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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  2/15/21
DESCRIPTION:photo by Kim Stafford \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nI find it interesting how my mind works. \n—Michel Deforge \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2020 \n  \nWelcome to our sixth meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. The tag on my Yogi Tea bag says: “Compassion will make you beautiful.” (JS) \n* \n  \nHey guys\, I hope you enjoy this M & M submission. \nYou are all great & I hope you’re well. \nI’m looking forward to reading your submissions. \n  \n#95  What Is Your True Face? \n  \nAn answer from the face of ages. \n  \nWhat was my face you’ve queried\, and although I know what it is\, I can’t say it ever was. \nChange…  As far as I can tell my face has never changed. \nOnly the great multitude of masks I don in a moment’s notice can be defined as change\, and only then in a second’s split. \nUnderneath my face remains the same\, frozen\, pursed in the seeker’s scowl as it journeys through the ages. \nWhat was my face? \nMy face always is\, and in always being never was\, for the pulse of life is too strong to resist\, & the change of masks a familiar constant. \nRemember\, how could I forget? \nI still remember them all\, whether gilded\, plain\, or in between\, I still remember. \nMaybe it’s time for a change… \n  \n—Joshua Tyler Barnes \n* \n  \nI’m 25 wisdoms into Your True Home\, and so far what has occupied my thinking most is the apparent (to my novice understanding) conflict for an artist (specifically writers) trying to practice mindfulness and meditation. My struggle with meditation is that I start to have good ideas! Then\, I don’t want to forget them\, so I either A) begin ruining the meditation by trying not to forget the good idea\, or B) stop meditating so I can write down the good idea before I forget it. Also\, as a writer\, I am always applying words & labels & categories to everything I see\, thereby denying the essential emptiness of everything\, which my heart & mind both know to be true. But there is an everpresent pull\, a wish\, to exist without the endless desire to write about\, catalog\, chronicle the act of existence. This isn’t a unique torment. It’s actually something a lot of writers write about\, especially poets: “I throw my quill into the sea\, and burn my parchments\,” etc. There’s an excellent little monograph by Ben Lerner called “The Hatred of Poetry” that I recommend you read. In it\, he talks about this strange inclination\, as evidenced in the renunciations of writing by legends such as Rimbaud & Oppen. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nNot Thinking While Writing \n  \nBefore I write in the early morning\, I sit in the dark for a time\, breathing\, resisting thought but welcoming wondering\, sensation\, and the simple ache of being that is more primordial than regret or fear\, the pleasure of some hunger\, some cold. I’m in the shed\, after all\, in my chair with the strips of rug on the runners because it once lived in the fire station\, where the card players did not want to disturb the sleepers. \n  \nWhen I write\, do I want to disturb the sleepers? No\, I want to sidle into their dreams and tell them how beautiful they are\, give them wishes\, provide them with stories of simple triumph that hurts no one\, so when they wake\, life will be a little easier. So we all may be more curious than afraid. \n  \nIn 1913\, the Russian futurist poet Aleksei Kruchenykh created the word zaum\, which means ‘beyond or behind the mind.’ He sought an experimental poetic language characterized by indeterminacy: ‘beyonsense.’ \n  \nThe geese are shouting as they fly north \nso they will not be encumbered by all those \nextra syllables\, can concentrate on the magnetic \ntug toward the far beyond. \n  \nThe river leaves its shouting in the mountains  \nso in the valley it can depend on wink and whisper  \nto convey its learning\, its salmon home scent \nfor anyone alert enough to notice. \n  \nShall I throw my pen into the sea? Shall I take  \na vow of silence in order to be worthy of this  \nexistence? How many trees did my poems have to  \nkill\, anyway\, to gather these pages? Just enough. \n  \nI plant seeds of silence\, syllable by syllable. \nMy greatest gift for you is the space between words \nwhere my code tells the secrets of our oldest kinship\, \nand all my love in the silence after the last breath. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nKim also sent this poem by Chuang Tzu\, along with a writing prompt: \n  \nThe Woodcarver \n  \nKhing\, the master carver\, made a bell stand \nOf precious wood. When it was finished\, \nAll who saw it were astounded. They said it must be \nThe work of spirits. \nThe Prince of Lu said to the master carver: \nWhat is your secret? \n  \nKhing replied: I am only a workman: \nI have no secret. There is only this: \nWhen I began to think about  \nthe work you commanded \nI guarded my spirit\, did not expend it \nOn trifles\, that were not to the point. \nI fasted in order to set \nMy heart at rest. \nAfter three days fasting\, \nI had forgotten gain and success. \nAfter five days \nI had forgotten praise or criticism. \nAfter seven days I had forgotten my body \nWith all its limbs. \n  \nBy this time all thought of your Highness \nAnd of the court had faded away. \nAll that might distract me from the work \nHad vanished. \nI was collected in the single thought \nOf the bell stand. \n  \nThen I went to the forest \nTo see the trees in their own natural state. \nWhen the right tree appeared before my eyes\, \nThe bell stand also appeared in it\, clearly\,  \nbeyond doubt. \nAll I had to do was to put forth my hand \nand begin. \n  \nIf I had not met this particular tree \nThere would have been  \nNo bell stand at all. \n  \nWhat happened? \nMy own collected thought \nEncountered the hidden potential in the wood; \nFrom this live encounter came the work \nWhich you ascribe to the spirits. \n  \n—Chuang Tzu (translated by Thomas Merton) \n  \nChuang Tzu\, or Zhuang Zhou\, or Zhaungzi…was an influential Chinese philosopher who lived around the 4th century B.C.\, during the Warring States period\, a time corresponding to the summit of Chinese philosophy\, the Hundred Schools of Thought. He is credited with writing…one of the foundational texts of Taoism… He is described as a minor official from the town of Meng\, in the state of Song. (Wikipedia) \n  \nWriting prompt: Tell the story  of something you did purely for beauty\, for essence\, in response to a call that reached your heart… \n* \n  \n(Some excerpts from Michel’s meditation journal:) \n  \nJanuary 24\, 2021 \n  \n#69 Suddenly You Are Free \n  \nIt may happen like that—suddenly. Two days ago\, I was uprooted and moved from my place of comfort and peace (complacency?)\, to a new unit. I tested positive for COVID-19 on 1/14. The DOC response was to take all positives and cohort us in one unit. There was little communication and much chaos and anxiety for all affected staff. Many of my fellow prisoners are also stressed out beyond their limits\, or at the very fringe of their coping. I too was initially anxious. Because I was the only one leaving my unit and I didn’t know where I was moving or why. As soon as I learned it was not a move to the DSU/“Med” iso wing and that the goal was a conversion of a regular incentive unit into a COVID isloation/quarantine unit\, I was able to release my tensions. I hate moving!…. \n  \nYet\, somehow\, amidst all the chaos\, my stress settled quickly and I stumbled across peace\, acceptance and understanding—suddenly. I’m no great success with mindfulness and meditation. But\, sometimes it works! \n  \nIn some ways\, I see the truth of Thây’s thought in the experience\, and in some ways I wonder if he is speaking of a more deliberate and permanent result of all the work—suddenly finding freedom after looking for so many years. I do think that for something appearing suddenly\, it can also disappear just as suddenly. If I relax into the appearance and don’t grasp it tightly\, then\, maybe\, I won’t get hurt so much when it goes away just as suddenly. \n  \nJanuary 25\, 2021 \n  \n#70   Miraculous Smile \n  \nWriting here\, I am also looking at my first lines from January 1. So much has happened since then. Yet\, it is still true. Life is really “perfect” just the way it happens—whether I “like” it or not is irrelevant. Today’s writing reminds me of how easy it can be to feel better. As Thây puts it\, knowing (how) to breathe\, we can find our peace and our smile. (I wonder if I really know how to breathe.) I have had times when finding my smile has helped someone else relax a little. I have read before that faking a genuine smile will cause a shift of hormones and thoughts\, leading to having a genuine smile—I think it works. Whatever the case\, I can stop…breathe…smile at myself (or what/whom ever)…and carry on with my day. It may or may not be a grand “miracle.” It will be a smile and a moment of breathing mindfully. It will be a break\, no matter how brief\, from whatever else is competing for my life’s energy. And\, it is a moment I can control in a world of chaos. \n  \n9:00 pm Update: \n  \nHaving been awoken for mail delivery…(normally\, this would be grounds for great upset by any prisoner)\, I came to realize this poor fella (PM-swing CO) running this unit is having to keep up with a “COVID-POSITIVE” unit—with showers\, phone calls\, access to ice and water and whatever other services he must provide—like mail\, meals\, call-outs—alone… It is hard to not have compassion for anyone subjected to such work-conditions\, (or\, it’s relatively “easy\,” especially since he has been positive and generally conciliatory in the performance of his duties). I find it interesting how my mind works. A staff person whom I don’t know\, and with whom I haven’t had much contact\, comes in\, working alone\, with a positive attitude\, doing all he (or she) can to keep abreast of the daily duties\, and is doing so in a manner which does not put any of that burden upon us prisoners—is one to applaud. It is easy to feel compassion\, almost automatically\, for this person. Random thoughts at 10 pm. \n  \nJanuary 27\, 2021 \n  \n#71  Habit Energy \n  \n….I see this same pattern in my life—OLD HABIT energy holding me back or weighing me down. When I can\, I let it go. Sometimes I need to go through a challenging learning process to do this. In the end I grow. Thây doesn’t teach a technique for letting go\, but a gentle awakening to an awareness of exploration into the habit energy I do have—be it of my own creation\, or inherited. Having come to an awareness\, I then have a choice about what I do with that energy—keep\, change\, or Let Go. I have power. \n  \nJanuary 28\, 2021 \n  \n#72  You Are Safe Now \n  \nThis is not a phrase I hear here in prison often. Yet\, it’s timely. I just had a cellie on a previous unit—(they’re bouncing the COVID POSITIVES – PRE/POST CLEARANCE all over)—who was told he was to move to an unknown cell with high probability of mortal danger. Through timely machinations by kind staff he was allowed to stay put—he’s safe. That same night I got word of my immanent reassignment. I am back “home” on Unit 13. I too am safe now. I wonder how often we fail to recognize this truth in our day-to-day ordinary lives. If I never hear this\, or tell myself this\, will I be able to recognize when a crisis is over and I am again safe? My guess is: no. I wonder how many of life’s challenges became traumas simply because I didn’t know I was now “safe.” And\, maybe I never knew “safe” as part of my reality growing up\, but\, I can learn that now and maybe even offer this bit of help to another in saying\, “You’re safe now.” (Mantra exercise\, with breath.) \n  \nJanuary 29\, 2021 \n  \n#73  The Anchor \n  \nOnce again I am brought back and reminded that my breath is my connection to life. “Well\, sure\, silly! Of course it is. Everyone has to breathe to stay alive.” It is true. To live is to breathe. If I stop breathing\, I stop living. It’s an unavoidable technicality. I am\, however\, looking through Thây’s lens. When I am disconnected from my breath and breathing\, life just sort of happens without my conscious involvement—which is most often the case for me. I can’t say that anything mystical or magical happens if and when I’m alert to my breathing—connected. But\, when stressed\, if I focus on my breath and pray\, (contemplate the Infinite\, if you will)\, then I am calmed\, eventually\, and able to be more present and rational\, or in control of much of my actions and words. \n  \nMy breath becomes my “still point” (anchor)\, from which I can move out into the world around me\, regardless of events (or chaos) within it. \n  \nJanuary 30\, 2021 \n  \n#74  Caught in the Idea of a Self \n  \nThis idea of no-self (integrating self and non-self) has been a focus of mine\, off and on. I don’t know where it will lead me\, or how far I am along a path to understanding or embracing such an idea. So far\, I have learned (?) that we are all inter-related and not separate from any thing or anyone—even if our experience and sense of self-identity suggest otherwise…. \n  \nWhat I do know matters is learning to connect fully to this “life.” I can only do this through breath\, and intent. We’ve been calling this “mindfulness.” I think (it’s my guess\, mind you) that the Buddha (and all his progeny)\, Jesus and others\, are fundamentally striving to explain this very simple idea—living a complete\, whole life\, connected to reality as it is\, not as ego manufactures it to be through stories to convince the self of it being a hero of its story. I’m probably off base on this… But\, I’ll keep breathing to find out. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \n#46  Deep Listening and Loving Speech \n  \nDeep listening and loving speech are wonderful instruments to help us arrive at the kind of understanding we all need as a basis for appropriate action. You listen deeply for only one purpose—to allow the other person to empty his or her heart. This is already an act of relieving suffering. To stop any suffering\, no matter how small\, is a great action of peace. The path to end suffering depends on your understanding and your capacity to act without causing harm or further suffering. This is acting with compassion\, your best protection. \n  \nI wanted to write out TNH’s piece on this\, because my thoughts follow his thought\, but his are integral to mine. I keep trying to articulate what I mean when I say that relationships/understanding/connection are what give life meaning to me. But without going deeper\, those words don’t mean much. Or else they mean too much! \n  \nThich Nhat Hanh opens it up for me\, with Deep Listening and Loving Speech. Before relationship\, understanding and connection can happen\, I must listen deeply\, intently\, slowly\, and respond by speaking with love. My life is at its fullest\, its richest\, when I am listening so deeply to someone that they feel loved enough to open their heart. Listening to someone who is normally unheard\, derided\, discounted\, debased—a prison inmate; an unwed\, pregnant mom; a vet with PTSD; an angry teenager; a woman living on the edge in Meridian\, Mississippi; an Hispanic worker trying to learn English…all those who are suffering in whichever myriad ways one suffers. \n  \nA corollary to deep listening and loving speech is—time. Deep listening and deep response that lead to understanding\, relationship and connection requires years to achieve. I have always said I give everything ten years—ten years for my stepchildren to love me\, my wisteria to bloom\, my body to shed 5 pounds. I am patient. After ten years\, I re-evaluate and might give it (whatever “it” is) another ten years. In relationships time is important. Trust doesn’t happen immediately. One who is suffering has built up sturdy walls of protection\, and only time\, deep listening and loving speech can build trust and break down walls. And when those walls come down\, oh man! the richness that pours forth is a gift—the gift of life\, and relief from suffering\, the gift of peace and joy. All those things for both the person suffering and for me. \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nI once lived in a small cabin and wrote small poems. Here are some of them: \n  \na bowl of oatmeal \nand a cup of coffee \ndid you think heaven was up in the sky somewhere? \n  \nlet go of thought \nand see what happens \n  \nall these people walking around  \nimagining that the ideas in their heads \nmake them different from each other \n  \nsitting here \nwith a cup of green tea \nI forget what it was \nthat I was so worried about \n  \ndo you imagine \nthere is some other day? \n  \nthe things we think we know \nare the stones of the prison \nin which we live \n  \nsay “I am” \nand leave it at that \n  \nwhen you see how simple it is to be happy \nyou’ll kick yourself \nfor spending so much time being miserable \n  \nwhat Reason has rent asunder \nthe Heart will make whole \n  \neverything I touch \ntouches me \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nMeditation\, it seems to me\, is like detox for the mind.  Similar to the way our bodies need detoxing when we’ve indulged in too much for too long\, our minds can become saturated with noise to the point where an intervention is required.  The remedy is the same for both the body and the mind: let go of the indulgence.  Quit drinking.  Quit thinking.  Keep still.   \n  \nThe uncluttered awareness of the meditative mind reconnects us with the elemental beauty of life.  Clarity returns.  The painful sense of isolation diminishes.   How can we not feel gratitude for such an exquisite and accessible way to restore ourselves? \n  \n—Bill Faricy \n* \n  \n#45  The Bridge \n  \nBreath is the bridge to life; in sleep or awake\, we cross the bridge always. We also share and build bridges with others by breathing in their love\, dreams\, needs and respect. Breaths & Bridges are more than air. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-2-15-21/
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DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210218
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210304
DTSTAMP:20260502T034154
CREATED:20210218T180103Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123033Z
UID:1794-1613606400-1614815999@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  2/18/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nFebruary 18\, 2021 \n  \nFebruary 14th was Valentine’s Day. Our Bibliophiles Unanimous Zoom gathering celebrated by reading love poems. Here are some of the poems we shared and some we didn’t. But first\, some wisdom from the tag on my Yogi Tea bag\, and then a story of young love: \n  \nYou don’t need love\, you are love. \n  \n—anonymous sage employed by the Yogi Tea Company \n* \n  \nIn fifth grade I developed this major crush on a sixth-grader named Wendy. She always had the prettiest face and the nicest smile; everybody thought so. So I started kissing rocks and throwing them at her. \n  \n—John\, Connecticut\, b. 1959\, from Up To No Good: the rascally things boys do\, edited by Kitty Harmon \n* \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind. \n  \n  \n—William Blake  (1757-1827) \n* \n  \nTHESEUS \n  \nLovers and madmen have such seething brains\, \nSuch shaping fantasies\, that apprehend \nMore than cool reason ever comprehends. \nThe lunatic\, the lover\, and the poet \nAre of imagination all compact. \nOne sees more devils than vast hell can hold: \nThat is the madman. The lover\, all as frantic\, \nSees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt. \nThe poet’s eye\, in a fine frenzy rolling\, \nDoth glance from heaven to earth\, from earth to heaven. \nAnd as imagination bodies forth \nThe forms of things unknown\, the poet’s pen \nTurns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing \nA local habitation and a name. \nSuch tricks hath strong imagination\, \nThat if it would but apprehend some joy\, \nIt comprehends some bringer of that joy. \nOr in the night\, imagining some fear\, \nHow easy is a bush supposed a bear? \n  \n—William Shakespeare (1564-1616)\, from A Midsummer Night’s Dream\, Act V\, scene i. \n* \n  \ni carry your heart with me(i carry it in \nmy heart)i am never without it(anywhere \ni go you go\,my dear;and whatever is done \nby only me is your doing\,my darling) \n                                                      i fear \nno fate(for you are my fate\,my sweet)i want \nno world(for beautiful you are my world\,my true) \nand it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant \nand whatever a sun will always sing is you \n  \nhere is the deepest secret nobody knows \n(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud \nand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows \nhigher than soul can hope or mind can hide) \nand this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart \n  \ni carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) \n  \n—e. e. cummings (1894-1962) \n* \n  \nI Loved You Before I Was Born \n  \nI loved you before I was born. \nIt doesn’t make sense\, I know. I saw your eyes before I had eyes to see. \nAnd I’ve lived longing  \nfor your ever look ever since. \nThat longing entered time as this body. And the longing grew as this body waxed. \nAnd the longing grows as the body wanes. \nThe longing will outlive this body. I loved you before I was born. \nIt doesn’t make sense\, I know. Long before eternity\, I caught a glimpse \nof your neck and shoulders\, your ankles and toes. \nAnd I’ve been lonely for you from that instant. \nThat loneliness appeared on earth as this body.  \nAnd my share of time has been nothing  \nbut your name outrunning my ever saying it clearly.  \nYour face fleeing my ever \nkissing it firmly once on the mouth. In longing\, I am most myself\, rapt\, \nmy lamp mortal\, my light  \nhidden and singing.  I give you my blank heart. \nPlease write on it \nwhat you wish.   \n  \n—Li-Young Lee – 1957-  \n* \n  \nThe Song of Wandering Aengus \n  \nI went out to the hazel wood\, \nBecause a fire was in my head\, \nAnd cut and peeled a hazel wand\, \nAnd hooked a berry to a thread; \nAnd when white moths were on the wing\, \nAnd moth-like stars were flickering out\, \nI dropped the berry in a stream \nAnd caught a little silver trout. \n  \nWhen I had laid it on the floor \nI went to blow the fire a-flame\, \nBut something rustled on the floor\, \nAnd someone called me by my name: \nIt had become a glimmering girl \nWith apple blossom in her hair \nWho called me by my name and ran \nAnd faded through the brightening air. \n  \nThough I am old with wandering \nThrough hollow lands and hilly lands\, \nI will find out where she has gone\, \nAnd kiss her lips and take her hands; \nAnd walk among long dappled grass\, \nAnd pluck till time and times are done\, \nThe silver apples of the moon\, \nThe golden apples of the sun. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats  (1865-1939) \n* \n  \nThis Is Just To Say \n  \nI have eaten \nthe plums \nthat were in \nthe ice box \n  \nand which \nyou were probably \nsaving \nfor breakfast \n  \nForgive me \nthey were delicious \nso sweet \nand so cold \n  \n–William Carlos Williams  (1883-1963) \n* \n  \nWhat We’re Doing Here  \n  \nThis is why we are here— \nnot merely to survive \nbut to fall in love \nwith the white-breasted hawk \nand the rainbow fish\, \nwith the lonely sidewalk \nand the shadows of ourselves\, \nfall in love with the hands \nof the woman wearing yellow \nand the girl who loves chocolate \nand the boy who loves cars \nand the man who makes us want to be \na better version of ourself. \n  \nWe are here to fall into unmanageable love— \nto love beyond reason\, beyond \nfact\, beyond certainty. We are here \nto lose all our ideas about love \nand know it as the next choice \nwe make\, the next word \nwe say\, the next invitation \nwe offer ourselves. \n  \nWe are here to love \nthe world and each other \nthe way whales love water\, \nthe way blue loves a peacock\, \nthe way night blooming jasmine \nloves night. \n  \n–Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer \n* \n  \nI Knew a Woman \n  \nI knew a woman\, lovely in her bones\, \nWhen small birds sighed\, she would sigh back at them;    \nAh\, when she moved\, she moved more ways than one:    \nThe shapes a bright container can contain! \nOf her choice virtues only gods should speak\, \nOr English poets who grew up on Greek \n(I’d have them sing in chorus\, cheek to cheek). \n  \nHow well her wishes went! She stroked my chin\,    \nShe taught me Turn\, and Counter-turn\, and Stand;    \nShe taught me Touch\, that undulant white skin;    \nI nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;    \nShe was the sickle; I\, poor I\, the rake\, \nComing behind her for her pretty sake \n(But what prodigious mowing we did make). \n  \nLove likes a gander\, and adores a goose: \nHer full lips pursed\, the errant note to seize; \nShe played it quick\, she played it light and loose;    \nMy eyes\, they dazzled at her flowing knees;    \nHer several parts could keep a pure repose\,    \nOr one hip quiver with a mobile nose \n(She moved in circles\, and those circles moved). \n  \nLet seed be grass\, and grass turn into hay:    \nI’m martyr to a motion not my own; \nWhat’s freedom for? To know eternity. \nI swear she cast a shadow white as stone.    \nBut who would count eternity in days? \nThese old bones live to learn her wanton ways:    \n(I measure time by how a body sways). \n  \n–Theodore Roethke  (1908-1963) \n * \nOn Valentine’s Day\, Jude Russell played Offenbach’s Barcarolle for us\, sung by Anna Netrebko & Elīna Garanča\, from Tales of Hoffmann. Here’s a link: \n  \nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0u0M4CMq7uI \n* \n  \nVII \n  \nI don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt\, topaz\, \nor an arrow of carnations that propagates fire: \nI love you as certain dark things are loved\, \nsecretly\, between the shadow and the soul. \n  \nI love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom\, \nbut carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; \nthanks to your love\, a certain dense fragrance\, \nrisen from the earth\, lives darkly in my body. \n  \nI love you without knowing how\, or when\, or from where; \nI love you simply\, without problems or pride: \nI love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving \n  \nbut this\, where there is no I or you— \nso close that your hand on my chest is my hand\, \nso close that when I fall asleep\, it is your eyes that close. \n  \n—Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)\, from One Hundred Love Sonnets \n* \n  \nRe-Statement of Romance \n  \nThe night knows nothing of the chants of night. \nIt is what it is as I am what I am: \nAnd in perceiving this I best perceive myself \n  \nAnd you. Only we two may interchange \nEach in the other what each has to give. \nOnly we two are one\, not you and night\, \n  \nNor night and I\, but you and I\, alone\, \nSo much alone\, so deeply by ourselves\, \nSo far beyond the casual solitudes\, \n  \nThat night is only the background of our selves\, \nSupremely true each to its separate self\, \nIn the pale light that each upon the other \nthrows. \n  \n–Wallace Stevens  (1879-1955) \n* \n  \nWe Two\, How Long We Were Fool’d \n  \nWe two\, how long we were fool’d\, \nNow transmuted\, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes\, \nWe are Nature\, long have we been absent\, but now we return\, \nWe become plants\, trunks\, foliage\, roots\, bark\, \nWe are bedded in the ground\, we are rocks\, \nWe are oaks\, we grow in the openings side by side\, \nWe browse\, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any\, \nWe are two fishes swimming in the sea together\, \nWe are what locust blossoms are\, we drop scent around lanes mornings and evenings\, \nWe are also the coarse smut of beasts\, vegetables\, minerals\, \nWe are two predatory hawks\, we soar above and look down\, \nWe are two resplendent suns\, we it is who balance ourselves orbic and stellar\, we are as two comets\, \nWe prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods\, we spring on prey\, \nWe are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead\, \nWe are seas mingling\, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling over each other and interwetting each other\, \nWe are what the atmosphere is\, transparent\, receptive\, pervious\, impervious\, \nWe are snow\, rain\, cold\, darkness\, we are each product and influence of the globe\, \nWe have circled and circled till we have arrived home again\, we two\, \nWe have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy. \n  \n—Walt Whitman  (1819-1892) \n* \n  \nWhen they first meet\, these two amazing young lovers spontaneously compose a sonnet–a sure sign that they are well-matched: \n  \nROMEO \nIf I profane with my unworthiest hand \nThis holy shrine\, the gentle sin is this: \nMy lips\, two blushing pilgrims\, ready stand \nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. \nJULIET \nGood pilgrim\, you do wrong your hand too much\, \nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this; \nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch\, \nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. \nROMEO \nHave not saints lips\, and holy palmers too? \nJULIET \nAy\, pilgrim\, lips that they must use in prayer. \nROMEO \nO then\, dear saint\, let lips do what hands do– \nThey pray; grant thou\, lest faith turn to despair. \nJULIET \nSaints do not move\, though grant for prayers’ sake. \nROMEO \nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take. \n[He kisses her.] \nThus from my lips\, by thine\, my sin is purged. \nJULIET \nThen have my lips the sin that they have took. \nROMEO \nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! \nGive me my sin again. \n[She kisses him.] \nJULIET \n                                            You kiss by th’ book. \n  \nAnd…Juliet’s love is absolute: \n  \nJULIET \nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea\, \nMy love as deep. The more I give to thee\, \nThe more I have for both are infinite. \n  \n–William Shakespeare (1564-1616)\, from Romeo and Juliet \n  \nWell\, that’s it for now. \n  \nMay we live in love. \nJohnny \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding/
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210304
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210318
DTSTAMP:20260502T034154
CREATED:20210304T192518Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20250718T123217Z
UID:1818-1614816000-1616025599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/4/21
DESCRIPTION:  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \n  \nMarch Forth! (2021) \n  \nThe world is so full of a number of things. \nI’m sure we should all be as happy as kings. \n  \n—“Happy Thought\,” by Robert Louis Stevenson\, from A Child’s Garden of Verses \n  \n  \nAmong the great works of imaginative literature\, along with The Odyssey of Homer\, Dante’s Divina Commedia\, Cervantes’ Don Quixote\, Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov\, we must place Crockett Johnson’s Harold and the Purple Crayon. As a philosophical vision\, it stands beside The Bhagavad Gita\, Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave\,” and Wittgenstein’s Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung. When we think of works of visual art to which we might compare it\, several come to mind: “The Adoration of of the Mystic Lamb” by Hubert and Jan van Eyck (1432)\, “The Garden of Earthly Delights” by Hieronymus Bosch (1510)\, Michelangelo’s fresco on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel (1512)\, “The Isenheim Altarpiece” by Nikolaus of Haguenau and Matthias Grünewald (1516)\, and perhaps Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica” (1937). \n  \nIn Crockett Johnson’s masterpiece\, young Harold\, dressed in those kind of flannel pajamas into which you put your feet (“onesies”)\, sets out like Parsifal on an epic journey\, armed only with a purple crayon. As he goes\, he creates the world in which he lives. He makes a moon\, so he will have moonlight to light his way. He terrifies himself with a monster from his own id. He falls into a sea of his own making\, but saves himself from drowning by drawing a boat with his purple crayon and climbing into it. I’ll say no more of what befalls our youthful protagonist on his quest. Suffice it to say that\, as in the archetypal Hero’s Journey\, he returns home with a Treasure\, and bestows it upon Humanity. The Treasure is of course the slender tome: Harold and the Purple Crayon. \n  \nAnother Bold Young Explorer is Alice. We empathize with the indomitable Alice\, who has adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass\, because we once shared her plight—the plight of the child trapped in a world of Bossy Adults\, who are irrational and/or completely insane. Here’s an example of what she has to endure: \n  \n  \n \n  \nCHAPTER VII. \nA Mad Tea-Party \n  \n     There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house\, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them\, fast asleep\, and the other two were using it as a cushion\, resting their elbows on it\, and talking over its head. “Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse\,” thought Alice; “only\, as it’s asleep\, I suppose it doesn’t mind.” \n     The table was a large one\, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: “No room! No room!” they cried out when they saw Alice coming. “There’s plenty of room!” said Alice indignantly\, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. \n     “Have some wine\,” the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. \n     Alice looked all round the table\, but there was nothing on it but tea. “I don’t see any wine\,” she remarked. \n     “There isn’t any\,” said the March Hare. \n     “Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it\,” said Alice angrily. \n     “It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited\,” said the March Hare. \n     “I didn’t know it was your table\,” said Alice; “it’s laid for a great many more than three.” \n     “Your hair wants cutting\,” said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity\, and this was his first speech. \n     “You should learn not to make personal remarks\,” Alice said with some severity; “it’s very rude.” \n     The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said was\, “Why is a raven like a writing-desk?” \n     “Come\, we shall have some fun now!” thought Alice. “I’m glad they’ve begun asking riddles.—I believe I can guess that\,” she added aloud. \n     “Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?” said the March Hare. \n     “Exactly so\,” said Alice. \n     “Then you should say what you mean\,” the March Hare went on. \n     “I do\,” Alice hastily replied; “at least—at least I mean what I say—that’s the same thing\, you know.” \n     “Not the same thing a bit!” said the Hatter. “You might just as well say that ‘I see what I eat’ is the same thing as ‘I eat what I see’!” \n     “You might just as well say\,” added the March Hare\, “that ‘I like what I get’ is the same thing as ‘I get what I like’!” \n     “You might just as well say\,” added the Dormouse\, who seemed to be talking in his sleep\, “that ‘I breathe when I sleep’ is the same thing as ‘I sleep when I breathe’!” \n     “It is the same thing with you\,” said the Hatter\, and here the conversation dropped\, and the party sat silent for a minute\, while Alice thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks\, which wasn’t much. \n     The Hatter was the first to break the silence. “What day of the month is it?” he said\, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket\, and was looking at it uneasily\, shaking it every now and then\, and holding it to his ear. \n     Alice considered a little\, and then said “The fourth.” \n     “Two days wrong!” sighed the Hatter. “I told you butter wouldn’t suit the works!” he added looking angrily at the March Hare. \n     “It was the best butter\,” the March Hare meekly replied. \n     “Yes\, but some crumbs must have got in as well\,” the Hatter grumbled: “you shouldn’t have put it in with the bread-knife.” \n     The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea\, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark\, “It was the best butter\, you know.” \n     Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. “What a funny watch!” she remarked. “It tells the day of the month\, and doesn’t tell what o’clock it is!” \n     “Why should it?” muttered the Hatter. “Does your watch tell you what year it is?” \n     “Of course not\,” Alice replied very readily: “but that’s because it stays the same year for such a long time together.” \n     “Which is just the case with mine\,” said the Hatter. \n     Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter’s remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it\, and yet it was certainly English. “I don’t quite understand you\,” she said\, as politely as she could. \n     “The Dormouse is asleep again\,” said the Hatter\, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose. \n     The Dormouse shook its head impatiently\, and said\, without opening its eyes\, “Of course\, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.” \n     “Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said\, turning to Alice again. \n     “No\, I give it up\,” Alice replied: “what’s the answer?” \n     “I haven’t the slightest idea\,” said the Hatter. \n     “Nor I\,” said the March Hare. \n     Alice sighed wearily. “I think you might do something better with the time\,” she said\, “than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.” \n     “If you knew Time as well as I do\,” said the Hatter\, “you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. It’s him.” \n     “I don’t know what you mean\,” said Alice. \n     “Of course you don’t!” the Hatter said\, tossing his head contemptuously. “I dare say you never even spoke to Time!” \n     “Perhaps not\,” Alice cautiously replied: “but I know I have to beat time when I learn music.” \n     “Ah! that accounts for it\,” said the Hatter. “He won’t stand beating. Now\, if you only kept on good terms with him\, he’d do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance\, suppose it were nine o’clock in the morning\, just time to begin lessons: you’d only have to whisper a hint to Time\, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one\, time for dinner!” \n     (“I only wish it was\,” the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) \n     “That would be grand\, certainly\,” said Alice thoughtfully: “but then—I shouldn’t be hungry for it\, you know.” \n     “Not at first\, perhaps\,” said the Hatter: “but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.” \n     “Is that the way you manage?” Alice asked. \n     The Hatter shook his head mournfully. “Not I!” he replied. “We quarrelled last March—just before he went mad\, you know—” (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare\,) “—it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts\, and I had to sing \n  \n     ‘Twinkle\, twinkle\, little bat! \n     How I wonder what you’re at!’ \n  \nYou know the song\, perhaps?” \n     “I’ve heard something like it\,” said Alice. \n     “It goes on\, you know\,” the Hatter continued\, “in this way:— \n  \n     ‘Up above the world you fly\, \n     Like a tea-tray in the sky. \n                    Twinkle\, twinkle—’” \n  \n     Here the Dormouse shook itself\, and began singing in its sleep “Twinkle\, twinkle\, twinkle\, twinkle—” and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. \n     “Well\, I’d hardly finished the first verse\,” said the Hatter\, “when the Queen jumped up and bawled out\, ‘He’s murdering the time! Off with his head!’” \n     “How dreadfully savage!” exclaimed Alice. \n     “And ever since that\,” the Hatter went on in a mournful tone\, “he won’t do a thing I ask! It’s always six o’clock now.” \n     A bright idea came into Alice’s head. “Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?” she asked. \n     “Yes\, that’s it\,” said the Hatter with a sigh: “it’s always tea-time\, and we’ve no time to wash the things between whiles.” \n     “Then you keep moving round\, I suppose?” said Alice. \n     “Exactly so\,” said the Hatter: “as the things get used up.” \n     “But what happens when you come to the beginning again?” Alice ventured to ask. \n     “Suppose we change the subject\,” the March Hare interrupted\, yawning. “I’m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.” \n     “I’m afraid I don’t know one\,” said Alice\, rather alarmed at the proposal. \n     “Then the Dormouse shall!” they both cried. “Wake up\, Dormouse!” And they pinched it on both sides at once. \n     The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. “I wasn’t asleep\,” he said in a hoarse\, feeble voice: “I heard every word you fellows were saying.” \n     “Tell us a story!” said the March Hare. \n     “Yes\, please do!” pleaded Alice. \n     “And be quick about it\,” added the Hatter\, “or you’ll be asleep again before it’s done.” \n     “Once upon a time there were three little sisters\,” the Dormouse began in a great hurry; “and their names were Elsie\, Lacie\, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well—” \n     “What did they live on?” said Alice\, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. \n     “They lived on treacle\,” said the Dormouse\, after thinking a minute or two. \n     “They couldn’t have done that\, you know\,” Alice gently remarked; “they’d have been ill.” \n     “So they were\,” said the Dormouse; “very ill.” \n     Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like\, but it puzzled her too much\, so she went on: “But why did they live at the bottom of a well?” \n     “Take some more tea\,” the March Hare said to Alice\, very earnestly. \n     “I’ve had nothing yet\,” Alice replied in an offended tone\, “so I can’t take more.” \n     “You mean you can’t take less\,” said the Hatter: “it’s very easy to take more than nothing.” \n     “Nobody asked your opinion\,” said Alice. \n     “Who’s making personal remarks now?” the Hatter asked triumphantly. \n     Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter\, and then turned to the Dormouse\, and repeated her question. “Why did they live at the bottom of a well?” \n     The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it\, and then said\, “It was a treacle-well.” \n     “There’s no such thing!” Alice was beginning very angrily\, but the Hatter and the March Hare went “Sh! sh!” and the Dormouse sulkily remarked\, “If you can’t be civil\, you’d better finish the story for yourself.” \n     “No\, please go on!” Alice said very humbly; “I won’t interrupt again. I dare say there may be one.” \n     “One\, indeed!” said the Dormouse indignantly. However\, he consented to go on “And so these three little sisters—they were learning to draw\, you know—” \n     “What did they draw?” said Alice\, quite forgetting her promise. \n     “Treacle\,” said the Dormouse\, without considering at all this time. \n     “I want a clean cup\,” interrupted the Hatter: “let’s all move one place on.” \n     He moved on as he spoke\, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse’s place\, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before\, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. \n     Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again\, so she began very cautiously: “But I don’t understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?” \n     “You can draw water out of a water-well\,” said the Hatter; “so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well—eh\, stupid?” \n     “But they were in the well\,” Alice said to the Dormouse\, not choosing to notice this last remark. \n     “Of course they were\,” said the Dormouse; “—well in.” \n     This answer so confused poor Alice\, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. \n     “They were learning to draw\,” the Dormouse went on\, yawning and rubbing its eyes\, for it was getting very sleepy; “and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—” \n     “Why with an M?” said Alice. \n     “Why not?” said the March Hare. \n     Alice was silent. \n     The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time\, and was going off into a doze; but\, on being pinched by the Hatter\, it woke up again with a little shriek\, and went on: “—that begins with an M\, such as mouse-traps\, and the moon\, and memory\, and muchness—you know you say things are “much of a muchness”—did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?” \n     “Really\, now you ask me\,” said Alice\, very much confused\, “I don’t think—” \n     “Then you shouldn’t talk\,” said the Hatter. \n     This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust\, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly\, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going\, though she looked back once or twice\, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them\, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. \n     “At any rate I’ll never go there again!” said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. “It’s the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!” \n     Just as she said this\, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it. “That’s very curious!” she thought. “But everything’s curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.” And in she went. \n     Once more she found herself in the long hall\, and close to the little glass table. “Now\, I’ll manage better this time\,” she said to herself\, and began by taking the little golden key\, and unlocking the door that led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high: then she walked down the little passage: and then—she found herself at last in the beautiful garden\, among the bright flower-beds and the cool fountains. \n  \n  \nOh dear! I wanted to talk about some more books for children of all ages. Another day\, perhaps. Stay tuned. \n  \nMay all people be happy. \nMay we live in peace & love. \n  \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-4-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210314
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210328
DTSTAMP:20260502T034154
CREATED:20210304T200600Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210316T172028Z
UID:1833-1615680000-1616889599@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: Poems\, Songs & Stories About Work  3/14/21
DESCRIPTION:Greetings\, O Bibliophiles! \n  \nOn Sunday\, March 14th\, our topic was POEMS\, SONGS & STORIES ABOUT WORK. Jeffrey Sher\, Martha Ragland\, Dave Duncan and Todd Oleson joined the conversation. \n  \nWe talked about Antler’s poem “Factory\,” which we read together on February 28th\, and regaled each other with stories about jobs we’ve worked at. We talked about work that is fulfilling\, and work that isn’t. \n  \nTodd Oleson read “After Apple Picking” by Robert Frost. Johnny read “The Right to Grief” by Carl Sandburg. \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-poems-books-about-work-3-14-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210315
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210415
DTSTAMP:20260502T034154
CREATED:20210316T024709Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20211130T014147Z
UID:1849-1615766400-1618444799@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness  3/15/21
DESCRIPTION:picture by Andy Larkin \n  \n  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nMarch 15\, 2021 \n  \nA note on this picture: \n  \nA couple of years ago I began illustrating a South Indian book on meditation and mindfulness called “A Hundred Verses of Self-Instruction” by a 19th century yogi from South India named Narayana Guru. This picture shows Verse 16\, which reads as follows: \n  \nA very vast wasteland suddenly \nflooded by a river in spate – thus comes the sound \nthat fills the ears and opens the eyes of the one who is never distracted; \nsuch should be the experience of the seer par excellence. \n  \nEveryone who meditates probably hears about some far-off experience called “enlightenment” that’s had only after years of heroic meditation sitting in a cave. When you read this verse\, you might think that’s what’s being described\, but I don’t think the author intended that. In a certain sense\, there’s something in us that’s always focused\, never distracted. It was working when you first opened your eyes this morning and looked out on your world. It was a wordless awareness that heard every thought you’ve had today\, and it monitored your heartbeat and your respiration when you were deeply asleep. If you look for it\, you can’t see it\, and you can’t say anything about it\, other than that it Is. So the picture shows you\, the “seer par excellence\,” in the center\, with that wordless awareness functioning continually in all these ways. As that awareness is all-filling\, the author likened it to a river in full flood. \n  \nI hope you enjoy the picture! \n  \nWith best wishes to all \n—Andy Larkin \n* \n  \nWe are what we think. \nAll that we are arises with our thoughts. \nWith our thoughts we make the world. \n  \n—words of the Buddha\, from The Dhammapada\, version by Thomas Byrom \n* \n  \nWelcome to our seventh meditation and mindfulness dialogue! The numbers below refer to passages from the book Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh. (JS) \n* \n  \nA few months ago\, I squeezed a whitehead near the tip of my nose\, squeezing out a most satisfying tiny white tube of gook. It turned out that in my enthusiasm\, I must have squeezed out some of the material that actually constituted that part of my nose\, because the next morning there was a pit displayed there\, of inestimable depth. \nOver the ensuing months I have sometimes used cortisone cream or vitamin E to help along my body’s unceasing but ineffective efforts to rebuild that little piece of nasal real estate. Most of the time\, I have just watched\, in my bathroom mirror\, the ceaseless process of rebuilding\, destruction\, rebuilding\, etc… Had this happened sixty-five years ago\, when I was fifteen (and it probably did\, given all the squeezing I was doing in those days)\, it would have healed in a week.  \nThis increasing inability of my body to fight my and time’s ravishings is part of a gradual slowing down of my systems. I can feel and see\, in and on my body and brain\, the cascade of imperfections always coming and coming. \nThe falling away of functions is like being stroked; I am being prepared\, so gently really\, molecule by molecule\, to detach completely from this pulpy shell that is me and not-me. \nAll ways of going are good. I am very grateful to be able to participate\, so far\, in this way. \n  \n—Ken Margolis \n* \n  \n[Here are some excerpts from Michel’s meditation and mindfulness journal. I highly recommend the practice of keeping a journal to everyone. JS] \n  \nFebruary 1\, 2021 \n#75  Your True Nature \nThis idea could challenge some of us. For me\, the point I think Thây is trying to make is: not only is “heaven” or “nirvana” possible\, but\, like the ability to awaken (be a buddha)\, is already contained within all of us. If this existence is simply part of the journey\, then\, maybe\, I don’t have to attach to the identity of this self (or body driving that story). I can release those judgements—good/bad\, up/down\, like/dislike\, etc.—and simply be. I think this is where the challenge of living arises: letting go of attachment to preconceived (or inherited) beliefs or notions about life and what comes next. We can focus on the life we live now and be part of the now. The future\, not needing our control\, or guidance\, will attend to itself without our involvement (including whatever comes after “life.”) \nWe can and do (briefly) experience nirvana (“heaven on earth”). Sometimes\, I think\, it happens and we’re too busy with past/future concerns to notice. Other times\, we realize what we’ve found and\, in our excitement\, we begin grasping at that (old) moment\, trying to hold on to “perfection” forever. It’s fleeting\, this thing called “now.” If we learn to hold gently\, with open hands\, we might be able to relax into a moment\, become more familiar and comfortable in that space\, and eventually we may even bring some of it with us to share with others. \nWhatever it is\, or whatever it looks/feels like\, words will fail us to describe and share with others. We’ll know that they would benefit from what we found\, (our experience—but one of their own)\, yet each person must find his/her own way to nirvana/heaven in the now. The journey is where we find “the meaning\,” not the destination. I suspect this is why the Buddha had so much to say—not only do words fail us\, but others (each uniquely) hear a message differently\, based on their own life experience. My excitement\, over a moment in heaven on earth can pull me out of my “moment….” \nFor me\, it is like practicing zazen (just sitting) in the Zen dojo. I practice in a safe neutral space with the intent that the effect of learning to be present to the “now” will leach over into everyday life. I see heaven/nirvana interaction the same way. As I learn to be more present to “now\,” I am able to do so during ordinary (non-cushion practice) life. Likewise\, as I experience heaven\, I can just be with this. Eventually\, the experience will be transferable (translatable?) to everyday life too. May you find your nirvana soon. \n  \nFebruary 4\, 2021 \n#78  The Wounded Child \nThis is a toughie. I am aware of my wounded child within. I just don’t\, (or haven’t been aware of how to)\, understand “embracing” the child within. I have made some deliberate efforts to connect. So far\, I’ve not had much success even being aware of him. One day\, I’ll be able to create a sense of safety for him and be attentive to his needs—through practicing mindfulness. Until then\, I keep doing my best to care for this mind/body and practice mindful living often—on and off cushion—mostly “off cushion” currently. \nI don’t know about you\, but I want to connect with my child self—wounded or not. To reconnect\, reopen\, or revive the state of child-like awe and wonder—to embrace and protect that awareness. Being a “grown-up” doesn’t mean being “old.” Our world values strange\, alien ideals which we were compelled/forced to adopt/adhere our self identity. A result is we close off from parts of the world\, or shut down awareness to the beauty\, and then struggle for the rest of our adult life to return to that connection\, awareness\, “innocence” we once possessed. Some never find it again\, due to looking for outward objects for inward fulfillment. Our inner child\, wherever he or she is hiding\, is waiting to be heard\, seen\, loved\, held\, protected\, and known again. We only need to be quiet\, look and listen. \n  \nFebruary 14\, 2021 \n#82  Something to Believe In \nIt is a day dedicated to ideals of love—regardless of its origins or current capitalization. I am a little bit tender of heart. NEWS INSIDE from the Marshall Project\, (Issue 6\, December\, 2020)  \n(https://www.themarshallproject.org/2020/06/04/i-wonder-if-they-know-my-son-is-loved)\, \n  \n “I Wonder If They Know My Son Is Loved” by Ymilul Bates: This was a heart rending story of what one mother experienced as she visited her young son. Words fail to express other feelings for me\, beyond the sadness I experience thinking of what my own mother has faced to come visit me—and I wonder how she has “felt” about all of this—worsened by guilt that I dragged my parents into this place with me. But that’s love\, isn’t it? To follow your loved ones wherever they may go—emotionally\, if not physically—to set aside my comfort and accept a new paradigm for “normal\,” and go to a place (made to create fear and isolation) to bring and/or share comfort\, compassion and love to a person I care about. I wonder if I could do it\, to be strong enough to overcome discomfort and fear to share a restricted moment with an other\, for whom I feel love—could I? I want to hope so. I’ve only known this side of the exchange—receiving the gift of love and compassion\, the gifting of value estimation to remind me that I do have worth in this world. Whether it has been my mother and father\, uncle and aunt (in person)\, or the generous volunteers of Group Dialogue and Theatre for OHOM\, or religious volunteers and teachers—each has brought light\, color\, beauty\, love\, compassion inside\, and shown me that I am more than a number\, a statistic\, a criminal code violation followed by a sentence\, that I am still a human being\, that I still have worth and value\, that I am still lovable\, able to love\, and that I am worthy of it. The saddest\, darkest hour must be for those here for whom the call never comes for a visit\, a program\, a call-out to school or any other life-affirming event; because these walls give back only noise\, overwhelming light\, or absolute darkness\, (never warmth)\, and they never give back love\, compassion\, or humanity. So on this day of love\, SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN is  love. We each do our part to hold on to our spark\, but to fan the flame I found I must give it away to another—two sparks become a flame\, many sparks can become a fire to warm ourselves\, together. \n(Now\, I’ve paused to read…Thây.) \nThây spoke of mindfulness as the “something” to believe in\, which is present in everyday concrete actions\, such as sitting or drinking water. I offer this to add. Experiencing love. If I give of myself\, whatever the moment may be\, to the experience of love\, and I do it mindfully\, (focused\, fully present\, not distracted by past or future\, or worries clouding the now)\, then I can sink into the moment and really feel  this love. I will also be ready to return love\, fully committed and freely. \nI can’t think of a time\, since being incarcerated (August\, 2007) to the present\, or even prior to being locked away\, that the idea of love has not been my quest\, my holy grail. I didn’t always have the words\, or the capacity to express/receive (with full awareness) love as it was offered. But I was always pursuing it as a precious gem\, a treasure beyond compare\, buried beneath a mountain. I have experienced various moments over the years\, when awakened to the reality and beauty of love\, and now know it was not a fable\, or a lie\, or something just for those others more special than I. To this day I still struggle and search for my place in the sun\, and I Believe\, when it’s my time\, I’ll find the completeness held within. Until then\, I can BELIEVE IN this reality I have for now\, knowing I have love inside and outside these dark and musty walls. \n  \nFebruary 28\, 2021 \n#88  The Deepest Relief   (the day after turning 49!) \n“…the deepest kind of relief is the realization of nirvana” (or heaven on earth\, if you would prefer different terms.) The best part of today’s thought is this: Everything is “perfect” as it is; I have everything necessary to fully realize heaven on Earth for this self right now\, and all I need to do to access this is—breathe\, all the rest can take care of itself…. \nI find the allegory of farming—“cultivation” to be highly relevant. We must prepare soil for planting—tilling\, weeding\, fertilizing\, watering\, more tilling\, resting\, exposing to nature\, etc.—then we can “plant” seeds\, water and fertilize for a specific result. \nI think life can be much the same. Mindfulness can be both plowing/tilling of soil—turning up the deep and rich fertile ground—and it can also be the time allowing the ground to rest in nature…. We reap what we sow\, so they say—I think “they” are right….. \nWhen I neglect all of my practice\, I find the ground hard and dry; no matter how abundant the rains have been. But when I maintain even a small practice I find life is grander\, and I am more of the person I desire to be. I may not attract all the butterflies and pollinators to my “field\,” as I desire; at least the ones who do attend my field are appreciated and seen. \nI want to encourage each and everyone to discover and develop a time and space to focus  on and to “cultivate” a garden of life. I believe it will make all the difference to be deliberate\, rather than hoping for a “happy accident” to come about—it’s not as common as many wish it was. I too shall strive towards a daily\, regular\, focused\, recharge of love. \n  \n—Michel Deforge \n* \n  \nShakespeare said: “All the world’s a stage\, and all the men and women merely players.” Like Plato’s Cave\, this is a deep metaphor. When called upon\, we play our parts. At the moment\, I’m offstage. Nothing is required of me. I don’t have to pretend to be Johnny Stallings until I get my next cue. \n  \nBright sunlight this morning (3/6/21). Always welcome this time of year. The forms and colors of Spring are vivid. I like to sit quietly\, like this\, in the morning. Even words like “meditation” and “mindfulness” are unnecessary. It’s too ordinary (and too extraordinary) to be named. I like how\, in the last verse of the Hsin Hsin Ming\, Seng Ts’an says: “No past\, no future\, no now.” No now! \n  \n—(pretending for a moment to be) Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nBelow is a copy of the Dalai Lama’s morning meditation to begin with right intention for the day. I think you will enjoy and relate. \nI thought it might be great for the dialogue people too. It makes me think of the intentions we must make to come regularly with kind and open intentions for everyone’s well being.   \nThis prayer was written by Shantideva\, a Buddhist monk of the Mahayana tradition who lived around 700 AD. It is said that His Holiness the Dalai Lama considers this text to be THE source for developing altruism in your character and the “Spirit of Awakening.” It is also said that His Holiness the Dalai Lama recites this prayer every morning as part of his waking rituals. \n  \nBodhisattva Prayer for Humanity \nMay I be a guard for those who need protection \nA guide for those on the path \nA boat\, a raft\, a bridge for those who wish to cross the flood \nMay I be a lamp in the darkness \nA resting place for the weary \nA healing medicine for all who are sick \nA vase of plenty\, a tree of miracles \nAnd for the boundless multitudes of living beings \nMay I bring sustenance and awakening \nEnduring like the earth and sky \nUntil all beings are freed from sorrow \nAnd all are awakened. \n  \nWhat a beautiful prayer to start a new day! A Bodhisattva is a person who has attained Enlightenment\, but who postpones Nirvana in order to help others to attain Enlightenment.  \n  \nThe bodhisattva ideal: \n  \nThe teachings of Buddhism are about your life\, about being the person you are. The practices of Buddhism are about being willing to be intimate with yourself\, with your idiosyncrasies. So when we talk about compassion and the ideal of the bodhisattva\, we are talking about how we as ordinary people—with this body\, this mind\, this life\, these problems—can find generosity\, effort\, and wisdom right here and now. We realize that they are always available. \nBodhisattvas are beings who are dedicated to the universal awakening\, or enlightenment\, of everyone. They exist as guides and providers of relief to suffering beings. They are models who exemplify lives dedicated to eradicating suffering in the world. Bodhisattvas can be awesome in their power\, radiance\, and wisdom\, and they can be as ordinary as your next-door neighbor. Bodhisattvas appear wherever they can be most helpful. Being a bodhisattva is especially about being an adult – a playful\, compassionate\, creative adult.  \nJohnny embodies the life of a bodhisattva.  I think there are others in the dialogue group that we may view this way. \n  \n—Katie Radditz \n  \n[Leaving aside questions of nirvana and enlightenment\, in my view\, anyone who sincerely desires to love all people\, and “all creatures great and small” is in tune with the bodhisattva ideal. Maybe a bodhisattva is nothing more or less than a kind person. JS] \n* \n  \n[Howard is doing an online study course with Nancy Yeilding and other friends on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. JS] \n  \nI just sent in my assignment for Nancy Yeilding’s class and I thought maybe with a little modification it could be my contribution to the meditation letter. \n  \nSutra II:43 \n  \nPerfection of the body and sense organs through destruction of impurity by self-purification. \n  \nThe deepest inquiry of yoga was expressed by Ramana Maharshi as\, “Who am I?”  \nWhen I say “my body” or “my mind” there is a presumption of separation. There is “I” and there is “my body” and the two are at odds with each other. “I” want to “control my body” or “I” want to “control my mind” but who is this “I” who thinks it can chop pieces off of the whole and then control them? \nThe body is not some dog that has to be beaten into submission. But neither is it some dog that has to be well fed and trained. It is the very matrix of my being. It is the finest intelligence\, awareness\, the consequence of a billion years of evolution. It perceives the world and it simultaneously creates the world. There is no brain without the body…and no heart\, either. \nIn Buddhism they say the first prerequisite for enlightenment is a human birth.  \nThere’s a famous Zen story in which a person brags that his master can walk on water. Another student says\, “My teacher can also perform miracles. When he is tired he sleeps; when he is hungry he eats.” To me this story has infinite implications and ramifications.  \nWhat is purity?—what is purification? Meister Eckhart said\, “To be pure is to have no thoughts.” \nHow to have no thoughts? Listen\, listen\, listen.  \nI feel that “tapas”—purification—is listening\, with all the connotations of that beautiful word. When I am listening\, there is no division. If I am listening and the voice of division arises\, it is just another sound like the song of the bird or the beep beep beep of the truck backing up…it has no more “authority” than that.  \nIf I listen\, I can sleep when I am tired and eat when I am hungry. \n  \n—Howard Thoresen \n* \n  \nHere’s a recent one: \n  \n                     Radical Justice  \n  \nMy dream displayed two words: radical justice. \nNo scene\, no story\, just those syllables delivered \nto a man\, American\, in the age of gizmos\, of radical \ninjustice careening toward catastrophe. So my outer life  \nsays to my inner life\, What do you mean? Are you saying  \nGive back the Western Hemisphere to First People here? \nAre you demanding Deep reparations for slavery? \nDo you specify The rich divest utterly? Do you say  \nRadical kindness to all creatures of the Earth?  \n  \nIf these\, they are far beyond my power\, yes? Well\, \nno. For if I choose to be a citizen of justice\, every act  \nwill question: What is best for every one and all? \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nIn meditation I was made aware of the fact that I have forgotten to smile…for quite a long time. In fact\, I have been unable (chosen not) to read\, think about\, write about\, many things. I have been unwilling to communicate in many ways\, including with myself\, or the larger consciousness. I feel a failure (no lectures\, please). Realizing that I had stopped taking my “smiling medicine\,” I became aware of a song I wrote as part of a song writing challenge here at DRCI a while back. I share the lyrics despite the fact that I believe that song lyrics often don’t translate well to silent poetry. So\, if any of you are “anti-rhymers”—read no further. Rhyme facilitates meter\, which combines in powerful ways with melody & harmony\, in my not so humble opinion. Maybe sometime I will be able to share this in its entirety\, it is the best advice I can offer myself & others. Thank you so much for The Open Road in both forms\, much anticipated\, highly appreciated. \n  \nLearning To Smile \n  \nWithout a smile\, I walk a mile \nSmilin’ just not my style \nI miss my friends\, I miss my wife \nI miss my outside life \n  \nBut there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nA smile overcomes all grief and pain \nIt takes me home again \nSo I force a smile\, walk that mile \nSmilin’ might become my style \n  \nBecause there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nSo\, check out this smile\, it’ll be here a while \nIt helps me through this trial \nMy spirit lifts\, the smile grips \nMy mood and won’t let go \n  \nSo there’s beauty to see \nAir to breathe \nThoughts to think and hear and be \n  \nI’m alive\, I’m headed home \nWhen I smile I’m free \n  \n—T. String Clements \n© 2019 \n* \n  \nI had to smile when I read the Feb 15\, 2021 Open Road M & M dialogue filled with many intrigues. In particular\, and most notably to me\, the 3rd to the last line in the poem by Kim Stafford\, which says: “My greatest gift for you is the space between words.” The reason this stood out to me is that I recently was reading a book titled Forbidden Science by Douglas Kenyon\, which is a collection of articles\, one of which is titled “Altered States” by Patrick Marsolek. In this is a reference to an experiment by… \n  \n“…Dr. Les Fehmi…a psychologist and neurofeedback researcher from Princeton\, also studying the value of subjective experience\, as well as what we know about the physical mechanisms of the brain. He promotes an open focus state of awareness signified by synchronous alpha frequencies in the brain. He first experienced these alpha frequencies for himself when he tried and failed. ‘At the moment of surrender I experienced a deep and profound feeling of disappointment. Fortunately\, I surrendered while still connected to my EEG and while still receiving feedback. It was surprising to observe that I now produced five times the amount of alpha than before the act of surrendering.’ After learning how to open his focus and create the alpha waves\, he ‘felt more open\, lighter\, freer\, more energetic and spontaneous. A broader perspective ensued\, which allowed me to experience a more whole and subtle understanding. As the letting go unfolded\, I felt more intimate with sensory experience\, more intuitive….’ \n“Fehmi found that imagining space was one of the ways to force the brain to stop grasping and move into open focus. The state is experienced as ‘a vast three-dimensional space\, nothingness\, absence\, silence\, and timelessness. The scope of our attention is not only expanded\, but is experienced with greater immersion. Thus\, the ground of our experience is reified\, realized as a more pronounced sense of presence\, a centered and unified awareness\, an identity with a vast quality-less awareness in which all objects of sensation float\, as myself.’ This sounds surprisingly similar to meditators’ reports when they quieted the orientation area in their brains. You can get a taste of open focus now\, if you want. As you read\, become aware of he space in between the letters on the page while you are attending to the words and the meaning of the words. Can you also be aware of the space between you and the paper? At the same time\, is it also possible to be aware of the sounds around you? Let all of that stay with you as you attend to the words and to the meanings of the words you read.” \n  \nWhen I read Kim’s words\, this immediately came to mind. I’d also like to include the next two paragraphs of this for you: \n  \n“Fehmi believes that the way we pay attention is important. If someone is always in narrow objective focus\, he will start to experience stress\, regardless of the content of his attention. Fehmi was chronically in narrow focus; that is why he experienced such a profound breakthrough. He finally gave up and went into the open focus state. Consideration of our society’s chronic narrow focus may help us to explain both rampant drug use and fascination with meditation and ecstatic spiritual states. These methods help us to alleviate the tension of remaining chronically narrow focused in our consensus trance. \n“The relief that comes with altering our attention and our consciousness is more than just feeling good. Fehmi’s open focus\, hypnotic trances\, and other ecstatic states have been shown to bring about the remission of many stress-related symptoms\, chronic pain\, insomnia\, even eye and skin disorders. People who have been the most narrow focused may experience the most profound results. With practice most people can experience lasting changes.” \n  \nI can personally attest that the more I try this idea of “space between” things\, the more my body seems to relax. \n  \n–Joseph Opyd \n* \n  \nAches and Tensions #337 \n  \n“When I breathe in\, I generate the energy of mindfulness. With this energy\,  I recognize my body’s aches and tensions. I begin to embrace my body tenderly\, and allow any tension to be released. Many of us accumulate a lot of tension and pressure in our bodies\, working them too hard. It’s time to come home to our body. This is possible anytime\, anywhere\, whether we are sitting\, lying\, standing or walking.” \nAches and tensions I have been intimately familiar with the past two weeks – actually for about a year before that. My feet have had so much wear and tear from years of sports that I was hobbling in pain\, no matter what the shoes I wore. After complicated foot surgery two weeks ago – pins\, screws\, splints\, twenty stitches looking like black spider legs – I know the aches and pains of slow recovery. \nI have returned to the practice of sitting and breathing\, thirty minutes each day\, this past year. Usually it takes me a little while to let go. Breathe in – I wonder how Harry and Meghan are feeling. Breathe out – Will this fingernail ever stop splitting? In – Should I divide those peonies now or wait until fall?  Out – Those dang voter suppression bills are gonna sink us if they all pass…  Finally the breath and the body prevail and the mind goes. But not lately. \nThe severe pain of the foot surgery has caused extreme tension in my body. I can hardly walk (nor should I)\, and my breathing is shallow and rapid. I resumed sitting about five days after surgery. Not easy. Aches\, pain\, tension create a mind disjointed from the body\, let me tell you. I’m sure everyone has experienced this (or is experiencing it now) and can remember how pain can suck you dry.   The first three days of sitting were hopeless. I just sat and went through the motions\, waiting for something to change. And then I read this ‘everyday wisdom\,’ #337. There it was: “It’s time to come home to our body.”  And then\, that is just what happened. Breathing in\, breathing out – this body is miraculous. This breath is miraculous. And since then\, when I sit\, my body smiles and relaxes. We are back together —mind\, body\, breath.  And where did that pain go\, anyway? \n  \n—Jude Russell \n* \n  \nOne of my favorite writers has been Thomas Merton. One example of why: \n  \nWhat I wear is pants.  \nWhat I do is live.  \nHow I pray is breathe.  \nWho said Zen? \n Wash out your mouth if you said Zen.  \nIf you see a meditation going by\, shoot it.  \nWho said “Love?”  \nLove is in the movies.  \nThe spiritual life is something people worry about when they are so busy with something else they think they ought to be spiritual.  \nSpiritual life is guilt.  \nUp here in the woods is seen the New Testament:  \nthat is to say\,  \nthe wind comes through the trees and you breathe it. \n  \n—from the memoir “Day of a Stranger\,” published in the Hudson Review\, Summer 1967 \n  \nIn this ground-breaking essay\, Merton allows himself to speak in the unexpurgated voice of the self he was excavating to be most true. You can read the entire essay here: \n  \nhttps://hudsonreview.com/1967/07/day-of-a-stranger/ \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nThis is for the meditation & mindfulness newsletter. It’s out of my heart\, not “Your True Home.” \n  \nMany times in my life I would sit and deeply think to myself. This is before I knew what it was to meditate. Many times I have imagined my self being a massive stone out in the sea. With wave after crushing wave breaking on me. The wave represented all of the whips and scorns of life. Nothing could ever break me. \n  \nThe inevitability is that the erosion\, pressure & time have slowly taken their toll on me. With a full and happy heart I will turn to sand on an eternal beach inside the hourglass of time. \n  \nBlessings\, \nPeace\, \nJoy\, \nUnconditionally \nLove \nAll \nThere is in Life \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nReflections On Meditation \n  \nGreetings to this worthy sangha. My name is Peter Oppenheimer. I’m an old crony of Johnny Stallings. I think it was 1973. Johnny and I were spending days\, and some nights\, together in a hospital in South India\, attending to our teacher’s teacher\, a well-known guru thereabouts.   \n At one point\, when I think\, only Johnny and I were in the room\, Guru motioned from his bed for me to come near. He said\, “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around. Do you want to ask me anything?”   \nI was taken aback. Daily I had countless questions\, but in the calming aura of his presence and under the spotlight of his gaze\, I couldn’t immediately think of one. “Oh yeah\,” I thought and asked\, “Can you teach me how to meditate?” His response was quickly made and quickly over\, “Meditate on the world without you in it.” Boom.  That was/is both a tall order and has become a lifelong aspirational practice of mine. \nOddly enough\, years later when I told my own guru about what his guru had suggested to me as how to meditate\, he said\, “That’s funny. Guru told me the opposite.  He told me to meditate on the room that I was in as being all inside and having no outside.”   \nAnd there’s another secret of meditation. There can be many ways to meditate\, but the paths all converge at the same goal. What is that goal?    \nAn inner quietude\, an inner fortitude\, an inner gratitude\, an inner clarity\, an inner affection\, an affection both that we have tasted from others and from Nature\, and an affection that we have within us as a treasure to share with others. This manifests as universal good will. These are all primary indicators of successful meditation. \nIf that’s the goal\, then how do we get there? \nDuring the ensuing 5 decades after those words of the guru\, I have studied and practiced several types or schools of seated-meditation\, such as the one taught by Johnny’s and my guru\, several practices taught by different Indian schools of yoga\, and zazen\, the practice of Zen Buddhist meditation.   \nThere’s been a through-line in all of these approaches to meditation. They all start from and aim at maintaining a state of mindfulness\, a “Be Here Now” approach to mental self-discipline.  Another common thread I’ve noticed is using one’s breath to help focus on the here and now. Just notice\, your breath. Be with it\, and in essence become your breath. In and out. In and out. Calmly. Mindfully. Affectionately. It is the energy from your breath that keeps your heart beating and the blood circulating. Be mindful of that going on.  Part of mindfulness or “being here now” includes body awareness – pains and pleasures\, strains and pressures. How fully can you be with your breath and your body?  If you can be simply present for what’s going on within you\, the chances are good that you will be able to be present and available to what arises in the world around you. \nSitting meditation is not for everyone.  Sometimes in the case of trauma survivors\, sitting and observing one’s thoughts can be too triggering.  The state and fruits of “Meditation\,” as discussed above\, can be attained not only through sitting\, but also if done whole-heartedly through\, among others things – walking\, running\, dancing\, drawing\, singing\, cooking\, conversing\, writing\, communing with nature\, laughing\, sharing affection\, or simply taking a moment to feel comfortable in one’s own skin and feel open to what arises. Then the practice becomes to be prepared to treat everything which arises (within and without) with generosity\, uprightness\, patience\, enthusiasm\, concentration\, and  wisdom. \nFinally\, coming back to my Grandguru’s instruction to “meditate on the world without you in it\,” years later a Zen teacher of mine\, with whom I sat periods of zazen\, described meditation as “cutting the storyline of your own inner narrative.”  My and Johnny’s Guru\, Nitya\, sometimes described meditation as shifting one’s identity from the ego-center to the spirit-center. The ego is our self with a small “s” and revolves around uniqueness\, what separates us from others. Whereas the spirit-center is our Self with a large “S” and revolves around that inner spirit which ignites and unites us. When we forget or transcend our smaller self and slip into a flow state\, there arises within us an identity or belongingness with the world around us. It’s a state of both peacefulness and vibrance. All of this is what I have come to know as a meditative state. \nI invite and welcome any additions\, corrections\, questions or comments from the sangha. I will be happy to respond and continue the conversation. With Love and Best Wishes to all…… \n  \n—Peter Oppenheimer \n* \n  \n[Peter is inviting people to have a dialogue with him. Feel free to use the monthly Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue as a place to have conversation\, and respond to what others have written. If people inside or outside the prison walls want to be pen pals with others in this “sangha\,” let me know. I can help with that. JS]
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-3-15-21/
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UID:1891-1615939200-1616371199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Will Hornyak presents: Tales of Erin's Daughters
DESCRIPTION:Storyteller Will Hornyak presents: \n  \n Tales of Erin’s Daughters \n  \nFrom Lusty Queen Maeve and Pirate Queen Grace O’Malley to the Hag of Beara and the White Witch of Feakle\, storyteller William Kennedy Hornyak celebrates the Wild Celtic Feminine with Tales\, Myths\, Poems\, History and Lore in honor of St. Patrick’s Day\, 2021   \n     \nThree live Zoom performances: \n  \nSt. Patrick’s Day\, March 17 at 6 p.m.  Pacific Time  Mature audiences \nFriday March 19 at 6 p.m.  Pacific Time Mature audiences \nSunday March 21   2 p.m.   Pacific Time   Family Show \n  \nZoom Link: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/82659078275 \n  \nThe Event is Free but Donations are Welcome: \n  \nhttps://paypal.me/WillHornyak?locale.x=e \n  \nor mail to: \n  \nWill Hornyak \n11375 SE 33rd Ave.  \nMilwaukie\, OR 97222 \n  \nIndividual Storytelling Coaching Sessions Available: \n  \nhornyak.will@gmail.com 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/will-hornyak-presents-tales-of-erins-daughters/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210317
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210401
DTSTAMP:20260502T034154
CREATED:20210318T210043Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210318T212856Z
UID:1899-1615939200-1617235199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:25th Annual Exhibition of Art by Michigan Prisoners  March 17th-31st
DESCRIPTION:Gas-n-Go by Bradlee Cournaya; Hypervigilance by Bryan Picken \n  \n  \n25th Annual Exhibition of Art by Michigan Prisoners \n  \n  \nThere are some amazing works of art for sale\, now through the 31st of March. Highly recommended!! \n  \nHere’s a link to the website: \n  \nhttps://dcc.carceralstateproject.lsa.umich.edu/s/pcapexhibition25/page/home \n  \nSpend some time on the website.  There’s lots to see! The full price of the artwork goes to the artist. \n  \npeace\, love & creativity! \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/25th-annual-exhibition-of-art-by-michigan-prisoners-march-17th-31st/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210318
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210401
DTSTAMP:20260502T034154
CREATED:20210318T171956Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210318T172302Z
UID:1872-1616025600-1617235199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/18/21
DESCRIPTION:Daphne odora \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nSpring Equinox \nMarch 18\, 2021 \n  \nKristen Sagan sent this poem just in time for our Annual Spring Issue!: \n  \nA Color of the Sky \n  \nWindy today and I feel less than brilliant\, \ndriving over the hills from work. \nThere are the dark parts on the road \n                     when you pass through clumps of wood    \nand the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean\,    \nbut that doesn’t make the road an allegory. \n  \nI should call Marie and apologize \nfor being so boring at dinner last night\, \nbut can I really promise not to be that way again?    \nAnd anyway\, I’d rather watch the trees\, tossing    \nin what certainly looks like sexual arousal. \n  \nOtherwise it’s spring\, and everything looks frail; \nthe sky is baby blue\, and the just-unfurling leaves \nare full of infant chlorophyll\,    \nthe very tint of inexperience. \n  \nLast summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio\,    \nand on the highway overpass\, \nthe only metaphysical vandal in America has written    \nMEMORY LOVES TIME \nin big black spraypaint letters\, \n  \nwhich makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back. \n  \nLast night I dreamed of X again. \nShe’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.    \nYears ago she penetrated me \nbut though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed\,    \nI never got her out\, \nbut now I’m glad. \n  \nWhat I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.    \nWhat I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.    \nWhat I thought was an injustice \nturned out to be a color of the sky. \n  \nOutside the youth center\, between the liquor store    \nand the police station\, \na little dogwood tree is losing its mind; \n  \noverflowing with blossomfoam\,    \nlike a sudsy mug of beer; \nlike a bride ripping off her clothes\, \n  \ndropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds\, \n  \nso Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.    \nIt’s been doing that all week: \nmaking beauty\, \nand throwing it away\, \nand making more. \n  \n—Tony Hoagland  (1953-2018) \n* \n  \nKim sent this: \n  \nOregon Dawn in Spite of the News \n  \nBefore I can get to our statistics—so many  \nstricken\, so many dead—I’m summoned  \nby the birds raising a ruckus outside\, crows  \nand jays in festive outrage\, trill\, chirrr\, and aria  \n  \nfrom the  little brown birds\, the mournful \ndove\, the querulous towhee\, rusty starlings \nin their see-saw mutter\, and a woodpecker \nflicker hammering the gutter staccato. \n  \nOn the porch\, I’m assaulted by the merciless  \nscent of trees opening their million flowers\, \nas I inhale the deep elixir of hazel\, hawthorn\,  \nmaple\, and oh those shameless cherry trees. \n  \nAnd just when I’ve almost recovered  \nmy serious moment\, I gasp\, helpless to see  \nthe full queen moon sidling down  \nthrough a haze of blossoms. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nE. E. Cummings has so many poems of spring springing.  In this one we can remember our youth and the joy of suddenly sunny play days and school letting out: \n  \nin Just-  \nspring          when the world is mud-  \nluscious the little  \nlame balloonman  \n  \nwhistles          far          and wee  \n  \nand eddieandbill come  \nrunning from marbles and  \npiracies and it’s  \nspring  \n  \nwhen the world is puddle-wonderful  \n  \nthe queer  \nold balloonman whistles  \nfar          and             wee  \nand bettyandisbel come dancing  \n  \nfrom hop-scotch and jump-rope and  \n  \nit’s  \nspring  \nand  \n         the  \n                  goat-footed  \nballoonMan          whistles  \nfar  \nand  \nwee \n  \nMay you know peace and well being this weekend on the spring equinox when things are in balance in the cosmos and the rain and the sun are in concert with one another.  \n  \n—Love\, Katie \n* \n  \nO sweet spontaneous \nearth how often have \nthe \ndoting \n  \n          fingers of \nprurient philosophers pinched \nand \npoked \n  \nthee \n\,has the naughty thumb \nof science prodded \nthy \n  \n      beauty       .how \noften have religions taken \nthee upon their scraggy knees \nsqueezing and \n  \nbuffeting thee that thou mightest conceive \ngods \n        (but \ntrue \n  \nto the incomparable \ncouch of death thy \nrhythmic \nlover \n  \n          thou answerest \n  \nthem only with \n  \n                             spring) \n  \n—e e cummings\, published in The Dial\, May 1920. \n* \n  \nSpring\, the sweete spring\, is the yeres pleasant King\, \nThen bloomes eche thing\, then maydes daunce in a ring\, \nCold doeth not sting\, the pretty birds doe sing\, \nCuckow\, jugge\, jugge\, pu we\, to witta woo. \n  \nThe Palme and May make countrey houses gay\, \nLambs friske and play\, the Shepherds pype all day\, \nAnd we heare aye birds tune this merry lay\, \nCuckow\, jugge\, jugge\, pu we\, to witta woo. \n  \nThe fields breathe sweete\, the dayzies kisse our feete\, \nYoung lovers meete\, old wives a sunning sit; \nIn every streete\, these tunes our eares doe greete\, \nCuckow\, jugge\, jugge\, pu we\, to witta woo. \n             Spring\, the sweete spring. \n  \n—Thomas Nashe  (1567-1601) \n* \n  \nSPRING \n  \nNothing is so beautiful as Spring— \n     When weeds\, in wheels\, shoot long and lovely and lush; \n     Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens\, and thrush \nThrough the echoing timber does so rinse and wring \nThe ear\, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; \n     The glassy peartree leaves and blooms\, they brush \n     The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush \nWith richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling. \n  \nWhat is all this juice and all this joy? \nA strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning \nIn Eden garden. — Have\, get\, before it cloy\, \n     Before it cloud\, Christ\, lord\, and sour with sinning\, \nInnocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy\, \n     Most\, O maid’s child\, thy choice and worthy the winning. \n  \n—Gerard Manley Hopkins  (1844-1889) \n* \n  \nA Thin Sliver at the Door \n  \nAll she ever needed was the one sliver of air that hovered between the door and the frame. That small space was a persistent invitation. She would look around and make sure no one was in the room\, then quietly get up from her chair\, turn sideways\, and slip through the crack between the heavy oak door and its sash. The room left behind was dark and immobile\, everything inert\, waiting without expectation or possibility. But once through the door the air changed. It expanded in the light\, vibrating. The world was hushed\, but with a kind of openness—something was just about to happen. When she went out\, when she slipped through that crack\, the world changed and so did she. The resonant hum of the air struck a note of movement in her body and she became more lithe\, more supple. And the light–of course\, the light–that made all the difference. In the trees the leaves moved gently\, dappled by the light. The ground seemed alive\, as if it too would burst into motion—iridescent green\, chocolate brown\, gray-blue in the stones. She heard her own low humming but there were other songs as well\, perhaps birds or even insects in the fields\, perhaps the echo of a bell from the far buildings. When she was out here she didn’t need anything. Everything felt inviting and reassuring. She never knew how long she was outside\, how much time had passed\, since she never felt any tug of memory when she was there. She moved and listened and watched. That was all. And that was more than enough. But eventually in the back of her mind a small cloud would begin to gather\, pulling her into its shaded heaviness. The cloud would become bigger and more compelling than the trees or the air and she would turn toward it reluctantly. The cloud covered more and more of her vision and she found herself looking for the door\, the way back through the crack into the dark\, static room. She was never sure how she actually got back in but would suddenly look around\, groggily\, and realize here she was again. Everything felt heavy. The world was dense. This last time\, though\, she remembered something—just as she was following the cloud\, just as it grew to include her\, she held her hand out to the nearest tree and touched the leaves. She pulled some from the lowest branch and held them in her hands. Even back in the room she had them. She looked down and saw their glittering green and inhaled their unnamable smell. She held them and remembered. She looked up to see that small sliver of air between the door and its frame.  \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nCome Spring \n  \nThe first warm days of spring\, give them to me: \na tepid rain\, crocus poking through last year’s leaves. \n  \nGive me the heart of it: pale yellow\, frail blue\, \ntrees bare but for the hard buds\, the few birds. \n  \nTo hear the screen door slam again. To shoo \nthe flies from the house\, the bowled fruit. \n  \nI’ll take all of it\, Mother of Summer\, the smell \nof manure shoveled over the potatoes. Diesel \n  \nfumes from the refuse truck. Scent of creek bottom\, \nferal\, lime laced. Cracked effusion of rotting eggs. \n  \nEven sinus infections and rusty rake tines sunk \nin rank earth near the shed. Mushroom spores. \n  \nThe asthmatic crank of winter-bound bikes. Fevers\, \nflu\, cold sores\, loose ends. Even the crows\, \n  \nhawking their dull black cloaks from the shiny wings \nof iridescent spring. Let them ride the rippled air \n  \nover the barren Sunday parking lots\, the farther fields\, \nwhere the weeds will grow thorny\, wild and tall. \n  \n—Dorianne Laux \n* \n  \nKim Stafford & Alan Benditt suggested these poems from Emily: \n  \nA Light exists in Spring \nNot present on the Year \nAt any other period — \nWhen March is scarcely here \n  \nA Color stands abroad \nOn Solitary Fields \nThat Science cannot overtake \nBut Human Nature feels. \n  \nIt waits upon the Lawn\, \nIt shows the furthest Tree \nUpon the furthest Slope you know \nIt almost speaks to you. \n  \nThen as Horizons step \nOr Noons report away \nWithout the Formula of sound \nIt passes and we stay — \n  \nA quality of loss \nAffecting our Content \nAs Trade has suddenly encroached \nUpon a Sacrament. \n* \n  \nSpring comes on the World –  \nI sight the Aprils –  \nHueless to me until thou come  \nAs\, till the Bee  \nBlossoms stand negative\,  \nTouched to Conditions  \nBy a Hum.  \n  \n–Emily Dickinson \n  \n* \n  \nAlan also sent us some haiku\, inspired by Spring: \n  \nLook at this world even its \ngrasses right under my feet \nfeed us  \n  \nGrasshoppers in the chilly breeze \nsing \nas if you’ll never sing again  \n  \nSpring rain: \na mouse is lapping \nthe Sumida River.  \n  \n—Issa \n* \n  \nI don’t know  \nwhich tree it comes from\, \nthat fragrance  \n  \nSpring! \na nameless hill \nin the haze.    \n  \n—Basho \n* \n  \nthe pheasant sings- \nthe earth turns into \nvarious grasses  \n  \nI forget  \nto remember the days – \nyet these spring deer  \n  \nsquatting \nthe frog observes \nthe clouds  \n  \nto be in a world \neating white rice \namid plum fragrance \n  \n—Chiyo-ni \n* \n  \n”peace\, love\, happiness & understanding” is one year old!  \n  \nHURRAY!!! \n  \nIt began on the Spring Equinox\, March 19\, 2020\, as “peace\, love & happiness\,” a weekly newsletter. The “understanding” got added on June 25\, 2020. I started thinking of it as a “journal\,” rather than a “newsletter” at some point. It became bi-weekly\, instead of weekly on December 10\, 2020. Lots of friends have contributed images\, poems and other writings\, as well as suggestions for poems.  \n  \nTHANK YOU!!! (in no particular order) to:  \n  \nKim Stafford\, Prabu Muruganantham\, Deborah Buchanan\, Lonnie Glinski\, Shadrach Alexander\, Charles Erickson\, Nancy Yeilding\, Josh Underhill\, Howard Thoresen\, Esther Elizabeth\, Bill Faricy\, Katie Radditz\, Ken Margolis\, Will Hornyak\, Joshua Barnes\, Ashley Lucas\, Jeff Kuehner\, Alex Tretbar\, Bill Hughes\, Doug Marx\, Randall Brown\, Jude Russell\, Jeffrey Sher and Aaron Gilbert. (n.b. If you are a reader of “peace\, love\, happiness & understanding\,” you are invited to contribute!) \n  \nSpeaking of Aaron Gilbert… He was granted clemency by Governor Kate Brown\, and got out of prison on February 25\, 2021—twenty months early! I’ve had the pleasure of video-visiting with him by phone. Unsurprisingly\, he’s happy to be out of prison! I’m looking forward to getting together soon in person—(with all the necessary safety precautions.) \n  \npeace\, love & fecundity \nJohnny
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/peace-love-happiness-understanding-3-18-21/
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BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20210328
DTEND;VALUE=DATE:20210411
DTSTAMP:20260502T034154
CREATED:20210317T170432Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20210329T041217Z
UID:1861-1616889600-1618099199@openroadpdx.com
SUMMARY:Bibliophiles Unanimous!: STORY POEMS  3/28
DESCRIPTION:  \nBeloved Bibliophiles! \n  \nWe had a lovely gathering on Sunday\, March 28th. Our theme was STORY POEMS. We talked about poems we remembered from our childhood–nursery rhymes and the words to songs.  \nJude Russell read “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll.  \nCharles Erickson sang “Woverton Mountain” for us.  \nI took a whack at Woody Guthrie’s song: “Pretty Boy Floyd the Outlaw.” \nKatie Radditz told us about Father Fox’s Pennyrhymes by Clyde and Wendy Watson and she read a couple of them for us.  \nKim Stafford was unable to join us\, but he sent this beautiful video he made\, “I’ll Do Anything”: \n  \n \n  \n  \nMartha Ragland read “Little Breeches” by Colonel John Hay that she found in the book Story Poems\, edited by Louis Untermeyer.  \nThat reminded me of another 19th Century classic\, “The Green Eye of the Yellow God\,” by J. Milton Hayes\, which I read. I also read the old Scottish Ballad “Edward\, Edward.” \nKatie read “The Song of Wandering Aengus” by W. B. Yeats.  \nDave Duncan told us that his brother Jack died yesterday\, and read this poem for us by Emily Dickinson: \n  \nI heard a Fly buzz – when I died – \nThe Stillness in the Room \nWas like the Stillness in the Air – \nBetween the Heaves of Storm – \n  \nThe Eyes around – had wrung them dry – \nAnd Breaths were gathering firm \nFor that Last Onset – when the King \nBe witnessed – in the Room – \n  \nI willed my Keepsakes – Signed away \nWhat portion of me be \nAssignable – and then it was \nThere interposed a Fly – \n  \nWith Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz – \nBetween the light – and me – \nAnd then the Windows failed – and then \nI could not see to see – \n* \n  \nWe ended our gathering by listening to a song that Dave loves: “Father and Son” by Yusuf Cat Stevens. \nHere’s a link: \n  \n \n  \nLook for more poems in the upcoming (April 1st) issue of peace\, love\, happiness & understanding. It will be published on this website. \n  \npeace\, love & poetry \n  \nJohnny \n  \n 
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/bibliophiles-unanimous-story-poems-3-28/
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