t know was how much longer I would go on sitting there before I shot myself. And I would have shot myself, if it hadn’t been for the little girl.

See, nothing made any difference to me, but I could still feel pain, for instance. I mean, if someone had hit me, it would hurt. Same with feelings. I could feel pity, just like I used to do when things did make a difference to me. I felt pity for that little girl while she was pulling at my coat and sobbing, which didn’t make sense, given what I’d just decided. And I continued to feel sorry for her even after I got home. As I sat at my desk I couldn’t get her out of my mind. And that irritated me. I hadn’t been so upset in…I don’t know how long. And all these thoughts were banging around in my head. Like: “As long as I am a human being and not nothing, and until I cease to exist, I’m alive, and able to suffer, be angry, feel ashamed. Okay. But, on the other hand, if I’m going to kill myself in a couple hours, why should I care about that little girl, or about shame, or anything else? I’m going to become nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to completely cease to exist, and the whole world along with me, so shouldn’t that have some slight effect on my feelings of pity for that little girl?” Why did I shout at her? It was because I was angry at the fact that she was making me feel. Why should I feel anything? Why should it matter if I’m kind or cruel if I’m going to be extinct in two hours?

As I sat there all these questions were driving me crazy. Before I could answer the first one, another would come up. And another and another. Do your thoughts ever come so fast that you can’t keep up with them? Like, I wondered: what if I had lived before on the Moon or Mars and had done something so shameful that you can hardly imagine? Y’know, like you sometimes experience in a nightmare. Something just unbearable. And if afterwards I found myself on Earth and I remembered what I had done on the other planet–and I knew that I would never go back there–would I feel shame when I looked from the Earth to the Moon, (or Mars, or whatever), or would I feel that it made no difference to me? I mean, the questions were completely useless! The gun was lying on the desk in front of me and I knew I was going to…use it, but I couldn’t get the thoughts out of my mind. It seemed to me that I couldn’t die until I had figured something out. The little girl, in fact, saved me, because by asking these questions I put off my execution.

Then I fell asleep, sitting in my armchair. I had never done that before. I fell asleep without being aware that I was doing it. I dreamed a dream. It was the third of November. People make fun of me: they say it was only a dream. But it revealed the truth to me, so I don’t care if it was a dream. Once you’ve realized the truth, you know it’s the truth. It was just a dream. Okay. But I was about to commit suicide. And my dream saved my life and changed it.

I dreamed that I picked up the gun and pointed it straight at my heart. My heart, not my head. I always thought I would shoot myself in the head. I aimed the gun at my chest, paused for a second or two, and pulled the trigger.

Y’know how in a dream sometimes you fall from a great height, or are being murdered or beaten, but you don’t feel any pain? That’s how it was. I didn’t feel any pain, but everything was suddenly extinguished, and a terrible darkness descended all around me. It was like I had become blind. And I couldn’t speak. I was lying on my back. I saw nothing. I couldn’t move. People came near and they were shouting. The guy from next door was shouting, the landlady was screaming….

Then, the next thing was: I was being carried in a closed coffin. I could feel the coffin swaying, and I was thinking about it, and for the first time it occurred to me that I was dead–dead as a doornail–and I knew it. There couldn’t be any doubt about it. I couldn’t see or move, but I could think and feel. This didn’t bother me. I just accepted it.

Then they buried me. And they went away. And I was alone. It was cold and damp, just like you’d expect. I felt very cold, especially in the tips of my toes, but I didn’t feel anything else.

I laid in my grave. I didn’t expect anything. I just accepted that a dead man has nothing to look forward to. But it was damp. Some time passed. I don’t know how long. A drop of water that had seeped through the lid of the coffin fell on my left eyelid. A minute later… another drop. A minute later…another drop. One drop every minute. It was infuriating! And when I got angry I felt a sharp stab of pain in my chest. “That’s my wound,” I thought. “That’s where I shot myself. There’s a bullet in there.” And every minute another drop of water fell on my eyelid. It was driving me crazy. And I cried out—not with my voice, but with my whole being:

“Whoever you are that’s doing this to me, if anything more rational exists than what is happening to me now, I would like to experience it. But if you are punishing me for committing suicide with life-after-death, no torture that you inflict on me can ever equal the contempt that I will go on feeling for you forever and ever!”

I made this appeal and waited. It was silent for almost a minute. Then a drop fell on my closed eyelid. But I knew that everything was going to change immediately. And it did.

I don’t know how my coffin was dug up and opened, but I was grabbed by a dark unknown being. And the next thing was: we were flying through space. I could see again, but it was pitch-black. It was the blackest black night. We were flying through space at a terrific speed. We had left the earth far behind us. I didn’t question the being who was carrying me. I was too proud. I just waited. I wasn’t afraid, which surprised me. I have no idea how long we were flying. Suddenly I saw a little star in the darkness.

“Is that Sirius?” I just blurted it out. And then I got mad at myself, because I wasn’t going to ask any questions.

The being who was carrying me said: “No. That’s the same star you saw between the clouds when you were coming home.”

I didn’t like this being one bit. I had expected complete non-existence—that’s why I shot myself. And now here I was in the hands of this being—not a human being, but a being nevertheless. It existed. “So there is life beyond the grave,” I thought, in that kind of off-hand way you do sometimes in dreams. Deep down, though, nothing had really changed for me. I thought to myself: “If I must be again, I won’t be defeated and humiliated!”

I said to my companion, “You know I’m afraid of you and that’s why you despise me.” That’s just like me — to say something completely humiliating right after I told myself I wasn’t going to be humiliated.

He didn’t answer, but somehow I sensed that our journey had a mysterious purpose. I was really frightened now. We had long passed the constellations that were familiar to me. And then I saw our sun and was flooded with a strong feeling of nostalgia. It couldn’t be our sun—we were millions of light years away from it—but somehow I knew with every fiber of my being that it was an exact twin copy of our sun. I had a warm feeling of coming home. And for the first time since I had been in the grave I felt a stirring in my heart.

“But if this is exactly like our sun, then where is the earth?”

My companion pointed to the little star I had seen twinkling in the darkness with an emerald light. We were heading straight for it.

I felt an uncontrollable, deep and sad love for the earth I’d left behind.

The face of the little girl I had treated so badly flashed through my mind. I started crying like a baby.

We were rapidly approaching the planet. It was growing before my eyes. I could distinguish the ocean, the outlines of Europe. A great jealousy blazed up in my heart.

“How is such repetition possible? And why? I can only love the earth I’ve left behind, stained with my blood. I know I’m an ungrateful bastard for shooting myself through the heart. But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the earth. I never, never stopped loving it. I loved it more than ever on the night I ended my life.”

Somehow…I don’t remember how…I was already standing on this other earth. My companion was gone. It was a bright, sunny day. It was beautiful. It was like Paradise.

There was a radiant feeling in the air. Bright flowers were everywhere. The sky was filled with birds. And they weren’t afraid of me. They landed on my shoulders and hands and sang to me. And I saw and came to know the people of this blessed earth. They surrounded me and touched me and kissed me all over. They were beautiful! I’d never seen people so beautiful. The first moment I looked at their faces I understood everything! It was an earth unstained by the Fall, inhabited by people who hadn’t sinned, who didn’t know the meaning of sin. They lived in the same kind of Paradise that our first parents lived in. Except that all the earth was everywhere the same Paradise. It had no boundary.

Well, so, I mean…all right, so it was just a dream. But the love of those innocent and beautiful people has stayed with me. I can still feel their love flowing out to me from over there. I have seen them. I have known them and they showed me something. I loved them, and I suffered for them afterwards. I knew from the beginning that there were many things about them I would never understand. I was kind of surprised that they knew nothing about our science, for instance. But I soon realized that their knowledge was derived from different emotions than we are accustomed to. And their aspirations were different, too. They desired nothing. They were at peace with themselves. They didn’t strive to gain knowledge about life in the way we do because their lives were full. I couldn’t understand their way of being in the world. They looked at their trees with an intense love and talked to them as if the trees were beings like themselves. They really talked with them. And the trees understood them! I’m sure of it. They knew the language of the trees. They looked on all nature like that. The animals lived peaceably with them and didn’t attack them or run from them, but loved them. They weren’t concerned with whether I understood them or not; they loved me regardless.

They were playful and high-spirited like children. They made love and begot children, but I never saw in them those outbursts of cruel sensuality which are the source of almost every sin. There were no quarrels or jealousy among them—they didn’t even know what those words meant. Their children were the children of them all, for they were all one family. They rarely got sick, though of course they died; but their old people died peacefully, as though falling asleep. I saw smiles on those occasions, never grief or tears. I saw love that seemed to reach the point of rapture. They had no specific places for worship, but wherever they went they were in a kind of uninterrupted communion with the whole universe.

I told them that I had a presentiment of all this years ago. That I felt a nostalgic yearning, that became at times an unendurable sorrow. I told them that often on our earth I couldn’t look at the setting sun without tears…that there was a sharp pang of anguish in my love for people: why couldn’t I love them without hating them?

They listened to me, but I could tell they didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. They didn’t understand me, but they loved me. They loved me. And when in their loving presence my heart became as innocent and as truthful as theirs I didn’t mind that I couldn’t understand them either.

I’ve tried to talk to people about this. They just laugh at me. How could all this have been crammed into one dream? I must have just awakened with a certain sensation and then invented most of the details after I woke up. And when I admit that they’re probably right, they think it’s the funniest thing in the world. Sure, when I woke up what remained was mostly a powerful sensation. But nonetheless, the real shapes and forms of my dream, those I actually saw while dreaming, were so harmonious and enchanting and beautiful that when I was awake and trying to describe them in words I just blundered along the best I could and had to make up some of the details. I needed to make some conscious account to myself of what I had just experienced, even if in the process I couldn’t help distorting it. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t really happen. All that couldn’t possibly not have been. Because what happened afterwards was so awful, so horribly true, that it couldn’t have been a mere figment of my imagination. The fact is, I corrupted them all!

Yeah. That’s how it ended. The dream encompassed thousands of years and left in me only a vague sensation of the whole. I only know that I was the cause of the Fall. Like a horrible virus, I infected that happy earth that knew no sin or sorrow before me. They learned to lie and grew to appreciate the beauty of a lie. Maybe it all began innocently, with a joke, a flirtation, a bit of sarcasm, some small deceit–just a germ. But this germ made its way into their hearts and they liked it. Voluptuousness was soon born, voluptuousness begot jealousy, and jealousy…cruelty. I don’t know how it happened! I can’t remember. But soon, very soon, the first blood was shed. They were shocked and horrified. They began to separate and avoid one another. They formed alliances, but the alliances were against each other. The idea of honor was born. They began killing the animals for food, or just for sport—and the animals ran away from them into the forests. People began to crave separation. They asserted their “personality.” And they came to distinguish between “yours” and “mine.” Especially “mine.” They began talking in different languages. They knew sorrow, and they loved it. They thirsted for suffering. And they said that truth could only be attained through suffering. It was then that science appeared among them. When they became vicious they began to talk of brotherhood and humanity. When they became criminals they invented justice. They drew up codes of law and instituted public executions.

They only vaguely remembered what they had lost, and they wouldn’t believe that they were ever happy and innocent. They even laughed at the idea of their former happiness and called it a dream. And yet they longed to be happy and innocent again. Like children, they surrendered to the desire of their hearts, glorified this desire, built temples, and offered up prayers to their own idea, their own desire. But if someone had showed them the way back to their state of happy innocence they would have refused to go. They said to me:

“What if we are dishonest, cruel and unjust? That’s the way things are. That’s how they’ve always been. Maybe with the help of science and reason we can make some small improvements. Knowledge is higher than feeling.”

That’s what they said. Something like that.

Saints came among them. With tears in their eyes they told the people of their pride, of their loss of proportion and harmony. They were ignored, or laughed at, or stoned to death. Men arose who began to wonder how they all could be united again in mutual understanding, so that everybody would still love himself or herself best of all, but nobody would interfere with anybody else. Whole wars were fought over this idea.

Everyone believed that each of these orgies of reciprocal mass-destruction would be the last. That science, and the instinct of self-preservation would ultimately force humanity to unite in a harmonious and intelligent society. Therefore, to speed up this inevitable progress, the “very wise and righteous” did their best to exterminate as quickly as possible those who failed to understand this noble idea.

They glorified suffering as the most profound experience. I felt so sad for them. I think I loved them more than before—when there was no suffering in their faces, when they were innocent and so beautiful! I loved the earth they had poisoned even more than when it was a paradise, because sorrow had made its appearance. I’ve always been in love with suffering. But only for myself! Only for myself. To see them suffer just made me utterly miserable. I hated myself for what I had done. I told them that I was responsible for all the corruption, contamination and lies. I asked them to crucify me. I even showed them how to make the cross. I couldn’t kill myself because I didn’t have the courage, but I wanted them to martyr me. I yearned for my blood to be shed to the last drop in torment and suffering. They just laughed at me. They didn’t believe me when I said I was the cause of their suffering. And even those who gave me the benefit of the doubt—maybe they were just humoring me—said that what I did was perfectly justifiedt that they didn’t want a life without suffering, and that what happened was inevitable. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. They said I was becoming dangerous and they would lock me up in an insane asylum if I didn’t shut up. Then a sadness entered my heart with such force that I felt like I was dying. And then I woke up.

It was morning. My candle had burned out. Everyone was asleep next door and it was completely quiet. I was in a very strange state of mind. I had never fallen asleep in my armchair before. And as I was trying to adjust to being awake—because a really strong sensation from the dream still lingered—I saw my gun lying there loaded and ready. I pushed it away! I wanted to live! I wept. I felt this amazing joy—infinite, boundless joy. I was intoxicated just at being alive. And I immediately felt this strong desire to talk to someone, to anyone. To everyone. I decided: “I’m going to tell them.” What? The Truth. I have seen the Truth. I have seen it with my own eyes and it’s beautiful!

And ever since then I’ve been trying to tell people about it. They laugh at me. People say I get the story all mixed up, and if I’m already doing that, then what will it be like later on? They’re right. I get confused and I’ll probably just get worse as time goes on. I mean, it’s confusing because it’s very hard to put it into words. I don’t know…I think everyone is confused. Because…well, everyone wants to be happy, right? And look how unhappy everyone is!

But I have seen the Truth. And I know that people can be happy and beautiful. I just can’t believe that evil is our normal condition, that we are evil by nature. People laugh at this faith of mine. But how can I help believing it? I’ve seen the Truth. It’s not like I invented it with my mind. I really saw it. I experienced it. And the living image of it will be with me always. I’ve seen it and I know we can realize it, and that it will transform us. I’m not confused about that. Of course I’ll make mistakes and say the wrong thing, but the living image of what I’ve seen will correct me and put me back on the right path. I’m feeling pretty good right now. And I feel like I have a kind of mission and I will have it as long as I live. But I don’t know exactly what it is. At first I wasn’t going to tell you that I corrupted them. That was a mistake. But the Truth whispered to me, “You’re lying,” and put me back on the path. I don’t know how to establish a heaven on earth. I don’t know how to put it into words. At least the most important things I need to say—I don’t know how to say them. But that’s okay. I’ll just keep trying.

It’s all really very simple:

In one day, in one hour, everything could change! The main thing is: we have to love each other, and love this earth. That sounds too simple, doesn’t it? But it’s true. That’s the main thing. That’s everything. Nothing else matters. It’s not particularly original. It’s been said a million times and it hasn’t done any good. I mean, look at the world! It’s a mess. I don’t know…if only we all wanted it, everything would change in the blink of an eye.

–Fyodor Dostoevsky

peace, love, happiness & understanding 1/6/22
2022-01-06 - 2022-01-19
THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

January 6, 2022

Dr. Cornel West gave the Collins Distinguished Speaker Lecture at the University of Oregon, on April 26, 2019. His lecture was titled “Race Matters…A Timely Discussion on the Fabric of America.” On YouTube, the talk is titled “What It Means to Be Human.” This is a transcription of the first part of the talk:

What It Means to Be Human

Four hundred years of being hated—individually, systemically, chronically, institutionally, and yet the best of the Black tradition is what? Teaching the world so much about love. I could just turn on John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” right now, and sit down. Just let you take it in. Or I could read passages from Toni Morrison’s Beloved. A love so thick that it takes the form of the killing of your precious baby, because you don’t want your baby dirtied and thingified by white supremacist persons, practices, institutions, structures. I could read the love-soaked essays of James Baldwin, the son of Harlem. Never went to college, but at least two colleges went through him. He would say over and over again: “Love forces us to take off the mask we know we cannot live within, but fear we cannot live without.” Courage. Interrogation. There’s never been a figure on the American stage—given all of the genius and talent, of Eugene O’Neill and probably the greatest indictment ever written of the American Empire in The Iceman Cometh, or Tennessee Williams, or Arthur Miller, or August Wilson, or Adrienne Kennedy—but I’m talkin’ about Loraine Hansbury’s A Raisin in the Sun. Has there ever been a figure with more love than Mama on the American stage? Five generations enacted, and her attempt to bequeath and to transmit what the Isley Brothers would call “a caravan of love” to that younger generation. Walter keeps Travis, in light of Old Man Walter—you oughta know the play—who dies, who bequeaths ten thousand dollars, to see whether they’ll get to that vanilla suburb or not. But that’s not the end and aim of it. The aim is: measuring people based on their courageous attempt to cultivate the capacity to think for themselves. To learn how to love. And to laugh. And to hope. I could turn on Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On?” Every note and the silence between the notes. “Save the babies.” “Who really cares?” Or Stevie Wonder’s “Love’s in Need of Love.” But this love that we’re talking about again—this is not abstract. It is concrete, and it is as real as a heart attack. And it has something to do with the Socratic legacy of Athens. It has something to do with line 38A of Plato’s Apology: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And we know the Greek actually said: “The unexamined life is not the life of a human.” And we know our English word “human” comes from the Latin humando, which means what? Burial and burying. We’re beings on the way to death. And you can’t talk about race matters, you can’t talk about what it means to be human, without talking about wrestling with forms of death and what it means to be on intimate relations with forms of death. Early physical deaths, indeed, but also social death. That 244 years of white supremacist slavery attempt to make them socially dead, in the language of the great Orlando Patterson, in his 1982 classic, Slavery and Social Death. Unsuccessful. Resistance, resilience still kicks in, but the attempt to impose a social death. And then a psychic death. And what is psychic death? Well, for black people in the modern world it has to do with trying to wrestle against the forces of niggerization. Because to niggerize a people is to try to convince them they’re less beautiful, they’re less intelligent, they’re less moral—to instill in them unbelievable fear, to instill in them this sense that they oughta be scared all the time, and intimidated all the time. Laughin’ when it ain’t funny. Scratchin’ when it don’t itch. Wearing the mask, as Paul Lawrence Dunbar said it in his great poem. That’s why one of the most powerful sentences in James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, is that line in the letter to the nephew: “Don’t, comma, be afraid.” That’s why Marcus Garvey would always have a black person in front of every major demonstration with a big sign: “The negro is not afraid.” Even if they’re shaking, carrying the sign. That’s why the great Mary Ellen Pleasant, who was the first black woman millionaire in America, known as “the Mother of Human Rights in California.” She happened to be a black domestic maid who married a white Robber Baron, and he dropped dead. She got all his money. And she didn’t kill him. It was a natural thing. But never forget Mary Ellen Pleasant. She gave eight hundred thousand dollars to a white brother named John Brown. That’s how he survived financially on his way to Harper’s Ferry. She would start every lecture, all over California, with the line: “I’d rather be a corpse than a coward.” Just like Martin Luther King, Jr. would always say to his staff: “I’d rather be dead than afraid.” Wrestling with what it means to be human. Being on intimate terms with death. And the echoes, going back to Plato, when he says: “Philosophy itself is a meditation on and preparation for death.” Philo sophia, “love of wisdom.” Meditation on, preparation for: death. And even Seneca—and we don’t expect too much profundity from the Romans, they’re so busy running an empire, very much like we Americans—he used to say: “He or she who learns how to die, unlearns slavery.” I’ve told my students for 41 years of my very blessed life of teaching: “When you come in my classroom, you’re here to learn how to die.” “Oh Brother West, I thought I was just taking a Philosophy class, to read some texts, and get a grade.” “No, no! This is paideia. This is p-a-i-d-e-i-a. This is deep education. This is not cheap schooling.” When you’re talking about race matters you’re not just talking about skill acquisition and information. You’re talking about self-interrogation and social transformation. And the best of the University of Oregon, with all of the challenges that go along with any institution of higher learning in our late Capitalist civilization that’s undergoing commodification, bureaucratization, corporatization, rationalization, making it more and more difficult for any kind of paideia to take place. But the students come in so pre-professional. Can’t wait to make their move into the professions. “No, you gotta learn how to think first. No, you gotta learn how to laugh first. You gotta learn how to play first. You gotta wrestle with what it means to be human.” “I’ll get to that later on, I just need my skills.” Oh, what makes you think any democracy can survive, based on dominant forces of corporatization, commodification, bureaucratization and rationalization, in the Weberian sense? You’re gonna end up, as Du Bois said so powerfully in The Souls of Black Folk: “Caught in the dusty desert of smartness and dollars.” And in many ways that’s where we are. I don’t know about the University of Oregon, but back at Harvard oftentimes the highest thing a student can say about themselves is they’re the smartest in the room. And I tell ‘em: “Let the phones be smart, and you be wise.” The fantasizing of smartness, tied to richness—how spiritually empty! How morally vacuous! And, most importantly, reinforcing the worst protocols of professional culture, which are conformity, complacency, and when it’s time to actually act, cowardliness. Because the careerism and the opportunism are so overwhelming . Thank God for Socrates. Thank God for all of those who are willing to, first, begin with themselves. Self-examination. Self-interrogation. And when you give up an assumption or presupposition, when you give up a dogma or a doctrine—that’s a form of death. And there is no education without that kind of death. There’s no maturation without that kind of death. That’s what learning how to die is all about. One of the greatest eulogies ever written—one sentence—by a sister named Dorothy Day, one of the great prophetic figures of the Twentieth Century. She’s my fellow Catholic sister. When Martin Luther King, Jr., was murdered, April 4th, 1968, in her historic newspaper The Catholic Worker she said: “Martin Luther King, Jr. learned how to die daily.” To continually grow, continually mature, and it’s endless, it is perennial, and you always end up in a moment of inadequacy—almost an echo of our great lapsed Protestant artistic genius, Samuel Beckett, when he said: “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” That’s the best that we can do. But you’re continually in process, calling yourself into question, interrogating whatever assumptions you are falling back on. That’s Socratic energy at its highest level. To come to terms with race matters is to begin with self always already tied to society, always already tied to forms of death, forms of dogma, and forms of domination. To be human is to wrestle with those inescapable and unavoidable realities, to drop any linguistically conscious primate, like ourselves, in time and space, means you’re gonna have to wrestle with forms of death—first, bodily extinction, the psychic and spiritual death, possibly civic death, forms of patriarchy, class-based, could be empire, colonized people. But then: dogma—ideological dogma, religious dogma, political dogma, scientific dogma. You say: “Brother West, how could there be scientific dogma? To be scientific is to be always concerned about questioning.” “Read the history of science.” Just read it closely. The great John Dewey always made a distinction between scientific method and scientific temper. The method itself can become a dogma. Just like skepticism. If you’re not skeptical about skepticism you get locked into a certain kind of skepticism. And in the end it becomes a matter of adolescent activity, because skepticism usually presupposes the vantage point of a spectator. Whereas, criticism is one of a participant. So, you can play all kinds of games as a spectator, but when you are involved, when it comes to your house, and your loved ones, all of a sudden things shift. And that’s one of the great stories of white supremacy in the United States. So often people can be in a state of denial. Look at the U.S. Constitution: any reference to the institution of white supremacist slavery? No! Twenty-two percent of the inhabitants of the thirteen colonies are enslaved. No reference to the institution in your constitution. You’re gonna end up havin’ a Civil War of 750,000 precious people killed over an institution not invoked in your constitution. “Well, Professor West, that’s just a fascinating tension between principal and practice.” “Get off the crack pipe!” That’s called denial. That’s called avoidance. That’s called thinking in fact that you can somehow, through willful ignorance, treat people, conceive of yourself, in ways that those effects and consequences won’t come back to haunt you. What did Malcolm X call it? “Chickens comin’ home to roost.” Sooner or later, you’re gonna reap what you sow. Sooner or later, what you think you’ve been able to escape from is gonna hunt you down. We’re seeing that right now in imperial America. We end up killing almost a million Muslims and can’t say a mumblin’ word in our public discourse. Invasions of Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan. And then you get the counter-terrorists and we wonder why they’re upset. Now, terrorism, for me, needs to be called into question across the board. Taking the life of innocent human beings, for any reason, is a crime against humanity. But no serious concern about how many Iraqis died. Same is true with our drones. Innocent folk in Yemen and Somalia and Pakistan, Libya, Afghanistan can die. Kill one American—Brother Barack did what? Had a press conference that same day. Gave economic compensation for the family that same day. And yet already denied that they killed any innocent people, as a whole. Quit lyin’! Quit lyin’! Keep track of human beings! Those babies in Yemen and Somalia, those babies in Pakistan—they have exactly the same status and significance as black babies in South Central Los Angeles, as brown babies in East Los Angeles, as white babies in Newtown Connecticut, as yellow babies in San Francisco. And we like to talk about it in the abstract, but when it comes time to being actually tested in our actions, we’re livin’ in denial. We might as well be in Disneyworld on Main Street. And what’s fascinating about Disneyworld—so stereotypically and quintessentially American? There’s a lot of fun there. But there’s no life. And there’s no life because there’s no death. If somebody’s about to die in Disneyworld, you just take ‘em and push ‘em across the line. “You’re gonna besmirch our image. Nobody’s supposed to die in Disneyworld, now.” Ah! I’m bein’ facetious. Y’all get the point, though. Escapist! Escapist! Escapist! Given all of the overwhelming sense of possibility, and supposedly prosperity, and yet, one out of two of our children, black and brown, under six years old, live in poverty in the richest nation in the history of the world. That’s a moral disgrace! Where’s the discourse about it? Martin Luther King, Jr. turns over in his grave. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel turns over in his grave. Are we gonna actually keep track of the underside? Are we gonna be Socratic enough that we can keep track of the Conrad-like heart of darkness shot through all of the life of liberty that we talk about in the United States? Or, sooner or later, you’re gonna reap what you sow. Absolutely. And of course, usually the people who raise this issue end up being misunderstood, misconstrued, marginalized, incarcerated, or shot down like a dog. The truth is too much! It’s too overwhelming! Rather close one’s eyes. And yet, when the crisis comes, ooh, lo and behold! That’s why race matters in regard to indigenous peoples, in regard to our precious brown brothers and sisters. Moving borders. I grew up in California. Used to be Mexico. Read what Ulysses S. Grant says about the Mexican War. Just massive gentrification, a power grab, and a land grab, across the board. Immigration discourse. Well, they comin’ home. They comin’ home. That used to be theirs. Viciously, immorally taken. Or Asian brothers and sisters. The very year in which we had the Statue of Liberty—“Give me your poor”—there’s the Chinese Exclusion Act. So much for our universality. And of course you all here in Oregon, you know about the Black Exclusion Acts of 1844. Is that right? You know about those? [Someone in the audience says: “No, we don’t.”] Well, they need to know. I’m gonna put up a picture. Serious exclusion acts. Black folk can’t step foot in Oregon. “But we’re anti-slavery.” “Yes, but you’re anti-black people, at the same time.” That is highly possible. We human beings, we’re so creative when it comes to mistreatin’ each other. Be against slavery, but don’t want black folks too close. Can’t stand the institution, but oh, when those live human beings and bodies get close, we’re overwhelmed. That’s part of the challenge, too. That’s why any discussion about race is never simply a discussion about policy, structural institutions—as crucial as structural institutions are. But it’s also about the ways in which subjectivities are constructed, the ways in which individuals are created. And then, the choices that people make, not just as persons, but in collectivities, in groups, in communities. And that’s one of the reasons why the best of the University of Oregon or any other institution of higher learning has to put such a stress on that Socratic legacy of Athens, that paideia. And that line 24A of Plato’s Apology, when Socrates says: “Parrhesia is the cause of my unpopularity.” What is parrhesia—p-a-r-r-h-e-s-i-a? Frank speech. Fearless speech. Plain speech. Unintimidated speech. Education at its highest level is about fusing the formation of our wise attention with the cultivation of our critical thinking, that’s linked to the maturation of compassionate and courageous people. Now, we raised the question: “Is courage a dominant virtue in our universities?” Hell, no! No, it’s not at all. It’s about smartness. It’s about status. And, too often, arrogance and condescension. Courage is tied to fortitude. Fortitude is tied to a certain humility. Socrates!: “I know that I know more than others precisely because I know that I know nothing. And they think they know something they do not know.” Intellectual humility. Personal humility. But it’s tied also to a tenacity. “I’m going to raise whatever is inside of me to think for myself,” as Kant put it in What is Enlightenment? of 1784. The release from self-incurred tutelage. The release from self-imposed immaturity. Dare to think for yourself! That’s what it is to find a voice of my own black tradition. So when Monk tells Coltrane, “You been imitatin’ Johnny Hodges of the Duke Ellington Band too much, John. It’s time for you to find your voice. What does Trane sound like?” And I don’t know how many of you all had a chance to see “Amazing Grace.” Has that hit Eugene yet? Aretha, twenty-nine years old, walks into James Cleveland’s church and raises her voice. And who’s on the front row? Not just her father, Reverend C. L. Franklin, one of the finest of all preachers enacting such a grand oratorical art, but Clara Ward—echoes of Marion Williams—those Aretha imitated, until she found her voice. I don’t know if many of you all got a chance to see “Homecoming” yet, about Beyonce. Oh, we got some Queen Bee beehives up in here? Oh, sooki sooki, now. Yeah. So what does she do when she enters predominantly white space? She brings her whole crew with her, doesn’t she? She brings her whole culture with her—two hundred musicians linked to historically black college performances. And the performances are not mere entertainment. Each one of them are lifting their voices, just like Duke Ellington’s orchestra. Just like James Brown’s band. Just like the musicians in Sly Stone’s group. Each one finding their voice. And they bounce off against each other. Ralph Ellison called it “antagonistic cooperation.” ‘Cause it’s not competition in the market-driven sense: “I’m so good, and you’re sounding so bad.” No. Grow up. We’re in this together. And, most importantly, kenosis. And this is what oftentimes is missing in any serious talk about race matters, especially in the academy, but even outside. And what is kenosis—k-e-n-o-s-i-s? Kenosis is self-emptying, self-donating, self-giving. It’s like the end of a James Brown concert, when he comes out and says, “I’m an extension of you. You’re an extension of me. I’ve just given you three-and-a-half hours of all that I am. Did anybody come here to hear a song we did not play?” “You didn’t play ‘Soul Power,’ James.” He says, “Hit it, Bootsie!” Because you come to serve. You’re not a spectacle. I go to some of these concerts with these young brothers and sisters, highly talented, and all that spectacle hits. I went to one of Usher’s concerts. That negro was flippin’ over like he was in a circus. I said: “ Pick up the microphone and sing a song, negro! I didn’t come here for all this mess!” Spectacle! That’s late Capitalist culture. Image! Spectacle! Superficiality! Titillation! Stimulation! All Aretha Franklin needs is a microphone. She sits down—is that right, my sister?—she sits down at that piano and what does she do? Within three minutes she has touched you in parts of your soul you forgot about. Because she has mastered her craft and her technique in such a way, but she’s there to give, she’s there to enable, she’s there to empower. She wants people to leave feeling as if they could take on death and its forms, domination and its forms, dogma and its forms, and be ready to die with dignity, physically, and then hope your afterlife will be at work in the lives of those who come after. Oh, what a great conception of what it is to be human! Black folk have no monopoly on this. This is a human thing, across the board….

Sorry to stop here. This is about halfway through his talk. It takes quite a while to transcribe it from the video, I’m a day late in getting out this issue, and this is about our normal length. Those of you with access to the Internet are encouraged to watch the whole lecture on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aekb3ppKm5w&t=1813s). (JS)

Dr. West has taught at Yale, Princeton and Harvard. He currently teaches at Union Theological Seminary in New York.

Bibliophiles Unanimous! 1/9/22
2022-01-09 15:00 - 17:00
Woman Reading at a Desk (c. 1910) by Thomas P. Anshutz

Beloved Bibliophiles! This week, Sunday, January 9th, at 3 pm (PST), our theme is “Read Any Good Books Lately?” Or a long time ago? Here’s the link for the Zoom gathering:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/87614013058

I hope to see you there!

peace, love & happiness

Johnny

Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 1/15/22
2022-01-15 - 2022-02-14
Hotei

Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

January 15, 2022

Live light, travel light, spread the light, be the light.
—tag on Yogi Tea bag

Every thing that lives is Holy.
—William Blake

Each thought, each action in the sunlight of awareness becomes sacred. In this light, no boundary exists between the sacred and the profane.
—Thich Nhat Hanh, from Your True Home, #269

Ken Margolis sent this poem by our friend Dennis Wiancko:

Our Mother’s Prayer

Our Mother, Whose name is Earth,
Hallowed be Your ground
And Your skies
And Your rolling seas

Your gardens thrive; Your spirit alive
Through woodlands, streams,
Mountains and plains
Everywhere

Grant us this day our needs for tomorrow
And refresh us with Your living waters

Forgive us our mistreatment
As we would forgive those who cause you harm

Lift us from negligence, and deliver us from greed,
For Yours is the home, and the beauty,
And the life that sustains us,
And we would love, respect, and care for You
Now and ever, ever forward.

—R. Dennis Wiancko 2016
*

Kim sent a poem and some thoughts from the Dalai Lama.

Etiquette of Thought

When first you wake, you may wonder
without knowing. Dream work still rules.
Then, the coffee, you begin to know
without saying. The mind has a mind
of its own. When others wake, you may
say without asking, caught in your own
little world. But with luck, a little grace,
you may then ask and listen, and by this
blessing, work your way back to wonder.

—Kim Stafford

Here is what a friend told me she learned from the Dalai Lama when he visited her nonprofit in India:

Kindness brings joyfulness
service to others brings joyfulness
we are made for goodness
the gift of suffering makes us appreciate joy
joy is our work of giving joy to others
happiness is a result of kindness
well being is a skill
while you are alive your life should be meaningful

—Dalai Lama
*

[There is a] marvelous story in the world of Zen Buddhism where the man is standing on the hill in the distance and a group of people come along and see him standing there and begin to wonder why he’s standing there. So they have quite a full discussion of the possibilities of what caused him to be standing there. When they finally reach him, they say we’ve been having this discussion about why you’re standing here. Which one of us is right? He says, I have no reason. I’m just standing here.

—John Cage, from Musicage: Cage Muses on Words Art Music, p. 129
*

Jason Beito shared this from his friend Steve Decker, who recently released to Portland. Steve is a student of Siddha Yoga.

To celebrate gratitude is to express gratitude.

The origin of the word “sacrifice” is: “to make sacred.”

“Love is, first and foremost, sacrifice. More than passion, romantic declarations, or outer expressions of loyalty and faith. Where there is true love, there is a willingness to give one’s essence in its service—whether as a mother who sacrifices for her children, a leader for his country, a seeker to his spiritual practices, or an artist to his art.”—Siddha Yoga

“A man who enjoys what is given by the gods
without offering something in return,
he is a thief and lives in vain.”—the Vedas

Let’s make our lives Sacred.

Thanks for what you give to me
and to so many others.

—Jason Beito
*
For me, the beginning of each day is an important time. I like to find my way to what I call “The Golden World.” When I feel that I am “in” the Golden World, everything is beautiful, perfect, miraculous. I silently say “thank you.” Thought and language fall away. Without a care in the world, I feel slightly elated. I have no problems. No ambitions. No fears. No boundary. There is no distinction between “me” and “the world.” This nameless feeling is quite lovely. It’s Paradise.

As the day goes on, and I get busy with various activities, I like to take good care of my feelings of peace and love and happiness. I want to see everyone I meet, including my plant and animal friends, as the beautiful luminous beings we are.

I got a new book by Thich Nhat Hanh yesterday: Zen and the Art of Saving the Planet. It’s edited from his talks and writings by Sister True Dedication. I like this poem. It reminds me of a poem by Walt Whitman:

I have been looking for you, my child,
Since the time when rivers and mountains still lay in obscurity.
I was looking for you when you were still in a deep sleep,
Although the conch had many times
Echoed in the ten directions.
From our ancient mountain I looked at distant lands
And recognized your steps on so many different paths.
Where are you going?

In former lifetimes you have often taken my hand
And we have enjoyed walking together.
We have sat for long hours at the foot of old pine trees.
We have stood side by side in silence
Listening to the sound of the wind softly calling us
And looking up at the white clouds floating by.
You have picked up and given to me the first red autumn leaf
And I have taken you through forests deep in snow.
But wherever we go, we always return to our
Ancient mountain to be near to the moon and stars,
To invite the great bell every morning to sound,
And help all beings to wake up.

—from “At the Edge of the Forest,” by Thich Nhat Hanh

We Two, How Long We Were Fool’d

We two, how long we were fool’d,
Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,
We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,
We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,
We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,
We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,
We browse, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any,
We are two fishes swimming in the sea together,
We are what locust blossoms are, we drop scent around lanes mornings and evenings,
We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals,
We are two predatory hawks, we soar above and look down,
We are two resplendent suns, we it is who balance ourselves orbic and stellar, we are as two comets,
We prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods, we spring on prey,
We are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead,
We are seas mingling, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling over each other and interwetting each other,
We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious, impervious,
We are snow, rain, cold, darkness, we are each product and influence of the globe,
We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again, we two,
We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy.

—Walt Whitman

—Johnny Stallings
*

First, a disclaimer: These monthly musings of mine from Your True Home are appearing to me to be less worldly and philosophical and more self-absorbed than others’ entries. Maybe it’s okay; these ‘everyday wisdoms’ of Thich Nhat Hanh force me to be self-reflective, and I guess its about time—-just a couple weeks away from turning 78, I’m thinking maybe Socrates is right about the unexamined life. So.

#111-Taking Care of the Future
“The future is being made out of the present, so the best way to take care of the future is to take care of the present moment. This is logical and clear. Spending a lot of time speculating and worrying about the future is totally useless. We can only take care of our future by taking care of the present moment, because the future is made out of only one substance: the present. Only if you are anchored in the present can you prepare well for the future.”

Whew, I’m in luck, because I am not a planner, not an organizer, not a ‘projectionist.’ “Goals” is a foreign word to me. In my late 30s, post divorce, I took a business class for artists, and the instructor asked us to write down our ‘short term goals,’ and our ‘long term goals.’ Huh?!?!? What’s that? Okay- 1. to make enough money for my daughter and me, and 2. to be rich and famous hahaha (groan, yes, I wrote that). Next question: What is your business plan to accomplish these goals? Umm, well, like in the card game of Hearts, I’ll shoot the moon! Meaning, I’ll just go all out, risk everything, and just do it! Fortunately, there was no grading in that class.

And my almost-80-year-old husband keeps asking almost-78-year-old me how long, how many years, I think we can stay in this house, with its ever lengthening staircase, menacing throw rugs nipping at our toes, and acre of whining, demanding property to care for. Well, forever! Climbing those stairs twenty time a day keeps us strong; tripping on throw rugs is good practice for balance, and…oh, just look at this peony.

I should be thinking of the future, but I keep forgetting. If I try to think ahead I get sidetracked, distracted by something that’s happening right then: OMG, Lolo’s fur is sooo soft on my cheek. I’ve never had a dog whose fur smelled so sweet. And she’s an old dog. Don’t old dogs smell? Lolo, you’re the sweetest.

Same with anger, resentment, worry. I can be stewing away vigorously about something—that guy in front of me is flipping snow all over me from his snowshoes. I should tell him how to stop doing…OH! Look at this!! It’s snowing tiny flakes and they look like diamonds sparkling with the sun shining behind them. Or fireflies! Yeah, fireflies, blinking on and off…

But back to Taking Care of the Future; I trust TNH, but I don’t quite understand how being anchored in the present can prepare you well for the future. Doesn’t ‘anchored’ mean ‘stuck?’ Shouldn’t you replace ‘worrying’ with the more positive word, ‘planning?’ How does noticing dog fur and snowflakes help me prepare for the future? I’m serious.

—Jude Russell
*

Here is something I have been meditating on for some time now.

Mercy and forgiveness. I used to think that these two kindnesses could only be truly given by those who you had wronged. But if we can’t forgive ourselves first, the forgiveness given can not be truly accepted by us.

There recently came a time when I finally was able to forgive myself. I had hated the person I USED to be, and for years kept doing this ritual of inner self abuse for the pain I had caused others.

I had a good dose of my past life recently and I could not function in that way any longer. I no longer was that person. Confused, I meditated.

This man that I am now would never do the things the old man would do. The very thought is unpalatable to me now in every way. A person that has gone through such a massive life reformation should be allotted a small dose of mercy, a reprieve from sins of a damaged past life—a life that was poisoned from birth by people who were themselves abused. No one is to blame. No one. It is the world and if I have seen the change in myself others must see it too. I feel I have grown into a remorseful man, guilty of what I did, and extremely repentant.

—Rocky Hutchinson
*

(Rocky’s words remind me of King Lear’s: “None does offend. None, I say. None.”) (JS)

Below is a quote from Alan Lightman (who wrote Einstein’s Dreams) that I have saved to my computer. Every so often I open the file and am inspired again by his vast vision.

“The individual atoms, cycled through wind and water and soil, cycled through generations and generations of living creatures and minds, will repeat and connect and make a whole out of parts. Although impermanent, they make a permanence. Although scattered they make a totality.”

It reminds me that we don’t have to create or forge connections–everything is already in that state of union. It is just necessary to see past fog and illusion to the very interknit whole that we all are. Here are two poems of mine that express the same idea in slightly different ways.

Dirt’s Revelation

Unearthed in Sussex, the now un-favored,
almost forgotten word, smeuse,
describing holes small animals make,
passageways through hedges and forest,
from lawn to lawn, a hidey-hole, smeuse,
the unknown word once familiar,
now waiting to be noticed, little path
in the dark from your heart to mine,
both of us looking askance,
pretending not to see but knowing
all along this hidden world is life saving,
essential, our worlds interwoven
and dependent on the other.
Smeuse, word and passage,
is only an excuse
where we pretend to be alone
needing connection.
Oh, lovely play acting, our face-saving
little charm where we live as separate—
but the tunneling smeuse
betrays us in the dirt, excavating
the truth of our necessary complicity
and consummation.

Time’s Velocity

The water like glass, we look
and see ourselves transparent,
then rippled and below
are rounded rocks, small fish.
Cold eddies form around our hands
as we reach in trying to touch
the reflected clouds, ourselves, a shadow.
The flow keeps moving farther and deeper
while the smell of water, of time, of glass
all mingle, flaring our nostrils.
We wonder where have those hours gone,
now years, now memories we reach for,
so electric, so evanescent.

—Deborah Buchanan
*

Happy New Year. So glad to be here together. I’ve been thinking about New year’s resolutions.

I’m living with a Young Thai woman in the household now. My son’s wife. In Thailand and other Buddhist cultures, the New Year is highly celebrated with lights, lanterns, and joy. Of course it isn’t 30 degrees there and snowing.

Rather than resolutions about doing things, they set intentions for how they want to be. Right intention is one of the paths on the eightfold path. Being in loving relationship with ourselves, one another and with all beings on earth is what we are dedicated to on the Open Road. Here is something from the powerful bell hooks to give us a little boost for a new year:

bell hooks died in December and her work is now celebrated in all sorts of arenas. She was an African American author, teacher, academic and social activist. In a career spanning four decades, she has explored and written on a variety of themes including racism, feminism, culture and education. Her work has centered on identifying and challenging systems of oppression and discrimination which are based on race, sex and class. In her last years she was most influenced by the teachings and life of Thich Nhat Hanh. Here is an excerpt from one of her talks where she speaks about her realization about the importance of Love as a practice for transformation.

Toward a Worldwide Culture of Love

BY BELL HOOKS| JUNE 8, 2021

“Fundamentally, the practice of love begins with acceptance—the recognition that wherever we are is the appropriate place to practice, that the present moment is the appropriate time. But for so many of us our longing to love and be loved has always been about a time to come, a space in the future when it will just happen, when our hungry hearts will finally be fed, when we will find love. . . ( She attended a conference that was more like a Love-In than an intellectual gathering about social justice and experienced a great shift). . . Sacred presence was there, a spirit of love and compassion like spring mist covered us, and loving-kindness embraced me and my words. This is always the measure of mindful practice—whether we can create the conditions for love and peace in circumstances that are difficult, whether we can stop resisting and surrender, working with what we have, where we are.”

The practice of love, says bell hooks, is the most powerful antidote to the politics of domination. She traces her thirty-year meditation on love, power, and Buddhism, and concludes it is only love that transforms our personal relationships and heals the wounds of oppression.

Her story makes me think about the shift that has taken place for all of us during performances in prison. When the production comes out of love and tolerance and caring during dialogue group then there is a magical transfer to creating a work of art that has meaning for us all.

This feeling seeps through our meditation and mindfulness conversation, as we read together and reflect on our own practice, alone but also together in a sangha that knows no walls. It is like our interbeing relationship with Thay as a writer and teacher; he is here because we are here, responding with one another.

in gratitude for your ongoing practice and presence everyone,

—Katie Radditz

NURTURING CULTURE & COMMUNITY
2022-01-20 - 2022-02-25
We need to nurture culture and community during this time when our options for getting together are limited. Here are a few suggestions, for starters:
Every other Sunday at 3, please join us for Bibliophiles Unanimous!: The Open Road Literary Salon.
Subscribe to The Open Road’s peace, love, happiness & understanding journal. Use the Contact form on this website to let us know if you’d like to get it in your inbox every other week.
Browse through the 375,000 high-resolution images of public domain works from the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art!
Right now (3/18/21) you can watch Zeina Daccache’s documentary “Johar Up In the Air” on the Catharsis Facebook page! Zeina has been making her films available for free during this challenging time. It’s a rare opportunity to watch these great films. Don’t miss it!
The Fourth Shakespeare in Prisons Conference highlighted Ashley Lucas’ new book Prison Theatre and the Global Crisis of Incarceration. I interviewed Ashley for the September 3, 2020 issue of peace, love, happiness & understanding.
The Metropolitan Opera shows a new opera every day starting at 4:30 pm (PDT). Each opera streams for 20 hours. Here’s the link to the Metropolitan Opera.
The Portland Japanese Garden is open again. Hurray!
Virtual group meditation daily at The Village Zendo
Host a Zoom meeting of your own! It’s easy. I’m hosting two every week. I really love seeing and hearing my friends–some of whom are far away.
WALT WHITMAN FUN: For two years now, we have celebrated Walt Whitman’s birthday with a group reading of “Song of Myself” on Zoom at the end of May! You can also listen to an interview I did a couple years ago on Marfa Public radio: “Song of Myself” interview with Johnny Stallings . Perin Kerns turned me on to the amazing “Whitman, Alabama” documentary by Jennifer Crandall, which features a wonderful array of people reading verses from “Song of Myself.”
Follow Kim Stafford on Instagram and get inspired on a regular basis!
Enjoy this song from Mexico, Mexico Lindo y Querido, thanks to Playing for Change!
Lots of adventure suggestions at Virtual Concerts, Play, Museums, et cetera
Get a poem-a-day from poets.org.
LOTS of ideas at The Social Distancing Festival!
The Random Acts of Kindness Foundation is brainstorming and heartstorming ideas. Check out their website and learn more.
peace, love & happiness
Johnny

peace, love, happiness & understanding 1/20/22
2022-01-20 - 2022-02-23
Photo # 1 Yellowstone, August 28, 2018 (all photos by Abe Green)

THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

January 20, 2022

Photo #2 Yellowstone, August 28, 2018

Photos 1 & 2

Yellowstone River (Paradise Valley). In 1806, the Core of Discovery, upon leaving Astoria area and re-entering Montana split up—with Lewis traveling via Marias and Missouri Rivers, and Clark the Yellowstone. I often bring DeVoto’s edition edition of Lewis & Clark Journals along on floats here to read aloud by campfire to my fishing friends.

Friends!

I feel like I’m a member of this fantastic community of humans engaged in the fine art of self-realization! Like Stretch Armstrong (remember him?), I’m trying to stretch myself beyond the social, cultural, and religious structures that permeate our modern world.

The big question is: “What the hell is really going on here?”

The big answer: Well, stay tuned. I know as I read the pages of peace, love, happiness & understanding and Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue, listening to the discourse therein, that we are helping one another.

And we are going in a good direction. I read somewhere,

“Walk in a good direction, end up in a good place.”

I thank you all—staff, contributors, and readers. My spirit prospers as a result of your earnest endeavor to be authentic.

As a parting gesture, I would like to suggest two books that have had an influence on my thinking and how I do that thinking:

Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari
The Constitution of Knowledge: A Defense of Truth by Jonathan Rauch

Peace and Wellness…

Abe Gren
2022

Photo #3 Northwest Montana

I see this often during Winter and Summer. The view is looking east into Glacier Park from the top of Whitefish Ski Area. In Summer you can ride the lift with your mountain bike, get the same scenery, and then trail ride down.

Photo #4 Spring Crocus with bee

Dew & Honey

Sip by sip in thimble cup
the meadow bees will drink it up
then ferry home to bounty’s hive
flower’s flavor, hum and thrive
to show us how through word and song
by gestures small and patience long
in spite of our old foolish ways
We may fashion better days.

So, my friend, come sip and savor
syllables as crumbs of pleasure—
by honor in each conversation
we begin a better nation.

—Singer Come from Afar by Kim Stafford

Photo #5 Storm over Fresno

Weather cell moving east after furious rain/hail storm at Fresno Dam (North Central Montana)

Rain

The Beauty in the rain is expressed
as wildflowers on the hillside.
The gift in the rain is accessible
as the bounty of our table.
Bemoan not the lack of sunshine
but rejoice in rain’s gift of life.
For without the rain you and I do not exist.

—From the Other Side: Poetry and Stories by Neall Ryon

Photo #6 Beartooth Mountains peak (South Central Montana)

Since you’re not merely a body, it is inestimable how much of the cosmos lies within the folds of your mind. I wonder if you know how much light, love, and peace you carry around.

—Love & Blessings: The Autobiography of Guru Nitya Chaitanya Yati

Photo #7 Clouds over Bearpaw Lake (North Central Montana)

Nature offers up gifts of incredible beauty every day.But first we have to be there with eyes and heart wide open, to witness in order to receive these precious gifts. Doesn’t matter where you are: backyard, county road, mountains, city park, even a prison yard! They’re for everyone, with no barriers of color, gender, economics, or religion. She says, “Come one, come all.”

Photo #8 Hiking Glacier Park in August (Northwest Montana)

“If you don’t make time for your wellness, you will be forced to make time for your illness.”

Photo #9 Cutthroat Trout

I see in this fish, in the grass, in a bird, a tree, an ant, and in myself the identical notes and words of a song played and sung across the cosmos.

Photo #10 Reflection

All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world. What we think and what we believe creates the experience we have in life. As sure as the cart follows the ox, we are what we think.

—Siddhartha Gautama Buddha, c. 520 BC

Photo #11 On Big Horn River (North Central Wyoming)

Finding delight in the moment, no matter what the circumstances! One of my most favorite photographs.

To be continued…

Abe sent 22 photographs, with accompanying texts. Look for the rest in the next issue of peace, love, happiness & understanding. (JS)

Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue 2/15/22
2022-02-15 - 2022-03-14
Dear Beloved Community,
With a deep mindful breath, we announce the passing of our beloved teacher, Thay Nhat Hanh, on January 22 (January 21 in USA), 2022 at
Từ Hiếu Temple in Huế, Vietnam, at the age of 95.

Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

February 15, 2022

Thay has been the most extraordinary teacher, whose peace, tender compassion, and bright wisdom has touched the lives of millions. Whether we have encountered him on retreats, at public talks, or through his books and online teachings–or simply through the story of his incredible life–we can see that Thay has been a true bodhisattva, an immense force for peace and healing in the world. Never diluting and always digging deep into the roots of Buddhist teaching, he brings out its authentic radiance.

Now is a moment to come back to our mindful breathing and walking, to generate the energy of peace, compassion, and gratitude to offer our beloved Teacher. It is a moment to take refuge in our spiritual friends, our local community, and each other.

—From the Monks and Nuns of Thich Nhat Hanh’s Order of Interbeing

“At the moment my front yard is flush with brilliant winter sunshine slanting to earth beneath the clouds and at the same time it is raining gently. This paradox makes me feel that Thay is right here with me, showing how I can feel grateful for his life as well as deep grief for his passing. We will dearly miss his personal presence, but we have gained so much from his writings, stories, teachings and inclusiveness that we now carry with us. Thay calls his birth and his death day his continuation days.

At a Teacher’s passing in the Buddhist tradition it is honorable to address your teacher by calling his/her name, and saying a short phrase of appreciation and best wishes. Please write to us all or say silently to Thay what is on your heart.

Let us each resolve to do our best over the coming days to generate the energy of mindfulness, peace, and compassion, to send to our beloved Teacher.

Dear Thay: I am so grateful for the way you and Sister Chan Khong have shared the Buddha’s teachings and how they have touched my life as well as the life of those around me with kindness and clarity. A lotus to you.”

—Katie Radditz

“I think of Thich Nhat Hanh as my friend. He said things that have been very helpful to me in my life. I love his sweetness, his gentleness, his friendliness. I know of no one more compassionate, more peaceful, more happy, more free. I love his idea of “interbeing.” I love him. He left an extraordinary legacy of books and YouTube videos that we can revisit again and again, and share with each other. Thank you thank you thank you.”

—Johnny Stallings

Valentine’s Day wishes to you and all your loved ones.

Make a True Home of your Love – (this is a Valentine from Thay)

Every one of us is trying to find our true home. We know that our true home is inside, and with the energy of mindfulness, we can go back to our true home in the here and the now. Sangha is our true home.

In Vietnamese, the husband calls the wife “my home.” And the wife calls the husband her home. Nha toi means my house, my home. When a gentleman is asked “Where is your wife?” he will say, “My home is now at the post office.” (with a sweet chuckle) And if a guest said to the wife, “Your home is beautiful; who decorated it?” she would answer, “It’s my home who decorated it,” meaning, “my husband.” When the husband calls his wife, he says, “Nha oi,” my home. And she says, “Here I am.” Nha oi. Nha toi.

When you are in such a relationship, the other person is your true home. And you should be a true home for him or for her. First you need to be your own true home so that you can be the home of your beloved. We should practice so we can be a true home for ourselves and for the one that we love. How? We need the practice of mindfulness.

In Plum Village, every time you hear the bell, you stop thinking, you stop talking, you stop doing things. You pay attention to your in-breath as you breathe in and you say, “I listen, I listen. This wonderful sound brings me back to my true home.” My true home is inside. My true home is in the here and the now. So practicing going home is what we do all day long, because we are only comfortable in our true home. Our true home is available, and we can go home every moment. Our home should be safe, intimate, and cozy, and it is we who make it that way.

—Thich Nhat Hanh

Rich Land Between
—for Perrin

In a forest wilderness many years ago
you appeared to me, and I appeared to you —
two birds in separate trees singing to the sky.

We looked down to find the ground between us
illuminated by a story we wanted to live. I could
see it with your eyes, and you with mine.

Since then, we have explored the land between —
every crumb of earth, every stem golden by day,
withering by season, sprouting again and again

until it’s hard to tell where your song ends
and mine begins. The land between, crisscrossed
by our devotions, has revealed how in our life

the gifts are many, and the price is everything.

—Kim Stafford

#206 An Act of Love – A work of ART can help people understand the nature of their suffering, and have insight into how to transform . . . . Writing, making a film, (performing a play), creating a work of art can be an act of love. . . . that nourishes you and nourishes others. Michel sends a deep reflection on the effects of music – years of playing the piano- and a painting that he loved, gifted to him by a friend who loved to paint. “There was a time when one of the Group Dialogue member’s father came to play a cello for us. And the Oregon Poet Laureate, Kim Stafford, came to share his art. Each time the artist loved his art form. I believe also that each shared love with the audience for that brief session. Even our Theatre Troupe and directors (all of them) share not only love for this art form but are sharing love through it as well – both for us in prison and for our audience. . . . . What might our world look and feel like if we were more aware (open to) as both givers and receivers of art forms – of this opportunity to love one another deliberately?

#212 The Heart of life – Through accepting – even embracing impermanence I find hope. Hope helps endurance through the distresses of life. So I wish everyone a dose of hope to help bolster you through distress on your journey to luminescence. May you shine brightly as the stars revealing a way for others to find their hope too.

#217 Beyond Labels – As we move into 2022 I hope for everyone I know, past and present, that each learns to accept and release the hold of memories of past events as well as letting go of judgements of “now” going by moment by moment. May we each find love and freedom in our own right. And, may we share that love through understanding and compassion for our fellow travelers along the way as we learn to see the “other” as part of our own self, interconnected with the life we live now.

With love, to all

—Michel Deforge

#281 Loving Words — “Every time the other person does something well, we should congratulate him or her to show our approval. This is especially true with children….”

For seven or eight years in the mid-nineties I was a mentor in an at-risk youth program in Portland, OR. Our kids were each 14 yrs. old, ready to enter high school, and in danger of dropping out —doing drugs, skipping school, acting out, being promiscuous, failing at most everything. We had to work with parents (all of whom were behaving in pretty much the same way as their kids, except they had dropped out of school long before) as well as our youth.

My girl, let’s call her Amy, lived with her father. She was very bright; at 14 she did all the accounting for her dad’s used car sales business out on 82nd Av. (I’m sure he handled the side business of drug dealing accounts). She was affectionate and attentive with me. She had all the potential to be a strong and capable young woman.

Her dad, let’s call him Gerald, however, saw a different picture. When we met, with Amy sitting there, Gerald told me ‘the problem.’

“She’s a whore, just like her mother! She’ll never amount to anything, I guarantee you. She lies and can’t be trusted about anything. She sneaks out at night to be with men—all the time. She’s screwing off in school, when she goes, that is. Just like her mom, she’s dumb and she’ll drop out of school, I know it. Maybe be able to get a bartender job like her mom, if she’s lucky, but…”

I was so shocked to be hearing this, needless to say. I told him this was a different Amy than the one I knew. The girl I knew was extremely smart – didn’t she do the accounting for his business???- and she was caring and dependable, and a lovely girl. He couldn’t even hear me. He’d constantly go back to his well-practiced rant while Amy sat there stoney-faced and silent.

This went on for a couple months, with me politely (and carefully, given Gerald’s demonstrable anger and burly presence) defending Amy, until one evening when I stopped to pick up Amy for a meeting.

She was in tears, crying so hard I could hardly understand her. The gist was, Dad must be right, and you and I are wrong. I’m just going to give up; he’s so sure he knows me, so I must be that bad… or words to that effect.

I was speechless and stunned—but not for long. Gerald had gone out to his favorite biker bar. I knew where it was. Beyond furious, I sped out and spun my Honda into the lineup of a dozen Harleys with the ape-hanger bars. You know there’s that adrenalin thing where you can pick up a car by its bumper to save a child trapped under the wheel? Lifting a hundred times your weight as if it were a paper placemat? That’s the way I was: I barreled into the bar, spotted Gerald and charged over to him and his buddies. He looked up and started, “Hey, hey, what are you..?” But I grabbed him by the collar and jerked him backwards and bellowed, “Gerald, you are going to get out of here, and go home, and talk to your daughter! You are going to tell her that she’s a fine young woman, and she’s smart and talented and you are proud of her!!! I will be right there listening so you’d better say it really good, so that she believes you! GOT it?”

He started whining a little, but one of the guys mumbled, “Hey Jer, maybe you better go on home like the nice lady says…” I yanked his shirt again and barked, “Hear that??? Now move!”

I gave him a shove and out we went. And he went home and I listened to him tell his daughter that she was smart and helpful to his business. I glared at him, and he added, “And you’re a fine young woman …and I’m proud of you.”

Amy should’ve said, “That’s bull—-, Daddy and you know it.” But she didn’t; she threw her arms around him and told him she loved him.

That’s how easy it is with a child.

—Jude Russell

Voices in the Forest

Wind sighing in the trees, boughs rocking and
whispering a story, the world telling us who we are.
The world a song, and we sing with the wind
and trees, our voices trembling in the dark.
The sun lies down behind the trees in twilight
blue, stars shining, moonlight rippling rivers.
Birds call, squirrels and rabbits rustle
their way to bed. We sing to our babies—
You too, you too, time to sleep, the stars will watch,
close your eyes, the wind breathes our song—sleep, baby, sleep.
Owls awaken, wings whoosh overhead, feathers
a blanket, the sky a bed, we lie down with the wind

—Deborah Buchanan

Can the New Year really be a New Year?

The beginning of February is a New Year celebration – in Vietnam ( called Tet) as well as China and other east Asian countries. It is a celebration of the Lunar New Year.

Often we feel that a “new year” can provide us with a chance to begin anew with ourselves – to put into action our deepest aspirations, and to better care for ourselves and the world. However, many of us have also experienced that a new year does not automatically bring us closer to our aspirations.

Thich Nhat Hanh teaches us how to truly begin anew with ourselves. Below is a written excerpt from his talk, with guiding questions for your reflection:

Dear beloved community,

“To begin this year anew, we should reflect on these simple questions:
· What have I done during the year?
· Have I been able to produce feelings of joy and happiness during my days?
· Have I been able to take care of the painful feelings during the year?
· Have I been able to handle them, to calm them down, so that I will not be a source of suffering for myself and for other people?
With mindfulness, we can produce a feeling of joy whenever we want, because we are a practitioner. We can produce these feelings for ourselves, and everyone we love. Have we done that this year?
We can learn how to calm down painful feelings, and even transform them into something better, like compassion, friendship and forgiveness. Pain and pleasure are all organic, like love and hate. If we do not know how to handle love, it can turn into hate or anger. If we know how to handle hate and anger, we can turn it back into understanding and love. If we do not know how to handle painful emotions, we are going to repeat that in the new year, and the new year will not be very new.
The value of the year depends on the value of acting, of our way of life. With mindfulness, we can improve the quality of our life, of our days, our months, our years.”

—Thich Nhat Hanh

Winter Poem

once a snowflake fell
on my brow and I loved
it so much and I kissed
it and it was happy and called its cousins
and brothers and a web
of snow engulfed me then
I reached to love them all
and I squeezed them and they became
a spring rain and I stood perfectly
still and was a flower

—Nikki Giovanni

One of Thay’s favorite Meditations –

Breathing in, I see myself as a flower
Breathing out, I feel fresh.
Breathing in, I see myself as a Mountain
Breathing out, I feel solid.
Breathing in, I see myself as a Mountain Lake
Breathing out, I am calm and reflective.
Breathing in, I see myself as the Sky or Space
Breathing out, I feel free.

Three poems by Heather Cahoon

1.
Counter balance
To his curiosity
The magpie’s tail

2.
The shallow v-shape
Of conviction opens
Where wing becomes body

3.
Getting firewood:
Blaring chainsaws
Give way
To thurderous crashing
From the fallen trees
Black ants pour out
Like blood

—From Alex Tretbar

No day is ever the same, and no day stands still; each one moves through a different territory, awakening new beginnings. A day moves forward in moments, and once a moment has flickered into life, it vanishes and is replaced by the next. It is fascinating that this is where we live, within an emerging lacework that continuously unravels. Often a fleeting moment can hold a whole sequence of the future in distilled form: that unprepared second when you looked in a parent’s eye and saw death already beginning to loom. Or the second you noticed a softening in someone’s voice and you knew that a friendship was beginning. Or catching your partner’s gaze upon you and knowing the love that surrounded you. Each day is seeded with recognitions.

–John O’Donohue, from “To Bless the Space Between Us”

peace, love, happiness & understanding 2/24/22
2022-02-24 - 2022-03-09
Photo #12 Bee in lilac blossoms, May 17, 2020 (photos by Abe Green)

THE OPEN ROAD
peace, love, happiness & understanding

February 24, 2022

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

—from The Tempest by William Shakespeare

As promised, here are more pictures and texts from Abe Green:

Photo #13 Mouse friend, May 7, 2019
The wheel turns ceaselessly—birth and death.

“Birth is not the beginning,
Death is not the end.”

—Zhuangzi (Chuang Tzu) (370 BC – 287 BC)

Walt Whitman says:

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

–from “Song of Myself”

Photo #14 Robin eggs, May 19, 2020

Photo #15 Campfire at Fresno Lake, (North Central MT.), July 24, 2020

I once wrote a lengthy story about campfires. This is the last paragraph:
So here I sit by my campfire, don’t want to “do” anything with it; it doesn’t have to be huge or roaring, just be itself—warm and friendly.
I want to hear its special language of hisses, snaps, pops, and crackles—it’s a language made for my spirit.
I want to smell its earthy, woodpitch scent.
And I want to stare into its inferno-like heart, knowing what I see is a glimpse of the blazing glory of my own human heart.
The same bursting energy that fires the universe.

Photo #16 Showdown Ski Area, (Central MT.), October 27, 2020

I just love this photograph, (though I did not take it). The juxtaposition of the dog and an awaiting ski area clothed in deep new snow—two very experiential loves!

Photo #17 Eye painted on stone, December 28, 2021

I found the rock, an artist friend painted the eye at my request. Live, the piece is dynamic. I call it: “The observer being observed”! It reminds to not only witness what surrounds me, but to also authentically witness my “self.”

Photo #18 Fall colors on Aspen trees, September 26, 2021

“It’s the job of wise people to encourage us to perform thought experiments to challenge us about things we take for granted, to imagine in new ways.”

—J. Stallings quoted by A. Green

Photo #19 Grizzly Bear release, (photo: MT. Fish & Game), October 17, 2021

I included this picture of a grizzly relocation release as an opportunity to speak of the plight of so many of Earth’s habitants. When I see a bear or bird or beetle I see no less than the same spark of life that resides within my breast. How can I wish to experience life while denying it to other life expressions? For that’s what is really going on here, we are all—every plant, every animal, and every mother’s son and daughter—expressing the “gift” in our own way.

Photo #20 Bent tree regrowth, October 24, 2021

Lessons from a Tree

Seed split. Root sprout. Leaf bud.
Delve deep. Hold fast. Reach far
Sway. Lean. Bow. Loom.

Climb high. Stand tall. Last long.
Grow. Thicken. Billow. Shade. Sow seed.

Rise by pluck, child of luck,
lightning-struck survivor.

Burn. Bleed. Heal. Remember. Testify.
Nest. Host. Guard. Honor.

Fall. Settle. Slump.
Surrender. Offer. Enrich.

Be duff. Enough.

—Kim Stafford

Photo #21 Sleeping Giant Skyline, Beartooth Mtns., (Southcentral MT.), November 4, 2021

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

–Wendell Berry

Photo #22 Broken Objects, December 16, 2021

Though sometimes unseen, there are extraordinary possibilities in everyone. If today, I’m a good enough example, if I shine my light bright enough, just maybe…I can change the world! But the world is so big. Better to focus on those I encounter in my little corner of life.

–Abe Green
