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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200528
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200604
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200528T113524Z
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SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness 5/28/20
DESCRIPTION:painting by Charles Erickson \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness \nMay 28\, 2020 \n  \nIn 1681 William Penn\, an English Quaker\, was granted territory in North America by King Charles II. The land was named Pennsylvania. Penn planned to build the city of Philadelphia\, which means “brotherly love.” Before coming to America\, on August 18\, 1681\, he wrote this letter to the Native American chiefs: \n  \nMY FRIENDS\, There is a Great God and Power\, that hath made the world and all things therein\, to whom you and I and all people owe their being and well-being; and to whom you and I must one day give an account for all that we do in the world. This Great God hath written his Law in our hearts\, by which we are taught and commanded to love and help\, and do good to one another\, and not to do harm and mischief unto one another. Now this Great God hath been pleased to make me concerned in your part of the world\, and the king of the country where I live hath given me a great province therein; but I desire to enjoy it with your love and consent\, that we may always live together as neighbors and friends; else what would the Great God do to us? who hath made us not to devour and destroy one another\, but to live soberly and kindly together in the world. Now I would have you well observe that I am very sensible of the unkindness and injustice that hath been too much exercised towards you by the people of these parts of the world\, who have sought themselves\, and to make great advantages by you\, rather than to be examples of justice and goodness unto you\, which I hear hath been matter of trouble unto you\, and caused great grudgings and animosities\, sometimes to the shedding of blood\, which hath made the Great God angry. But I am not such a man\, as is well known in my own country. I have great love and regard towards you\, and I desire to win and gain your love and friendship by a kind\, just\, and peaceable life\, and the people I send are of the same mind\, and shall in all things behave themselves accordingly; and if in any thing any shall offend you or your people\, you shall have a full and speedy satisfaction for the same\, by an equal number of just men on both sides\, that by no means you may have just occasion of being offended against them. \n—William Penn (1644-1718) \n* \nAnother Seventeenth Century Englishman had this to say: \n  \n28 \nYour enjoyment of the world is never right\, till every morning you awake in Heaven; see yourself in your Father’s Palace; and look upon the skies\, the earth\, and the air as Celestial Joys: having such a reverend esteem of all\, as if you were among the Angels. The bride of a monarch\, in her husband’s chamber\, hath no such causes of delight as you.  \n  \n29 \nYou never enjoy the world aright\, till the Sea itself floweth in your veins\, till you are clothed with the heavens\, and crowned with the stars: and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world\, and more than so\, because men are in it who are every one sole heirs as well as you. Till you can sing and rejoice and delight in God\, as misers do in gold\, and Kings in sceptres\, you never enjoy the world.  \n  \n30 \nTill your spirit filleth the whole world\, and the stars are your jewels; till you are as familiar with the ways of God in all Ages as with your walk and table: till you are intimately acquainted with that shady nothing out of which the world was made: till you love men so as to desire their happiness\, with a thirst equal to the zeal of your own; till you delight in God for being good to all: you never enjoy the world. Till you more feel it than your private estate\, and are more present in the hemisphere\, considering the glories and the beauties there\, than in your own house: Till you remember how lately you were made\, and how wonderful it was when you came into it: and more rejoice in the palace of your glory\, than if it had been made to-day morning.  \n  \n31 \nYet further\, you never enjoyed the world aright\, till you so love the beauty of enjoying it\, that you are covetous and earnest to persuade others to enjoy it. And so perfectly hate the abominable corruption of men in despising it\, that you had rather suffer the flames of Hell than willingly be guilty of their error. There is so much blindness and ingratitude and damned folly in it. The world is a mirror of infinite beauty\, yet no man sees it. It is a Temple of Majesty\, yet no man regards it. It is a region of Light and Peace\, did not men disquiet it. It is the Paradise of God. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne (1636-1674) from Centuries of Meditations\, First Century\, also quoted by Aldous Huxley in The Perennial Philosophy\, pp. 67-68 \n* \nThis was written more recently: \n  \nKindness \n  \nBefore you know what kindness really is \nyou must lose things\, \nfeel the future dissolve in a moment \nlike salt in a weakened broth. \nWhat you held in your hand\, \nwhat you counted and carefully saved\, \nall this must go so you know \nhow desolate the landscape can be \nbetween the regions of kindness. \nHow you ride and ride \nthinking the bus will never stop\, \nthe passengers eating maize and chicken \nwill stare out the window forever. \nBefore you learn the tender gravity of kindness \nyou must travel where the Indian in a white poncho \nlies dead by the side of the road. \nYou must see how this could be you\, \nhow he too was someone \nwho journeyed through the night with plans \nand the simple breath that kept him alive. \nBefore you know kindness as the deepest thing inside\, \nyou must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.  \nYou must wake up with sorrow. \nYou must speak to it till your voice \ncatches the thread of all sorrows \nand you see the size of the cloth. \nThen it is only kindness that makes sense anymore\, \nonly kindness that ties your shoes \nand sends you out into the day to gaze at bread\, \nonly kindness that raises its head \nfrom the crowd of the world to say \nIt is I you have been looking for\, \nand then goes with you everywhere \nlike a shadow or a friend.    \n  \n—- Naomi Shihab Nye \n* \nHer poem reminded me of this line from Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”: \n  \nWhoever walks a furlong without sympathy\, walks to his own funeral dressed in his shroud. \n  \nIt’s a good line\, but he’s just getting warmed up: \n  \nAnd I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth\, \nAnd to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times\, \nAnd there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero\, \nAnd there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe\, \nAnd I say to any man or woman\, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes…. \n  \nI hear and behold God in every object\, yet understand God not in the least…. \n  \nWhy should I wish to see God better than this day? \nI see something of God each hour of the twenty-four\, and each moment then\, \nIn the faces of men and women I see God\, and in my own face in the glass\, \nI find letters from God dropt in the street\, and every one is signed by God’s name\, \nAnd I leave them where they are\, for I know that wheresoe’er I go\, \nOthers will punctually come for ever and ever. \n* \n  \nWalt’s 201st birthday is this Sunday\, May 31st. We’re going to have a group reading of “Song of Myself” at 3 pm (West Coast Time). To enjoy this exhilarating event\, go to the Zoom website and click on “Join a Meeting.” The meeting ID number is 892-8123-9555. Then\, the password is 623246. I hope to see you there! \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-5-28-6-3-2020/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200521
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200528
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200521T172314Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T030351Z
UID:846-1590019200-1590623999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness  5/21/20
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nMay 21\, 2020 \n  \nThe Subject Tonight is Love \nThe subject tonight is Love \nAnd for tomorrow night as well\, \nAs a matter of fact \nI know of no better topic \nFor us to discuss \nUntil we all \nDie! \n  \n                                   —Hafiz\, version by Daniel Ladinsky \n* \nI wrote this essay last Fall: \n  \nThe Noble Ninefold Path \n  \n“If you have tears\, prepare to shed them now\,” he said. We did and we did. The actor who Marc Antony is 34 years old. He has spent the last 17 of those years in prison\, which is where Nancy and I were watching this production of Julius Caesar. After the performance\, the actors talked to the audience about how much they love each other\, and tried to express how much that means to them “in a place like this.” \nI didn’t direct this production\, but in 2008 I directed a production of Hamlet at Two Rivers prison in Umatilla\, Oregon\, and have directed a number of plays in prison since then—mostly by William Shakespeare. For thirteen years I went to prison more-or-less every week and facilitated meaning-of-life dialogues. After doing this for a number of months\, one day I mentioned the word “love.” It’s a word you are not supposed to say in prison. It is taboo outside of prison as well. But that’s another story. \nInviting men in prison to talk about love had a strange effect. We all began to love each other. Over the years this love deepened to the point where we could all feel it. It was palpable.  \nI’m not the first person to notice this\, but I’ve come to understand in a deep way that everyone needs to love and be loved. Like a puppy at the Humane Society\, we are all waiting for someone to take us home. \nWhat the men in prison taught me about living in love got me to thinking about how in philosophical traditions and in many spiritual traditions knowing is privileged over loving. I looked again at the noble eightfold path and it wasn’t there. There was no mention of love! \nI’m not a Buddhist and certainly not a scholar of Buddhism\, but I realized something had to be done about this and so\, with an utter lack of humility\, I would like to suggest a revision to one of the Buddha’s most fundamental teachings and propose to all and sundry the adoption of: \nThe Noble Ninefold Path \nright understanding \nright thinking \nright speech \nright action \nright living \nright effort \nright mindfulness \nright meditation \nright loving \nThis may sound like a joke\, but it’s not. I’m not suggesting that all the books on Buddhism be revised. What I’m suggesting is that if you use the noble eightfold path as a guide to your practice you could add one more thing to the list. And that it would be helpful to do so. It’s not a trivial addition.  \nOne could argue that the Mahayana tradition has already done something like this with the bodhisattva ideal of compassion for all beings. Fair enough. Many modern Buddhist teachers—I’m thinking at the moment of Thich Nhat Hanh\, Pema Chödrön and Jack Kornfield—put a big emphasis on love. This idea of adding one more item to the eightfold path is done\, I hope\, in that same spirit. \nPeace\, love and happiness—the hippie virtues—all tend to be scoffed at by “smart people”—maybe because these are arts which are not taught in school. \nOne meaning of nirvana is a kind of floating away from this world of cares—the world of samsara. But in later Buddhism\, the duality is abolished: samsara and nirvana are not two. \nFor “intellectuals” and intellectual traditions the head is more important than the heart. This is not surprising. That’s kind of what “intellectual” means. But it seems to me that being a whole human being is preferable to performing the role of Mr. Know-It-All. Love and understanding need each other. \nHead without heart leads to tragedy. In my lifetime\, a bunch of geniuses had all kinds of reasons why it was a good idea to drop jellied gasoline on families planting rice in paddies. Had they listened to their hearts\, the whole thing could never have happened. \nWhat is “right loving”? I don’t know. Like all the other “rights” of the noble ninefold path\, you do your best to figure it out as you go along. Love\, of course\, includes compassion. But love is much more than that. I love to see a beautiful flower. I don’t feel compassion for it. I love it because it’s beautiful. I love it without even knowing why I love it. Thich Nhat Hanh—that sweet man!—reminds us that we are all flowers. \nMy own aspiration is to love the heck out of everyone and every thing. “Unconditional love” means loving no matter what and for no reason. \nIn the Bible it says: “Who loves not\, knows not God; for God is Love.” \nWilliam Blake says: \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \nA good way to end this little essay might be with the Meta Prayer: \nMay all beings be happy! \nMay we be peaceful and at ease! \nMay we be well in body and mind! \nMay we live in love! \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI shared “The Noble Ninefold Path” with a few people. I sent a copy to Shad Alexander\, who lives at Two Rivers prison. He sent this reply\, which I am sharing with his permission: \n  \nRegarding the “Ninefold Path\,” (if I may indulge my inner nerd)… Love is not explicitly stated in the bulletpoint framework of the Eightfold Path because it is implicitly enmeshed throughout the entire path structure\, and each individual path factor. The whole thing is about love. Buddha challenged us to rise above romantic love\, or sexual love\, or selfishly focused love\, as it is commonly expressed (both then and now). He separated out the main characteristics of selfless love into qualities that each of us can strive to embody. Mettā is translated as “unconditional love\,” or “universal love\,” or “loving-kindness\,” but a better translation involves a flavor of wishing goodwill for all others. Karunā is usually translated as “compassion\,” but again the English falls flat. Karuna is the inspiration to take some action\, even a trivial or symbolic action\, to ease the suffering of others. If you see a homeless person panhandling\, metta is the wish that the person’s life conditions will improve\, karuna is giving the person a peanutbutter and jelly sandwich. Neither action will solve homelessness or hunger\, but together they are “drops in the bucket” which may someday result in a shift our culture and society at large. Muditā is translated as “vicarious joy\,” or perhaps the opposite of jealousy—this is the quality of feeling glad for someone else’s success. This is the cooperative and non-competitive quality of love. Upekkhā means equanimity or non-reactivity. As regards to love\, this is the unconditional aspect of love. (In a broader use of the term\, upekkhā is the Holy Grail of the entire practice\, not reacting with attachment to the ups and downs of life.) All four of these qualities together are Buddhist concept of “love.” Buddha called these “God’s Temple” or “Living Like God.”* (A quick side note: Buddha refused to acknowledge if he believed in God as a deity or not. But he taught his followers that they could become “like God” through the experience of love.) \nThe four qualities of love are both tools that can be used to achieve the final goal of liberation\, and they are side-effects of having achieved the final goal. Using Metta as an example: I still harbor a lot criticism towards others\, so my instructions are to pretend like I have a lot of metta towards others. If I pretend long enough\, it inevitably sinks in. (Buddha was the original person to coin the idea of “Fake it until you make it.”) On the other end of the spectrum\, enlightened meditation masters assure me that in advanced stages of meditation\, love for all beings is a natural expression from the realization that all living things are interconnected and interdependent. \nBringing this all back to the claim that the entire Eightfold path is about love… The Eightfold path begins and ends with “Right Understanding.” A beginner’s understanding is: “All living beings are terrified of punishment\, all fear death. Comparing oneself to others\, one should neither kill nor cause to kill. All living beings love life. Comparing oneself to others\, one should neither kill nor cause to kill.” (Dhammapada.) That novice understanding leads a person to train their mind towards thoughts of non-harm and cooperation (love); to train their speech towards words that promote love; to act with love; to choose a livelihood that does not harm others (love); to make earnest efforts to free themselves from harmful thoughts/actions and to engage in loving thoughts and actions. These efforts result in increasing mindfulness\, a living embodied awareness of of “Am I living with love?” or “Am I living absent of love?” Meditation is a tool to help us open up to the fullest potential of love\, but once that fullest potential is achieved\, meditation from a place of pure love tips the scales towards a more ultimate Right Understanding: all beings are interconnected and interdependent. To love myself is to love all others. \nOr so I have been told… \n(The word “sammā\,” we translate as “right\, proper\, perfect\,” as in Right Speech\, Right Thoughts\, etc. But what is meant by “right?” Samma has a nuance of “the absence of harmfulness” or the presence of metta/karuna/mudita/upekkha. So maybe a better translation would be “understanding with love\,” “thought with love\,” “speech with love\,” etc.) \n* The term is “Brahma-vihāra\,” God-Abiding. \n—Shad Alexander \n* \n  \nA bonus for people who get the email version of this newsletter—links to videos of two contemporary bodhisattvas\, Alokananda Roy and Fritzi Horstman: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OspzzO7gAiw&t=455s \n  \n  \n \n  \n  \n  \nhttps://vimeo.com/398088783?fbclid=IwAR3wrd-7igOwlGZo_R5jSI5IERo54Dld59nWAnXMSbTB11H8AEYK-RzRZRE \n  \nMay we live in love. \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-5-21-20-5-27-20/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200514
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200521
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200515T033211Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T030013Z
UID:839-1589414400-1590019199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness newsletter  5/14/20
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nMay 14\, 2020 \n  \nA human being is part of the whole called by us “universe\,” a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself\, his thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest—a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. \nThis delusion is a kind of prison for us\, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. \nOur task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. \n—Albert Einstein \n* \nFather Gregory Boyle is the former pastor of Dolores Mission Church in Los Angeles. In 1992\, he founded Homeboy Industries\, which is is the largest and most successful gang rehabilitation and re-entry program in the world. \nhttps://homeboyindustries.org/our-story/father-greg/ \nHe is the author of the Tattoos on the Heart and is featured in the documentary film “G-Dog.” In a TED talk he gave in 2012\, he uses a similar image to Albert Einstein’s “circle of compassion.” In the context of this talk he is not talking about “all living creatures\,” but about “the easily despised.”  Here’s an excerpt from that talk: \n  \nWhat we all want to create and form is a community of kinship such that God\, in fact\, might recognize it. I suspect that Mother Teresa diagnosed the world’s ills correctly when she suggested that the problem in the world is that we’ve just forgotten that we belong to each other. So\, how do we stand against forgetting that? How do we create and imagine a circle of compassion\, and then imagine nobody standing outside that circle? And to that end\, what we hope to do—all of us\, I think—is to inch our way out to the margins\, so that we can stand with the poor and the powerless and the voiceless. That we can stand with those whose dignity has been denied\, with those whose burdens are more than they can bear. Occasionally\, you get very fortunate and blessed to be able to stand with the easily despised and the readily left out. With the demonized\, so that the demonizing will stop. And with the disposable\, so that the day will come when we stop throwing people away. I suspect that if kinship was our goal we would no longer be promoting justice\, we would\, in fact\, be celebrating it. For: no kinship\, no justice. No kinship\, no peace. \n—from Gregory Boyle’s TED talk on Compassion and Kinship \n* \nI don’t know how many times I’ve listened to this 20 minute talk. It makes me cry every time. Here’s a link: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ipR0kWt1Fkc&t=208s \n  \n* \nBelow is a poem by Thich Nhat Hanh which I read regularly to remind me who I am. It’s followed by his story of how he came to write the poem. Its content is not unrelated to what Albert Einstein says in the quote that opens this newsletter. \n  \nPlease Call Me By My True Names \n  \nDo not say that I’ll depart tomorrow— \neven today I am still arriving. \nLook deeply: every second I am arriving \nto be a bud on a Spring branch\, \nto be a tiny bird\, with still-fragile wings\, \nlearning to sing in my new nest\, \nto be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower\, \nto be a jewel hiding itself in a stone. \nI still arrive\, in order to laugh and to cry\, \nto fear and to hope\, \nthe rhythm of my heart is the birth and death \nof all that are alive. \nI am the mayfly metamorphosing \non the surface of the river\, \nand I am the bird which\, when Spring comes\, \narrives in time to eat the mayfly. \nI am the frog swimming happily \nin the clear water of a pond\, \nand I am the grass-snake \nthat silently feeds itself on the frog. \nI am the child in Uganda\, all skin and bones\, \nmy legs as thin as bamboo sticks. \nAnd I am the arms merchant\, \nselling deadly weapons to Uganda. \nI am the twelve-year-old girl\, \nrefugee on a small boat\, \nwho throws herself into the ocean \nafter being raped by a sea pirate. \nAnd I am the pirate\, \nmy heart not yet capable \nof seeing and loving. \nI am a member of the politburo\, \nwith plenty of power in my hands. \nAnd I am the man who has to pay his \n“debt of blood” to my people \ndying slowly in a forced labor camp. \nMy joy is like Spring\, so warm \nit makes flowers bloom all over the Earth. \nMy pain is like a river of tears\, \nso vast it fills the four oceans. \nPlease call me by my true names\, \nso I can hear all my cries and laughter at once\, \nso I can see that my joy and pain are one. \nPlease call me by my true names\, \nso I can wake up \nand so the door of my heart can be left open\, \nthe door of compassion. \n* \nAfter the Vietnam War\, many people wrote to us in Plum Village. We received hundreds of letters each week from the refugee camps in Singapore\, Malaysia\, Indonesia\, Thailand\, and the Philippines\, hundreds each week. It was very painful to read them\, but we had to be in contact. We tried our best to help\, but the suffering was enormous\, and sometimes we were discouraged. It is said that half the boat people fleeing Vietnam died in the ocean; only half arrived at the shores of Southeast Asia. \nThere are many young girls\, boat people\, who were raped by sea pirates. Even though the United Nations and many countries tried to help the government of Thailand prevent that kind of piracy\, sea pirates continued to inflict much suffering on the refugees. One day\, we received a letter telling us about a young girl on a small boat who was raped by a Thai pirate. \nShe was only twelve\, and she jumped into the ocean and drowned herself. \nWhen you first learn of something like that\, you get angry at the pirate. You naturally take the side of the girl. As you look more deeply you will see it differently. If you take the side of the little girl\, then it is easy. You only have to take a gun and shoot the pirate. But we can’t do that. In my meditation\, I saw that if I had been born in the village of the pirate and raised in the same conditions as he was\, I would now be the pirate. There is a great likelihood that I would become a pirate. I can’t condemn myself so easily. In my meditation\, I saw that many babies are born along the Gulf of Siam\, hundreds every day\, and if we educators\, social workers\, politicians\, and others do not do something about the situation\, in twenty-five years a number of them will become sea pirates. That is certain. If you or I were born today in those fishing villages\, we might become sea pirates in twenty-five years. If you take a gun and shoot the pirate\, you shoot all of us\, because all of us are to some extent responsible for this state of affairs. \nAfter a long meditation\, I wrote this poem. In it\, there are three people: the twelve-year-old girl\, the pirate\, and me. Can we look at each other and recognize ourselves in each other? The title of the poem is “Please Call Me by My True Names\,” because I have so many names. When I hear one of the of these names\, I have to say\, “Yes.” \n—Thich Nhat Hanh \n* \nAnd one more poem: \n  \nA Little Stone in the Middle of the Road\, in Florida \n  \nMy son as a child saying \nGod \nis anything\, even a little stone in the middle of the road\, in Florida \nYesterday \nNancy\, my friend\, after long illness: \nYou know what can lift me up\, take me right out of despair? \nNo\, what? \nAnything. \n  \n—Muriel Rukeyser
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-5-14-20-5-20-20/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200507
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200514
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200509T210805Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220718T222044Z
UID:799-1588809600-1589414399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness newsletter  5/7/20
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness newsletter \n  \nMay 7\, 2020 \n  \nRobert G. Ingersoll (1833-1899) was a free thinker\, orator and essayist. He was a friend of Mark Twain. He gave the eulogy at Walt Whitman’s funeral. Below is an abridged version of an address he gave to the State Bar Association at Albany\, N.Y.\, on January 1st\, 1890: \n  \nCRIMES AGAINST CRIMINALS \nAll nations seem to have had supreme confidence in the deterrent power of threatened and inflicted pain. They have regarded punishment as the shortest road to reformation. Imprisonment\, torture\, death\, constituted a trinity under whose protection society might feel secure. \nIn addition to these\, nations have relied on confiscation and degradation\, on maimings\, whippings\, brandings\, and exposures to public ridicule and contempt. Connected with the court of justice was the chamber of torture. The ingenuity of man was exhausted in the construction of instruments that would surely reach the most sensitive nerve. All this was done in the interest of civilization—for the protection of virtue\, and the well-being of states. Curiously it was found that the penalty of death made little difference. Thieves and highwaymen\, heretics and blasphemers\, went on their way…. \nThe fact is that\, no matter how severe the punishments were\, the crimes increased. \nFor petty offences men were degraded—given to the mercy of the rabble. Their ears were cut off\, their nostrils slit\, their foreheads branded. They were tied to the tails of carts and flogged from one town to another. And yet\, in spite of all\, the poor wretches obstinately refused to become good and useful citizens. \nDegradation has been thoroughly tried\, with its maimings and brandings\, and the result was that those who inflicted the punishments became as degraded as their victims. \nOnly a few years ago there were more than two hundred offences in Great Britain punishable by death. The gallows-tree bore fruit through all the year\, and the hangman was the busiest official in the kingdom—but the criminals increased. \nCrimes were committed to punish crimes\, and crimes were committed to prevent crimes. The world has been filled with prisons and dungeons\, with chains and whips\, with crosses and gibbets\, with thumbscrews and racks\, with hangmen and headsmen—and yet these frightful means and instrumentalities and crimes have accomplished little for the preservation of property or life. It is safe to say that governments have committed far more crimes than they have prevented. \nIs it not true that the criminal is a natural product\, and that society unconsciously produces these children of vice? Can we not safely take another step\, and say that the criminal is a victim?… \nFor my part\, I sympathize sincerely with all failures\, with the victims of society\, with those who have fallen\, with the imprisoned\, with the hopeless\, with those who have been stained by verdicts of guilty\, and with those who\, in the moment of passion have destroyed\, as with a blow\, the future of their lives. \nHow perilous\, after all\, is the state of man. It is the work of a life to build a great and splendid character. It is the work of a moment to destroy it utterly\, from turret to foundation stone. How cruel hypocrisy is! \nIs there any remedy? Can anything be done for the reformation of the criminal?  \nHe should be treated with kindness. Every right should be given him\, consistent with the safety of society. He should neither be degraded nor robbed. The State should set the highest and noblest example. The powerful should never be cruel\, and in the breast of the supreme there should be no desire for revenge. \nA man in a moment of want steals the property of another\, and he is sent to the penitentiary—first\, as it is claimed\, for the purpose of deterring others; and secondly\, of reforming him. The circumstances of each individual case are rarely inquired into. Investigation stops when the simple fact of the larceny has been ascertained. No distinctions are made except as between first and subsequent offenses. Nothing is allowed for surroundings. \nAll will admit that the industrious must be protected. In this world it is necessary to work. Labor is the foundation of all prosperity. Larceny is the enemy of industry. Society has the right to protect itself. The question is\, Has it the right to punish?—has it the right to degrade?—or should it endeavor to reform the convict? \nA man is taken to the penitentiary. He is clad in the garments of a convict. He is degraded—he loses his name—he is designated by a number. He is no longer treated as a human being—he becomes the slave of the State. Nothing is done for his improvement—nothing for his reformation. He is driven like a beast of burden; robbed of his labor; leased\, it may be\, by the State to a contractor\, who gets out of his hands\, out of his muscles\, out of his poor brain\, all the toil that he can. He is not allowed to speak with a fellow-prisoner. At night he is alone in his cell. The relations that should exist between men are destroyed. He is a convict. He is no longer worthy to associate even with his keepers. The jailer is immensely his superior\, and the man who turns the key upon him at night regards himself\, in comparison\, as a model of honesty\, of virtue and manhood. The convict is pavement on which those who watch him walk. He remains for the time of his sentence\, and when that expires he goes forth a branded man. He is given money enough to pay his fare back to the place from whence he came…. \nThe men in the penitentiaries do not work for themselves. Their labor belongs to others. They have no interest in their toil—no reason for doing the best they can—and the result is that the product of their labor is poor. This product comes in competition with the work of mechanics\, honest men\, who have families to support\, and the cry is that convict labor takes the bread from the mouths of virtuous people. \nWhy should the State take without compensation the labor of these men; and why should they\, after having been imprisoned for years\, be turned out without the means of support? Would it not be far better\, far more economical\, to pay these men for their labor\, to lay aside their earnings from day to day\, from month to month\, and from year to year—to put this money at interest\, so that when the convict is released after five years of imprisonment he will have several hundred dollars of his own—not merely money enough to pay his way back to the place from which he was sent\, but enough to make it possible for him to commence business on his own account\, enough to keep the wolf of crime from the door of his heart? \nSuppose the convict comes out with five hundred dollars. This would be to most of that class a fortune. It would form a breastwork\, a fortress\, behind which the man could fight temptation. This would give him food and raiment\, enable him to go to some other State or country where he could redeem himself. If this were done\, thousands of convicts would feel under immense obligation to the Government. They would think of the penitentiary as the place in which they were saved—in which they were redeemed—and they would feel that the verdict of guilty rescued them from the abyss of crime. Under these circumstances\, the law would appear beneficent\, and the heart of the poor convict\, instead of being filled with malice\, would overflow with gratitude. He would see the propriety of the course pursued by the Government. He would recognize and feel and experience the benefits of this course\, and the result would be good\, not only to him\, but to the nation as well. \nIf the convict worked for himself\, he would do the best he could\, and the wares produced in the penitentiaries would not cheapen the labor of other men…. \nThose who are the fiercest to destroy and hang their fellow-men for having committed crimes\, are\, for the most part\, at heart\, criminals themselves. \nAs long as nations meet on the fields of war—as long as they sustain the relations of savages to each other—as long as they put the laurel and the oak on the brows of those who kill—just so long will citizens resort to violence\, and the quarrels of individuals be settled by dagger and revolver. \nIf we are to change the conduct of men\, we must change their conditions. Extreme poverty and crime go hand in hand. Destitution multiplies temptations and destroys the finer feelings. The bodies and souls of men are apt to be clad in like garments. If the body is covered with rags\, the soul is generally in the same condition. Selfrespect is gone—the man looks down—he has neither hope nor courage. He becomes sinister—he envies the prosperous—hates the fortunate\, and despises himself. \nAs long as children are raised in the tenement and gutter\, the prisons will be full. The gulf between the rich and poor will grow wider and wider. One will depend on cunning\, the other on force. It is a great question whether those who live in luxury can afford to allow others to exist in want. The value of property depends\, not on the prosperity of the few\, but on the prosperity of a very large majority. Life and property must be secure\, or that subtle thing called “value” takes its leave. The poverty of the many is a perpetual menace. If we expect a prosperous and peaceful country\, the citizens must have homes. The more homes\, the more patriots\, the more virtue\, and the more security for all that gives worth to life…. \nThe home\, after all\, is the unit of civilization\, of good government; and to secure homes for a great majority of our citizens\, would be to lay the foundation of our Government deeper and broader and stronger than that of any nation that has existed among men…. \nOf one thing we may be assured—and that is\, that criminals will never be reformed by being robbed\, humiliated and degraded. \nIgnorance\, filth\, and poverty are the missionaries of crime. As long as dishonorable success outranks honest effort—as long as society bows and cringes before the great thieves\, there will be little ones enough to fill the jails. \nAll the penalties\, all the punishments\, are inflicted under a belief that man can do right under all circumstances—that his conduct is absolutely under his control\, and that his will is a pilot that can\, in spite of winds and tides\, reach any port desired. All this is\, in my judgment\, a mistake. It is a denial of the integrity of nature. It is based upon the supernatural and miraculous\, and as long as this mistake remains the corner-stone of criminal jurisprudence\, reformation will be impossible. \nWe must take into consideration the nature of man—the facts of mind—the power of temptation—the limitations of the intellect—the force of habit—the result of heredity—the power of passion—the domination of want—the diseases of the brain—the tyranny of appetite—the cruelty of conditions—the results of association—the effects of poverty and wealth\, of helplessness and power. \nUntil these subtle things are understood—until we know that man\, in spite of all\, can certainly pursue the highway of the right\, society should not impoverish and degrade\, should not chain and kill those who\, after all\, may be the helpless victims of unknown causes that are deaf and blind…. \nWe do not know. Our ignorance should make us hesitate. Our weakness should make us merciful. \n—Robert G. Ingersoll\, Address delivered before the State Bar Association at Albany\, N. Y.\,  \nJanuary 1\, 1890 \n* \nIngersoll’s talk reminds me of these words of the Buddha: \n  \nIn this world \nHate never yet dispelled hate. \nOnly love dispels hate. \nThis is the law\, \nAncient and inexhaustible. \n* \nFor the full speech\, and all the writings and speeches of Ingersoll\, click this link: \n  \nhttps://www.gutenberg.org/files/38813/38813-h/38813-h.htm#Klink0005 \n  \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-5-7-5-13/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200502T190000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200502T203000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200220T132223Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200314T000113Z
UID:511-1588446000-1588451400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Storyteller William Kennedy Hornyak Presents: Erin's Daughters
DESCRIPTION:PERFORMANCES: \n  \nSaturday May 2  7:00 p.m.  \nImmersion Brewing Barrel Room   \n550 SE Industrial Way  S.  \nBend\, OR \nmusic by Peter Lepanto \n  \nSaturday May 16   7:30 p.m. \nArtichoke Music   2007 SE Powell Blvd.   Portland \n*Contact Artichoke music for res. and tickets \n  \nAll Shows $15.00 Cash at the Door Unless Otherwise Noted * \nReservations Recommended: hornyak.will@gmail.com or 503 697-5808 \n  \nSTORYTELLING WORKSHOPS: \nWell Told: Crafting Personal Narratives \nWe all have stories to tell and a unique voice and style with which to tell them.     Truly memorable personal stories have a mythic quality to them.  They provide a window to a larger world through the ordinary moments of our lives.  The work of telling personal narratives is often to distill the universal from the personal\, to find the common veins of meaning that connect to us all.      During this workshop we will write\, hear and tell stories from our lives and explore the varied threads of meaning that run through them.  We will use traditional folktales and myths as a backdrop for our own stories.  We will create a supportive environment to develop our own storytelling voices and styles of telling.        We will consider the basics of a well-told tale and the tools required for all storytellers\, be it for rendering personal narratives or traditional tales.  No previous storytelling experience is required. \n  \nBend  Sunday May 3 10 a.m.-2:30 p.m. \nPlace T.B.D.  $40.00 \n  \nPortland Sunday May 17  10 a.m. – 2:30 p.m. \nPlace T.B.D.    $40.00 \n  \nReservations: hornyak.will@gmail.com
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/storyteller-william-kennedy-hornyak-presents-erins-daughters/
LOCATION:Immersion Brewing Barrel Room\, 550 Industrial Way S.\, Bend\, OR
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200430
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200507
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200501T233930Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T023737Z
UID:765-1588204800-1588809599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness  4/30/20
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness \n  \nApril 30\, 2020 \nThe little tags on my Yogi Tea bags are reminding me that \nPeople who love are happy. \nand exhorting me to \nLive light\, travel light\, spread the light\, be the light. \n* \nThe baby beats the nurse\, and quite athwart  \nGoes all decorum. \n(from “Measure for Measure” by William Shakespeare\, Act 1\, scene 3) \n* \nI was taking a virtual tour of the Rijksmuseum [click on link] and came upon the wonderful painting “The Merry Family” by Jan Steen (1626-1679). The commentator on the painting said that this was supposed to be a kind of cautionary tale: if the adults get drunk\, horse around\, and play music they are setting a bad example for the children. To me the painting sends a different “message.” It is a picture of human happiness. It reminds me of a poem by one of my dad’s favorite poets\, Carl Sandburg: \n  \nHAPPINESS \nI asked professors who teach the meaning of life to tell me what is happiness. \nAnd I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men. \nThey all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them. \nAnd then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river \nAnd I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion. \n—Carl Sandburg \n* \nShakespeare’s “Twelfth Night” is a celebration of earthly pleasures. The Fool’s name is Feste\, which suggests “festive” and “festival”—a joyful feast. Malvolio\, the Puritan\, wants everyone to stop drinking and dancing and singing and go to bed. He’s outnumbered. Sir Toby Belch sums up the play’s philosophy:  \n“Care’s an enemy to life.” \n* \nI love Louis Armstrong. I got to see him perform a couple times. His joy is sublime! \nI recently woke up with this song in my head\, “A Lot of Living to Do”: \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VnvQDJXR85c \n* \nI’m no Oscar Wilde\, but in the course of my long life I’ve come up with an aphorism or two. Here’s one: \nHappiness is the art of not making yourself miserable. \n  \nWilliam Blake wrote many doozies. For example: \nThe soul of sweet delight can never be defiled. \n* \nHere’s the first poem in The Poetical Works of Thomas Traherne: \n  \nThe Salutation \n         These little limbs\, \n    These eyes and hands which here I find\, \nThese rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins\, \n    Where have ye been? behind \nWhat curtain were ye from me hid so long? \nWhere was\, in what abyss\, my speaking tongue? \n  \n         When silent I    \n    So many thousand\, thousand years \nBeneath the dust did in a chaos lie\, \n    How could I smiles or tears\, \nOr lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? \nWelcome ye treasures which I now receive. \n  \n         I that so long \n    Was nothing from eternity\, \nDid little think such joys as ear or tongue \n    To celebrate or see: \nSuch sounds to hear\, such hands to feel\, such feet\, \nBeneath the skies on such a ground to meet. \n  \n         New burnished joys\, \n    Which yellow gold and pearls excel! \nSuch sacred treasures are the limbs in boys\, \n    In which a soul doth dwell; \nTheir organised joints and azure veins \nMore wealth include than all the world contains. \n  \n         From dust I rise\, \n    And out of nothing now awake; \nThese brighter regions which salute mine eyes\, \n    A gift from God I take. \nThe earth\, the seas\, the light\, the day\, the skies\, \nThe sun and stars are mine\, if those I prize. \n  \n         Long time before \n    I in my mother’s womb was born\, \nA God preparing did this glorious store \n    The world for me adorn. \nInto this Eden so divine and fair\, \nSo wide and bright\, I come His son and heir. \n  \n         A stranger here \n    Strange things doth meet\, strange glories see; \nStrange treasures lodged in this fair world appear\, \n    Strange all and new to me; \nBut that they mine should be\, who nothing was\, \nThat strangest is of all\, yet brought to pass. \n* \nOne of my favorite short poems by Walt Whitman is this one: \n  \nBEGINNING MY STUDIES \nBeginning my studies the first step pleas’d me so much\,  \nThe mere fact consciousness\, these forms\, the power of motion\, \nThe least insect or animal\, the senses\, eyesight\, love\, \nThe first step I say awed me and pleas’d me so much\, \nI have hardly gone and hardly wish’d to go any farther\, \nBut stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs. \n* \nAn Old Tale \nOnce there was a king who wanted to be happy. His wise counselors informed him that he needed to acquire the shirt of a happy man. So\, he sent his soldiers out in quest of such a shirt. One by one they returned empty-handed. None of them could find a happy man. Finally\, the last soldier returned.  \nThe king asked\, “Did you find a happy man?”  \n“Yes\,” the soldier said.  \n“Where’s his shirt?\,” asked the king.  \n“He didn’t have one.” \n* \nMay all people be happy. \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \nKim Stafford kindly shared this excerpt from his book-in-progress\, Writing for Happiness: \n  \nI invite you to use writing to live in accordance with the Dao\, to write in order to achieve fluent response to events\, to behave in synch with “happ\,” what happens. This is a different path to happiness than what I once understood\, because it does not avoid the difficult\, but by the hands-on process of writing\, incorporates the difficult into the search for equanimity. To be with happ is to be happ-y. That is\, to be honest\, a realist\, practical about the available dimensions of joy that exist within a matrix of complexity and difficulty.       \nThe pursuit of happiness may be an inalienable right\, but it is also a stern task. “You don’t get to the good life by living the good life\,” says the tough immigrant proverb\, and so it is with happiness. You don’t get to be truly happy by coasting along avoiding the difficult. Life is suffering\, after all\, and happiness can’t change that\, even as it flickers and is snuffed\, and flickers again.      \nBut the pursuit of happiness calls to us all the same. I believe that an enhanced definition of happiness makes the task possible—that to be “happy” is to live in accordance with what happens—and that the serious play of writing\, jotting\, scribbling\, composing can be a way to pursue—and attain—a responsible and generous kind of happiness. \n—Kim Stafford \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-4-30-5-6/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200423
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200430
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200423T171809Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220719T041746Z
UID:757-1587600000-1588204799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness newsletter 4/23/20
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness newsletter \nApril 23\, 2020 \nWilliam Shakespeare Issue \n  \nWilliam Shakespeare’s birthday is celebrated on April 23rd. He turns 456 today. Alexandre Dumas said: “After God\, Shakespeare has created most.” It’s the general consensus that he is the greatest poet in the English language and the greatest playwright in any language.  \nActors have the great good fortune to enjoy Shakespeare in ways that readers\, teachers\, directors and scholars do not. We get to play the parts\, to live the life of the characters he created. But when it comes time to talk about what the plays mean\, we are dumb. \nI don’t know what the plays Hamlet or King Lear mean\, but I know what it feels like to be Hamlet\, to be Lear. Hamlet is in the dark about who he is\, and why he says and does the things he says and does\, just as you and I are ignorant of who we are and why we say and do the things we say and do. Hamlet says: “I have of late\, but wherefore I know not\, lost all my mirth.” The English professor will tell you why Hamlet has lost all his mirth\, but Hamlet doesn’t know. He feels that it is gone. \nAn actor doesn’t pretend to be other people\, he becomes them. When a play ends\, it’s like waking from a dream. \nWill Shakespeare breathed his own life into the characters he created\, and now when I breathe\, he breathes through me. Is this to consider too curiously?  \nWhen I\, as Lear\, speak the words…  \n“None does offend. None\, I say. None.” \n…I’m not standing outside or apart\, thinking\, “Well\, he’s mad\, you know.” I’m speaking the Truth. And because I’ve said it and meant it and felt it and believed it\, the Johnny Stallings character I pretend to be in “real life” is changed irrevocably. \n  \nWe are such stuff  \nAs dreams are made of\, and our little life \nIs rounded with a sleep. \n  \nThere’s not enough room in our little newsletter to include The Complete Works\, so I’ll just share a few of my favorite passages: \n  \nJaques. \nAll the world’s a stage\, \nAnd all the men and women merely players; \nThey have their exits and their entrances\, \nAnd one man in his time plays many parts\, \nHis acts being seven ages. At first\, the infant\, \nMewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. \nThen the whining schoolboy\, with his satchel \nAnd shining morning face\, creeping like snail \nUnwillingly to school. And then the lover\, \nSighing like furnace\, with a woeful ballad \nMade to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier\, \nFull of strange oaths and bearded like the pard\, \nJealous in honor\, sudden and quick in quarrel\, \nSeeking the bubble reputation \nEven in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice\, \nIn fair round belly with good capon lined\, \nWith eyes severe and beard of formal cut\, \nFull of wise saws and modern instances; \nAnd so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts \nInto the lean and slippered pantaloon\, \nWith spectacles on nose and pouch on side; \nHis youthful hose\, well saved\, a world too wide \nFor his shrunk shank\, and his big manly voice\, \nTurning again toward childish treble\, pipes \nAnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all\, \nThat ends this strange eventful history\, \nIs second childishness and mere oblivion\, \nSans teeth\, sans eyes\, sans taste\, sans everything. \n  \n—As You Like It\, Act 2\, scene 7 \n* \nBottom. \nAnd most dear actors\, eat no onions  \nnor garlic\, for we are to utter sweet breath. \n  \n—A Midsummer Night’s Dream\, Act 4\, scene 2 \n* \nHamlet.  \n I have of late\, but wherefore I know not\, lost all my mirth\, foregone all custom of exercises\, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory\, this most excellent canopy\, the air\, look you\, this brave o’erhanging firmament\, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire—why it appears nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man\, how noble in reason\, how infinite in faculties\, in form and moving how express and admirable\, in action how like an angel\, in apprehension how like a god\, the beauty of the world\, the paragon of animals—and yet\, to me\, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me. No\, nor woman\, neither. \n  \n—Hamlet\, Act 2\, scene 2 \n* \nDuke Senior.   \nAnd this our life\, exempt from public haunt\, \nFinds tongues in trees\, books in the running brooks\, \nSermons in stones\, and good in everything. \n  \n—As You Like It\, Act 2\, scene 1 \n* \nHamlet. \nAlexander died\, Alexander was buried\, Alexander returneth to dust\, the dust is earth\, of earth we make loam—and why of that loam\, whereto he was converted\, might they not stop a beer barrel? \n  \n—Hamlet\, Act 2\, scene 2 \n* \nProspero. \nOur revels now are ended. These our actors\,  \nAs I foretold you\, were all spirits and \nAre melted into air\, into thin air:  \nAnd\, like the baseless fabric of this vision\,  \nThe cloud-capp’d towers\, the gorgeous palaces\,  \nThe solemn temples\, the great globe itself\,  \nYea\, all which it inherit\, shall dissolve \nAnd\, like this insubstantial pageant faded\,  \nLeave not a rack behind. We are such stuff \n As dreams are made on\, and our little life  \nIs rounded with a sleep. \n  \n—The Tempest\, Act 4\, scene 1 \n* \nPortia.   \nThe quality of mercy is not strained. \nIt droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven \nUpon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: \nIt blesseth him that gives and him that takes. \n‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes \nThe thronèd monarch better than his crown. \nHis scepter shows the force of temporal power\, \nThe attribute to awe and majesty \nWherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings\, \nBut mercy is above this sceptered sway. \nIt is enthronèd in the hearts of kings. \nIt is an attribute to God himself. \nAnd earthly power doth then show likest God’s \nWhen mercy seasons justice. Therefore\, \nThough justice be thy plea\, consider this- \nThat in the course of justice none of us \nShould see salvation. We do pray for mercy\, \nAnd that same prayer doth teach us all to render \nThe deeds of mercy. \n  \n—The Merchant of Venice\, Act 4\, scene 1 \n* \nJuliet. \nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea\, \nMy love as deep. The more I give to thee \nThe more I have\, for both are infinite. \n  \n—Romeo and Juliet\, Act 2\, scene 2 \n* \nFrom the sublime\, to the ridiculous: \n  \nOswald. \nWhere may we set our horses? \nKent. \nI’ the mire. \nOswald. \nPrithee\, if thou lovest me\, tell me. \nKent. \nI love thee not. \nOswald. \nWhy dost thou use me thus? I know thee not. \nKent. \nFellow\, I know thee. \nOswald. \nWhat dost thou know me for? \nKent. \nA knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base\, proud\, shallow\, beggarly\, three-suited\, hundred-pound\, filthy\, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered\, action-taking knave\, a whoreson\, glass-gazing\, super-serviceable finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd\, in way of good service\, and art nothing but the composition of a knave\, beggar\, coward\, pandar\, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining\, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition. \n  \n—King Lear\, Act 2\, scene 2 \n* \nAnd back to the sublime: \n  \nLet me not to the marriage of true minds \nAdmit impediments. Love is not love \nWhich alters when it alteration finds\, \nOr bends with the remover to remove. \nO no! it is an ever-fixed mark \nThat looks on tempests and is never shaken; \nIt is the star to every wand’ring bark\, \nWhose worth’s unknown\, although his height be taken. \nLove’s not Time’s fool\, though rosy lips and cheeks \nWithin his bending sickle’s compass come; \nLove alters not with his brief hours and weeks\, \nBut bears it out even to the edge of doom. \nIf this be error and upon me prov’d\, \nI never writ\, nor no man ever lov’d. \n  \n—Sonnet 116 \n* \nHappy Birthday\, Will. Thanks for everything! I’ve spent a lot of my life pretending to be the people you imagined into being. \n  \n—Johnny Stallings
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-4-23-4-29/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200422
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200515
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200329T010432Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200423T003902Z
UID:648-1587513600-1589500799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Hamilton Cheifetz: Inside Chamber Music Classes
DESCRIPTION:Monday\, March 30 was scheduled to be the first of eight Inside Chamber Music classes\, and since they have been postponed\, Friends of Chamber Music and I are going to post some music and stories from last Spring’s classes.  Here is a recent one: \n  \n\n\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M1Ui8k-16dY\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n–Hamilton
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/hamilton-cheifetz-inside-chamber-music-classes/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200416
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200423
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200416T161955Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20220718T235426Z
UID:741-1586995200-1587599999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness newsletter 4/16/20
DESCRIPTION:photo by Prabu Muruganantham \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness newsletter \nApril 16\, 2020 \nSpring with Rumi \nGuest Editor: Prabu Muruganantham \n  \nAfter I read the Walt Whitman issue of the Open Road newsletter last week I suggested the idea of publishing an issue for Rumi’s poetry to Johnny and offered to collaborate with him on it. An hour later I received a reply: \n“Okay.\nNext week you can be Guest Editor.\nLet’s talk about it after you get off from work today.” \nI felt a bit nervous to say yes as I don’t have any experience as an editor. Also the guilt that I have not read that much Rumi\, despite two copies of The Essential Rumi by Coleman Barks sitting in my book shelf for over a year\, added to that nervousness. Then I asked myself why my mind immediately went to Rumi upon reading a few lines by Whitman. What could be the thread in my Indian mind that connects a 19th Century American poet with a 13th Century Persian poet? What is common between a transcendentalist and an Islamic mystic? The connection\, at least in my mind\, lies in their unitive vision of all beings.  \nA poet’s eye sees past this world of separateness that we inhabit. A poet’s words capture a few glimpses of their unitive vision. Through the poet\, our vision also becomes expansive. It elevates us from our ordinary existence. It is an ecstatic state of blooming\, of being born again by breaking open the shells that we have constructed for our selves. Whitman and Rumi’s poetry transport me to this ecstatic state. This is the association in my mind that made me think of one upon reading the other. I thought I will use Johnny’s invitation as an opportunity to expand my vision further.  \nOne of the first Rumi poems I ever read was “A Just Finishing Candle” . The imagery in this poem is so powerful that it has stayed with me since I first read those lines. Here is the poem: \n  \nA Just Finishing Candle  \nA candle light is made to become entirely flame.  \nIn that annihilating moment\nit has no shadow.\n \nIt is nothing but a tongue of light  \ndescribing a refuge.\n \nLook at this\nJust-finishing candle stub\nas someone who is finally safe  \nfrom virtue and vice\,  \nthe pride and the shame\nwe claim from those. \n\nThe wax of the candle has been completely melted and the candle is this bright tongue of light. It is serene at this annihilating moment. It illuminates the space with its whole life.  \nSpring is sprouting with life again. I take walks every day to greet the buds\, sprouts\, flowers and leaves. A few weeks ago was my birthday\, and I wanted to see a long time friend of mine. She is one of the first friends that I made when I migrated to Portland five years ago from India. In our busy world of appointments and schedules\, she is someone I can visit whenever I wanted company. I am always welcomed at her abode. She lives by the road side on the nearby hill\, but you would easily miss her from a car. I finished my work and started to hike up the hill.  \nIt was an early spring evening. The sun was going to hide behind the opposite side of the hill. His lights were slowly turning to become crimson. The slats thick cedar trunk was radiating red. Is it the sunlight or the redness of the bark that brings forth this glow? My mind started to ponder. From the depth of my memories rose a few lines of Rumi: \n  \nThe Sunrise Ruby\n \n…I’m like a ruby held up to the sunrise.  \nIs it still a stone or a world\nmade of redness? It has no resistance to sunlight. \n This is how Hallaj said\, I am God\,\nand told the truth! \nThe Ruby and sunrise are one.\nBe courageous and discipline yourself.  \nCompletely become hearing and ear\,  \nand wear this sun-ruby as earring. \nThe evening glow was at its zenith when I reached my friend’s abode. She wore her pink and purple gown to greet her guest. Her petal-like fingers waved at me. Magnolia is her name. Every time she greets me her smile is new and the same as freshness. I wondered at her magic. She moved the wind and whispered into my ears: \n  \n“You too are flowering  \nlike me\, anew\nevery spring\nof the year\,  \nevery day of\nthe spring\nand\nevery hour\nof the day.” \nSince then I have been struggling to express this flowering of my being\, that she so elegantly whispered into my ears\, through words. My words always fall short. \nWhenever I attempt to write about it I feel the urge to drop my pen and pick up a flute. This poem by Rumi beautifully expresses my feeling\,  \n  \nWhere Everything Is Music  \nDon’t worry about saving these songs!  \nAnd if one of the instruments breaks\,  \nit doesn’t matter. \n\nWe have fallen into the place  \nwhere everything is music. \n\nThe strumming and flute notes\nrise into the atmosphere\,\nand even if the whole world’s harp\nshould burn up\, there will still be\nhidden instruments playing. \n\nSo the candle flickers and goes out.\nWe have a piece of flint\, and a spark. \n\nThis singing art is a sea foam.\nThe graceful movements come from a pearl  \nsomewhere on the ocean floor. \n\nPoems reach up like spindrift and the edge  \nof driftwood along the beach\, wanting!  \nThey derive \nfrom a slow and powerful root\nthat we can’t see.  \nStop the words now.\nOpen the window in the center of your chest\,  \nand let the spirits fly in and out.  \n* \nWhat follows are some thoughts on Rumi from my friends Kim\, Johnny\, Nancy\, Katie and Bill. \nRumi’s Reach \nHow far does Rumi reach\, from all those centuries ago? How does he still bring spring to us with his arresting proposals for a whole new way to see things?      \nTwenty five years ago\, when I had first met Perrin\, who was to become my wife\, in our first phone conversation she read me a quote by  Rumi that was on her fridge. The same quotation was on my fridge. What else did we need to know?      \nI have a friend in Iran\, Alireza\, who told me he was in a cab in Tehran when he heard a sentence on the radio that arrested him. “That must be Rumi\,” he thought. But then he learned the sentence had been written by Thoreau. Who was this Thoreau? he wondered. And this began a  project that took him seven years–to translate Walden into Farsi so Iranian readers could know about Thoreau\, the Rumi of America.       \nOn my  journeys around Oregon as Poet Laureate\, people often asked me\, “What difference can poetry make for all our troubles. It’s just a little thing\, and our troubles are great.” I tried to answer\, but did not feel satisfied\, so I sent an email message to Alireza in Iran\, and asked him. This is what he wrote me: “The real question should be\, ‘What can violence do?’ The answer would be:  ‘Nothing.’ Violence can’t help  us. Only poetry can help us. Poetry is oxygen. It helps us live. A good poem will satisfy your thirst. But a great poem–like that of Rumi–will deepen your thirst. Then the only  remedy will be more poetry. More connection. More life.” \n—Kim Stafford \n* \nLong ago\, I had a very short stay in college\, but during that brief interlude I managed to find myself in classrooms at Portland State College where Nitya Chaitanya Yati was teaching the Bhagavad Gita and Nazeer El Azma taught a course in Sufism. Times have changed.  \nBack then\, I read Rumi’s mystical poetry in a translation by A. J. Arberry. Fast forward about 25 years\, and\, thanks to Coleman Barks\, this 13th Century Persian poet was the best-selling poet in America.  \nAt a reading in Manhattan\, Coleman Barks said that back in the day a bunch of people would sit around all day with Rumi. They would play music and dance\, and Rumi would periodically recite poems and stories off the top of his head that were written down by scribes. Hanging out with Coleman Barks in a bookstore for an hour and-a-half felt a little bit like that. With his help\, this is one of Rumi’s best known poems: \n  \nThe Guest House \nThis being human is a guest house.\nEvery morning a new arrival. \nA joy\, a depression\, a meanness\,\nsome momentary awareness comes\nas an unexpected visitor. \nWelcome and entertain them all!\nEven if they’re a crowd of sorrows\,\nwho violently sweep your house\nempty of its furniture\,\nstill\, treat each guest honorably.\nHe may be clearing you out\nfor some new delight. \nThe dark thought\, the shame\, the malice\,\nmeet them at the door laughing\,\nand invite them in. \nBe grateful for whoever comes\,\nbecause each has been sent\nas a guide from beyond. \n—Jelaluddin Rumi\, Translated by Coleman Barks \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \nTwo Ways of Talking  \nWe have this way of talking\, and we have another.\nApart from what we wish and what we fear may happen\,  \nwe are alive with other life\, as clear stones\ntake form in the mountain.  \nRumi  \n“We have this way of talking\,” which is inherently practical. We use language to understand and relate with the world around us. Nouns signify and classify; verbs reflect the changing and changeable nature of ourselves as well as all that we perceive and interact with; adjectives and adverbs mirror continuous elaboration. The practical way of talking is a tool\, a skill\, an approach that serves us well\, enabling us to discover many things\, meet many needs\, satisfy many desires. This way of talking aids in our many activities aimed at obtaining “what we wish” and preventing “what we fear may happen.”  \nThe education children are given at home and at school is geared toward enhancing their facility in this way of talking\, fostering greater flexibility\, breadth\, and clarity in both comprehension and expression. Our pursuits as adults further develop our skills\, particularly in our chosen fields of interest\, vocational and recreational. Unfortunately\, the specifying nature of this way of talking also leads to difficulties in communication. When we are ignorant of another’s language\, whether of a different geographical area or a different field\, misunderstandings can easily arise\, creating a seedbed for conflict and hostility.  \n“This way of talking” is not sufficient expression or reflection of all that we are or all that the world is. So “we have another.” We have exercised it less\, explored it less\, listened to it less\, but it has always continued as an option for us all\, and the dynamic practice of a few. This language\, the mystical\, seeks to express the essential nature of life\, the “other life” we are alive with. We all have moments\, or more\, characterized by utter clarity\, where our blinders fall away and no particular thing is so real to us as an all-embracing unity in which all things and our own beingness merge. This expansion of our narrow sense of self brings a release of fear\, a sense of completeness which has the dynamic quality of love. Intuitively we know and we know what and how we know.  \nBut when we as individuals\, or collectively\, seek to convey that knowledge with our usual way of talking\, confusion reigns. Categorizing nouns\, acting verbs\, and elaborating adjectives and adverbs are inadequate to express unitive reality. Specificity violates the nature of that reality\, resulting in fractions between different religions and philosophies. And vagueness provides a context for delusion and illusion in which individuals and groups proffer and seek to acquire powers beyond the normal reach of human faculties\, pursuing exotic ways of manipulating “what we wish and what we fear may happen.”  \nHonest communication of the “other life we are alive with” requires another way of talking. The mystical has its own integrity and forms of expression where potent symbols are used to awaken another’s intuition of the same vibrant reality. Visual images and music are emphasized\, even when words are also used\, conveying to the reader far more than their surface meaning. When Rumi tells us “we are alive with other life\, as clear stones take form in the mountain\,” the inner brightness or encouragement we feel can’t be explained by a mere analysis of the words and symbols he uses. But in answer to his song and his vision\, an affirmation arises from the core of our being. It thrills us like the whisper of a great secret or the recovery of a buried treasure. Whenever we hear the musical compositions\, see the artistic creations\, or read the writings of mystics\, we are reminded of this other way of talking\, which we all have. The language may be foreign\, archaic\, obscure\, yet somehow it strikes a chord of familiarity in us\, as we resonate with their experience.  \nThis other way of talking does not attempt to manipulate or accomplish; it is simply an outpouring of love and wonder. In our practical words we ask\, “What is its purpose and value?” Like a tide\, it can carry us beyond the barriers which divide us from each other\, which hide our true nature from ourselves. We are reminded that we are more than our wishes and fears and the tangled web of actions they lead us to. We are alive with other life as clear stones take form in the mountain.  \n  \n—Nancy Yeilding (Originally published in Gurukulam Magazine\, 1987) \n* \nHi Prabu \nYour essay is inspiring and embraces what Rumi continually offers to us across time and landscape. So generous to walk us through your thought process and feelings along the way.   It’s wonderful to make the connection with Whitman and Kim with Thoreau through his Persian friend. \nBelow is my favorite Rumi poem.  i had forgotten that it even has Spring in the title and first line! When i walk alone in the Magnolia grove in Forest Park the last two lines always come to me.  Have you been there? \nThis is the high time for standing beneath that attic of purple blossoms.  I wish we could all meet up for a picnic there in its winter garden circle. \nMy Magnolia suddenly burst out with white blossoms just in time for Easter / Resurrection day.  \n  \nCOME TO THE ORCHARD IN SPRING \nCome to the orchard in spring. \nThere is light and wine and sweethearts \nin the pomegranate flowers. \nIf you do not come\, these do not matter. \nIf you do come\, these do not matter. \n  \n–poem by Rumi\, interpreted by Coleman Barks \n  \nI have stories of Coleman Barks\, who came often to Looking Glass Bookstore\, in the days when he was publishing his own books.  \nOnce\, he came with a dancer to PCC for a performance of dance\, song and poetry. Several of us had dinner together at a Persian Restaurant. We were with a friend from Iran who was writing a book about Darius and Persian history from a cultural perspective. Coleman struggled with the question of his worthiness to be the translator of Rumi’s poems. But Rumi spoke through him\, in that ecstatic way that he spoke with Shams\, with the beloved between them. That ecstatic conversation is called Sohbet in Fārsī; we don’t really have a comparable word\, except maybe “communing.”  When Coleman came over to talk with our friend—(both of these men\, burly\, bigger than life gentle souls\, who were strangers in a strange land)—he asked Coleman\, “If Rumi came back and was here now\, would you recognize him?” \nColeman bent and kissed his hand. \nHere is another Spring poem: \n  \nListening \nAnother year\, another Spring! \nThe fragrance of love arrives. \nSo dancy\, this new light on the ground\, and in the tree. \nThe one who heals us lets whatever hurts the soul \n dissolve to a listening intelligence\, where what we most deeply want\, union with eternity\, grows up around and inside us now! \n—Rumi\, translated by Coleman Barks \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n* \nOn a long relationship with Rumi \nMany years ago\, in reading through an anthology of sacred poetry\, I was drawn to the poems of Rumi. Though I had read a few of his poems before\, I was completely taken by what I read.  The images that he created and the reaction and insight they created for me were very affecting. Thus began a 30 year love affair with Rumi’s stories and poems that continues…. \nJelaluddin Rumi was born in 1207 and\, following in the footsteps of his father\, became the sheik in the dervish learning community in Konya\, Turkey. He was considered a great scholar and leader\, but his life changed when he met Shams of Tabriz\, a wandering sufi mystic. From this mysterious and esoteric friendship came a new depth of spiritual enlightenment. When Shams disappeared Rumi began his transformation from scholar to artist\, and his poems and stories that shifted fantastically—from theory to folklore to jokes and ecstatic poetry—began to flow. Rumi describes it himself in a poem: \n  \nIn your light I learn how to love\, \nIn your beauty\, how to make poems. \n You dance inside my chest\, \nWhere no one sees you\, \nBut sometimes I do\, \nAnd that sight becomes this art \n  \nReading Rumi’s poems often transports me to a magical\, mystical place. They are filled with passion\, insight and a connection with the divine which talk about everything from awe\, silence\, emptiness and love to the everyday infused with the deepest sense of God and wonder. \nOften his poems feel like they strike a nerve deep inside consciousness and some new insight or understanding or just the silence of the Self can be seen for a brief moment. And often they express so deeply our yearning to return to God. \nHow is it possible to describe the indescribable\, express the inexpressible\, within a few lines of poetry? A sudden image takes you deep inside\, to the core of your being. The ecstasy that Rumi experienced comes through in much of that poetry. That longing for union with God was so strong and his experience of that union so deep and ecstatic that it permeated every fiber of his being. \nOver the centuries\, enlightened masters have tried to give a glimpse of their experience of union\, but there are no words that can explain. So students and readers are left with a glimpse of what it might be like to achieve that union.  Rumi’s poems are often a gateway or glimpse into that reality that is unique to his poems. \nIt’s hard to pick just one or two poems\, but I’ll leave with one short favorite: \n  \nOut beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing\, \nthere is a field. I’ll meet you there. \nWhen the soul lies down in that grass\, \nthe world is too full to talk about. \nIdeas\, language\, even the phrase each other \ndoesn’t make any sense. \n  \n—Bill Hughes
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-4-16-4-22/
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UID:717-1586390400-1586995199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness: Walt Whitman Issue 4/9/20
DESCRIPTION:painting of Walt Whitman by Rick Bartow \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness newsletter \nApril 9\, 2020 \nThe Walt Whitman Issue \n  \nMiracles \n  \nWhy\, who makes much of a miracle? \nAs to me I know of nothing else but miracles\, \nWhether I walk the streets of Manhattan\, \nOr dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky\, \nOr wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water\, \nOr stand under trees in the woods\, \nOr talk by day with any one I love\, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love\, \nOr sit at table at dinner with the rest\, \nOr look at strangers opposite me riding in the car\, \nOr watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon\, \nOr animals feeding in the fields\, \nOr birds\, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air\, \nOr the wonderfulness of the sundown\, or of stars shining so quiet and bright\, \nOr the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; \nThese with the rest\, one and all\, are to me miracles\, \nThe whole referring\, yet each distinct and in its place. \nTo me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle\, \nEvery cubic inch of space is a miracle\, \nEvery square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same\, \nEvery foot of the interior swarms with the same. \nTo me the sea is a continual miracle\, \nThe fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them\, \nWhat stranger miracles are there? \n  \n–Walt Whitman \n* \nThis issue is devoted to one of my best friends: Walt Whitman. I read “Song of Myself” when I was 18 or 19 years old and it changed my life. It continues to transform the way I experience and understand the world. I’ve been performing an abridged version of “Song of Myself” for many years. It’s written in the first person\, and if you recite it aloud\, and feel it and mean it as you say the words\, something good happens to you. If you do it often enough\, over time\, it changes you. A famous line is: \n“I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars.” \nYou could read that line and think: “Walt Whitman thinks that a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars…and that a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.” Or you could say it and feel it and mean and believe it to be true. And it will be true for you in that moment. \nWhen I performed the poem in Marfa\, Texas\, a few years back\, I was interviewed on Marfa Public Radio. Here’s a link to that interview: \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0D6WmHaSE8&t=237s \nWalt Whitman has inspired a LOT of poets. Many have acknowledged their debt to him\, including Allen Ginsberg and Pablo Neruda. Here’s a poem I wrote in 2010: \n  \nTeach me to see\, Walt! \n  \nI was driving up Burnside \nand I saw a man standing\, waiting for the bus \nhe was not four feet tall \nmeanwhile\, I was listening to a Modern Scholar lecture\, “where great professors teach you!” \na lecture about Walt Whitman \nI was on my way to Romeo & Juliet rehearsal \nat Catlin Gabel High School \nthe small man is the center of his own world \nthere is such infinite variety! \neveryone I see is a world \nI noticed this man—his seriousness \nhe is a miracle \nand it is a miracle that I see him \nand I wished that\, like Walt\, I could be amazed by everyone I see \nI thought to myself: “I’ll write a poem called ‘Teach me to see\, Walt!’” \nI scrawled a note to myself\, while driving\, to remind me \nthat was yesterday \nI just looked at the note \nand was reminded of a moment that I had forgotten \na moment where I saw this man \nand felt something that I wanted to find words for \nmore than six billion people on this earth (we are told) \neach one amazing \neach one with their own subjectivity \nlooking out at the world \nseeing it\, feeling it \neach understanding it in her or his own way \nand the world itself—vast! \nendless variety \nthe trees standing \nthe clouds floating and changing \nthe frantic swimmers in a drop of blood seen through a microscope \nthe stars in the night sky \nWalt\, you taught me a lot about wonder \nbut I’m still learning how to see \nbecause if I knew how to look at the world with my eyes open and my heart open \nif I wasn’t such a sleepwalker \nsuch a daydreamer \nwouldn’t my cheeks be always wet with tears? \n  \nsitting on the couch now \nwriting down these words \na little while ago a squirrel sat poised on a branch of the old pear tree in the back yard and scratched its head \nthe squirrel is gone now \nthose squirrels stay busy! \nI guess that’s enough for this poem \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \nI’ll close my portion of the newsletter with some great quotes from “Song of Myself”: \n  \nAll truths wait in all things. \n* \nI believe in the flesh and the appetites\, \nSeeing\, hearing\, feeling\, are miracles\, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. \nDivine am I inside and out\, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from\, \nThe scent of these arm-pits\, aroma finer than prayer\, \nThis head more than churches\, bibles\, and all the creeds. \n* \nWhoever degrades another degrades me\, \nAnd whatever is done or said returns at last to me. \n* \nDazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me  \nIf I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. \n* \nIn all people I see myself\, none more and not one a barley-corn less. \n* \nThis minute that comes to me over the past decillions\, \nThere is no better than it and now. \n* \nEach moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy. \n* \nWhy should I wish to see God better than this day? \nI see something of God each hour of the twenty-four\, and each moment then\, \nIn the faces of men and women I see God… \n* \nPerrin Kerns sent a link to an amazing website for a film called Whitman\, Alabama: \nhttps://whitmanalabama.com \nIn it\, many of the sections of “Song of Myself” are read by a wonderful array of human beings. The accompanying texts about the people are deeply moving. \n* \nHere’s a story from Oregon’s Poet Laureate\, Kim Stafford: \n  \nHow could I not love Whitman\, as his poetry saved my father’s life? It was the spring of 1942\, and my dad was interned as a conscientious objector in a small town in western Arkansas. One Sunday\, he and two pacifist friends were surrounded by a mob\, threatened for their perceived “support of Hitler\,” and someone shouted “Get a rope!” As the sentiment that these three “slackers” should be strung up rippled through the crowd\, the decision turned–improbably–on whether poetry had to rhyme. One piece of evidence seized by a hothead in the crowd was a poem written by my dad’s friend Chuck\, was a poem Chuck had written–which didn’t rhyme. “That’s not a poem\,” the hothead shouted. “It doesn’t rhyme!”      \n“And you\, what are you holding there!” My father held out his copy of Leaves of Grass\, which he had been reading.      \n“I’ll show you what poetry sounds like\,” the hothead shouted\, and he open the book to read a passage at random…but soon his voice trailed off. “Well I don’t know what that is\, but it aint poetry\,” he muttered.      \nThis pause allowed time for someone in the crowd (“a saint\,” my father said) to shout “Call the Sheriff!” And when the sheriff arrived\, he cooled things down\, and drove my father and his friends away to safety.      \nSo\, if Whitman’s poetry had rhymed\, my father would have become a statistic\, and I would not be here\, reading the story of this encounter in my father’s book\, Down in My Heart: Peace Witness in Wartime. \n–Kim Stafford
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-walt-whitman-issue-4-9-4-15/
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UID:709-1586390400-1587945599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:12 Angry Lebanese
DESCRIPTION:Zeina Daccache is making her documentaries available for free during this difficult time\, starting with 12 Angry Lebanese. It’s a great documentary feature about a production of the play 12 Angry Men at Roumieh Prison in Lebanon. Zeina directed the play and the film. This is a rare opportunity to see this remarkable film. Don’t miss it!
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/12-angry-lebanese/
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UID:688-1585785600-1586390399@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness newsletter 4/2/20 - 4/8/20
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness newsletter \nApril 2\, 2020 \n  \nDid you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work’d over and rectified?…. \nThis minute that comes to me over the past decillions\, \nThere is no better than it and now. \n  \n—Walt Whitman\, from “Song of Myself” \n* \n  \nDear Friends of The Open Road \n  \nHere’s a link to a song from Mexico that should perk you up\, “Mexico Lindo y Querido”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvDdtEVAo-U. \n* \n  \nOut breath \nand in breath— \nknow that they are \nproof that the world \nis inexhaustible. \n  \n—Ryokan   (1758-1831) \n(translated by Kazuaki Tanahashi) \n* \n  \nsweet spring is your \ntime is my time is our \ntime for springtime is lovetime \nand viva sweet love \n  \n(all the merry little birds are \nflying in the floating in the \nvery spirits singing in \nare winging in the blossoming) \n  \nlovers go and lovers come \nawandering awondering \nbut any two are perfectly \nalone there’s nobody else alive \n  \n(such a sky and such a sun \ni never knew and neither did you \nand everybody never breathed \nquite so many kinds of yes) \n  \nnot a tree can count his leaves \neach herself by opening \nbut shining who by thousands mean \nonly one amazing thing \n  \n(secretly adoring shyly \ntiny winging darting floating \nmerry in the blossoming \nalways joyful selves are singing) \n  \nsweet spring is your \ntime is my time is our \ntime for springtime is lovetime \nand viva sweet love \n  \ne. e. cummings \n* \nIn 1952 and 1953\, E. E. Cummings gave six nonlectures at Harvard University. They are collected in a wonderful book called i: six nonlectures. At the end of each nonlecture he recited some of his favorite poems by other poets. After the second\, the theme was “Spring\,” including this song from Shakespeare’s “As You Like It”: \n  \nIt was a lover and his lass\, \n   With a hey\, and a ho\, and a hey nonino\, \nThat o’er the green cornfield did pass\, \n   In springtime\, the only pretty ring time\,  \nWhen birds do sing\, hey ding a ding\, ding;  \nSweet lovers love the spring. \n  \nBetween the acres of the rye\, \n   With a hey\, and a ho\, and a hey nonino\, \nThose pretty country folks would lie\, \n   In springtime\, the only pretty ring time\,  \nWhen birds do sing\, hey ding a ding\, ding;  \nSweet lovers love the spring. \n  \nThis carol they began that hour\, \n   With a hey\, and a ho\, and a hey nonino\, \nHow that a life was but a flower \n   In springtime\, the only pretty ring time\,  \nWhen birds do sing\, hey ding a ding\, ding;  \nSweet lovers love the spring. \n  \nAnd therefore take the present time\, \n   With a hey\, and a ho\, and a hey nonino\, \nFor love is crownèd with the prime \n   In springtime\, the only pretty ring time\,  \nWhen birds do sing\, hey ding a ding\, ding;  \nSweet lovers love the spring. \n  \n(word note: in the last verse\, the word “prime” means “Spring”) \n  \nDennis Wiancko sent me a link to a short film featuring Time Person of the Year for 2019\, Greta Thunberg: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Q0xUXo2zEY. \n  \nThere are ideas about how to nurtures culture and community without gathering together at The Open Road website (openroadpdx.org). Have a look! \n  \nThat’s it from me (Johnny) for this issue. \n* \n  \nHere are two poems from Kim Stafford: \n  \nFrom the Train  \n  \nBelow the tracks\, beyond \nthe chain-link fence topped \nwith rusted barbwire\, out \non the floodplain where \nlike my battered spirit \nevery forsaken surface \nof shattered wall or car \ncarcass is festooned with \ngraffiti in a riot swirl \nof color code\, and brambles \nswarm over heaps of debris — \npurple flowers are falling \nfrom the smoldering jacaranda \nsurging beauty from earth\, \nbillowing blossoms\, \nutterly failing to take \na realistic view. \n  \n  \nDennis Takes Us to the Old Trees  \n  \nSometimes it takes a miracle of misfortunes \nto make a beautiful life — earthquake\, hurricane\, \nwar. Sometimes the story\, told right\, can turn  \nhardship inside out\, and show tough beauty \nyet. When the fire came roaring up the ridge\, \nDennis said\, as we stepped the path down  \ninto the ravine that saved the old ones\,  \nit crested and swept west\, taking the tops \nof these few ancient firs\, and left them  \nin austere majesty\, their proof of pluck \na candelabra of tangled limbs high \nin silhouette\, looming where we lean back  \nto gaze up and wonder how we might \nbe marked by hurt but still stand like that\, \nlast of our kind\, telling the children:  \nIf you must live through fire\, be with \nyour own grove of sturdy companions \ngazing up\, after\, at the far stars.  \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nKen Margolis reminded me of this great Neruda poem. \n  \nI ask for silence \n  \nNow\, let’s count to twelve \nand all be quiet. \n  \nFor one time on this earth \nlet’s not speak in any language; \nlet’s stop for one second\, \nand not move our arms so much. \n  \nIt would be a fragrant moment\, \nwithout haste\, without locomotives; \nwe would all be together \nin an awkward instant. \n  \nFishermen in the cold sea \nwould not harm whales \nand the man gathering salt \nwould look at his raw hands. \n  \nThose who prepare green wars\, \nwars of gas\, wars of fire\, \nvictories without survivors\, \nwould put on clean clothes \nand walk along in the shade \nwith their brothers\, \ndoing nothing. \n  \nWhat I want shouldn’t be confused \nwith total inactivity. \nLife is what’s happening! \nI want nothing to do with death. \nIf we weren’t so unanimous \nabout keeping our lives moving\, \nand for once could do nothing\, \nmaybe a vast silence \nwould interrupt this sadness\, \nthis never understanding ourselves \nand threatening ourselves with death. \nMaybe the earth is teaching us— \nwhen everything seems dead \nand later everything is alive. \n  \nNow I will count to twelve \nand you be quiet\, and I will go. \n  \n—Pablo Neruda
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter-4-2-20-4-8-20/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200401T120000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200401T130000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200331T183546Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200331T185709Z
UID:666-1585742400-1585746000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Quality Folk Dojo
DESCRIPTION:Sing and play live online via Zoom with Kate Power & Steve Einhorn! \nClick on the phrase Quality Folk to go to their website and register. \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/quality-folk-dojo/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200326
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200403
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200326T223536Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T021706Z
UID:640-1585180800-1585871999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness humor issue 3/26 - 4/1
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness newsletter \nMarch 26\, 2020 \nThe Humor Issue \n  \nNever criticize someone until you have walked a mile in their shoes. \nThat way\, when you criticize them\, you’ll be a mile away\, and you’ll have their shoes. \n  \nWhat do Alexander the Great and Winnie the Pooh have in common? \nSame middle name. \n  \nWhat did the mayonnaise say when the refrigerator door was opened? \nClose the door\, I’m dressing. \n  \nAnd God said to John\, “Come forth and you shall be granted eternal life.” \nBut John came fifth and won a toaster. \n  \nI want to die peacefully in my sleep\, like my grandfather did. \nNot screaming in terror like the passengers in his car. \n  \nTwo cows are grazing in a field. One cow says to the other\, “You ever worry about that mad cow disease?” \nThe other cow says\, “Why would I care? I’m a helicopter.” \n  \nI told my physical therapist that I broke my arm in two places. \nHe told me to stop going to those places. \n  \nI was wondering why the ball was getting bigger. \nThen it hit me. \n  \nTwo windmills are standing in a wind farm. One asks\, “What’s your favorite kind of music?” \nThe other says\, “I’m a big metal fan.” \n  \nIs it ignorance or apathy that’s destroying the world today? \nI don’t know and I don’t really care. \n  \nThey all laughed when I said I wanted to be a comedian. \nWell\, they’re not laughing now! \n—stolen from the Internet by Johnny \n  \nClams never give any money to charity… \nthey’re shellfish. \n  \nMoth goes to a podiatrist. He tells the podiatrist\, “I got depressed after I lost my job. Started drinkin’. My wife left me. My kids hate me. My life feels empty and meaningless…” \nThe podiatrist interrupted him. “I think maybe you want to see a psychiatrist. Why did you come to me?” \n“The light was on.” \n  \nHow many Zen Buddhists does it take to screw in a lightbulb? \nTwo. One to screw it in. One not to screw it in. \n  \nHow many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb? \nBlue giraffe in a red bathtub. \n  \nA favorite from my childhood… \nKnock\, knock. \nWho’s there? \nDwayne. \nDwayne who? \nDwayne the bathtub\, I’m dwowning. \n  \nAnd perhaps the greatest joke of all time… \nGuess what? \nChicken butt. \n—Johnny Stallings \n  \nThree sisters were growing old together\, and one evening the oldest was just stepping into the bath when when she called out\, “Was I just stepping into the bath\, or stepping out of the bath?” The middle sister started up the stairs to help\, but paused halfway and said aloud\, “Was I going up the stairs\, or down the stairs?” The youngest sister\, in the kitchen below\, said to herself\, “I hope I never get so forgetful–knock on wood…Someone’s at the door–I’ll get it!” \n—Kim Stafford \n* \nA priest\, a Rabbi and a minister walk into a bar.  \n“What is this\,” says the bartender\, “some kind of joke?” \n  \nSo…a guy goes to his doctor. After the exam the doc says\, “Well\, I’d like to send you to a specialist\, I think your hearing may be going.”  \n“No\,” the guy says\, “my hearing is fine\, but you know\, Doc\, now that you mention it\, I think my wife may be having trouble with her hearing\, but she won’t have it checked. What should I do?” \n“Well\,” says the Doc\, “why don’t you figure out a way to test her hearing at home?” \nSo the guy goes home that night. He opens the front door and he can see\, through the living room\, his wife at the kitchen sink with her back toward him. \n“Honey\,” he calls out\, “What’s for dinner?” \nNo answer. \nSo he walks into the living room\, and calls again\, “Honey\, what’s for dinner?” \nNo answer. \nSo he walks into the kitchen\, puts his hands on her shoulders and asks into her ear\, “Honey\, what’s for dinner?” \nShe turns her face up to his and says\, “For the third time\, chicken.” \n—Ken Margolis \n* \nQ:   Why couldn’t the teddy bear have any dessert? \nA:   Because he was already stuffed !                  \nlove & giggles\,       \n—“Grandpa Bill” Faricy \n* \nWhy didn’t the invisible man take the job?  \nBecause he just couldn’t see himself doing it. \n  \nWhy didn’t the chicken cross the road?   \nBecause he was sick and tired of always having his motivations questioned. \n  \nWhy did the chicken the road?   \nBecause his father was a brutal alcoholic.   \n  \nWhat did the buffalo say to his son when he left home?   \nBison \n  \nWhat’s black and white and green…black and white and green….black and white and green?  \n Two zebras fighting over a pickle.  \n—Will Hornyak \n* \nThanks to Deborah Buchanan for recommending Charlie Chaplin. Here’s a link to The Rink: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8eelQxCpLa4 \nMy dad once said to me: “John\, if anyone says you’re a wit\, they’d be half right.” \nSo much for now. \n  \nMay all people be happy! \n  \n–Johnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-humor-issue-3-26-4-1/
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END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20200326
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200327
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200324T190352Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T022423Z
UID:623-1585180800-1585267199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love & happiness newsletter  3/19 - 3/25
DESCRIPTION:THE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love & happiness \nSpring Equinox \nMarch 19\, 2020 \nDear Friends of The Open Road \nToday I’m inaugurating a weekly peace\, love & happiness newsletter. There will be an online version and a print version for people who are living in prison. It’s an experiment. I predict that it will be somewhat unpredictable. Hopefully\, it will nurture culture and community at a time when gathering together is not encouraged. \nLast night Prabu let me know about the Metropolitan Opera’s new “Nightly Opera Stream” program. You can learn more about it at the Open Road website (openroadpdx.org)\, or directly from the Met’s website at metopera.org. It’s just the kind of thing we need right now. And here’s a link to an article on “All the virtual concerts\, plays\, museums and other culture you can enjoy from home”: \n https://www.cnn.com/style/article/what-to-do-at-home-streaming-art-museums-concerts-coronavirus-trnd/index.html. \nLately\, I’ve been reading things by Alan Watts\, and listening to audio recordings that were made of his talks. Many of his talks have been transcribed\, edited and published since his death in 1973. When I was young\, I didn’t take him seriously—maybe because he wasn’t from India or Japan. I was a snob! These days I really enjoy his wit\, knowledge and insight into questions of philosophy\, religion and psychology\, East and West. Here’s a quote: \nWhat I am really saying is that you \ndon’t need to do anything\, \nbecause if you see yourself in the correct way\, \nyou are all as much extraordinary phenomena \nof nature as trees\, clouds\, the patterns \nin running water\, the flickering of fire\, \nthe arrangement of the stars\, \nand the form of a galaxy. You are all just like that\, \nand there is nothing wrong with you at all. \n(opening quote by Alan Watts\, from his book Still the Mind: An Introduction to Meditation\, edited by Mark Watts and Marc Allen) \nHere are a couple good prayers: \nSerenity Prayer \nGrant me the serenity  \nto accept the things I cannot change\, \nthe courage to change the things I can\, \nand the wisdom to know the difference. \nMetta Prayer \nMay all beings be happy. \nMay we be peaceful and at ease. \nMay we be well in body and mind. \nMay we live in love. \nWell that’s it for me for this issue. \nNow I’d like to tag Kim and Katie and Deborah. In future issues I want to include things from you\, the readers\, so send me your poems and ruminations\, et cetera. \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \nDear Johnny\, \nYour mention of the spring equinox reminded me of this poem of spring rain\, a long time favorite of mine\, a lover of rain and mystery and evocative words. The poem is by Yang Wan-li from the Sung Dynasty in China (his lifespan: 1127 to 1279 AD).  \nNight Rain at Kuang-k’ou \nThe river is clear and calm; \na fast rain falls in the gorge. \nAt midnight the cold\, splashing sound begins\, \nlike thousands of pearls spilling into a glass plate\, \neach drop penetrating the bone. \nIn my dream I scratch my head and get up to listen. \nI listen and listen\, until the dawn. \nAll my life I have heard rain\, \nand I am an old man; \nbut now for the first time I understand \nthe sound of spring rain  \non the river at night. \n Yang Wan-li\, from Heaven My Blanket\, Earth My Pillow \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \nEAGLE POEM \nTo pray you open your whole self \nTo sky\, to earth\, to sun\, to moon \nTo one whole voice that is you. \nAnd know there is more \nThat you can’t see\, can’t hear; \nCan’t know except in moments \nSteadily growing\, and in languages \nThat aren’t always sound but other \nCircles of motion. \nLike eagle that Sunday morning \nOver  Salt River. Circled in blue sky \nIn wind\, swept our hearts clean \nWith sacred wings. \nWe see you\, see ourselves and know \nThat we must take the utmost care \nAnd kindness in all things. \nBreathe in\, knowing we are made of \nAll this\, and breathe\, knowing \nWe are truly blessed because we \nWere born\, and die soon within a \nTrue circle of motion\, \nLike eagle rounding out the morning \nInside us. \nWe pray that it will be done \nIn beauty. \nIn beauty. \nJoy Harjo\, our National Poet Laureate  \n“Eagle Poem” from In Mad Love and War.  \nSpring Equinox is one my favorite and most cosmic times of year to be joyful about just being alive on Planet Earth. As pink Azaleas\, yellow Forsythia\, and luscious \nMagnolia blossoms fill the air\, may we find kindness and equanimity this Spring day.  \nLove and peace\, dear friends. \n—Katie Radditz \nWe’ll conclude with a couple poems that Kim Stafford\, Oregon’s Poet Laureate\, sent for us to include in our first peace\, love & happiness newsletter: \n* \nFoolish Young Flowering Tree  \nIt’s winter—dark days\, still too cold \nfor bird or blossom—dull sky\,  \nand all our hearts in shadow.  \nBut there—at a ragged cleft \ndarkened by cedars of gloom \na flash of light cries out—  \nthe incandescent wisp of wild \nplum—far too early to be \nso happy\, so naive\, a child  \nrefusing to obey the rules of grief.   \n        \nTrees in the Wind  \nEven the sturdy spruce is teaching: \nyou are rooted and strong\, yet you give. \nSome call it dancing\, this strength.  \nAnd the wind has a far place to be\, is \npure volition\, whimsical\, yet it hugs \nthe planet in a life-sustaining grip.  \nSome call it happiness\, this shimmer \nof feeling that runs over bone\, along tendon— \nin the sense of hap: what happens to us.  \nSo we are all chameleon\, capricious \noutside\, but sturdy inside\, where\, \nhelplessly\, we are who we are.  \nWhen I was young\, a Danish girl asked me \nwhat the old song means: There are changes \nin the ocean\, and changes in the sea\,  \nthere are changes in my true love\, \nbut no changes in me. \n—Kim Stafford   
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-newsletter/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200315T170000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200315T190000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200219T014408Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200315T205606Z
UID:495-1584291600-1584298800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Monica Faricy and Friends: EVENT CANCELED
DESCRIPTION:Canceled due to public health concerns. \nHopefully\, this event will be re-scheduled. \nFeaturing: \nGLITTERFOX \nMORGAN FARICY \nC.J. JOHNSON \n“FOOD FOR THOUGHT” FUNDRAISER \nSnacks for 8th grade Science class Lane Middle School \nDONATION: $5-$10
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/monica-faricy-and-friends/
LOCATION:Mississippi Pizza\, 3552 N. Mississippi Ave.\, Portland\, OR
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/unnamed-14.jpg
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200311T190000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200311T200000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200226T220703Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200226T220703Z
UID:543-1583953200-1583956800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Reading by Oregon Poet Laureate Kim Stafford at Milwaukie Public Library
DESCRIPTION:This is a featured event of the Milwaukie Poetry Series.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/reading-by-oregon-poet-laureate-kim-stafford-at-milwaukie-public-library/
LOCATION:Milwaukie Public Library\, 10660 SE 21st Ave.\, Milwaukie\, Oregon
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/unnamed-4.jpg
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200308T150000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200308T170000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20191024T032709Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200225T025043Z
UID:356-1583679600-1583686800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:What's Going On Here? Inquiring Into Our Human Life on Earth
DESCRIPTION:Prabu and Johnny–sometimes joined by Charles Erickson–have been meeting on Sundays at Taborspace to talk about the kinds of things that coffee shop philosophers talk about. We recently studied the PBS series The Power of Myth\, in which Joseph Campbell was interviewed in 1988 by Bill Moyers. \nWhat’s Going On Here? went on vacation to Mexico for most of December and January. We had a great workshop with Kim Stafford called “Writing and Talking the Art of Living” in Guanajuato\, from December 28th through January 1st. \nWe have resumed our weekly dialogue-and-study group in the Library at Taborspace. We meet on Sundays from 3 to 5 pm. \nCurrently we are using Shakespeare’s work as a jumping-off-point for discussions that range wide and dive deep. Having spent some time with Romeo & Juliet\, we are moving on to Measure for Measure\, starting on February 16th. You are invited! You can also use the contact form on this website if you want to know more\, or have any questions. \nJohnny  2/11/2020
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/whats-going-on-here-an-inquiry-into-our-human-life-on-earth/
LOCATION:Library at Taborspace\, 5441 SE Belmont\, Portland\, Oregon
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200305T193000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200305T210000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200129T213121Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200304T173956Z
UID:455-1583436600-1583442000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Literary Arts Presents EVERYBODY READS - Tommy Orange\, author of There There
DESCRIPTION:There There by Tommy Orange is Multnomah County Library’s current selection for the Everybody Reads program. You can get a free copy of the book from your local branch of the library. Literary Arts is bringing Tommy Orange to Portland for a reading at the Schnitzer Concert Hall on March 5th.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/literary-arts-presents-everybody-reads-tommy-orange-author-of-there-there/
LOCATION:Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall\, 1037 SW Broadway\, Portland\, Oregon
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200229T103000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200229T173000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200124T163809Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200211T204002Z
UID:446-1582972200-1582997400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Winter Group Exhibition at Froelick Gallery Runs Through February 29th
DESCRIPTION:Jake Scharbach is one of the featured artists at Froelick’s Winter Group Exhibition. Other artists include Ronna Neuenschwander\, Barry Pelzner and Rick Bartow. \nThe gallery is open from 10:30-5:30\, Tuesday through Saturday. The show closes on February 29th. Make plans to see it before then!
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/winter-group-exhibition-at-froelick-gallery/
LOCATION:Froelick Gallery\, 714 NW Davis\, Portland\, OR
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200229T100000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200229T110000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200226T203548Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200226T203548Z
UID:526-1582970400-1582974000@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:National Memorial for Peace and Justice
DESCRIPTION:The National Memorial for Peace and Justice  is a powerful art project based in Alabama that includes histories of lynching across the United States  –  please pass this news on to your friends. Next week OPB will present a story about the Memorial and what will follow next in the installation of the Art Project.\n\nOn Saturday\, Feb. 29\, at 10 a.m.\, a ceremony will be held in Coos Bay to commemorate the one documented lynching of a black man in Oregon.  Fellow friends and artists Gina Wilson and Susan Webb will attend the collection of soil from the killing site that will be sent to the National Museum for Peace and Justice Center  in Alabama.  We won’t all be able to travel to Coos Bay\, but we could take time out to acknowlege the harm done and the healing that could happen for all those whose land and lives were taken. You might want to stop -get connected\, touch the Earth –  Saturday in honoring this history and the power of ART to bring awareness\, to open hearts\, and to transform.\n\nNext week OPB will present a story about the Memorial and what will follow next in the installation of the Art Project.\n\nWith compassion for all beings\, shining the light\,\n Katie Radditz\,  of The Open Road\n\n\nhttps://www.oregonlive.com/history/2020/02/a-1902-lynching-in-coos-bay-is-being-commemorated-to-highlight-black-suffering-spark-racial-reconciliation.html\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA notorious 1902 lynching in Coos Bay is being memorialized to highlight racial injustice\, spark reconciliation – oregonlive.com\nThe violence that’s now being memorialized erupted 118 years ago after a miner’s wife\, a white woman\, accused a black man of raping her near South Marshfield’s Seventh Street Bridge.\nwww.oregonlive.com\n\n\n\n\n\nhttps://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_National_Memorial_for_Peace_and_Justice \n  \nhttps://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/25/us/lynching-memorial-alabama.html \nhttps://museumandmemorial.eji.org \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHome | Museum and Memorial\nLocated on the site of a former warehouse where black people were enslaved in Montgomery\, Alabama\, this narrative museum uses interactive media\, sculpture\, videography and exhibits to immerse visitors in the sights and sounds of the domestic slave trade\, racial terrorism\, the Jim Crow South\, and the world’s largest prison system.\nmuseumandmemorial.eji.org
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/national-memorial-for-peace-and-justice/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200215T193000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20200215T210000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20200129T233545Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20200129T234720Z
UID:465-1581795000-1581800400@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Concert Mosaic
DESCRIPTION:New music by Northwest Women Composers Elizabeth Blachly-Dyson\, Lisa Ann Marsh\, Lisa Neher\, Stacey Philipps\, Christina Rusnak\, Dawn Sonntag and Linda Woody. Performed by Delgani String Quartet. \nFeaturing poetry by Deborah Buchanan. \nArtwork by Ellen Blazich\, Karen Drain\, Cindy Geffel\, Paulette Insall\, Susan Johnson\, Ildiko Kalapacs and Teresa Sala. \nTickets from Brown Paper Tickets: https://concertmosaic.brownpapertickets.com
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/concert-mosaic/
LOCATION:Lincoln Recital Hall 75\, 1620 SW Park Ave.\, Portland\, Oregon
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20191228
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20200102
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20191002T001330Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20191029T180217Z
UID:273-1577491200-1577923199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Writing & Talking the Art of Living
DESCRIPTION:A retreat with Kim Stafford and Johnny Stallings in Guanajuato\, Mexico. \nA gathering to experience how the words we speak and hear\, and the words we write and read take us deeper. \nTo learn more\, or to register for this adventure\, contact Johnny. \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/writing-talking-the-art-of-living/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20191101T180000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20191101T190000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20191025T042508Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20191030T214436Z
UID:365-1572631200-1572634800@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Día de Muertos
DESCRIPTION:Kim Stafford and Efraim Diaz-Horna will read poems in English & Spanish\, along with music\, food and Aztec dancing.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/dia-de-los-muertos/
LOCATION:Portland Mercado\, 7238 SE Foster\, Portland\, Oregon
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/IMG_1013.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20191008T190000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20191008T190000
DTSTAMP:20260426T105028
CREATED:20190930T223317Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20191003T065511Z
UID:217-1570561200-1570561200@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Song of Myself
DESCRIPTION:For the 200th anniversary of Walt Whitman’s birth\, Johnny Stallings will perform Song of Myself at Smith Hall\, Lewis & Clark College. The performance will be followed by a dialogue with Kim Stafford\, Rachel Cole & Johnny.
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/song-of-myself/
LOCATION:Smith Hall\, Lewis & Clark College
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://openroadpdx.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/IMG_0031-2-2.jpg
END:VEVENT
END:VCALENDAR